Or, Revan tries to do the right thing.

—

From here, out in Dantooine's wide grassy fields, the Jedi Academy is but a speck. You push through the green stalks that get taller as you get further and ignore the way their somehow-sharp edges cut at your hands.

You've been running for what feels like forever; could've been five minutes or an hour. Exhilaration pumps through your veins and there—you see it. Alek swings upside down from a craggy tree with entirely too many branches. He waves impatiently at you, and you laugh and pump your arms and legs faster faster faster.

"Took you long enough!" he complains. "Now get up here I can barely see you in all that grass."

You scowl and bend your knees and feel the way the grass squashed underneath your feet wants to spring up, standing until it's a whole head taller than you. You jump and catapult yourself onto the branch besides your best friend. You stick out your tongue at him and he kicks a foot at you and you lean back.

"Shut up," you groan, but he just laughs.

Alek swings himself up like a particularly enthusiastic pendulum. "Aren't you supposed to be with Master Zhar right now?" he asks and you don't reply. Instead you lean close and let your head slump onto his shoulder and he hugs you and you let out a breath.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

Well, if Master Vrook thought you were 'unruly', you'd simply do better.

You muster the most serious expression you can onto your face. "Alek," you say, "I'm going to become the best Jedi ever."

He smirks at you and your heart soars. "You'll have to settle for second."

—

A thrum in the Force. Meetra's mind reaches out and you feel her pique as she feels your frustration. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump of your boots. You turn around and retrace your footsteps for the three hundred and sixty fourth time.

The door bangs open. You turn on your heel. Meetra latches onto your conflict through the Force, and idly you wonder if she can feel your thoughts too.

"I heard…" she begins.

"What? That I'm a warmongering rabble-rouser who'll only lead us away from the will of the Force? That I don't know what I'm talking about, that I'm inexperienced and naive?" You turn and spit the words, glare at her.

Meetra gently draws your anger away, and you look down in embarrassment.

There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony.

The door closes behind her and she sits down on the unmade bed. Her travel cloak spills out around her, and green eyes look up at you. "I heard you're planning on leaving the Order," she says.

Your eyes meet hers, then, bemused. "Do you really believe that?"

"No. But I do know you're going on an unsanctioned trip. And that the Council has explicitly forbidden it." She leans forward at your nonresponse, taking it for the affirmative it is. "Why? Why do this, why go against all the Jedi stand for?"

Robes chafe against your back where you've slumped against the wall. "We're supposed to help people, though, aren't we? Help the Republic. That's our oath."

She shakes her head. "As peacekeepers. They're worried…"

"What, we're only supposed to care when the Republic's at peace? It looks like war right now. For some of the Outer Rim it already is."

"They're worried you've already made up your mind," she fires back. "And they're right, aren't they? This isn't just going to be a scouting mission like you claim."

You have to accept it. You give her a smile. "No, it's not just a scouting mission." It's a recruitment drive. The Council can't push too hard against a peaceful expedition, especially one directed towards relief efforts. But the Republic would view it as a Jedi stepping up to take action. And the Jedi that will accompany you—you will have time to show them what you see.

Meetra stands up and shakes her head, takes a step towards you. "You want to lead the Jedi to war."

You don't really have a retort to that. That is what you want, after all.

"I've…talked to a few of the masters. They said that Jedi aren't meant to fight. Every time the Jedi went to war, nothing but tragedy occurred with billions dead. That's why Jedi are meant to stick to diplomacy. To resolve any conflict peacefully."

Billions dead, maybe, but just as many lives saved. "But diplomacy doesn't always work, does it? The Mandalorians aren't going to stop if the Republic concedes territory. More people will die. And even if the death toll is smaller when the Jedi don't fight, people still die. Parts of the Republic still die, and—"

"—and allowing people to die is the same as killing them. We don't know the will of the Force, so the ends don't justify the means," Meetra interrupts, rubbing her eyes. "I've thought this through, too, you know."

You smile, a little. "I know you have. That's why I trust you."

"Do you have any idea what you're up against? What the Mandalorians have got? What the Republic has?" Different angle.

"I've done my research. The Republic…it barely has a defensive force, and everything that it has is scattered and decentralized and undisciplined." You don't have to be a strategist to know how that's going to go against a well-prepared, worked up Mandalorian fleet. "Which is why I'm going, Meetra. I need to know more. Otherwise—"

You smile and head off her argument. "Otherwise, what am I going to do even if I take half the Order with me? I'm not, rushing into this. Not like the Council's afraid of."

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge, after all.

"Why?" she asks, and you know she doesn't mean why you're going to Taris. Because right after that, it's back to Coruscant, and not for the Temple. You idly note that you can count her eyelashes now, and calm your fluttering heart with a thought.

You open your mouth, and close it, and open it again when you've figured out what you want to say. "Because I want to help the people the Mandalorians are going to kill. I want to protect the Republic." It doesn't come out nearly as defiant and proud as you hoped.

Meetra steps away, and you let out a breath. "When do we leave?"

—

Your weeks are spent in a blur of talking to hesitant militia leaders and cajoling conceited politicians who'll listen and blackmailing those who won't and traveling between as many worlds as possible and reading reports of the skirmishes escalating to battles escalating to full-fledged invasion corridors and strategizing with Alek and Meetra in the limited time you have and responding to Council holomessages in a manner that won't make them immediately declare you fallen and sleeping in too-cramped quarters between all of that where your head bumps against the transport bulkhead if you so much as jostle.

It all culminates in a small battle. Charros Prime.

You have command, and that scares you more than you can show anyone, none more so than yourself. When you reach out with the Force you can feel all ten-thousand soldiers under your command, barricading themselves in defensive positions around the planet's population centers. Each of them a bright, living spark.

But as the Mandalorian forward forces touch down, you realize you are ill-prepared for ground combat. The primary enemy fleet hasn't arrived yet, and that in theory gives you time to evacuate the civilians. You're almost surprised they're deploying ground forces at all: but then, Charros Prime is an agricultural target that could serve as a decent rendezvous point. You had it all planned out.

The Mandalorian forward guard advances with blaster fire and grenades. You stand steady, if only so that the troops—your troops—stand steady.

You fight. Your lightsaber cuts through that heavy armor they rely on so much. Reflected blaster bolts, you realize, are an excellent fear tactic. Alek is a whirlwind at your side.

Your communicator beeps and you take cover behind a blast wall. "Sir! We've sustained heavy losses. Requesting permission to fall back!" You can see the fear, the grim determination on the soldier's face.

And the Force sings to you, tells you a tale of civilians running through a crumbling spaceport to get to a fleet of transports with the Republic emblem embossed on a side, of mothers and fathers handing their children to the nearest able-bodied fast-running adult.

There is no emotion, there is peace, you mouth.

"Sir?"

There is no passion, there is serenity.

"Don't fall back, corporal." You can just make out the insignia on the uniform. "Our priority remains to evacuate the civilians." The corporal's mouth opens to say something, and you reach out to touch her mind, understand her fear, sharpen your eyes as you stare at her even through the hologram's interference. "Understood?"

The corporal salutes her last salute.

There is no death, there is the Force.

You reach out and find Alek. "Time to go," you say, and lead him to a transport.

"We're supposed to hold them back here," he tells you, voice rising in confusion and anger. "We're supposed to help our troops! We're supposed to save the civilians!"

The transport jostles. "We have," you assure. "The civilians will escape."

Understanding dawns in his blue eyes. You look away.

—

You've never been the best at combat. That was always Alek with his too-long arms and stature somehow a foot higher than you. The amount of times he's been asked if he's the Revanchist Leader when we walk side-by-side…

He has the social extrovert thing down pat too.

So it doesn't come as a total surprise to you that you find yourself knocked over, a lucky Mandalorian in crusader armor staring at you from the safe end of the vibrosword. You stare back at the T-visor from the much less safe end. Your lightsaber arm is bent backward and tingly. You're fairly sure it's supposed to be neither of those.

Well.

There is no death, there is the Force.

You can't say you expected this. Perhaps you can keep fighting the onslaught while you're one with the Force, then, or whatever will happen to you afterwards. The vibroblade inches to your jugular vein, oddly slow.

A knight's blue lightsaber pierces the crusader's chest, and the armored figure topples sideways. For the life of you you can't remember your savior's name but you give him a nod of thanks. He nods back, the beginnings of a smile indenting his cheeks before—

The Force blares in warning, and you have just enough time to swoop to one side as a thermal detonator blows chunks of your savior onto your robes.

There is no death, there is the Force.

You blink, hard: a bright light just went out, and now you see spots in the sudden darkness left behind. Kehel Voss, you remember all of a sudden. Someone who trusted you, someone who followed you into war, someone who threw away his entire life for you, someone who died for you.

There is no death, there is the Force. You cling to that, hold it tight against your heart as a comfort, because it doesn't matter that you just failed someone, that you feel hundreds of sparks snuffing out in the Mandalorians' cold wind every moment. The Force led you here. So you will continue to serve.

But perhaps—there, that one, the one on whose belt several detonators hang. A twitch of your fingers, and the detonators scatter, explosions lighting up the battlefront. Satisfaction rushes to fill your lungs, but you squash it with a thought and summon your lightsaber to hand.

—

Your hard work pays off.

The fleets rally, and you finally, finally have the support of the Republic Navy. Partially, because you built it: without you, the Republic would have but a small central force from the Core Worlds and maybe a dozen planets' worth of militias. But you convince them to unite for the common cause of pushing back the Mandalorian onslaught, and it seems to be working.

In no small part thanks to Alek's contributions. It's not uncommon these days for Alek to bow exaggeratedly when you enter a room with cries of "our great leader the Revanchist has arrived!"—with how the media has been portraying you nowadays, with how he's talked the media into portraying you. Sometimes it makes you want to laugh with him and all his friends. Other times, throttle him.

Alek really knows how to play people. It's why you like him so much—or perhaps he's playing you too.

You grasp fleet movements and attack patterns as quickly as everything else you've set eyes on, and spend your nights poring over past battles. The ones you fought in the and the ones you didn't. The Mandalorian commanders and what task forces they lead. The structure of a basilisk war droid. Hyperspace drift maps. Mandalorian poetry, for when you can't stare at another Hammerhead cruiser diagram anymore.

Incredibly, the Republic starts winning.

Just a few battles here and there.

But it's enough.

Enough for the Jedi Council to hesitate.

Enough for the Republic Senate to start listening when you talk.

Enough for all the admirals to nod with respect when you step onto the bridge.

Enough for you to hope, when you're catching a few hours of sleep in the middle of political and strategic conferences, that you can end this quickly.

—

You come to learn that Mandalorians don't retreat, as a principle.

They regroup and strike back harder.

Eres III, where Meetra almost burnt alive. Continuum, where I scuttled a shipyard to ensure the Mandalorians couldn't access it. Gizer, where dense orbital satellites allowed for a multitude of ambushes, but the war droids just kept coming. Nazzri, with its trade routes shut down. Vena, where Alek ordered two cruisers to collide into an enemy battleship, bringing it down. Dxun. Ambria. Del. At each stop, more sacrifices in order to delay the inevitable.

The onslaught's objective is easy enough to pinpoint: the Correlian Trade Spine, where the Republic's production capacity lay. Without the supporting infrastructure, the Republic wouldn't be able to manage even this small defense.

The Republic Navy solidifies around the Duro system, hoping to repel the coming assault.

Alek comes up behind me, stands at my shoulder as I stare out the viewport. "What are you thinking?" he murmurs. "Our defensive formation doesn't protect the planet at the moment. The civilians won't have an opportunity to evacuate," he says.

"I don't think we can afford to hold the planet," you tell him. Your voice isn't louder.

"What do you mean?" Alek steps up and gestures to the orb, but you know what he really means—the couple billion souls like stars in a night sky flooding away from the planet, much too slow for your liking. "We have to hold the system. Otherwise, you said it yourself, we're going to lose Correlia."

You shake your head—"Our fleet's concentrated around the orbital shipyards. If we keep it here, we don't lose our production capacity. And if we lose that, then we…lose," you say. "We're gone."

"So adjust the formation!" His mouth works in impatience. "We'll give the people a chance to escape. Just move the…Geonosis battlegroup to blockade formation and they'll have some sort of cover."

"Then we expose Shipyards Eight and Twelve. And Geonosis won't buy us much time anyways." Your voice is calmer than you feel. More than that: the destruction of either of the shipyards will create an opening in our defensive formation. We'd not only lose the shipyards, but grant the Mandalorians access to the surface anyways.

Your defense will fall to overwhelming firepower if you spread your defenses like that. You…don't like your chances. Loss of shipyards means loss of ships means you can't protect the other planets you're obligated to, can't save other lives.

Alek looks at you incredulously. "It's our job. We can't let them die."

"We can't save them either!" you snap back. "We're spread too thin. We need to protect what we can. Got it?" Without waiting for a response you turn on your heel and walk to the conference room. Your eyes burn. "There is no passion, there is serenity," you mutter to yourself, and Alek's hard eyes bore into your back as he gives a disgusted huff.

You made the smart decision. You made the logical decision.

You need to make sure none of the other admirals or generals or commanders who think so highly of themselves decide to play hero and break formation. Too much depends on it.

—

Alek seems to forget about your fight after the battle plays out and you manage to defend the Duro shipyards against permanent damage. Anyone would be hard pressed to call it a victory, not after what happened to Duro's surface, not after seeing hundreds of basilisk war droids streak through atmosphere against orbital forces, not after feeling destroyed lives and livelihoods, but it's the closest thing to victory that the Republic has come to within the past few months.

The Mandalorians were actually repelled. They failed to capture a major strategic resources. And they bombed yet another population to ash.

The shipyards are essential. Without them, the Republic won't be able to keep up a defense, yet alone somehow create an offensive movement in this mess.

Alek smiles at you and you smile back at him and all of a sudden you get a call from the Supreme Chancellor.

"Congratulations, Revan," he tells you, voice crackly with static and fatigue. His eyes droop under pressure. "The Senate has voted to appoint you Supreme Commander of the Republic Military."

You don't listen to the rest of his words. Alek hugs you and Meetra smiles a tired smile over hologram. The important part: you don't have to pander to those old cranky admirals anymore.

—

There is no chaos, there is harmony. You muse at the words as you examine the Lantillies system. A battle plan comes together like tying a knot, finishing a tapestry, all the loose threads neatly raveling. The main bulk of the Mandalorian fleet retreats from the Core. Cutting them off would be disastrous: instead, you want to trace their path back. Limit collateral damage, prevent them from finding a different vector of attack.

So, the Lantillies system. Billions of civilians stuck around an indefensible star, and you don't have the manpower to evacuate them. The most likely target for the next Mandalorian assault.

Three of your five battlegroups could get there in time, and you almost look forward to a repeat performance of Duro. But if there's anything you've learned, it's that the Mandalorians won't go quietly—they'll take as much of your fleet and the planets with them in their death throes. Losses you can't afford, not yet, not before you've even started a counteroffensive.

But you are Jedi. You are oath-bound to protect the Republic, to protect and serve its citizens. That is why you fight, after all.

Your eyes land on Jeyell, in the Perlemian cluster. Your frown turns contemplative. Jeyell primarily contributes medical droid components. What else? Hub for medical academia, environmentally stable, black market connections…

The hologram shimmers and shows hyperspace lanes throughout Republic space, and you pull up the holoterminal.

"Supreme Commander." The admiral salutes.

"Admiral Graik. Set up a defense cordon around the Randon route. Focus on the Gizer system, en route to Lantillies. Use your Interdictors to monitor hyperspace lanes." The Mandalorian fleet could continue along two vectors: towards Kashyyk via the Randon route, or towards a system in the Perlemian sector.

The admiral's mouth tightens, suppressing a frown. "You expect they will retreat through the Perlemian trade route?" You nod, and the admiral allows his frown to fully form, and the corner of your mouth turns up in amusement. The admiral is a political creature.

"Fighting to the last will not be necessary. Retreat when possible, Admiral."

You end the call, and punch in a different address.

"Captain Dodonna." You nod when she salutes. She's competent, and she doesn't question. "Take your task force along the following vectors. You will find a significant Mandalorian presence in your destination system. Harass them along the trade vector. Draw the forward fleet towards the Jeyell system."

"I understand, Supreme Commander."

"Excellent. May the Force be with you." The holoterminal shimmers out of view.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

The enemy fleet won't turn down a chance to rid the Republic of yet another planet, especially one that contributes medical advances that could potentially benefit the military. You push down a flicker of disgust—Jeyell has a population of 60 million, and you deliberately chose it. But you must protect the Republic's citizens, and the planets of the Lantillies system have 6 billion that could die instead.

It's not too different from sacrificing an army to allow a planet to evacuate.

—

You inform Captain Dodonna that she is to retreat from the system and reinforce the main battle group around Corellia when she reports that Mandalorian scouts have appeared in the Jeyell system.

Meetra looks at you in askance, and you set yourself to ignoring her for the rest of the day. You know she would disapprove, but—there is no emotion, there is peace. You made the intelligent decision. You hope you made the right decision.

—

You meet the Mandalorian fleet in the skies above Exodeen, knowing that their rearguard is carpet bombing Jeyell at that very moment. You know Meetra feels it too, from the way her face pales and eyes contort with the terror of millions of lives extinguished.

Here, you triumph. The invasion fleet retreats along the only possible vector available to them, away from the Republic's industrial corridor. Away from the Lantillies system.

But none of the Jedi that follow you meet your eyes, after that, so you send Alek to talk to them.

You can't avoid Meetra.

"I thought we were in this to protect the Republic. To save their lives," she says to you, quietly, as you read through casualty reports and proposed fleet movements.

You nod. You don't trust yourself to speak.

"What changed?"

"Nothing changed," you say just as quietly. "We could have forced them along the Randon route instead. Through the Lantillies system instead of Jeyell and Exodeen."

A look of understanding passes over her face. You think you see sorrow in there, too.

"I'm sorry. For accusing you of not caring about people's lives. All of this…fighting, killing, I don't know how I can stand it, and it scares me. That I can just gloss over 60 million deaths so easily." She swallows.

There is no death, there is the Force.

You put down the battle plans and the reports and turn to her, fully. "You do care. I trust you to. If—" You rub your fingers together, try to put words into a coherent sentence. "If I ever go too far. Please." You're not sure how to finish that statement. You're not even sure what you're trying to ask of her. That she put you on trial? Turn you in to the Jedi Council, who even now are deciding whether you have fallen to the dark? That she abandon you—the war effort—and leave?

Meetra nods, and the barest smile plays across her lips. "I decided to follow you out here, you know? And I'm still here."

"Of course you are. Leaving," you tell her, teasing, "could be construed as treason."

She laughs, and you smile. "I'm not going anywhere until we end this war. Until the Republic is safe again."

You smirk. "Well, I'd hate to lose my best General."

"Flattery doesn't work on me anymore. You'll have to try harder."

The pile of reports catches your eye and you sigh. "Well if you're not going anywhere help me with these? They're not going anywhere either, and I'd love to get them off my desk as soon as possible."

She rolls her eyes but sits down opposite you. You give her the fleet movement propositions, and keep the casualty reports for yourself.

—

Taris—the Outer Rim's ecumenopolis. An industrial powerhouse. And one system of seven in a cluster occupied by Mandalorians. Their fleet clashes with yours throughout the system, and you are so very afraid that at any moment the enemy fleet will turn its turbolasers on the planet. You're half surprised that hasn't happened already, that Taris isn't filled with smoking craters.

The system is an industrial powerhouse, so it makes more sense for the Mandalorian fleet to use that to their advantage. Use Taris's resources for their own.

But you know that's not how the Mandalorian command thinks. As you chase them back into their own space, you've found that they make defeat even costlier than victory. Planets—entire systems—that they once occupied burn, despite your best efforts.

This system's importance goes even beyond industrial might or the massive amounts of civilians.

This is where the war truly started. Where the Republic Senate, scared to lose their economic connections to the advancing Mandalorian forces and their orbital lasers, decided to make their stand by throwing a massive safety cordon impossible to man around the system.

Taking back Taris would signify the Republic taking the fight back to the Mandalorians. Recovering the last of their assets.

You already know the Jedi Council will send you yet another missive, after this, telling you the war is over. But it won't be—not until you've destroyed the Mandalorians' ability to strike at the Republic like this ever again. Not until the Republic is safe. A Mandalorian won't leave an enemy alive unless he is dead himself. And your resulting course of action is sickeningly simple.

"Holocommunication received from battlegroup Geonosis, sir," Admiral Karath reports. You don't need him to tell you with words what you already know.

"We're spread too thin," you say. "Move to reinforce—" You cut yourself off, prevent yourself from making the mistake you've been avoiding all of this war.

Battlegroup Geonosis is deployed in the Wayland system—small population, currently hosting medical and refugee centers for those affected by this war. Despite that, it has next to zero output in terms of military production. You give a bleak smirk to the Admiral, and carefully revise your statement. "Pull battlegroup Geonosis away from Wayland. Move to reinforce our position around Taris."

"Wayland will fall, sir," Karath says even as he immediately conveys those orders via the holoterminal. "It's likely we'll lose much of our kolto surplus."

You nod. It will. But you can't protect it, not without losing a large chunk of your strike force. And as much as it pains you, recruitment is at an all time high, and will be boosted higher still by this victory. You can afford to lose the ability to recover injured soldiers in exchange for getting fresh guns.

You step over to the holoterminal and press the override button to relay a message to all ships: "All forces, this is Revan. Advance to Taris system. Formation and vector coordinates accompanied." A tap transfers the data.

The next few hours pass in a daze. The Mandalorian fleet retreats under your onslaught, and their command makes the decision—asset denial at no cost. After all, you left those systems defenseless, destroying each one by one. You push the enemy fleet further and further back, and just when they think they've managed to live another day, you spring your trap. The overwhelming firepower you brought together by sacrificing six systems.

Afterwards, Alek raises a toast to you, and you wonder whether he even grasps the sacrifice involved in the victory, or if he's solely concerned with the victory itself. If he's simply acting his part to keep the Jedi under your command loyal, or if he's truly started to believe in Revan's image. Victory at all costs.

You force yourself to meet Meetra's eyes. "I trust you," she tells you, and doesn't ask you to justify your tactics. You wonder whether you should be feeling this relieved at her lie. You wonder whether you're imagining the shadow of fear in her eyes.

—

There is no passion, there is serenity.

The Republic's might lies in its industrial power. If you can protect the planets that contribute most to military production—Duro, Corellia, Taris—the Republic will win. The Republic can outproduce the Mandalorians in terms of pure firepower and resources needed for military action, given the incentive.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

It is your duty to protect civilians. That is your oath, to protect the innocent. But there are trillions upon trillions of lives for you to protect, and ultimately—a few billion won't make a dent.

There is no death, there is the Force.

You can't throw away your tools—your ships—in order to fix the problem—to protect civilians. You can't protect a Republic without a military.

You wonder if Meetra will buy that argument.

—

The Mandalorians fight back even harder when you push back, take Vorzyd and Lucazec and Elom.

Too far, too fast, Meetra tells you.

You wonder if she's right when you're the one who has to retreat at Lucazec, when Fett decimates your offensive force at Jaga's Cluster.

—

You tell Meetra to take back Onderon and Dxun. You give her as many soldiers as you can afford.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

You need to regain momentum.

—

Althir could've been a great victory.

Alek thought it would've been the next Dxun—a meat grinder for the ground troops.

He was right. Even now, Meetra still reports from Onderon's satellite with casualty numbers that are entirely too high.

He was wrong. Althir, much like Dxun, needed to be taken intact in order to preserve its infrastructure. Infrastructure you can commandeer to bolster your own war-damaged ships.

Alek decided to glass the whole planet.

The Mandalorians lost one of their primary construction facilities, yes. But so did you lose an asset.

You could turn Alek in for this, the idle thought occurs to you, but you won't. You need him to lead ships where you can't, to talk to the Jedi under your command and keep them happy now that you're so far removed from them, and—to be there for you. Because Meetra will probably hate you soon, and it's not like you can turn to HK for emotional support.

There is no emotion, there is peace. You can't forget this.

—

Later that night, when sleep refuses to come for you, a thought strikes: your analysis of the consequences of Alek's tactics never touched upon the needless death he had caused, on the factory workers and villages who only wanted to make it another day.

—

You wonder what caused the shadows around Meetra's eyes, caused her cheeks to sink in, caused her aura of care and concern to fade into apathy and desperation. You wonder whether it was just a single great tragedy, or a slow wearing down over months as she formed close ties with her soldiers, just to lose nearly all of them to a violent death.

There is no death, there is the Force.

Alek catches you staring and smirks. You roll your eyes and lean against the wall, cross your arms.

"You can't be serious," she finally manages to choke out.

"We are," Alek cuts in.

"Why not?" I ask at the same time.

Meetra takes a deep breath and turns to glare at me. "Because you're asking me to massacre my own troops. The Force knows I don't"—her breath hitches, and you can see her realize the gravity of her own words—"care about Malachor, and Mandalore has it coming, but I've talked to the engineer."

You raise an eyebrow and ignore Alek muttering something about "not trusting the Iridonian guy".

"The planet's unstable. The gravitational anomaly allows the generator to generate mass shadows, but it also means all the ships in close orbit are going to get pulled in. Including ours." She looks at me incredulously like she can't believe she has to explain this.

Alek steps in. "They'd all be destroyed anyways," he snaps. "We need to seize victory now, Meetra! You know how the Mandalorians fight! They're lashing out like some cornered beast now—I don't have to tell you any of this." His voice lowers, something conspiratorial. "I can't imagine how bad Dxun must've been for you. Especially…"

He waves a hand vaguely, but we all know what he means. Meetra's attunement to others' feelings can be both a blessing and a curse. It took me forever to learn how to shut myself off from her unconscious probes whenever she was nearby.

"All that means is that we're sinking to their level!" Meetra protests. "Just because they'd do something like this, bomb their own worlds, doesn't mean we have to follow in—"

"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it," Alek says heatedly. "All I'm saying is that we need to win as soon as possible. The Mandalorians won't understand a slow campaign to push them back—"

"Who cares what they understand I'm not going to pull the trigger on my own men—"

"The time to deal a decisive blow is now! If we destroy them totally then there's no need to lose any more of your troops—"

You step forward. "Enough."

They both stop. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no passion, there is serenity.

"Meetra, adjusting the fleet formations or the altering capacity of the Mass Shadow Generator to reduce casualties is your only task now. Alek, work with her." You wonder if they can see how exhausted you are.

You turn on your heel and leave.

—

"If you don't have to use it, don't," you tell Meetra. You've seen her battle plans. She has the fleets positioned to cut off the enemy, crush them in a ring with no escape. If she can pull it off without using the weapon…

She nods, but doesn't look at you.

"I trust you. You'll…you'll know whether it's the right thing to do."

This time she does look at you. "Hopefully never," she whispers.

You want to tell her that the responsibility is yours. You made the plan, you made the weapon, you made the decision. But you also know that won't help her: she needs to feel like she's in control; she's the one making the choice.

After all, she doesn't trust you anymore.

Neither does the Jedi council. You wonder what their reaction to this will be. Most likely, they will deem you fallen, but not go any further—after all, it would be political suicide to speak out against the Republic's heroes. Even if those heroes murdered thousands of the people who'd put their trust in those heroes. Well—there is no death, there is the Force.

You also wonder how much of Alek's spiel she buys, the spiel that he's feeding the rest of your Jedi. Victory at all costs.

But that's a lie as well. You've thought out the costs. You've calculated them, and you know exactly how much you're willing to lose.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge, after all.

You can commit an atrocity here and now, and betray the Republic. Forgo your duty. Deliberately kill your own soldiers. Or you can allow the fighting to continue, leading to ever more deaths. Innocent or not, the wars will kill so many. Either way, the Republic is saved. Either way, you've broken your oaths. Either way, you are no longer Jedi.

—

You feel the vibrations of the planet. You feel the first of the Mass Shadow Generator's deaths.

You point your lightsaber at Mandalore and, when he is distracted, cut out his throat. You tear off his visor and look through his eyes to see what he has seen.

When you're done, the war is over.

—

There is no death, there is the Force.

You stare at Malachor's shattered remains. Hundreds of thousands dead. Meetra gone.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

You quell the storm of emotions in your chest. You know what must be done.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

You took your oaths for a reason. You will keep following them, as you have always done. You will keep fighting, even if the galaxy no longer considers you Jedi. Even if you don't consider yourself Jedi.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

The Republic will always have another enemy, you have come to realize. You will learn of that enemy, and make sure that enemy is destroyed utterly.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

You will make sure the Republic is strong. You will not regret your decisions.