Entry Sixteen, Days after Geonosis, One Hundred Eleven

I must admit that the people from the Bioterrorism Countermeasures Center were very nice overall. They seem competent too, and old Ouranz is working with them now. He was the right choice for the MediCorps to send. He spoke to me at length and took everything I said seriously, though I fear the resources assigned to the center will permit no more than cursory detection research until this problem explodes. I will have to do what I can on my own, whenever possible, though it seems hopeless. So far even Takul, whose people have a great deal of experience culturing exotic organisms, has failed to keep any of our samples alive in vitro.

Such dour predictions regularly invade what is meant to be a calm convalescence. Prefect Xeril had me placed in the police wing of the medcenter for 'security reasons.' I suppose, as a political matter, I probably should have fought that and demanded transfer to the Temple, but I have discovered that severe blood loss makes me very sleepy. I passed out long before the time came to argue, and it seemed rather pointless to protest the fait accompli afterwards.

Combined together, the police and bioterrorism experts had arranged to demand a truly mountainous quantity of reporting on this incident. More than enough to keep me busy. Mind-numbing as such work is, the distraction is helpful. It drives off the itching caused by the bacta patch strapped to my leg. Anytime I recall its presence, such as now, it sets every major nerve ending fluttering and twanging. The desire to scratch at it, completely counterproductive, becomes immense. No matter how hard I try I cannot seem to manage the meditations necessary to make it stop. It's very embarrassing.

Only losing myself in work helps.

Two more days with the patch, and then a regenerative compress for a week, minimum. I'm under strict instructions to remain off the leg entirely during that time. Truly a miserable prognosis, I have no idea how I'll get everything done. I am beginning to understand why doctors are considered to be the worst of all possible patients. I understand the necessity of following the droids' orders perfectly, but perversely this only increases my desire to disobey. I cannot be trapped in a hospital like this. The work is too important.

There is another, far less mundane, reason why I must keep busy. So long as I'm working, focused on problems, I don't have to think about the Kage Warrior I killed. It is strange, how this memory haunts me. Death is no stranger to me. I have watched many others die, including those I failed personally to save. I grieve for those lost, but this is different. Different too from that of the Yellow I killed alongside Morne. For some reason, one I have not yet managed to fully articulate but regard as certain, I do not consider that creature to be sapient. Aware and cunning though it was, it did not have the nature of a person, fighting it was more like facing a dangerous animal or an assassin droid.

Killing the Kage was something entirely separate. There is no sparing what he was. I can see his eyes as he fell away, light fading from yellow orbs to leave behind the soft gold I see in my own reflection. The first kill I can unambiguously attribute to my lightsaber.

It has left a mark, one that does not fade.

There is no question of any sort of criminal culpability. The three female officers who share this room, all blinded by contaminated optics and unreasonably grateful as a result, have made that explicitly clear after their endless cajoling pried the story out of me. Wholly justified self-defense, no need to even resort to the contingency of war. The officer who took down my initial statement did not bother to ask even a single question further regarding the incident.

I find none of this comforting. The intellectual justifications behind the act are easy to recognize, but far harder to internalize. Besides, I want this to hurt, I demand it injure me; be horrible, scourge my mind. I never want to forget this wretchedness, I must not. What kind of doctor would I be if I felt nothing upon taking the life of another sapient being? It is not justified. I cannot accept thinking that way, as the officers and soldiers do, as Isoxya does.

It was a necessary action, but no more than that. I will have to carry the price.

I tried to explain this to one of the officers, the Twi'lek lady Ectella whose bunk lies next to mine. She said only 'that's why not everyone can carry a badge,' and suggested I avoid future saber-swinging adventures. Would that I could heed such advice, retreat to the lab full time, but neither the demands of war nor the nature of the underworld will accommodate such desires. Certainly the alien enemy who stalks these lower shadows will not.

I have made one resolution based on this advice, however. In the future I will ask for Isoxya's assistance, no matter the embarrassment of a Jedi seeking out a bodyguard or the frightful nature of her predilections. I understand some sense of her philosophy now. A little more blood will not harm her, surely, and better that it not spatter anyone else. Perhaps that is wrong, and my understanding is flawed, but it seems to be the Atsev way and I will respect it accordingly. Theirs is a curious lifestyle, one well-suited to the underworld. Surprising truly, how limited their presence is.

I doubt I shall ever be comfortable having a Stoneweb Runner for a guardian, but maybe that is for the best. Comfort is not something I should expect or look for in the face of this growing threat. I now realize that confrontation is inevitable. The clash advances, one evolutionary step at a time. I recognize now that my placement here was not random, nor was it based upon some brief bureaucratic assessment of my record. The High Council chose me deliberately, guided as always through the Force.

I still wonder if they chose correctly. I doubt that will ever cease.