When dinner arrives that evening, it's hearty fare. But the food interests Meetra less than the single red rose that lays on the tray across a napkin. She selects the flower and ignores the dinner. Twirling it in her hand, she rubs a finger over a sharp thorn on the stem and inspects the fresh dewdrop that still clings to one bright petal. The flower is at its peak of bloom and it was cut very recently. It must have been grown here at the fortress moon of Darth Sion.
Meetra is glumly contemplating the flower half an hour later when the door to her cell slides open. Is it someone come to collect the food tray? No, it's the jailor guy from yesterday. The one with the good hair. He's wearing that same nondescript high collared black tunic uniform as before. It has no rank insignia or other indication of where he falls in the hierarchy. But Tony looks vaguely military with his boots and gloves.
"Like it?" he asks when he finds her holding the flower.
She looks up at him over the petals. "Oh, it's you."
The man smiles like they are friends. "Miss me?"
"I miss those cookies. Got any more cookies?" Meetra has no appetite for the rich, saucy Sith cuisine she's been served. But she's hungry nonetheless.
"As a matter of fact, I do. Here, my Lady." The man produces a little bundle from his pocket. It's a napkin folded around two cookies.
"These are warm!" Meetra exclaims her gleeful surprise as she unwraps the treat.
"I took them off a tray cooling in the kitchen," the man confides as she immediately stuffs one in her mouth. It melts into sugary yumminess that tastes amazing.
"Oooh, these are so good," Meetra mumbles with her mouth full and spilling crumbs. "These might be worth getting captured for."
"I'm glad you like them, my Lady."
"Don't call me that." Meetra shoots him a look.
"Is that the wrong way to address a female Knight of the Republic? Should it be Master Surik? Or maybe Mistress? Which do you prefer?" the jailor asks. And is he serious? Yes, he's serious.
She huffs, "I'm not a Jedi, remember?"
"Alright, General."
"I'm not a general either. I got fired. Very publicly."
"Ms. Surik, then," he amends.
"Meetra is fine."
"But that's your given name."
"Yes." She takes a bite of the second cookie. It's every bit as good as the first. She closes her eyes to savor it. "Call me Meetra," she mumbles, her mouth still full of cookie.
"In the Empire, we use titles and honorifics. Only family members and close friends use given names. Otherwise, it's considered disrespectful."
Whatever. "Meetra is fine. It's what everyone calls me where I'm from. People only use my full name or my rank when I'm being reprimanded. Formal forms of address have bad connotations for me," she sighs.
"Alright, uh Meetra." He says her name 'Meeee-trrrraaaaaah' with the same slightly accented Basic that every Sith citizen she's met uses. The Sith lean into their vowels and slightly roll their r's. It makes for an exotic inflection that underscores their general 'bad guy' impression.
Meetra doesn't ask, but the man now volunteers his own name. "I'm Antoninus."
"Ant-to-ni-nus," she sounds out the name slowly and guesses, "Anthony?"
"Yes. I believe that is the Republic form of my given name."
"I'm going to call you Tony," Meetra decides. "Antoninus is way too long. No one human has a four-syllable name where I come from."
"As you wish," he nods politely.
Meetra looks up now to squint at her jailor. "You're awfully deferential to a prisoner."
"Lord Sion considers you his guest."
"His guest?"
"Yes."
Meetra raises a skeptical eyebrow and gestures to their surroundings. "I'm in a holding cell. There's a camera up there recording all of this," she points out. "If I'm a guest, Darth Sion's hospitality leaves a lot to be desired."
"He's cautious by nature," Tony explains. "It's best that you appear to be in captivity."
"Whatever," she sniffs. Looking her visitor over, she asks, "So, who are you exactly? What do you do for Sion?"
"I'm in charge of prisoners."
"Yeah? What does that mean?"
"I check on the captives daily. But since the guy next door died, there's just you to oversee. And we don't get many Jedi—"
"Ex-Jedi."
"—types, so you need special oversight. And female prisoners are rare. Especially young and pretty ones."
Meetra's not so young any longer and she ignores 'pretty.' Appearance was never a big concern for a female Jedi.
Unfortunately, Tony the jailor leans in on the topic. "The report said you were perky, which you're not," he observes. "But it neglected to mention how pretty you are. The newsfeed photos I saw don't do you justice."
Meetra sighs audibly and rolls her eyes. She's familiar with the male tendency to rate women—even women in public life-on the 'hot or not' metric. She tells him quellingly, "Don't go there."
"Uh . . . about that. So, none of the guards know who you are. I mean, they know you're Jedi, but they think you're just some random Jedi woman, not the Exile."
"Okay."
"The Master thought that was for the best. He has given precise instructions for your situation. But we don't get many female prisoners and there is always the risk that . . . well, the guards can sometimes mistreat . . . that is to say . . . " the man stammers.
"I could get raped?" Meetra bluntly finishes for him.
Her jailor frowns but nods. "That is the concern, yes. But so long as the men believe you can defend yourself with the Force, that should keep them at bay. Play along and don't reveal otherwise."
"Who knows I don't have the Force?"
"Just me. And the Master, of course."
Tony looks her over critically now. "So . . . it went okay in the throne room this morning? I mean, you're alive and well, so that's a victory, right?"
"I suppose." Meetra's not really sure what to make of that interview with Sion. But she's naturally suspicious of the man and worried she got played. Manipulation, after all, is a Sith Lord's stock and trade.
"What did you think of him?" her jailor fishes for information about his boss. Tony's light eyes—are they blue? grey? maybe green?—study her intently. He is very interested in her reaction to Lord Sion.
Cynical Meetra gives him a knowing look. "Here to cheerlead for your guy?"
"Of course." Tony is unabashed about his allegiance. "He's our guy. That's how it works in the Empire. You support your Lord all the way up the feudal chain of command to Dark Lord Vitiate. Come on," her jailor cajoles, flashing a haphazard smile. "You can tell me. What did you really think of him?"
Meetra shrugs. "He surprised me."
"In a good way?"
"I'm not sure yet. He's . . . "
"Yes?"
"Well, he's far less brutish than I remember."
"Okay. Well, that's good, right?"
She doesn't answer.
Tony keeps trying to make conversation. He gestures to the flower she has laid aside and asks, "Do you like it? The flower, I mean."
"It's beautiful . . . and dead now." Kind of like her, Meetra thinks as her lips twist.
Tony frowns and pouts. "That attitude ruins the gesture."
"What gesture?"
"The Master sends you a flower. A pretty rose for a pretty woman. Something to liven up this cell. And all you can see is the bleak part. Are you Jedi always so intense and metaphorical?" he complains.
"Yeah," Meetra admits sheepishly. "We are like that a lot. Our teaching style revels in analogies. It's kind of vague at times, I guess."
Tony seems offended. "Sometimes a flower is just a flower."
"Oh, I doubt that. Not a flower from a Sith Lord." There must be an ulterior motive. Meetra reaches for the rose and twirls it, enjoying the scent. Thinking back on Sion's bargain, she wonders aloud, "Is this some sort of peace offering?"
"Peace is a lie," her jailor quotes the Code of the Sith, the guiding principles of his people. "Think of it as a token of Darth Sion's respect and admiration."
"Riiiight."
"I'm serious. He calls you the hero of Malachor."
Meetra winces. That epithet stings.
The jailor sees this. Softly, Tony adds, "He means it as a compliment."
"That might make it worse," Meetra grumbles.
Her jailor huffs at her again. "You know, you have a very bad attitude. I thought your people were supposed to be all about finding silver linings and looking on the bright side. Where is your hope, Jedi?"
"Need a little Light Side, do you?" Meetra responds dryly, slanting him some side eye.
Tony takes umbrage at her thick sarcasm. He stiffly informs her, "The Sith have hope. We have lots of hope."
"Oh?" she challenges. "How is that?"
"Because we are very determined. And the essence of determination is hope to enact change."
"That's the most positive framing of your people's revenge obsession that I've heard yet," Meetra smirks.
"Revenge has its place," her jailor contends. "It gives closure. It allows you to move on. It gives you permission to let go."
"It rots the soul, more like."
"Not always. Sometimes you need to complete a process to head forward. Sometimes you need to take action in order to heal. Take you, for example."
Meetra looks up to meet his eyes with surprise. "Me?"
"Yes, you. You're stuck, you know that, right? Life changed on you in ways you didn't plan and could not foresee. And now, you don't know who to be or what to do."
"That sounds about right." Meetra looks away. It's humiliating that this enemy stranger can see her languishing straightaway. Meetra knows she needs a cause. She was raised Jedi so she wants to accomplish things, to fight the good fight. The trouble is that she's not sure what that means anymore. And that pretty much sums up the existential crisis that is her life currently.
Tony's not finished. He tells her, "You have no business looking down your nose at us when you yourself are so lost. Our way of life is very different from yours, but that doesn't automatically make it wrong. Look at you! Wallowing in unhappiness! Even though your Jedi friends denounced you and threw you out, you still cling to their mindset. It's more than foolish, it's self-destructive," he accuses. "Keep this up and you will gain nothing from your experiences."
Meetra not loving being lectured to by a Sith prison guard, but it's hard to deny his truth. She really is lost. And that's why she agreed to this foolhardy scheme with Darth Sion that may turn out to be her worst decision yet.
"You need help. Anyone can see that," Tony asserts, "So why do you resist help? Is it because you don't approve of the source? Is your pride such that you cannot bring yourself to accept help from the Sith? Look, woman, there won't be any help coming from the Republic or the Jedi. And all the other Lords would kill you without hesitation. Or they will turn you over to Dark Lord Vitiate for him to use you against Revan. The Master is different. Open your mind, and seize the opportunity he offers you."
"I said I would try to work with him," she mutters, "but I'm sure he has his own agenda as well."
"If he wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already," her jailor retorts. "If he wanted to use you, you'd be on a starship to Traya's Academy right now. And if he wanted to broker political goodwill, you'd be on your way to Vitiate. Instead, you're here now. Alive and well, fed and adequately housed. He can't let you roam his fortress freely as a houseguest because word would get out. He has to pretend to keep you as a prisoner, don't you see? What more does Lord Sion need to do to earn your trust?"
Meetra glares back at her fuming jailor and hisses, "I'm not sure I can trust any longer." People she trusted let her down—from her fellow Crusaders Revan, Malak, and Kreia to the Jedi High Council back home. The institutions she was raised to revere and uphold left her disillusioned. And the friends and mentors she adored went places she refused to follow. And now, she finds herself alone and restless.
Frustrated and annoyed, Meetra leaps to her feet and throws the flower she's still holding at Tony. It bounces harmlessly off the man's chest. Staring him down, she snarls, "I don't know what to believe in—or who to believe in—now . . ." The words start hot and loud, but they decrescendo fast to a lament. And that pretty much captures her current vibe—angry on the surface but deeply sad inside.
Tony must see that his message has gotten through. Or perhaps he thinks he's gone too far and said too much. He immediately backtracks. "I'm sorry." It's a ridiculous thing for her captor to be apologizing given their relative positions, but he does it anyway. "I'm sorry. That came out a bit harsh." He cracks a sheepish smile now and explains, "We Sith are big into tough love. Think of it as encouragement."
Meetra responds by plopping back down on the cell bench. She tucks her knees up and hugs them to her chest. It's a defensive posture but she doesn't really care to put on a show of bravado around Sion's minion—what's the point? "Don't you have something to do? Somewhere to be?" she glares.
"I'm your jailor. I'm jailing you currently," Tony points out as he refuses to budge.
"It must be a slow day, eh?"
"Well, the guy next door is dead, so you're the only prisoner. Remember?"
"I thought I was a guest."
"A confined guest. It's for your own good."
"Riiiight. Got it." Meetra gives her captor a withering look. "I guess I had it backwards yesterday. You're not the good cop come to ingratiate yourself, your boss plays that role. You're the bad cop, Tony, right?"
He says nothing. He just watches her with what looks like humiliating pity on his face.
Will the guy take the hint to leave? Meetra just wants to be alone so she can master her emotions and avoid the very un-Jedi like crying jag she feels welling up. But no, Tony the jailor does not leave. Instead, he leans against the far wall of her cell, crosses his arms, props up one foot, and broaches a new topic of conversation that is even more uncomfortable.
Almost offhand like he's making small talk, he asks, "What is Revan like?"
Revan. He's asking her about Revan. Meetra blinks at the total non-sequitur even as her heart skips a beat at the mention of the name. "Whhaat?"
"My Master signed up with his fledgling empire out of expedience, but I'm told he never actually met the man."
"Yeah? Then why did Sion sign up?"
"You'll have to ask him," Tony shrugs. "But you should know that the Master signs up with lots of conspiracies. It's what Sith Lords do. They plot against each other, but mostly they plot against Dark Lord Vitiate."
"That sounds about right." Backstabbing is a cultural pastime on the Dark Side, Meetra has learned.
"Just so you know, Revan's empire within the Empire was the most direct challenge to Vitiate in centuries. That made it very exciting for people like us. Half the Lords wanted to beat Revan in battle for the bragging rights. The other half wanted to be Revan. Revan is still all anyone is talking about. We're very curious."
Meetra tries to shut down this discussion. "I didn't know him as Darth Revan."
"But you knew him well. Very well."
"Yes." Yes, she did. Or rather, she thought she did.
"Lots of Lords talk about challenging Vitiate, but very few do more than talk. Then finally someone starts making big moves, and it turns out to be a fallen Jedi under that mask. Revan made the Lords of the Sith look craven by comparison," Tony grumbles.
"I don't like masks," Meetra mutters. "I should have known where things were headed when Revan started wearing that mask."
"Masks are a Sith thing. Lots of Lords wear masks. The Master's got a new one."
"Yes, I saw. When I saw him last, he had a half mask on."
"Do you like it?" Tony asks.
"What?"
"Do you like the new full mask?"
"I told you—I don't like masks," Meetra responds irritably. "But in his case, it's fine. Normally, I prefer to see people's faces, but not with Sion. I saw enough of that guy on Korriban."
Tony nods his understanding. "The Master's mask isn't an affectation like Revan's."
"Oh, I've seen your guy without the full mask," Meetra assures the jailor. "I know he needs it."
"Lord Sion can be a little sensitive about his appearance. Never mock him for his uh . . . afflictions."
"Do you mean his gross, rotting zombie body?" Meetra snarls.
Tony gives her a reproving look now. Sternly, he warns, "I would advise that you not phrase it like that to the Master."
"Why? Can a Sith Lord get his feelings hurt?"
"Do you really want to find out?"
"Good point," Meetra concedes. But she digs in, "The guy's disgusting . . . "
"Not always. And when he is, he knows it. Trust me, Lord Sion doesn't want to hear it." Tony gives her a slow, appraising look now. Meetra sees that she is judged and found to be lacking. For her jailor comments slowly, "I would have thought that you of all people would understand the pain of rejection and the loneliness of exclusion."
Fuck this man for his astute insight. Meetra feels her cheeks redden. "I see your point," she allows, feeling a little ashamed for her pettiness. But dammit—Lord Sion is the reason she's in this jail cell. Is it any wonder that she's not feeling particularly charitable towards the guy?
The jailor resumes talking about Revan now. "Revan was a formidable opponent on the battlefield. No one expected that. His success gives the Emperor reason to defer the revenge of the Sith a little longer. That's what Vitiate wants, of course."
When Meetra says nothing, Tony keeps talking about internal Sith politics. "Everyone says Vitiate was only testing the waters with the Mandalorian conflict. He was appeasing military factions that have been demanding he invade the enemy. Using the false front of Mandalore was his compromise. Vitiate got to invade indirectly and keep the war small. That way, he could pull back whenever he wanted and he didn't have to fully reveal the existence of the Empire."
"Why doesn't he want to invade the Republic directly?" Meetra has wondered this.
"He says the Sith aren't ready. That we need more time to prepare."
"But you don't believe that," she surmises.
"No one believes that," Tony scoffs. "Vitiate's been saying it for centuries. Delay is his strategy. He likes the status quo and he doesn't want to risk losing to the Republic because he knows it will mean he loses his grip on power."
"It's about power," Meetra nods. Cynically, she observes, "That sounds about right for your people."
"Power is everything in our culture."
"Even for a layman like you?"
"Yes. My fortunes rise and fall with the fortunes of my Master. Everyone on this moon wants Sion to succeed."
"I see." That makes sense. The Sith are so tribal, so partisan, she has learned. For a culture that brags about betrayal, loyalty turns out to be a very important concept on the Dark Side.
"So, you never did tell me—what is Revan like?" Tony wants to know. His persistence makes her wary. Suddenly, this conversation feels like a low-key interrogation. Should she answer?
Seeing her hesitation, Tony offers, "It might help you to talk about it." Then, he repeats the question. "What is Revan like?"
What is—was-Revan like? That's a very big question. Meetra is honestly stumped for how to respond. "Revan is . . . he was . . . Well, he was Revan."
Tony looks a little amused and a little irked by that answer. "You're going to need to elaborate some on that description."
Meetra tries again, thinking back on the man she once knew with a catch in her throat and a pain in her heart. Revan was the best sort of man . . . until he became the worst sort of man. Who is he now? Where is he now? She doesn't know. Forcing herself to be as objective as possible, to give herself some emotional distance from this very emotional topic, Meetra attempts to describe her friend. "All along, many Jedi didn't hold with his ideals. They thought he and the rest of us should have stayed home and not gotten involved. The High Council told Revan flatly that the Mandalorian Wars were a damn-fool idealistic crusade that we couldn't win and should at best hope to contain. We thought they were cynical and defeatist, too elitist Core World in their mindset. But it turns out that they were right . . . only for the wrong reasons . . ." So many of the expectations and assumptions of both the Order and the Crusaders were wrong. None of the Jedi understood the full situation until it was too late. They never guessed that the Sith were the root cause of the conflict.
Tony nods and prods, "I know the history. Tell me about Revan himself. About Revan the man."
Meetra doesn't want to give away anything useful to her enemy. So, she responds with trivial things that are meaningless in the grand scheme. "Revan could drink everyone under the table," she begins. "That man could hold his liquor. I'd be drooling with my head on the table falling asleep, and he'd be still wide awake and telling jokes. Alek always tried to keep up with him, but he never could . . . no one could . . . "
"You did a lot of drinking?"
"Yeah, I guess. We were at war for years. That context breeds a certain sense of pleasure seeking. And there was always partying after battles. Win or lose, you'd start off toasting to the memory of friends who died and then you'd end up celebrating that you yourself lived."
"Was it just drinking?"
"There was some spice. Sex, too. Look, we weren't the usual Jedi Knights. And once you break one rule, it's easy to break another. We got to a place where there were no rules for personal conduct. No one cared what you did, so long as you were sober and focused in the morning to do your job."
"I see." From his stiffening body language, Tony clearly disapproves.
Meetra smirks up at him and goads, "Am I shocking you?"
"Is that your goal?"
She flashes a tight, insincere smile. "Maybe."
The jailor lets the point slide. He presses, "What else? Tell me more about Revan."
What else? What else can she share that is inconsequential? Meetra thinks a moment. "Revan could swear in at least twenty languages. He used to collect alien profanity. When he used it, no one knew what the Hell he was saying. But you always knew when he was really mad because then he was stone cold formal. When Revan stopped saying 'fuck' every other sentence, you knew you were in trouble." Meetra looks away and blinks back a sudden rush of hot tears. The memories she's dredging up are a lot to handle. Wiping fast at one watery eye, she continues. "He would joke about everything except war. Revan was very serious about war."
Her jailor listens and says nothing.
"He was an enthralling sort of man," Meetra continues her reminiscing. There is a wistful note to her voice. "He was a very persuasive leader, a principled pragmatist, a once-in-a-generation Force talent . . . and a good friend." She sighs and looks away. She's getting choked up. "To know him was to love him."
"That's what my report says about you," Tony speaks up.
"Oh, I'm nothing compared to him. The old him, that is . . . "
Her jailor digests this response. Then, he asks a quiet question which betrays that her strategy has failed. For in speaking of meaningless things and vague generalizations, Meetra has inadvertently revealed a great deal. Only it's not about Revan, it's about herself. Darth Sion's jailor now locks eyes with her and softly demands, "Did you love him?"
How does she answer that question? Meetra sits frozen.
"Did you love Revan?"
She tells the truth. She might as well. "Yes. We all did."
"Isn't it forbidden for a Jedi to love?"
"We broke a lot of rules." Meetra says that proudly. Fuck the Jedi Code.
"Which rules?"
"All of them. I broke all of them." But one sin mattered most of all: 'thou shall not dabble in the Dark Side.' For that, there is no forgiveness. Even she, the lone Crusader leader who resisted the pull to Darkness and who returned to Coruscant to account for her actions, was condemned forever. Cast out as the Jedi Exile, a damned, lost Light Side soul if there ever was one.
"So . . . did you love Revan?" This point seems to be very important to Sion's jailor.
Uncomfortable Meetra shrugs and explains, "It wasn't a romantic love, if that's what you're asking."
"It was friendship?"
"No, it was deeper than that."
"Tell me."
She thinks a long moment before she starts talking. "I guess the closest thing you could compare it to is a family. We squabbled, we argued, we occasionally hurt one another, but we also loved. None of us ever grew up with real family dynamics. And so, when the Crusaders were finally outside the oversight of the Order, we became a pseudo family of our own. It was us against the Mandorians at first, then us against the Sith. And then finally, somehow it became us against the Republic Senate and even the Jedi High Council."
Tony nods like he understands. "Go on."
"That's when Revan and Alek broke away. Kreia too. None of us set out to end up how we are now. But it happened anyway." Meetra shakes her head in true bewilderment. She lived every second of those times and was fully cognizant of her role and responsibilities. She was a major player, a decision maker. And yet still, it feels strange to be where she is today. Never did she imagine history would unfold the way it did. And now, she's the prisoner-guest of a bizarre Sith Lord who purports to want to learn the Light. It's as ridiculous as it is improbable, but that's kind of how her life goes lately.
"Revan and I were never a couple." She wants to make that clear. "He had Bastila Shan for that."
"From her description, Shan seems like a younger, less impressive, less beautiful version of you," Tony offers.
"She's not. We're nothing alike." And wait, that came out a little too fast and too defensive.
"You hate her," her jailor decides as a knowing smile creeps across his face.
"No," Meetra protests weakly, "we get along fine. But she's all wrong for Revan."
"Because it should have been you?"
Meetra winces at the awkward, leading question. But she won't take the bait. 'What might have been' in an alternate reality is a slippery slope to all sorts of fantasy happy endings that will never come to pass. It's pointless wishful thinking at this stage. Meetra tells Sion's minion, "It might have been me had things played out differently. But it wasn't me. I can accept that." That's probably for the best given what's happened to Revan. And to herself, for that matter.
"Admit it. You hate her," Tony goads. "You can tell me."
Meetra shakes her head no. "I don't hate her. I hate that she deceived Revan. I don't think true, lasting love can ever come from a lie. Do you?"
Tony says nothing.
"Bastila was complicit with the Order's plan to brainwash Revan. She went along with it. I think that ought to disqualify her from ever being the woman for him." Meetra slaps at the bench she's seated on in frustration now as she grumbles, "Why am I telling you this? You don't need to know this."
"I'm interested."
"Why? Think gossip about Revan is useful? Well, you're wrong. Tell Sion he won't be able to lure Revan using me as bait. Even if he could escape Vitiate, Revan wouldn't come for me. He'd go back to Bastila and their son. I'm too toxic politically for anyone to be seen helping me."
"Our culture would see you as a hero, not a villain," the jailor counters thoughtfully. "You did what needed to be done."
"Yes, well, moral qualms have never stopped the Sith, have they?" Meetra points out sourly.
Tony turns that argument around on her. "We value decisive leadership, not consensus. We don't subscribe to morality codes that restrict leadership."
"Right," she nods and passes judgement, "I get it. Your only virtue is power. The strong rule and the weak fall."
"You're catching on," Tony commends her. He's still standing against the far wall, arms crossed, with one foot leisurely bent at the knee. He's got a sly twist to his jaw that lifts one cheek in a half smile. The resulting expression is very sardonic. The jailor is just one of Sion's many underlings, but he manages to convey the same attitude as his Sith Lord boss in his throne room. And maybe that's fitting. This a culture—top to bottom—of very provoking men.
Meetra worries, "What do you think Vitiate is doing to him? Revan, I mean."
"Oh, I'm sure he's torturing him."
She makes a face.
"That upsets you."
"Yes."
"Because you love him."
"Yes."
"But you love him still, even after he became a Sith Lord?"
"He's back from that . . . I think." Meetra's not really sure.
"Did he need to come back to the good side for you to love him?" Tony asks. And what is it with his fascination with her and Revan? It's weird. This whole conversation feels intrusive.
But Meetra sets him straight, rather than shuts him down. "No. No, Revan wouldn't need to pass some Force purity test for me. I love him Dark or Light. I might not agree with him . . . I did not support what he did . . . but I understood . . . at least, I think I do . . ." She would never treat Revan the way the High Council treated her.
"So . . . you could love someone on the Dark Side?"
What the fuck? "What is this?" Meetra huffs. This topic has gotten way too personal. "Why are you asking me this?"
Tony ignores her objection. He wants to know, "Did you try to save Revan's soul?"
"I never really got the chance. But I would have." That comes out defiantly, just like she means it. Eyes flashing, Meetra asserts, "Love means you don't give up on people." Love means you stick around when things get tough and disagreements happen. Love doesn't bail when things go wrong. And love doesn't give a damn about limits and rules like in the Jedi Code. Love defies and transcends all that. And if after all the frustrations and disappointments of life, love lets you down . . . maybe your loved one falls to the Dark Side or uses a super weapon, say for example . . . well then, your job as the counterpart of that love is to try to forgive. Because love lets you have a fresh start. Love sees the best of you and helps you confront the worst.
Tony the jailor is looking at her very closely again. He decides, "You are going to try to save Sion's soul, aren't you?"
Meetra retorts bitterly, "If I'm going to save anyone's soul these days, it will be my own." Once she gets her Force back—if she can get her Force back—she'll be ready to make positive changes in her life. "I'm worried about myself these days, not Sion, not Revan, not other people."
"Okay." Tony seems pleased by this assertion. He now abruptly moves on. "This cell has a shower. Use it."
"So you and your buddies can ogle me naked? No, thanks." The closest she's come to a shower so far is a wet soapy towel hastily run over her body beneath her clothes.
"You can have your privacy. I'll turn off the camera feed in the shower stall and the toilet."
"I don't believe that."
"Believe it. You've been here three days," Tony reminds her. "You need to wash. Someone will bring you fresh clothes shortly. Something more appropriate."
Great. It sounds like she's going to get her very own prison jumpsuit. "What is this about?" Meetra complains.
"I'm in charge of taking care of the prisoners and Lord Sion likes them clean. He has a distaste for slovenliness. It brings infection."
"Infection," she repeats. "Your zombie Lord of Pain Master fears infection?"
"Yes. He is particular about hygiene for all here."
"Under that armor suit and mask, he's a rotting corpse, right? What's he got to fear from infection?"
"Do not underestimate the power of my Master," Tony replies testily. "His great power keeps him alive and rejuvenates his body. When his rage is at its peak, he appears outwardly much the same as you and I do."
Meetra doesn't believe that. There are too many stories of Sion walking around with literal limbs nearly falling off. "No one can heal themselves completely with the Dark Side."
"He comes close. He is hundreds of years old. He fought with Freedon Nadd and served Exar Kuun—that's how old is. Lord Sion is functionally immortal."
Meetra has no idea who Freedon Nadd and Exar Kuun are, but she raises an eyebrow at this boast. "Sion's an immortal zombie but he still fears infection?"
"Like all the most powerful Force users, his power fluctuates," Tony informs her. "When he is weaker, his body weakens and decays. That's when he must go in search of Darkness to stoke his rage. It's how he survives."
Oh, please. "No one can heal themselves completely with the Dark Side."
"He comes close. The rest is what you're here for," her jailor replies. His eyes now land on the neglected food tray sitting on the bench beside her. Her jailor frowns and issues one final instruction before he departs. "Eat your dinner. You can't live on cookies."