Meetra looks up as the door to her cell slides open. In walks Tony, the square jawed, bright eyed, red headed jailor. She surveys him, eyes lingering on the bruised abrasion high on his right cheekbone. It's impossible to miss. "What happened to you?"
He looks embarrassed. "I was disciplined."
"Fuck. Got busted on the cookies?" she guesses.
"No."
"What'd you do?"
"It's not what I did, it's what I didn't do."
"Oh."
"Look, it would be best for both of us if you would just wear that dress." Tony shifts his weight and looks uncomfortable as he gripes, "He was not pleased when you didn't wear the dress."
"Wait—you were disciplined because I didn't wear the dress?"
"What Sion wants, Sion gets. You don't tell a Lord 'no' and failure is not an option. So when the one prisoner under my supervision doesn't follow my directions, there are consequences."
"Er . . . sorry," Meetra squirms, feeling guilty.
"Wear the dress, will you? The dress and the cape, please."
"Here." She stands and crosses the small room to hand him a napkin left over from her lunch tray. "You're bleeding."
"Thanks." He snatches it with his gloved hand and dabs at the wound.
"You should put a bandage on that."
"Nah, it's nothing. Unless, of course, I get disciplined again." Tony glares at her.
She takes the hint. "Fine. I'll wear the dress."
"My head thanks you."
Meetra peers up at Tony, even as he self-consciously backs away. "You know, that could be a concussion . . . "
"It's not."
"Good."
"Are you worried about me?" The jailor looks bemused.
Meetra shoots him a look. "You're my cookie hookup."
"Right. I'm also your librarian," Tony pivots the conversation nimbly as he hands her the datapad he's holding. "The boss wants you to have this. It's pre-loaded with reading material."
"Oh, wow . . . " Excited by this unexpected development, Meetra eagerly pokes at the device. It has several files loaded. She starts reading the titles aloud. "On the Meaning of Power by Darth Tenebrae, as translated to Basic from the original Kittat by Darth Gladium, with end notes by Darth Defamer and foreward by Darth Malador the Elder. Sounds . . . substantial," she comments for lack of a better word.
"It's the definitive work on the Dark Side," Tony informs her.
"Okay." Meetra clicks on the file. She starts skimming the first paragraph and quickly deduces, "This is a scholarly treatise. And here I was hoping for a trashy novel." Cheekily, she looks up at Tony and wheedles, "I don't suppose you could ask your boss to let me binge watch some holonet shows on this thing, could you? The definitive work on the Dark Side isn't exactly entertaining. I mean, having nothing to do all day is boring. But this . . . well, this looks boring in a different way."
"Do your homework and maybe he'll load some entertainment on that datapad."
"Alright," she grumbles. Meetra reverts to inspecting the list of titles. "A Short History of the Sith. It's 270,000 words. That's not short. Is there a long history? Please don't give me the long history."
"You need to know our side of the story. It will deepen your understanding of our perspective."
She raises an eyebrow at this claim. "So this is Sith fake news?"
Tony stiffens. "There is nothing fake about the ways my people have suffered. To understand why revenge persists foremost in our mindset, you must appreciate the cultural, political, and religious divide that has arisen between the two ends of the galaxy."
"Making me read your propaganda won't make me like your Empire."
"That's not propaganda. It's our truth. Learn something about us before you completely condemn us, will you?" the jailor complains. "Aren't you supposed to be the openminded sort of Jedi?"
His point hits home. "Knowledge promotes understanding," Meetra murmurs, quoting an old Light Side maxim that all Padawans are taught.
Tony nods. "That is the goal. You are meant to understand our ways. Sion's not asking you to approve or adopt them for your own."
It's a reasonable request and Meetra has sat in her cell with nothing to do for days now. Reading anything sounds good at this point. Well, almost anything. She glances down at the list of files for the next tome she's been assigned. "Virtues of a Lady: Raising Daughters for Marriage and Motherhood. Wow. That's uh well very uh . . . "
"Not Jedi?" Tony grins at her fluster.
"Nope. Not Jedi at all," she confirms. "Not very Republic either, except on a few very traditional alien worlds. You Sith men have a raging case of patriarchy." She gives Tony an arch look.
"Like I said, you are not asked to accept our ways, merely to appreciate and respect them."
"Fine. But I'm reading that one last."
Tony smirks. "I kind of expected that."
Curiosity gets the better of Meetra, so she now asks the good-natured jailor, "What's with all the flowers? Sion keeps giving me flowers."
"They're from his garden."
"Yes, I know. But why is he giving them to me?" She's received at least one rose every day.
Tony shrugs and suggests, "Maybe he likes you. Maybe he wants you to know that he's thinking of you."
Meetra laughs nervously. "Don't say that. Please don't say that . . . "
"Why not? Maybe he truly likes you."
She frowns. "Define 'like.'"
"You know, 'like' as in when a man admires and esteems a woman and wants to pursue her."
That's what she was afraid he might say. Meetra shakes her head. "I don't think that's it." At least, she hopes that's not it.
"Why not?"
"I'm a Jedi." Old habits die hard, so Meetra has to correct herself. "Ex-Jedi." Former Jedi . . . failed Jedi . . . fired Jedi . . . he can choose his description, but they all fit.
The jailor's eyes twinkle at her slip. "You're not just any old ex-Jedi. You're a bad attitude, rogue ex-Jedi who goes snooping around Korriban."
Meetra looks up. "Who told you that?"
"It's in your report."
"Okay."
Tony's not finished apparently. He leers, "And Sion's a Sith Lord who's fascinated by the Republic and the Light. He's desperate for the secrets only you know. It's perfect," the jailor declares with gleeful conviction.
"Wait—you know that? You know that he's curious about the Jedi?"
Tony nods. "You hear things . . . you see things as Sion's jailor. You're not the first Jedi prisoner, you know. Usually, he interrogates them about their religion. He wants to know their Force secrets, not their military secrets. It's lots of talk about destiny and metaphysics and stuff like that."
"I see."
"So, yeah, I could see you and the Master together. Definitely."
"Ugh. Now he's even creepier," she grumps.
Grinning Tony starts waxing poetic now. "Two damned souls from opposite sides of the galaxy, of a war, and of the Force, brought together by—"
"Flowers?" she deadpans. "Oh, come on. That 'enemies to lovers' trope is so improbable. And overdone," she adds sourly.
"You are young and beautiful—"
"I'm thirty-eight."
"That's young to him. And he's ancient and—"
"Disgusting."
Tony grimaces his disapproval at this remark but doesn't reprimand her. Instead, he posits brightly, "Think 'beauty and the beast.'"
Meetra groans. "That's so cheesy."
Tony now looks positively devilish. "Careful, or I'll tell him you're playing hard to get."
"I am hard to get," she sniffs.
The comment earns her a chiding look. "Your snark masks a lot of pain," he tells her softly. It's Tony doing what Tony does: make annoying observations that are uncomfortably true.
It sets her off. Meetra huffs, "Listen, I'm not some damsel in distress, if that's the next cliche you're heading for."
The jailor is undeterred. "Nah. I was about to say that since you're Jedi, you're not supposed to care for another. That makes it extra sappy as forbidden love." Tony snickers as he decides, "Given your attitude, I'd say this romance will have to be a slow burn."
Meetra rolls her eyes. "Basically, Sion and I are all the trite pulp fiction genres?"
"I could keep going," her smirking jailor goads.
"Please don't." She shoots Tony some serious side eye. "It's weird how much you have thought this topic through. You got a Jedi girl fetish? Cause I've run into guys like that."
"There are Republic guys like that?"
"Yep. Some guys think they can fuck the Jedi out of you. Apparently, there's a special sense of accomplishment for getting busy with a Force virgin."
"That's probably bragging rights forever," Tony reasons, sounding infuriatingly male in the process.
Meetra lifts her chin. "Sorry to disappoint your boss, but I won't be anyone's conquest."
"Why not?"
Is that a serious question? Meetra gives a flippant response. "He's not my type."
"What is your type?"
"Not Sith." Meetra now fires back an answer that's sure to shut him up. "Heroes. I like heroes."
Tony digests this news. "So . . . Revan but not Darth Revan? Is that it?"
"Why are we even having this conversation?" Meetra snarls. And why the Hell did he have to bring Revan up?
"What makes a hero?" Tony probes. "You say you like heroes—"
"Sion is not a hero. He's not my hero anyway . . ." Meetra grumbles.
"So . . . just friends?" the jailor pouts, playfully pretending to be hurt.
Her response is frosty. "I am not friends with Sith Lords."
"Okay. Well, forget Sion. Can we be friends? You and I?" Tony prods.
Meetra shakes her head no. "I am not friends with my jailor. That's fucked up." She might be friendly with Tony, but they won't be friends. There's a difference.
The jailor's eyes are really twinkling at her now. "Actually, I think that's another trashy trope—" he begins.
"It's not a trope," she huffs. "It's called abuse. Prisoner abuse. So don't get any ideas!" she hisses. "Even without the Force, I can murder you, Tony. That cut on your face is nothing compared to what I will do to you."
"So fierce," he smiles affably at her harsh threat. Again, his eyes dance. Tony's enjoying this exchange. "I think I just saw the general in you," he comments. "Well, never fear for both our sakes. You're safe. The boss would murder me slowly if made a pass at you. Sion likes you for himself."
"You mean he wants something from me."
"Isn't that how all relationships start? You are so cynical. So sad." The jailor shakes his head slowly. His face reveals his pity.
Ugh. There Tony goes being himself again. Indignant Meetra gestures around them. "See anything here to be happy about?"
"Sometimes you have to decide to be happy."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that life has its troubles, but focusing on problems you can't solve and things that won't change doesn't help. Sometimes you need to accept life as it comes and make the best of it. Or
are you planning on being forever sad?"
She doesn't answer.
"That's what the Jedi want, you realize, right? They want you to mope around devastated. Don't give them that win."
"Have you forgotten who you're talking to?" she sneers. "I'm Sion's prisoner."
"Guest."
"That door's locked. I'm a prisoner."
"Prisoners don't get the Meetra Surik treatment. They don't get fancy clothes and datapads and nice food."
"Don't start in on me eating again," she preempts. "I can't eat your food. I just can't. I've tried."
"You would prefer protein bars and water?"
"Honestly, yes. Everything here is so spiced. Even the bread has that strong black seasoning."
"Zaatar. It's a spice mix called zaatar."
"Well, it's uh . . . I mean, I'm not ungrateful. but it's very different from what I'm used to . . . "
"So protein bars and water to supplement?"
"And cookies. Can you steal more cookies?"
"I'll see what I can do," Tony is noncommittal. It's a negotiation as he bargains, "But you're wearing that dress, right?"
"I'll put it on when you leave."
"Good. Give Sion what he wants. At least some of it, will you?" Tony looks her over in clear frustration. "You're getting all this special treatment and you don't seem to acknowledge any of it. Are you always this difficult to please?"
"So I should think of Sion as my Sith fairy godmother, is that it?"
"He can take it all away at any time."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's advice. Trust me, things could be a lot worse."
"Yeah, I know you're right." So far, life as Sion's prisoner is surprisingly tolerable. Not great, of course. But hardly the tortured existence Meetra expected. A great deal of Darth Sion has surprised her. "Sion is . . . he is . . . "
"Yes?"
"He's like something out of a story," she decides. Darth Sion is the plot twist in her life that she didn't see coming. "Then again, Sith Lords always seem to be playing a character."
"I get it. The boss is like some walking, talking fable at times."
"Yeah? What's the moral of his story?" Meetra wonders.
"On our side, the lesson is always power. Power is what sustains Lord Sion through his torment. And his power is what sustains us all."
The true pride in Tony's voice is not lost on her. "That's very Sith of you to say," Meetra observes dryly.
"The boss has actually been really happy since you got here."
"How can you tell with that mask?"
"I can tell. Unhappy Darth Sion is . . . well, it's readily apparent. Be sure to put on the dress, will you?"
"I will. I promise. But no cracks about looking pretty. Got it?"
"It's a deal." Looking mischievous, Tony adds, "I'll let Lord Sion give you the compliments."
"Ugh. Stop pimping for him, will you? It's weird that you're such an eager wingman for your boss."
Tony looks perplexed at the comment. Clearly, her Republic slang is lost on him.
"Oh, forget it," she sighs. "It will be too hard to explain."
"But you're wearing the dress?" he wants to confirm.
"Yes," she sighs, "I'll wear the dress."
Satisfied, Tony leaves.
True to her word, Meetra now wiggles into the dress. It's not small, but it feels confining by comparison to her slouchy tunic and leggings. The silvery grey dress has a high collar that strangles a bit and long fluffy bishop sleeves. The rest of the dress is tailored and plain. The only decoration is the deliberate seaming down the front. The dress skims her body from the waist all the way to brush at the floor. Thankfully, the skirt moves fine to walk in. But still, this is way more fabric than she's used to.
Meetra next yanks off her boots and slips on the matching flat slippers she has been provided. They too are plain, but nonetheless manage to feel uncomfortably girly. But whatever. She told Tony she would wear this stuff, and she will. Over the dress, Meetra pulls on the sleeveless cloak. It fits close to the body through the torso like a jacket and then flares outward slightly from inverted pleats. The stiff cloak is a darker color—more of a charcoal grey in hue. But the sleeves and skirt of the lighter grey dress worn underneath clearly show.
Does she look ridiculous? Meetra feels ridiculous. This sort of personal presentation probably requires some jewelry, lipstick, and a neat ladylike bun. Not the bare face and shaggy, growing out hair she wears partially pulled back in a ponytail. During the war, she wore a pixie cut except for the time she shaved her head when the colonel of her best platoon dared her. But since the war ended, Meetra's haircuts have been few and far between. She's currently wearing a longish mop of tousled chin length layers that she tucks behind her ears to keep out of her eyes. In the back, she ties back her wavy mullet because it gets hot on her neck.
Without a mirror to inspect her new outfit, Meetra has to imagine how she looks. Does she appear more polished Senator from a Core world or more grungy wannabe playing dress up? In her younger days, Meetra was something of an elfin gamine. Young, slight, and pretty with close-cropped spiky hair and boyish clothes. Her unusually pale skin, natural wheat blonde hair, and grey eyes often drew curious questions about her ancestry. But as a Jedi surrendered to the Order as a toddler, Meetra never had any answers.
After grim years of war followed by humiliating exile, her pale blonde has a few premature strands of silvery grey mixed in. She's more skinny than fit these days as well. But basically, she looks the same, except with sharper cheekbones and a few fine lines about her eyes. Meetra is older, regrettably more experienced, but still herself. She smooths her hands self-consciously over her new clothes and decides they're fine. They're not her personal preference but they're doable.
Later that evening, Meetra is again escorted back to Sion's rooftop greenhouse. This time, the Sith waits facing her at the far end of his glass pyramid. Arms crossed, the masked Lord looks her over in silence as she walks in.
Meetra schools her features to classic Jedi composure. Inwardly, she prepares to resume the verbal dance of points and counterpoints that is her ongoing dialogue with Darth Sion. Will he comment on the dress? He had better not make a cheap crack about the dress.
Her captor wisely avoids the topic. In lieu of a greeting, he announces, "I have something for you." Is it another rose? No. His hand disappears into his voluminous inky black robes. When it reappears, it's holding a lightsaber. Her lightsaber. Sion offers the weapon to her.
Meetra immediately accepts. She inspects the weapon, turning it over in her hands. "You're giving me back my sword?"
"You might need it while I'm gone. Here. Take this as well." Sion next produces a small snub nosed blaster pistol from another pocket. It's tiny, yet powerful. Meetra recognizes the high caliber of plasma cartridge it uses.
She's no fool. Again, she instantly snatches the offered weapon.
"There are pockets sewn inside on both sides of that lovely cloak," Sion gestures to her new clothes. "Secret your weapons in there and keep them concealed. The fabric is heavy enough to disguise their existence. No one will be the wiser."
Uh, what?
"You're giving a prisoner weapons . . ." Meetra is taken aback. Yet again, Darth Sion has surprised her. She squints up at him and asks a question she probably shouldn't. "Do you want me to escape?"
"No. I want you to be able to defend yourself if need be while I'm gone."
That's the second time he's mentioned being gone. "You're leaving?"
"Yes, and all here will know it. I trust my people to carry out my orders, but one can never be too certain. I have learned the hard way to be cautious."
Meetra eyes narrow with alarm. "You think someone here might kill me?"
"I do not have reason to suspect a plot. However, it wouldn't be the first time treachery struck close to home. Let us call those weapons a contingency plan."
Meetra nods grimly and pockets them as instructed. She puts the saber on the left side accessible by her right hand and the blaster on the right side. "Are you sure they don't show?" she worries. Both weapons have substantial weight. They will be easily identifiable in a pat down. And the last thing she wants is to get busted with weapons on her when Sion's gone and can't confirm their origin.
"Walk apart and let me see when you move."
Meetra does as he requests.
"You're fine. No one will suspect unless you are scanned."
"This is pretty ingenious." Meetra pats at the stealth pockets. "Jedi always wear their sabers on the outside. It's long been the custom to reveal a weapon. That's considered upfront and fair, rather than threatening."
"My wife's dressmaker came up with the design. I insisted that she keep a weapon on her at all times," Sion reveals.
Wait—"These are your wife's clothes?"
"You are close in stature to her. Lady Sion was about your size when she wasn't expecting. You have bigger feet than she did," he adds offhand like it matters.
"These are your wife's clothes?"
"Only the outer cloak. The rest are new for you."
"Oh." Meetra is seriously creeped out. Sion's makeover for her just got weirder. She glares. "Just what are you thinking?"
"I am thinking that this is the best way to permit you to protect yourself in my absence."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Three to five days. That datapad of reading material should keep you busy in the interim."
Meetra thinks a moment before she verbalizes the thought the Sith Lord is surely reading in her mind through the one-way bond. "Is this a test?"
Sion approaches closer to hover over her, his engraved mask looming. "I do not expect you to be loyal to me, but I want you to be loyal to our bargain. You want my help . . . you need my help. And I, in return, feel the same. I am giving you the weapons as a gesture of goodwill. It is a strategic risk on my part."
Meetra remains silent. She won't commit to anything he calls loyalty. That's one step removed from kneeling to pledging allegiance and calling him 'master.'
"While outwardly you are my prisoner, I consider you to be my guest."
Yes, she's heard that line before but never believed it. Could these weapons mean it is more than mere semantics? Now, at least, she understands why Sion was so peeved when she didn't wear the dress yesterday. It impeded his plan to surreptitiously arm her.
"This issue will reoccur from time to time. I will need to be gone to attend to business. The matters will vary, but the necessity remains alas . . ."
"Let me guess—a Sith Lord's work is never done?" she quips.
"Something like that, yes. In our culture, power must be perceived in order to function as a deterrent. I must be out and about showing my prowess."
"Killing people, you mean?"
Sion doesn't deny it. "This mission solves two issues for me. I am the Lord of Pain. I gain power from pain, whether it's others' pain or my own. It's how I function."
"That's why you didn't die on Korriban," she recalls with distaste. "You enjoyed the pain I gave you . . . "
"Not really," he shrugs. "I am more sadist than masochist. But either will suffice. I have my preference for the source of the pain, but there is not always the option."
Meetra frowns and recoils. This topic is uncomfortable to hear as a prisoner.
"Disapprove, do you?" Sion observes testily. "Get over it. Pain is a necessity for me to survive."
Whatever. It sounds like a convenient excuse to Meetra. The Sith will justify any Dark deed for power.
He's in her mind clearly. Her captor takes her to task on the issue. "When the hawk tears apart the field mouse to eat, you call it the natural way of things. It's the hierarchy of the predator-and-prey food chain playing out in nature. No one castigates the hawk for being a hawk. No one rails on behalf of the injustice done to the poor field mouse. We accept nature's way for what it is and do not inject a moral component into the matter."
Meetra says nothing.
"See here. Take a look." Indignant Sion slides off his left glove.
Meetra turns away. "No, thanks."
"Take a look," he insists. It comes out as a peeved growl.
Meetra complies mostly to avoid an argument. She glances at his revealed limb and squints. "It's worse," she blurts out. His skin tone is darker and less pink, and shiny, yellowish fluid weeps from his deep wounds.
Yuck. It's gross.
"I can make it revert to yesterday—hopefully better than yesterday—with some effort. But that means someone will need to suffer," Sion informs her. He sneers, "Better them than me."
"So you're the hawk in your story?"
"I didn't ask to be this way, but I am. Few know this, but I constantly struggle to maintain an equilibrium for my health. Too much Darkness, too much pain, and I am weakened. Not enough Darkness and too little pain, and I am weakened."
"I see," she says even though she doesn't.
"It is not always a predictable or incremental progression. I wake up some days much worse without warning. Moreover, the right amount of pain changes from time to time, meaning my goalpost shifts randomly. And so, the balance I seek eludes me far too often."
Balance is not a word Meetra expects to hear in this context. "You're trying to balance your Darkness?" Did she hear that right?
"Extreme Darkness is dangerous. It must be managed carefully. Too much will consume you—it will drive you insane, drown you in sorrow, or urge you to self-destructive acts. Few achieve it for long because sustaining it is so challenging."
"But yet you crave it . . ." She's confused.
"Yes," he affirms. "Emperor Vitiate has done it. He persists immortal without my level of struggle. I will one day do the same. But first, I need to be healed of my chronic frailty."
Yes, and Sion seems to think that's her task. Warily, Meetra tells him, "I am not a Jedi healer. Even if I get my Force back, you will need someone far beyond my capabilities." She can do the rudimentary Force healing all Jedi learn, but that's about it.
"You will do. You bring other attributes."
Meetra is still struggling to understand. "So when you come back, after you go on some rampage somewhere, you will be healed?"
"Yes, but only partially and only for a time. I will need to seek pain again."
"Okay . . ."
"When things get very bad, when I need more than the usual, I go as a pilgrim to Korriban. Our homeworld has a locus of Dark power that renews and resets me. Other places—like Malachor—also have a strong connection to the Dark Side, but I like Korriban best. When I encountered you there, you saw me at a low point. I am not always so . . . diminished. When I get depleted to that degree, I become very aggressive," he admits sheepishly.
"Yeah, that wasn't a great first impression," she smirks.
"You thought me a mere brute? A monster in a mask?" he challenges.
"Well maybe . . . " Meetra hedges, not wanting to rile him up further. This guy is really intense, even by Sith standards.
Too late. Sion takes offense. "Did Traya tell you that? That one is a very dismissive woman. It makes her easy to fool. She makes up her mind about people immediately and then cannot be convinced to see otherwise. So, I let her believe me to be her tool for violence. The death and pain she requests is helpful to me," he admits matter of fact.
Listening Meetra now wonders silently just what Darth Sion is falsely leading her to believe about himself. Is Kreia the only one getting played? The Sith are notorious for their deceit.
"Meetra," her captor demands her attention. She locks eyes with the Sith from behind the mask for a long moment before he contends, "I look like a monster at times, I can act like a monster at times, but I am not a monster."
It's clearly an important statement. To humor him, Meetra nods to acknowledge it.
His hands now reach for his helmet. "Let me show you who I am."
She cringes and quickly throws up a hand. "That's not necessary."
"It might help."
She half-shrieks back, "Keep the helmet on!" She doesn't want to see his missing teeth and rotting eye sockets. Meetra doesn't know what's under that mask and she doesn't need to find out. Maybe some would think it weird to talk to man in a mask, but she got used to it long ago with Revan. "I don't need to know you that well."
Sion sees it differently. "We are bonded by the Force. There is no avoiding me. And if all goes well with our work, you will get to know me intimately."
Ugh. "Stop!" Meetra backs away and shows him her palms. "Look, I think it's best to leave things as they are . . . I don't need the full disclosure . . . the hand is enough. I can imagine the rest."
"You make a habit of averting your eyes—you know that, right? You are afraid to look on my suffering like you are afraid to experience the loss of Malachor—"
"That's different!"
"It's not! You think that by turning a blind eye, it will be easier to manage your own reaction. It's that Jedi teaching surfacing—how accustomed you are to suppression and avoidance," he observes contemptuously.
"Enough!" she hollers back.
"I'm taking this mask off," Sion announces in a tone that will tolerate no argument. "I want you to see what I look like. You need to confront my Darkness—"
"I don't care, okay?" she lashes out, her voice rising in pitch and in volume. "I don't care what you look like and I don't care how you feel! I don't care how you got that way and I don't care if you heal! That's your problem, not mine!"
Sion now drops his hands from reaching to lift his helmet even as he complains, "You're so afraid. Concerned that the values you cling to are wrong because everyone you respect has left them behind. Fearful that you will never regain your Force even as you are terrified to truly try. You would rather rebuke the Dark Side than understand it—but in the process, you self-hate! Meetra, you are Dark, so Dark, beneath your veneer of Light."
"Shut up! Just shut up! I am only here for myself—to get my Force back! I don't want to hear your teaching! Nothing you say impresses me!"
"Very well, then," he strips off his other glove and offers her his cracked and oozing hands. "Let us get to work. Take my hands and find me in the Force."
Ewwww. No. Hell no. Meetra takes a step back as she eyes his gore. "That didn't work yester—"
"Keep trying."
"It's pointless."
"Keep trying or I will intrude into your mind and stoke the bond the way I created it," Sion threatens.
"Don't you dare!"
"I won't let you quit so soon. The bond could be the best way to proceed."
"Fine!" Her face a thundercloud, Meetra marches over to Sion and gingerly outstretches her own hands. But the look and the smell of his gangrene flesh are revolting. She stops short of touching him. Instead, she looks away and complains, "What is the point of this? If I do succeed in connecting with your mind, then what?"
"It will reconnect you with the Force," Sion reasons. "Maybe you can borrow my Force like you did with Traya. But at the very least, you can experience my Darkness. I hope it will prepare you to confront your own."
"And then what? What's the end goal? Because I don't want to be Dark!" she wails.
"Meetra, I have lived the identity crisis you're in—"
"You have not!"
"I know this is hard. But you must confront your Darkness, and experience it—"
"And—let me guess—channel it for power?" she sneers.
He answers her plainly. "The choice is yours for what you do with it. But I want you to lay down your pain."
What the fuck does that mean? "I don't understand . . . "
"Give it to me through the bond."
"Whaaat? Can you do that?"
"We can try."
Meetra's eyes narrow. She swallows hard and then accuses, "You're using me for power!"
Her words are hot, his are calm. "I'm helping you."
Bullshit! She slaps a hand at her temple and groans, "I am such a fool!"
"If you can't heal me with the Light once your Force returns, then maybe you can strengthen me with your Darkness," Sions reasons.
Meetra is bitter. "Either way, you win . . . "
"We both win. Don't quit on me. Try again." Once more, he extends his hands. "I know they are unappealing, but they won't hurt you. Please," Sion coaxes. "Help me. Try again."
Meetra's not in the mood. She's grossed out and feeling very manipulated.
"Help me, Meetra Surik," the Sith persists. "You are my only hope," he croons, sounding disconcertingly pitiful. And now somehow, she's the callous bad guy. It stokes her resentment.
Shaking her head, Meetra turns on heel and begins walking away. She couldn't concentrate now anyway.
How will Darth Sion respond? He's not going to kill her—he clearly thinks he needs her or else he wouldn't have armed her to protect herself. So, Meetra presses her leverage. She keeps walking fast towards the exit.
"HALT!" Sions commands. "Do not walk away from me!"
His modulated voice is a loud snarl. Meetra stops abruptly. But it's not from any obedience to Sion. It's from the strange mental flutter she just experienced.
Her heart skips a beat. Meetra blinks.
What the fuck was that?
"Stop fleeing your fears!"
Spooked Meetra now stands completely still. She requests in a ragged voice, "S-Say that again." She could swear she just heard Sion as much in her mind as she did in her ears. Was it his vehemence that resonated so strongly? Or was that the bond at work?
The bond . . . The hair on the back of her arms starts to stand up. A shiver goes down her spine. Because if the bond works both ways now, that means she's feeling the Force.
The Sith seizes the moment. He closes the gap between them with quick, long strides. "Don't go! You must stay!" he rages at her back as he approaches. And yes, there it is again. The subtle echo in between her ears. Like a slight reverberation of a thought that maybe isn't wholly hers.
Meetra used to be a natural at bonding. Not at the full-fledged near-mythic type of Force bond, but at the casual sort of connections that could at times approximate the rare real thing. As a Padawan learner, that unconscious tendency earned her stern reprimands. The Light Side discourages any form of bonding. It's one step away from a forbidden attachment. There's just something unwholesomely possessive about a bond. And also, something terribly threatening about a bond's potential to amplify power. It's why the Jedi advise against any attempt at mind manipulation with other Force users. The Order has long taught that when you brush minds with another, you risk leaving behind a bit of yourself. And that could be the beginning of a lifelong bond if you're careless.
But suddenly, a bond with Sion is all Meetra wants. Because experiencing the bond with her captor Sith means she's using the Force.
Meetra closes her eyes. "Say it again . . . " she mutters. "Keep talking. And touch me," she demands. Sion can put his zombie hands all over her if it will promote their connection. She will gladly tolerate his stinking decay to feel the Force.
She doesn't have to ask twice. Sion's bare hands are on her upper shoulders now, forestalling her as he squeezes. "Don't leave me," the Sith rasps. And oh Force, it's working. An invisible connection between her and Darth Sion flares to life. And wow, is it potent. Meetra feels everything he feels, she thinks everything he thinks, all at once.
It is simply overwhelming.
Where does she begin and end? How distinct is her mind from Sion's? Meetra can't tell. But suddenly, her senses are heightened and sharpened. She feels alive in a way a layperson cannot, for she is effortlessly aware of the competing tensions in the invisible energy field that binds the universe together. There is Force between the rosebushes and the surrounding air, between the soil and the plants, and between herself and Sion. It's like a strong, elastic tether that both attracts and repels, that competes and cooperates, and that exists and persists in the integrated ecosystem of Sion's greenhouse garden. The Force is the connective tissue of the universe, the interstitial energy that exists between beings, be they enemies or lovers, strangers or loved ones. Meetra feels it vibrating now between her and the Sith.
It feels amazing. Her chest heaves as she breathes it in.
"Don't leave me!" Sion issues the hushed command again. This time, Meetra feels the words more than she hears them. What's more, the bond reveals their subtext of desperation. Sion is determined to get what he wants. In the moment, Meetra lives his sense of urgency and the fear that underlies it. But most of all—first and foremost among all the sensations which now flood her mind—Meetra experiences pain. Aching, nagging, sharp pulsing pain. This isn't dread or guilt or some other form of mental torment. This is purely physical discomfort and it is considerable.
Meetra's eyes widen as she comprehends: this is what it means to be Darth Sion, the Lord of Pain. To live a life of agony that fuels power. To be in torment as a means to survive. This is no mere discomfort; this is true hurt. But panting Meetra doesn't care. She will endure Sion's pain to feel the Force. Because his pain is nothing compared to the pain of living without the Force. Sion might be a zombie, but she's the living dead in her own way. For all her and Sion's many differences, in this respect they are uncomfortably alike. So, like a glutton starved, Meetra gorges her mind on the Force, feasting on all it offers. She's a masochist tonight; she will take all Sion's pain the Force will give her.
"More . . . " She wants more. Meetra whirls on Sion. She impulsively hurls herself forward, surprising the Sith she just rejected as she wraps her arms around him. Meetra hugs him close, laying her cheek against his chest. He's in full armor. A man encapsulated in a tough, protective shell. Seduced Meetra can't get as close as she wishes, but still . . . the increased physical proximity helps.
Her ploy works. The bond surges. The Force flares.
Meetra chokes and shudders. For the pain intensifies as well.
"Don't be afraid . . . I feel it too," Sion soothes as she emits an involuntary whimper. With their minds bridged, the Sith knows what she's experiencing. "That's my hurt you feel, not your own. You're fine. My pain cannot harm you." To reinforce his words, Sion lifts his arms to envelope her. One oozing bare hand strokes her hair to comfort and calm her.
Dazed and speechless, she leans into him and trembles. "More," she groans. She's greedy for the Force.
"Excellent, Meee-trrrraaaah." Sion says her name with his characteristic long voweled flair. He is very pleased with this development. "I feel it too . . ." he exhales with wonderment. From his thoughts bleeding into hers, Meetra knows this mutual sensation is brand new for him as well. The now surging bond is nothing like the random static Sion has preciously sensed from her in his mind. "How extraordinary . . ." he marvels. "It's just like the old stories about Ragnos and his Empress . . ."
But while the Sith is increasingly rapturous, Meetra is progressively reeling. How can the man live like this? Why does he not succumb? His pain is intolerable. Meetra herself starts to flail—mentally and physically—as self-preservation kicks in. She needs to pull back her mind from his, to recede from his pain, to step away from Sion's Darkness. He's too much for her to handle.
"Steady, my dear," Sion rumbles into her ear.
But Meetra panics. She begins fighting him now in jerky physical movements and mental feints and darts. Too late, she perceives that she needs to set some boundaries between them, to take things more slowly. This is too much, too fast. Meetra threw herself in headlong, and now she is overcome and frantically retreating.
"Steady," Sion urges. But it's too late. Meetra feels her knees buckle. She grasps at the Sith's armored forearms as she fades. She's falling, falling. Does he catch her? She's unsure. As if from a distance, she hears Sion's words: "In time, you will get used to me." Meetra wants to object, but she cannot. Her vision goes black as her mind's eye emphatically rejects Sion and his Darkness. The last thought she processes is that this is just like what happened after the mass shadow generator.