Atton to Mercy
"I ain't such a bad guy." A little pre-Exile Atton fic (since they seem to be so fun). As in, when Atton was still working for the Sith.
Rated PG13 – Read and see. The word 'sex' turns up only once, and there is no sex in the actual fic. Very mild swearing.
Disclaimer: I just realized how perverted it sounds to say you own somebody.
Atton to Mercy
The blaster weighed easy in Atton's hand; not an ounce heavier than it should be. It was harmless now – the safety was locked. The transport moved slowly in the night, gently rocking with mild turbulence. Sealed in the metal cargo container, he couldn't see to the outside, but a thin strip of light from the barred window darted across the floor and over his foot. A small animal snuffled in the corner and Atton rested his head against the wall, listening to the dull thrum of the engine. This transport was taking longer than it should. They were lucky he was being paid, or they'd all be smudges on the snow by now.
A cold draft whipped through the tiny window, chilling the stowaway. He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself and harrumphed, watching his breath rise up in an icy plume before his face.
If Atton didn't hate winter, he hated nothing. Winter was cold and far too quiet – his movements could be easily tracked in the snow, even if he used a bike or land speeder, because the noise would attract attention. And if he wasn't damned, winter was when everyone had to die. He was always kept busy from November to March, just when the weather was worst. He had to resort to range and bloodless deaths, because if any got on his hands and shoes he would be a dead man himself.
Stupid bounties. Stupid employers. Stupid snow. Stupid winter.
Atton swore and spat across the room. Someone, a slave, perhaps, moaned with pain. To silence the noise, Atton gave his blaster a gentle click. The noise echoed through the metal transport as if he had shot the gun as well.
He smirked and gazed at the tiny window resentfully. Slowly, the transport pulled into station. Muttering, he rose to his feet and brushed the grime from his boots.
"Thank the gods," he grumbled. He crouched in a dark corner and waited, poised on his heels, ready to spring. It would be thought that the lanky Atton wouldn't be a graceful assassin – his limbs were exaggeratedly long and stringy, and he seemed to double over himself in his height. But in truth, he could move more smoothly than most dancers, more quickly than the most skilled runners, and with more force than a Jedi could measure. His eyes were hawkish even in their darkness, and probed the shadows with suspicious efficiency. He could see every movement, even in the blackness, like the rustling of fabric. He could also hear all the goings-on outdoors; the chatter of businesspeople, the laughter of children, the roar of speeders.
Just because Atton could sense all of these things, doesn't mean he chose to. Most of the time, he was as oblivious as a naïve child, and that was fine, because he still got things done, and that was all that mattered to some employers.
And even with his lanky body, lack of attention, and harsh, shrewd eyes, he was quite handsome. Despite his large, shapeless face and wild eyes, something about his smile attracted others with some gravitational sensuality. Sometimes, if he watched his mouth, he could even woo men into believing even the wildest tail – it was his specialty. He was good at it. And the things he was good at, he enjoyed the most.
Like drinking. Like dancing. Like sex.
Like killing.
He never drew too much exhilaration from working a specified job, however. He often drew it out over a span of an hour, an entire evening, or even several days, so that he could be close to his victim, taste them, work them into some enclosed space where he could kill them with ease.
But of course, most employers didn't like that, either. Inefficient, dangerous, and lazy, they said. Too suspicious. Of course, he would do it anyway, despite their arguments, and after the victim was dead, it didn't matter any longer.
The shame was, most of these victims were Jedi. The firm, two-dimensional beasts. They would never succumb to his seduction, and often it had to end in a private battle, which Atton didn't like. Confrontation was messy. Fighting was messy. Especially with Jedi. They probed his mind, no matter what he threw up at them, and it made him unnecessarily angry. No one touched his mind. His business was his business, his heart was his heart, and no one could have it, no matter what glowing blade they held in their hands.
He slapped himself mentally as the opening to the transport slid with a creak. Light burst forth into the transport, but he remained unexposed in his dark corner. A blast of icy wind rolled inside, covering the floor in wet snow. A foolish Republic inspector crawled inside and looked around.
Silently, like a big cat claiming its prey, Atton sprung and grabbed him, pulling him back into the darkness. A large hand clasped over his mouth and he pressed his lips to the man's ear.
"Don't make a sound, and I might let you live," he murmured, grinning to himself. Two gizka in a barrel. This was easy.
The inspector gasped and went limp. He had probably fainted. To be sure, Atton smacked him with the butt of his blaster and rose to his feet.
"Sleep well, kid," he muttered, and leapt from the back of the transport, onto the docks. A few people stared at him and he smiled back pleasantly, striding by. Despite his unusual features, he never attracted much attention. He wore neutral colors to melt into a crowd, and his movements were neither silky nor jerky. He slipped between people unnoticed, his eyes sweeping over the public for his target.
"Come out, come out, come out," he sang softly. His neck was chilled in the winter air. Damn December. Damn it all.
The cantina loomed ahead. His last record was that the Jedi had stopped here, so he decided this would be the place to start. He strode inside, throwing up barriers of emotion, one by one, until the true power thrumming beneath became deliciously overwhelming.
This skill was desperately needed. Jedi could still gently prod at his mind, even with Pazaak and the emotions. He himself had needed very little training for both; he had naturally picked up the skills in his lifetime of strife and fear.
The barriers were completed and he reveled in the logical peace that swelled inside of him. He knew his emotions were horrifically strong, brewing on the surface, and that was how he could tell it was working. He strode forth, pushing through the cantina doors. He was greeted by the general stench and bustling of the bar; alcohol smelled strong above the grease and sweat and cigarras. Atton focused on holding his breath as he began searching for his target, his eyes more pure than a site laser.
He skipped right over the dancers, skimming through the crowd and over the wall. He paused on a dancing couple, threw up another wall of wistful desire, and continued on. Every now and then he had to pause to repair a break in one of the walls, but for the most part he was doing rather well. A young woman dragged on a cigarra, her eyes skimming the crowds as well. Her hair was short and a dull, raggedy red, falling down to fame her face. Her clothing was different; decorated with cuffs, leather, chains, and things like. She wore gloves that didn't cover her fingers (though that wasn't so abnormal – he had the same thing), and a well-loved leather vest.
Was this is contact? Wasn't she supposed to wait until he'd done his job? Or perhaps that transport had taken so long they had sent in the contact anyway.
He approached her and sat beside her, and she looked at him incredulously. Before he could even begin speaking, she jabbed a finger at him.
"Look, buddy, I came here to be alone, and I don't need another nobody trying to nose up my skirt. Leave me alone."
Atton blinked. Apparently this wasn't his contact. Normally he would have a wry comeback, but he was focusing on projecting his emotions on the outside, so he did not. He just rose to his feet and resumed looking for his target, pretending the distraction hadn't happened.
"You're a slippery little thing," he murmured.
"Look, could you leave?" the woman sitting near him snapped. "I can smell you and it's starting to really bug me."
"Keep your mouth shut, you," Atton said, though he stood and wandered to the other side of the cantina.
Finally, he spotted his mark. A young man, couldn't have been older than eighteen or younger than sixteen, blond hair, kind of gangly. Easy. It would be easier if the guy was gay to start out with – Atton hadn't really practiced converting men just so that he could kill them. After all, Atton was straight. Straighter than anything, but he was a good actor.
The boy stood in the shadows, oblivious as he sucked down some water from a flask in his belt. Atton took a deep breath and approached. The distance closed between them in a snap, and they shook hands.
"Hello," said Atton. "My name is Perlob." Fake names. He had never liked fake names. But if his mark somehow escaped, he couldn't risk his real name being released. Perlob just happened to be one of Atton's former coworkers – a man that Atton disliked. Atton was actually half-tempted to let this particular target run, just so that Perlob would get in trouble.
The boy shook his hand warmly, gazing up at him with wide, sweet blue eyes. "My name's Trek," he said. "How do you do?"
"I'm well, thank you." Atton leaned against the wall, allowing his shoulder to brush against Trek's inconspicuously. He pulled out a cigarra and took a drag, watching his new companion, who studied him with equal consideration. Atton dragged down to a stub and then spoke again. "Do you want I should buy you a drink?"
And so the game of cat and mouse began.
------
Days went by, and every afternoon Atton would meet with his contact, a dark-eyed woman with a lithe, worm-like body. Atton figured she was a contortionist. It was a shame that the most talented people turned out to be the least beautiful. She told him to wrap it up with Trek, because the date was getting taut, and their employer was getting impatient. Atton told her to shove it, but decided to work with her for once.
Trek soon trusted Atton with his life. They spent entire evenings together in the cantinas, talking, laughing, and sharing secrets, some real, some fake, depending on the teller. To Atton's delight, Trek seemed to lean both ways, for he explained a tiny crush on a past female instructor, and how horrifying it was to betray the Jedi code so. So he had locked himself in with the rest of his male student friends, and soon found that touching them was more satisfying than looking at a woman could ever be, and it frightened him. Atton soothed him, twisting awkward tales of how he used to chase girls with pretty hair until he realized how men were.
This seemed to fluster Trek. "I am not sure this is right, then," he said, recoiling from Atton's touch. "I must remember my training. I have come here for a mission."
"Have you?"
"Yes."
"Would you tell me?"
"It has to do with the war," said Trek. "I do not want to speak about it."
It would be smooth and quick. Atton slipped a hypo from his pocket and rested his hand on Trek's back. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" he murmured gently. "I won't tell anyone. I'm a friend."
Trek smiled at him. "That you are." He sighed. "Very well."
Atton's hand slid a little higher, at the base of Trek's neck.
Trek gazed across the room. "The Jedi sent me to consider the loyalty of this planet. Everyone seems to be on different sides – It's confusing, and I… I-I cannot be sure. So I have been hanging around cantinas to see if anyone else knows, but I always get different answers. Some blue, some grey, some red…"
Atton's hand was pressed against Trek's neck. Trek seemed to enjoy the warmth. He continued.
"So I told my Masters that I was not sure, but that I had made a friend. You seem to be very strong in the Force, Perlob. I can feel it in you." He glanced at Atton, oblivious to the hypo hovering millimeters from his flesh. He smiled genuinely, innocently, fondly. "They told me to keep speaking to you, because you seem to know your way around here."
"I do, Trek," Atton murmured, and pressed the needle forth.
Trek gasped, his eyes going wide. "What are you doing?" he cried, recoiling.
"I'm sorry," said Atton untruthfully. He pressed his hand on Trek's. "You won't die. I'm saving you."
Trek collapsed onto the ground. A few people turned to stare at them. Atton turned to them and spread his hands to placate them. "He's just drunk," he told them.
They believed him and continued on.
Atton knelt down at Trek's side and heaved him over his shoulder. "Let's go, buddy," he said. "You never got to finish telling me your story."
------
Atton made sure that when Trek woke Atton would have his undivided attention. He carried his target down to a hotel room, explaining to the clerk that they were bothers, though the looked almost nothing alike. The clerk eyed them with distaste but gave them a room anyway.
The drugging of Trek really had been unnecessary, but if Trek hadn't cooperated to come to the hotel, it would have been a messy situation. And Atton didn't like messes. But he had no doubt that Trek would have followed him in the end. Trek trusted him.
Atton watched Trek sleep. The guy wasn't so bad, in all. Naïve, like a child, innocent and sweet, but he wasn't stupid. Atton wouldn't kill him unless he had to, because employers definitely loved it when the Jedi were converted. It added power to Revan's ranks. That was Atton's job. Give her allies, or destroy her enemies. And it couldn't be denied that Atton enjoyed the rush it gave him to convert someone. It made him feel powerful, wise, and persuasive. Not only that, but this boy… something about him was endearing. Atton could hardly bring himself to lie to that innocent, sincere face. Perhaps that sincerity was what made it easy to trick him, just like he tricked everyone else. It was always easier with women – strip them down to nothing and it teaches them quick. But men – Atton refused to touch a man. He had to trust his tongue then.
Trek stirred with a groan, drawing his brows together. "Perlob," he mumbled. "What…?"
"You're fine, Trek, my love," said Atton gently, resting his hand on Trek's wrist. "It is time you wake."
Trek groaned again and opened his eyes, turning them to Atton with genuine affection, loyalty, and trust. It hurt Atton to be looked at that way; he had never gotten someone to love him like that so quickly. It stunned him like a slap.
"Perlob," said Trek. "You are well. I was scared for you."
Atton forced himself to forge on. "Do you remember what happened, my Trek?"
"Yes," said Trek. "You knocked me out." He shook his head. "I know you would never hurt me on purpose, so I was scared that someone was after you. I was so worried… I don't want you to come to harm." He reached out to touch Atton's cheek. "You aren't in trouble, are you?"
"Not any longer," said Atton, feeling himself begin to tremble. It frightened him to see his power work so strongly. This poor boy was utterly infatuated!
"That's good." Trek leaned back. "Perlob, why are we here?" His eyes wandered around the hotel room thoughtfully, but thankfully his mind was completely innocent and clean.
Atton was dumb. He couldn't believe the effect he'd had on this boy.
"Perlob?"
"Yes?"
"Why are we here?"
"Trek, I want to talk to you," Atton lied, gazing into Trek's face.
Trek smiled his melting, disarming smile. "Sure," he said, fixing his eyes earnestly on Atton's features. "Anything."
"Good. Uhm… You… you know how the war is going on?"
"Yes, of course. I am fighting in it, Perlob," said Trek.
Atton nodded, gathering his strength. It would be a shame to watch this boy crumble. He reached out and teased Trek's hair, and Trek flushed with pleasure. Atton withdrew his hand and continued. "I want you to start thinking about your survival."
Trek frowned. "I don't understand."
"I know." Atton sighed, massaging his temples. After a moment he found his words. "Trek, I'm with the Sith."
Trek gasped. "No, you're not!" he cried. "You're too good to be a Sith! They're spoiling things, the lot of them! But you're not spoiled! You're whole! I can feel it in you!" He desperately searched Atton's eyes. "Perlob, tell me you're lying! Tell me you're lying!"
Atton shook his head. "I'm not lying, Trek."
Trek looked broken. "But… but…" He recoiled on the bed, shaking his head, tears welling up in his eyes.
"Shh, my love, don't cry," said Atton gently, taking Trek's hand. He had to force the word 'love' because it seemed to drive a stake into Trek's heart.
Tears poured down the boy's cheeks. "I trusted you," he sobbed. "I did."
"You can still trust me, Trek."
"No, I can't," Trek cried, wrenching his hand away. "You're with the Sith! The Sith lie! They kill and cheat and corrupt!"
"They survive, though, don't they, Trek?" Atton murmured, his eyes flickering over Trek's face. "I want you to survive."
"No… I'd rather die for the right thing," Trek wailed. "Oh, Perlob. Perhaps you can join me instead. Perhaps we could live with each other's support."
"I can't do that, Trek," said Atton. "I've sworn loyalty."
"So have I!"
"Please consider this," whispered Atton. "I don't want to hurt you."
Trek hugged himself. "I don't want to join the Sith. I want to go home." He sobbed again, gritting his teeth. "I want go home."
Atton nodded. "You can go home," he murmured softly. "Are you sure? Don't you want to join me? We can be happy forever, Trek, with the Sith, after this war is all over. The Dark Lord Revan is winning, don't you see? I don't want you to die. You mean so much."
"I can't, Perlob," said Trek. "I want you, but I don't want the Sith."
"Very well," said Atton. He sighed. "Normally, you would suffer for this, until you felt so much pain you either succumbed or died."
Trek stared, eyes wide, tears running anew. "You won't, will you?" he asked quietly. "Please, don't. I don't want to. I just want to go home. Let me go home, Perlob. We can forget this. I can forget that I loved you, I can forget that you're with the Sith, you can forget who I am, what I do. Please, Perlob."
"I can't do that, either," said Atton. He smiled at Trek. "I don't want to hurt you, so here's what I'm going to do." He rose to his feet. "Turn around. Turn your back to me."
Trek shook with sobs. "No…" he moaned. "No…"
"Turn around."
"The Jedi were right. Love is an evil, evil thing," Trek cried, scrambling for the floor as Atton reached out and grabbed his arm. "It's wicked, wicked… evil… evil…"
"No, it's not," Atton whispered to him. "It will save you. I will save you. Come here. Let me end this quickly and painlessly. Let me return you home."
Slowly, eyes wide, Trek obeyed. He still gazed at Atton with utter adoration and open trust. As Atton pressed his blaster to the base of the boy's skull and fired, he knew those eyes would haunt him forever forward.
Trek collapsed and slumped forward, dead. No blood. No pain. No more tears. Atton shoved his gun in his pocket and gently positioned Trek into a peaceful, sleeping position on the bed. "See," Atton murmured, pressing his lips to the boy's forehead. "I ain't such a bad guy."
And he left, vanishing into the snow and jostling streets as if he had never existed.
------
Author's Notes: I actually really liked this one. I don't know why. But, no, Atton is not gay in any way, shape, or form. He's just pretending to get the kid to do what he wants, and he just felt sorry for getting this poor kid to trust him so much.
I still love this one. It's near the top of my list.