Chapter 2

VVVVV

Ennyria's cyan blade flashed non-stop, cutting down Sith Assassins like grass. In some of the more densely occupied rooms, she would merely call on her power of the Force and blast them into a useless heap with Stasis Field and then Force Storm.

She had no way of comprehending that, at this very moment, her friends, her "weaknesses", were being subjected to the very same torture.

There was a morbid irony to it; Kreia would have been proud.

But the exile was only tired. Not physically—she was a Jedi Master with Force power enough to sustain her entire party through a battle like this—but her morale was beginning to break down. This was the perfect Jedi trap, not because the countless waves of Sith were strong enough to defeat her, but because no Jedi could commit murder after murder for this long without feeling as rotten and tainted as the Sith she slew.

Nevertheless, she kept it up, because she knew this guilt was exactly what she was intended to feel. This whole battle was a test. Kreia was so fond of them, and after the visions on Korriban, Ennyria was finally learning to recognize one when she saw it.

But you know I'll pass, Kreia. What is it you hope to accomplish by slowing me down?

Her wearied mind held no answer, so she had no choice but to press on.

Still, she had a sinking suspicion that this question was the most urgent of her problems, not the one she was forced to face here.

She wished she had Atton's intuition right about now.

VVVVV

Atton's stasis field didn't wear off until quite some time later. He rubbed fiercely at his eyes, which were painfully dry from being held open so long, and cursed Kreia as he got to his feet. She had knocked him out while he was still paralyzed, and now he found himself alone in a completely different room. It was lit only by red circles of fluorescent light, and crowded with skeletal gray pillars aligned in perfectly straight rows. Other than that, it might as well have been an empty cell.

He had a bad feeling that was exactly what it was.

The tomblike silence was broken only when the door on the far wall cycled open. As Atton had half expected, it was Darth Sion who stepped through.

"And I get the fool," the Sith Lord growled, in his grating, beastlike rumble of a voice.

"Funny—that's what I was thinking," Atton shot back without missing a beat. He braced himself for the attack he was sure would follow, settling automatically into his Echani stance.

But that turned out to be worse than useless, because rather than coming after him with a blade, Sion lifted Atton into the air with the Force. Judging by the strangling pressure, he had his insubstantial grip on the scoundrel's throat.

Cheater. Don't tell me you're afraid to face an untrained Jedi in fair combat when we both know you can't be killed.

Atton would have made another attempt to goad him into making a stupid mistake, except that he could no longer speak. His vision started to fuzz, blackness creeping in at the edges.

Just before he would have lost consciousness, Sion's red blade blazed to life, a reflection of the crimson lighting just as he himself seemed to be a manifestation of the lifeless gray room.

Atton tried to use the Force to knock the weapon from his torturer's hand, but with no success.

Then the blood-colored blade was a fan of light, and Atton felt a horrible burning sensation in his shoulder. It felt as if something molten was eating away at him alive, and a cry was torn from his throat.

Sion finally allowed him to fall to the floor, none too gently. Taking in ragged gulps of air, Atton instinctively reached for his arm to try to ease the pain with pressure.

His fingers closed on empty air.

His arm was gone, sheared clean off.

He didn't bother looking at the floor where it must have fallen, but glared daggers at the Sith Lord as he turned and began to walk away.

Summoning the same willpower that allowed him to keep on standing no matter how wounded when he fought at his allies' side, Atton staggered to his feet.

"Running away? I'm not done with you yet," he challenged the calmly retreating figure. His voice sounded weak, even to him. But he wasn't letting Sion go if he was going to hurt the others. And right now, Atton didn't particularly care about his own life.

The Sith Lord turned, with slow and ominous patience. He gave an attempt at a grin, which only resulted in making him look more sinister yet.

"Nor I you."

He lifted Atton off the ground again. His feet and one remaining arm dangled uselessly, but this time Atton didn't waste his strength struggling. He stared into Sion's eyes, the one good one and the hopelessly atrophied white one that reminded him of Kreia. The defiance inside him burned hotter at the mere thought of her.

"I will remake you," Sion was saying, mercilessly crushing the scoundrel's throat tighter and tighter. "So that when I look upon you it shall be like a mirror. Then I shall let you die."

"There's… nothing worse you can do to me," Atton choked, forcing the words out with an effort. "Take your time."

Because every second you waste on me is another one Enn doesn't have to spend fighting you. You're winning, Sith, and at the same time you're losing. I can't wait till she gets hold of you.

VVVVV

to be continued in scene 3...