3951, Peragus Mining Facility
Atton

Atton's body ached. One and all.

First it was his head. A typical headache that soon blossomed into a full-blown migraine, and one the likes of which even the most hungover version of himself could not fathom surviving. And then it was his chest. It wasn't a respiratory ache, but a skeletal one. As if he'd been kicked in the sternum at full force, the ribs beneath cracking in on themselves like an accordion, and while the medic assured him that he had nothing but a dislocated shoulder and some bruising from where he hit the wall on first impact, he felt as if each of his bones had been stomped on, chewed up, spit out, and hastily gathered back together before being glued and taped haphazardly, hoping for the best. His legs were still jelly, but they felt better than the rest of him, and for that he was thankful.

"Just another lap around the medbay and we should be good for the afternoon," his medic assured him, her mask of a smile having quickly become his new normal.

No other survivors came to join Atton in this wing of the medbay, and while Atton was thankful for the alone time, there was something about it that irked him. Especially seeing how on-edge his attendant was, how her eyes always seemed to be on alert despite the put-upon warmness she'd conjure while in his presence, trying to save face in a valiant attempt at bedside manner.

"You're already miles ahead of where you were a few days ago," she laughed, this time sounding genuinely pleased. "You might even be allowed back to work in about a week, if you're lucky."

Lucky. Atton agreed he would be lucky enough to go back to work, even if it killed him. But his attendant didn't know his sins enough to condemn him to the death that would certainly grant him, and he knew the comment was all part of her charade to make everything going on sound normal. If he was reading her facial expressions correctly, she believed that no one should be put back to work on this rock, at least not until the mysterious accidents stopped entirely. Judging by the look in her eyes and despite her forced smiles, she believed the facility should likely be evacuated completely, if anything, and Atton would have to agree. Not that he'd want anyone to know that.

"You sure about that, doc?" he joked, trying to act polite, trying to act normal. If keeping his head down before was hard, trying to act like the guilt of being a lone survivor wasn't eating away at him was another job entirely, and Atton wasn't sure he could keep it up much longer.

"Positive," she said, her brown eyes locking with his for a moment, her confidence shining through for once, even if she felt no one should be here at all, under any circumstances. But perhaps this was as much a show for him as it was for her, an elaborate farce meant to convince herself that it was worth staying here, if not for the pay but for the mere fact that management had them all trapped here until the next fuel shipment was set to leave the station in a standard week. "Wanna venture down the hall?"

"Sure, yeah, let's do it," Atton said, immediately trying not to shake his own head out of embarrassment for himself after he spoke, hoping he didn't sound as dumb as he felt. "You think I'm ready?"

"Psht, how will you know if you don't at least try?"

Well, damn. She's right.

Atton nodded, still feeling foolish as he allowed his medical attendant to stand him on his own two feet while she reached for the door's console to open it. She reached awkwardly forward, trying to keep hold of his torso in case he leaned too far left or two far right without assistance, and pressed her palm to the door's panel, the durasteel sliding out of place to allow them access beyond with a pleasant swish. The air hit Atton's face as if he were walking outdoors for the first time, and though he was still only exposed to the same old re-circulated air of Peragus' less-than-fresh ventilation system, it felt still felt like he was encroaching on new territory as he was led out of the primary medical wing and into the annex, where the more serious cases were often held.

The medbay was emptier than when he'd arrived, thankfully, but it still felt oddly hollow, lonely almost.

"Doing okay?" his attendant asked after a few paces. He remembered another medic calling her Yara, but he still felt strange referring to her as such, though part of him felt that she had introduced herself at some point but Atton simply failed to remember, either because of the drugs or the supposed concussion he suffered back in the rec hallway.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Atton said, though his voice was stuck somewhere in the middle of his throat as he chalked up the strength to make every step beyond the open doorway, as if he were learning to walk again for the first time. He imagined it wasn't much different - smaller legs, maybe, but the feeling just as jelly-like.

"Now, just turn this corner here," she eased as Atton inevitably leant into her as they made a wide right turn into the adjoining hall, "Aaand we're clear."

He could feel her smile beside him, forced as usual, and especially so as the ICU loomed into view. From past experience, he knew the door to this room was not often left ajar, but now attendants raced in and out of it, reading datapads as they went, unable to waste any time walking that they could spend reading patient charts and calculating life-saving doses of Maker-knows-what.

When Atton first arrived, all the kolto tanks in the ICU were full. Each of them housed a miner, some still clad in their uniforms - the suit still fused to their skin in some cases. But there was one woman in the middle, clad only in the outfit-issued undergarments all miners were given, only she was wearing a set from a couple years back. Not too revealing, but revealing enough to expose the scars on her forearms, her weathered hands. A veteran, no doubt, though her face still seemed a bit too young for that to be the case, her sharp features framed by the black hair floating in the kolto fluid… or maybe it was brown? No, dark blonde-

Atton watched the woman from the corner of his peripheral vision as they walked the length of the hall, trying to glimpse at her silhouette from beyond the other busied medics that paid no attention to him or anything occurring beyond their data pads.

"Will they be okay in there?" Atton asked, his eyes never leaving the dark-haired woman in the center, even if his gaze wasn't exactly direct. Part of him almost felt embarrassed to look, bashful that he was even interested in who she might be if not a miner, but another part of him was simply too pained to look far enough in her direction to get a good enough look, his neck still stiff after the explosion.

"For the moment," his attendant admitted, "I'm still checking on them here and there, when I'm not looking after your sorry ass."

Atton paused, unsure if she was being serious or if this was her idea of a joke.

"I'm kidding," she said, though there was hardly a look of mirth on her face, "You only need to worry about yourself, hotshot. I'm not sure if anyone else will give a damn once you're dismissed."

"Dismissed?"

This time, she laughed, though more out of exhaustion than actual pleasure.

"Dismissed from medical leave," she confirmed, the laugh still pleasantly flavoring her voice even as it faded, "Once you're okayed to go back to work."

"Oh," Atton said dumbly, catching one last glance of the mystery woman in the ICU. "Right."

By the time Atton thought of speaking again, they were already back at his usual resting place, still void of any other patients, though Atton knew they were plenty.

"Any word on when I can at least start taking walks on my own?"

"As soon as your chart says so," she said, giving him a stern look though smiling despite it, "Though I have a feeling it will be soon, so don't worry."

She smiled wide enough that her eyes were barely slits, only Atton knew she wasn't smiling - not really.

"Sounds good," he said, attempting a smile in return, though knowing he failed despite the fake gesture.

"I'll be back tomorrow," the medic assured him from over her shoulder as she exited the room, the worry fast returning to her face as she approached the exit, "See you then."

"See you."

Yara. Her name is Yara. He wasn't sure why it mattered, or why he was so reluctant to say her name, to thank her. Likely because he didn't think he deserved to be alive, for one, and likely because a part of him felt that they would never see each other again.

3951 BBY, Dantooine
Mission

It had been four years since Mission last stepped foot on Dantooine. As they descended the loading ramp, part of her was instantly transported back to that first time at Nevarra's side, eager as ever to be off Taris. But another part of Mission was hopelessly lost as she came face-to-face with the tall vegetation whistling around her, trying to make heads or tails of the place that resembled nothing of what she remembered.

"Does any of this look familiar to you?" Mission asked above the din of the ships' dying engine, her eyes squinting against the unyielding yellow-orange of the setting sun, "I thought this was supposed to be the main docking bay."

She was nearly yelling now as Zayne's piece of junk aircraft struggled to settle despite having already landed, the motors still running.

"That's what I thought," Zayne answered, coming up behind her, grabbing part of the landing module on the side of the ramp for support, struggling against the rush of air still whirring from the engine exhaust, his mop of hair obscuring his face entirely. "Why does it look so barren?"

Mission held up her right hand as a visor to better scan the horizon. This seemed to be the right place when they'd landed. From above, they could see the clearing set aside for the docking bay set not too far from a cluster of buildings, though it certainly all looked larger from the air, and the grass far less imposing from the top down.

"There," she said, pointing towards a large structure to their left, "I think that's one of the main settlements we saw before landing. I actually think we're outside the Jedi Temple, not beside it."

Mission recalled questioning the farmers here, residents that had claimed these rolling hills for millennia as they used it as their defense in what she remembered was a hard-boiled murder case - but her memory couldn't have been right about that, could it? It seemed so heavy in retrospect yet it was the memory that stuck. But even back then, the grass wasn't this tall. Sure, it was tall enough to hide the bulk of the property from outsiders, but it wasn't enough to dwarf the main dwelling entirely. The growth around them was certainly not intentional, and Mission felt strange as she further descended the ramp and walked into the grass in full, submerging herself as if in water.

"Hey Big Z, can you see anything?" she asked over her shoulder, sensing her long-time companion approach from behind, his familiar scent an anchor to both her past and present.

Zaalbar approached Mission with his usual lumbering stride, still a good head taller than the rest of them, though the grasses still shrouded his view in parts. He only nodded down at her after a moment, confirming her earlier report.

"Really? Just the one building, yeah?"

The more she stood on tiptoe, the more she recognized this specific valley, but the more the location registered the less it made sense. When they'd last been here, the main docking bay was adjacent to the Jedi Temple itself. The one they just landed in was more than several miles away, and in the middle of what had previously been open farmland and rolling hills. There was no other landing bay in sight when they landed. Whatever she had known before was gone entirely.

"I guess I'm surprised it's even still standing," Mission said softly, though she knew her voice wasn't audible over the still-dying engines. After a moment, she felt Big Z rest a hand on her shoulder, the sentiment translating regardless.

"I guess I didn't realize just how much damage Darth Malak really wrought on this place," Zayne muttered from nearby, still grasping the loading gear, though now it seemed to be out of an emotional need than a physical one.

Malak. In uttering his name alone, Mission was truly transported back in time. Even in their pursuit of her current whereabouts, Nevarra instantly became Revan in Mission's mind - though in memory only, not in spirit. Mission only ever knew the woman as Nevarra, insisting that she continue to call her such even long after their collective revelation. But the weight of Nevarra's past came back in full at the mention of Malak, once Revan's best friend and confidante, though Mission only ever knew him as a villain. It occurred to her now that Zayne had perhaps known the man too, being a Jedi and all, but also in the way he spoke his name, emphasizing the Darth moniker rather than the Malak end of it.

The engines were still sputtering to a halt when Asra appeared at the mouth of the ship, her eyes mere slits to sheild against the sharp winds whistling through the grasses in their direction.

"Not as formal as I expected," Asra said, the Togruta putting on airs as she forced a smile while descending the ramp. "Is that supposed to be our welcome party?"

Just beyond the field of grass was a dilapidated wall encircling an outdated console, and standing guard beside it and equally ancient was a rusted-silver protocol droid, growing copper at the hinges, twitching as it looked in their collective direction.

Asra and Mission locked eyes, shrugging in unison before they both waded through the shorter though still knee-high grasses over to the droid, casting wary glances about them as they went.

Zaalbar and Zayne weren't far behind. Once Asra and Mission cleared the grass and set foot on smooth stone, still cracked in places enough to let the weeds push through, the droid ambled toward them, eager for interaction.

"Greetings and good day, traveler. On behalf of the Khoonda settlement, I am programmed to welcome you to Dantooine."

"Oh, is that all?" Mission said, chuckling darkly through her sarcasm, "Can you tell us what this Khoonda even is?"

"Gr-Greetings! Greetings and good day, traveler. On behalf of the Khoonda settlement, I am programmed to welcome you to Dantooine."

Zayne and Zaalbar approached beside them, eyes questioning as the droid drawled on, twitching unnervingly as it went.

"Oh boy," Asra muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, "Is this one of those protocol droids that needs a specifically worded prompt in order to function or is this one just busted?"

"Greetings!"

"Busted, it looks like," Mission sighed, "Guess we should just head to the settlement we saw, right? Take our chances?"

"I am programmed to welcome you to Dantooine."

"Probably our best bet," Zayne replied, eyes already squinting against the horizon to find their directive again, "I remember this hunk of junk. Damn thing hardly worked then, and I doubt it works now. I'm honestly surprised it hasn't been scrapped for parts."

"You remember this thing?" Asra asked, her eyes scanning the droid from top to bottom as if searching for any kind of remarkable feature.

Zayne didn't respond at first. Instead he studied the ruined walls that surrounded this sorry excuse for a landing pad, as if he recognized where they'd been salvaged from, as if he knew every minute detail that had altered this planet in the last ten or so years since he'd last been here. Of course he does.

"Not sure if the others told you, but I don't just have Jedi friends. I used to be one, too. Well, sort of."

Asra watched him for a beat, something akin to pity painting her face as she mulled over a reply.

"I'm sorry," she said after a while, her voice quiet, "Knowing what happened here and all."

"Thanks," he mumbled, his eyes locking with Mission even though he was answering Asra. Mission knew Zayne had formally trained on Taris, not Dantooine, but Taris had unfortunately met the same fate. Mission figured Zayne hadn't been back there yet, either.

"Don't worry about it, let's just keep moving."

"Random building it is, then," Asra resigned as they changed course, now faced with the taller grasses as they pushed onward.

"Any word from your friends?" Mission asked after a few quiet moments as she caught up with Zayne. A ghost of her old crush came rushing back as he glanced over his shoulder at her, a familiar warmth returning to his eyes as he quelled a smile.

"Not yet, though I expected the radio silence. They mentioned running into some trouble here after they'd landed and made camp, but nothing they couldn't handle."

"Trouble?" Mission echoed.

"Rural political stuff, local drama, that sort of thing," Zayne said, shaking his head, not worried or at least trying to act like it, "I didn't get the details, but it sounded more like a nuisance than any real trouble. Or at least, I hope so."

Mission suddenly felt bad even asking, biting her tongue before she could say anything else.

Big Z rumbled beside her, a comforting growl she was used to hearing whenever she got too deep in her own thoughts.

"Thanks, buddy," she murmured, glancing at him as he paved through the grass making way for the rest of them, hoping Zayne didn't hear or catch on as he fell a few paces behind.

"You sure Orex is okay holding down the fort?" she heard Zayne ask Asra after a few quiet beats.

Through the grass, Mission saw the silhouette of Asra shrug in response, confident as ever.

"Orex can hold down anything, though I'm sure he's antsy to get off that ship if that's what you're asking."

"How long have you known him, anyway?" Zayne ventured, slowing down a bit now.

"Not long, though it feels like longer. Been working for him for about a year now, though Darek's been on longer."

"How long have you known Darek?"

"A while," was all Asra afforded this time, and though she shied away from any specifics she did nothing to hide the ghost of a smile as she spoke.

"Orex seems to know what he's doing for someone so removed from the Jedi. But what's Darek's story?"

Big Z slowed once he realized the others were dawdling, Zayne perhaps stalling out of fear for what the rest of his crew might be caught up in despite his show of bravery, though Mission was only guessing.

"Ex-Mandalorian, Neo Crusader."

"Ah," was all Zayne said, the weight of his knowing evident in his tone, now coming to a full stop as they approached the proper mouth to the valley. The large estate wasn't far off, but now there was a silhouette fast approaching them, the shadow of a bobbing head floating through parted grass as it drew nearer.

"So I'm guessing this is the welcome party?" Asra asked, not expecting an answer as the distance between them and their mysterious pursuer drew smaller.

A hand shot into the air, an awkward hello from a few yards ahead, and the neighborly part of Mission emerged unwittingly as she returned the gesture.

Within moments, the silhouette became a slight brunette human woman with tired eyes, her hair pulled into a tight bun at the crown of her head, shiny enough to reflect the morning sun like a halo as if to make up for the clear exhaustion that painted her face.

"More visitors," the woman sighed, already exasperated as she approached, "You must be here to join the plunder of the old Jedi Enclave, like the rest of them. I'm afraid I can't just let you roam the grounds though, you'll have to speak with Administrator Adare, first."

Big Z looked at Mission, who looked at Asra and Zayne, all shrugging in turn.

"Not to be rude but...What are you talking about?" Zayne asked after exchanging glances with the others and awaiting a response, only to receive none.

"You're salvagers, right? Your ship looks banged up enough to be a part of that lot," the woman said, venturing a glance past them at the dock before looking both Asra and Mission from head to foot, as if with distaste, "But you look… different."

Asra and Mission exchanged glances, a heat rising in Mission's chest as words escaped her.

"Excuse me?" Asra asked, a sharpness rising in her voice Mission had not yet grown acquainted with but was instantly thankful for.

The woman shrank away slightly, raising her hands as if in apologetic surrender, though Mission still noticed the stranger's eyes scan both Mission's and Asra's lekku,as if it proved some unspoken point in her unintended backhanded comment.

Mumbling a half-hearted apology, the woman shook her head, a hand cradling her temple as if she'd been dealing with miscommunications like this all day. Or maybe all week.

"I'm sorry," she groaned, though she sounded more annoyed than anything. Mission only glared at her and rested her hand on her holster while they awaited the woman's further reply. "It's just that the only recent visitors we've had are salvagers. That, and a slew of mercenaries."

"I take it you don't get many visitors?" Zayne asked, crossing his arms.

"Not really, no. And when we do, they're usually-" she paused, unsure of how to continue as she looked about the four of them, eyeing Zaalbar last and longest.

Mission could feel the unspoken word trouble hang in the air between them, and knowing the woman would never finish her sentence, decided to speak up for her.

"Just show us the way, will you?" she said, her impatience clearer in her tone than she'd like. Glancing around, Asra nodded in agreement, looking towards the woman as she took another affirmative step forward, as if urging her reply. Big Z did the same, grumbling in the affirmative, though by the looks of it their mysterious greeter took it as some sort of threat. She took a step back, and after a moment simply nodded and braced herself before formally responding.

"Right this way."

Turning on a point, the woman parted the grass behind her and began walking, assuming an air of authority she'd yet to exude - and it was then that Mission also realized she'd never once introduced herself, not mentioning her name, her position, or where she stood in Dantooine's aftermath.

"So I guess we're off to see this Administrator, huh?" Asra said as she made to follow their mysterious greeter, Zaalbar not far behind.

"Guess so," Mission answered, shrugging.

Waiting a beat to take the rear, Mission saw that Zayne had yet to move, his gaze far off on the horizon still, lost in a thought that was far away from here. Not in distance - but in time, memory.

"You okay?" she asked as she stepped closer, placing a tentative hand on Zayne's shoulder. He tore his eyes away from the distant hills when her hand made contact, a pleasant shiver running through her as their eyes met.

"I will be," he said after a beat, smiling despite the sadness clear in his warm brown eyes.

"Good," was all Mission could muster, unsure of what to say. Zayne clapped her shoulder in kind, in quiet thanks, before he followed the others. But Mission paused.

Glancing toward the hills Zayne had been watching, Mission saw that the sun had fully risen, a golden disc now hanging serenely over the hills. Just as it had been that first day off Taris with Nevarra, still raw from the destruction of her homeworld. Suddenly growing cold from an unseen chill, Mission wrapped her arms around herself, goosebumps rising along her skin despite the warmth emanating from the sun as she soaked the scene in.

The Jedi Temple is just over the ridge, she knew instantly, the fact taking hold as the view registered in her memory. Through the valley a ways, just past the river.

She could almost hear the trickling of the water as it flowed under the austere bridge that separated the rest of the valley from the sprawling grounds of the Jedi Temple. The birdsong that echoed over the grasses, the monolithic shadows of the brith lazing overhead like the occasional cloud-cover. Mission was bristling with too much teenage angst to admire the views then, and the planet was too ravaged for her to do so now. Sighing, she pressed onward, not quite eager to catch up with the others, wondering where Nevarra was now.

3951 BBY, Dantooine
Mical

The hilt was rough-hewn. Worn from use, yes, but the recklessness of its design was intentional. As if it were a hackneyed half-thought, a thrown-together weapon of little thought. But that was the idea. Make the opponent believe it was primitive. Have them grow accustomed to the single hilt, the lone blade erupting from the short end of the otherwise long stick. The weapon of a Jedi, but not one worth fearing...

Only for the other end to yield a longer blade - rougher around the edges, wilder, yet more precise in its execution. Its energy crackling with untamed energy, bristling chaos and ruin.

Exar Kun's lightsaber was a thing of genius. It was not just a lightsaber, but a puzzle. It was an illusion meant to lull his opponents into complacency, into believing they knew his fighting style, that they knew his traditional, if not unusual, Jedi weapon - an easily recognizable symbol of the Order and everything it stood for, only for it to transform before the final blow, before the second blade would surely cut through whatever defense his adversary had already choreographed in their mind's eye, rendering them helpless, if not dead in an instant.

And this is what made Kun's weapon so utterly and undeniably Sith in design. Subtle, subversive, serving a higher purpose. That, and it was dramatic as hell.

"It's no beauty, but it's also not as ugly as I imagined," Lonna Vash uttered from beside him, eyeing the contents of the parcel with distaste but respect, her gaze intent but critical, ever the Jedi. "But perhaps it is because of the history that comes with it. It's hard to believe that legends can alter memory so completely."

"And it's only been forty years, if we're counting back to the defeat of Exar Kun and not just the man at the height of his power. And that's the power of myth, isn't it?" Mical said reverently, his fingers spiriting over the hilt, housed in a bed of soft felt, "It didn't take long for Revan to don the mask and rise to prominence, for her visions to gain traction and near-mythic proportions, to become a symbol and more than a woman."

"Who knew that a repurposed Mandalorian mask would be the face of the Mandalorians' very enemy?" she smiled, not from any warmth to the memory but perhaps out of acknowledging the bitterness of the truth. "Still, a strange thought to consider."

Mical thought the hilt was beautiful in its simplicity, in its utter deception. The metalwork was unfinished in places, the veneer uneven in others. But the innerworkings were intricate, precise enough to house a second crystal and harness its raw power unlike any other Jedi-crafted lightsaber in known history. It was the first double-blade known to modernity, though legend had it that Kun had fashioned this saber from an ancient Sith design. Mical knew not where, though he would love to find out. Perhaps the Sith that ferried them now would have some idea…

Mical and Vash had taken to the rogue Sith's cargo area for the last couple of days while in hyperspace, seeing little of their host but much of his work. Master Vash spoke little of the man, only recounting sporadically recalled moments from distant years she spent with him as his first Jedi Master when he was a child. But the information she had seemed outdated if anything, and only relevant in the way the man's childhood interests clearly played a role in his adult present. Mical hadn't minded being locked in here for two days with little food since he had the man Master Vash called Aiden's work to sift through, piles of notes and unlocked datapads at his disposal, and nothing the likes of anything he'd ever seen before. Decades of Sith history rested demurely atop the messy-but-organized workspace begging to be perused, bits of information that were otherwise inaccessible to anyone not of the affiliation. But none of it dated beyond the Sith of Korriban lore - Ajunta Pall, Ludo Kresh. Mical knew they were not the first Sith. Nor were they the first to study, let alone worship, the Dark Side of the Force. It seemed their host knew this and was well aware of the fact, his research leaning towards not only ancient Sith but Sith origin as well, only to come up empty.

"My hilt was smoother, I'll say that," a voice came from over Mical's shoulder. He should have heard the door slide open, he should have felt the air pressure shift. But part of Mical knew this was the Sith's trick, his very intention to arrive unannounced, to see what his uninvited guests were doing unattended in his private quarters. "Though in my defense, I only ever had technical drawings to work from, never the real thing."

The man brushed a strand of dark hair from his sickly green eyes, piercing as they glittered over the now-exposed lightsaber hilt of Exar Kun, whose ghost had spoken to him in a vision. Mical glanced at Master Vash, as if for direction, wondering if they should perhaps cover the thing up lest it fall into the wrong hands. Vash said nothing.

Instead of reacting, the man ran a hand over his hair, long on top but cut short around the sides, before crossing his arms, watching both guests with a wary stare.

"Also, do call me Erebus. Aiden… no longer suits me."

Somehow Mical knew the man had not reached into his mind but must have simply overheard them in the past couple days, undoubtedly sick of hearing his abandoned name repeated - Aiden, Aiden, Aiden. Mical wanted to ask where Erebus had come from, and if there was an official tradition to Sith names, but instead found himself quiet as he simply shut the parcel closed so the famed saber was hidden out of sight again.

"Erebus," Vash said, as if tasting the name, testing it out. After a moment she nodded, "Erebus it is, then."

As much as Mical couldn't read the Sith, he also had a hard time getting a good impression of the Jedi. One moment she was critical, only to find her exceedingly agreeable the next. There seemed to be no rules to her logic, leaning conservative on some things but liberal in others, especially when it came to her former student.

Erebus nodded curtly, trying not to appear pleased with the approval, and sucked on his teeth, looking around the room as if it were all new to him.

"Perfect," Erebus said quickly, crossing his arms, "Well, if you're interested, as I'm sure you are, we are set to arrive on Dantooine within the standard hour. I have some rations in the cupboard against the far wall if either of you are interested. Vintage Sith rations from Revan's empire - fun, I know. Not sure what the fare will be once we land or who will welcome us, if anyone. The landscape's changed, but I trust you two know more about it than I do."

Erebus looked around the room again, avoiding all eye contact, as he tried to peer at the container that now safely housed Exar Kun's lightsaber, trying his best not to appear interested or disappointed that it was being stored away from his prying eyes.

"You were supposed to meet up with your contacts here, yes?" Vash said, placing a gentle hand on Mical's shoulder. "Assuming they escaped Space City in time, we may run into them here if the Force wills it."

"I have a feeling we will, seeing how things have turned out so far," Erebus sighed, "Let's just hope my former Master doesn't catch up with us."

"Former?" Mical said before he even felt himself think it, instantly regretting speaking upon doing so. Erebus winced as if he felt the embarrassment second-hand.

"It's a guess, but seeing as I've been avoiding Ni-" Erebus almost uttered a name but stopped himself short, his eyes flashing as his gaze flitted from Mical to Vash with mild surprise before recovering, "Since I've avoided reporting in lately, my Master might assume I've gone rogue. And since I've yet to make up my mind on that front, such an assumption might be correct enough to act upon."

Erebus flashed them a sardonic smile, masking his fear with false bravado, fooling no one.

"There's a radio over there," Erebus said, trying not to sound helpful despite everything he was doing to prove otherwise, "In case you want to try and contact your - I don't know - your crew, your people. Whoever."

With a shrug he was gone again, the door that separated the cockpit from the cargo hold closing at his back with an audible whoosh this time. Mical and Vash exchanged glances before looking toward the far wall, noticing a small comms system hidden behind a series of paper notes tacked over it. Wanting to preserve the data, Mical gently tugged at the paper to reveal a panel underneath, his fingers enraptured by the feel of it, unsure he'd even seen paper up close before despite having read about it all his life. The comms system beneath it was strange, both outdated and futuristic at once.

"Have you seen this sort of ship before?" Master Vash asked as Mical paused over the control panel, his fingers touching the buttons but failing to press any of them, admiring the design of it all.

"It's a Star Forge vessel, isn't it?" he answered, trying to keep the awe from his voice. Vash only nodded, her eyes glittering over the panel as if she, too, was in wonderment, trying to soak it all in and make sense of it.

"I believe it is."

"You never saw one up close?"

Master Vash shook her head as she grimaced into a half-smile, meeting Mical's eyes for a brief moment before looking back to the panel, pressing a corner button that made the entire console light up. Unlike ships native to Republic space, these buttons were hexagonal, some diamond-shaped and others pointed, almost pyramidal, and each of them was a shade of white, cream or gold in color. One lone button in the corner was black as the space between stars, but the rest glittered like a sky in miniature

"It's so foreign," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Yet so familiar."

The panel was not unlike modern comms systems in its layout, though the design was so utterly different. Mical wondered what had come first, only knowing part of the history behind Revan's mysteriously instantaneous fleet, yet somehow he knew that this was the blueprint for everything that came after, that every facet of this ship was likely as much a relic as anything Erebus had tracked and collected in this very room. But just how old was the blueprint? Where did she find it and will it into being?

"How much of this did you see in your vision, exactly?" Mical asked, turning to Master Vash. "You said you saw Dantooine, but did you see the planet? The Jedi Temple? Something that would happen here?"

"Bits and pieces," she said, her eyes faraway as she recalled the vision, "I saw the rolling hills, the ruined Temple. I saw you there, actually, poring over datapads in the remains of the library."

"And Erebus?"

Vash's mouth thinned into a line, her gaze now intent on the panel and nothing else.

"I saw the two of us training. It looked like the Temple ruins, but I can't be sure. I haven't been here since the attack."

"By a one Darth Malak?"

Vash nodded.

Darth Malak. Mical still remembered the look of him from the holovids, his metallic jaw gleaming in place of his once-handsome face. Mical had met him once, briefly, as a Padawan first entering the Medical Corps, not realizing he would never be taken on as a Jedi once the war was over. Going by Captain Malak then, he'd been so charismatic, his easy charm overshadowing his unnerving height, something that made him so undeniably intimidating once he returned as Revan's Right Hand of the Sith. How was it that Malak had succumbed to the Dark Side, while Revan was saved from it? Mical thought of the man piloting them now, trying to recall how Erebus had looked when they'd crossed paths on Coruscant all those years ago. All Mical knew was that Erebus' eyes had not been nearly as piercing, not the sickly yellow-green they were now, and wondered what color they were before. Malak's eyes had turned a bright ember orange, going by the holovids, no longer the serene blue Mical remembered.

"Do you think there is hope for a man like him, for Erebus?"

"Hope?" Vash scoffed. "The Jedi have fallen because there was something flawed about us. Perhaps not in our intentions but in how we executed our beliefs. If anyone knows Jedi history and the intricacies of it, it's that man. And if he turned to the Dark Side before the Order fell to ruin, then I fear he may have had a good reason for doing so."

Vash looked over her shoulder at the empty door that separated them from Erebus, and Mical turned to look along with her even though there was no man there, only metal. But in his mind's eye, Mical wondered what Aiden had looked like as a boy, as a Jedi, what his copied saber had looked like, fashioned from the legend of Exar Kun, whose ghost haunted the galaxy still, just as Revan did now, though still more a woman than a specter.

"I don't mean to say that I condone his affiliations or whatever he's done to sustain them," Vash corrected, turning her attention from the closed door to Erebus' myriad of notes and scribblings, "But I can see why he did, is all."

"And what of his sister, the Exile?"

"I wish I could tell you," Master Vash said, her voice lilting, "And the fact that I cannot is unfortunately the reason why I fear we're all here."

3951, Peragus Mining Facility
Atton

The medbay was quiet. Eerily quiet. All Atton could hear were the soft whirring sounds of the machine beside him, lulling him to sleep, as needle-thin tubes administered more pain killers and antibiotics. The last medic to do a sweep of his empty ward gave him the run-down about a half-hour ago but Atton was already fast forgetting every word the young Sullustan said, who looked over his shoulder after every other word as if someone were watching him, or as if whatever treatment Atton was receiving were clandestine. Both afraid of and eager for the solitude, Atton nodded impatiently as he spoke, only calm once he was alone again… just for the panic to take over.

With the medics around, he was tense. Alone, he was a mess. Atton wasn't sure which was worse.

As predicted, his attendant from the past few days – Yara – had yet to return, the medic turn-over almost as staggering as the number of incoming patients in the medbay's ICU. Atton was still the only occupant in the well ward, not that he was exactly healthy, but the fact that he wasn't in critical condition seemed to be the determining factor in his placement. Still, he saw little of the others, only catching glimpses through the open door whenever a new medic entered to administer another round of treatment or ask Atton how he was doing, as if he were an afterthought tucked away in an unused corner of the medical bay. And in a way, he was. Whatever was going on outside the ward was ravaging the station, though no one would give him the details.

What the hell is going on here?

But now, all Atton yearned for was sleep. He'd tried to glimpse at the bottle the Sullustan stuck with the IV needle before hooking it up to Atton's arm – y'know, for future reference – but he wasn't so lucky, the aurabesh too small for him to read from a distance.

Damn, I'm getting old. At 32, Atton was feeling the weight of his reckless decisions more and more now, especially after working in the gas mines for the last year, and he figured his newly acquired injuries only depleted his life expectancy if anything.

Before he could lament his possible future, Atton began to drift off, his eyes drooping, senses dulling, though he still seemed to have a fuzzy view of the room he was in, as if his eyes were only half-closed. But he was quickly losing command of his limbs and all voluntary movement, his body fast becoming a cage. And while part of him liked it, another part of him felt suffocated, unsure of this prison, even if it meant he could at least rest for the moment. If all he had to look at was the empty wall for several hours, then so be it.

The room remained unchanged, though Atton did not know for how long. Dreams flitted in and out of his bouts of consciousness, though his corner of the medbay remained a constant, a background character almost, as his mind delved into the abstract.

Atton never let himself dream. Even in his sleep, he was counting cards and power couplings, never sure of who might be watching, who might be looking for him. Revan's empire died not long after Malak took over, but he knew the others trained like him were still out there somewhere. One could never be too careful. But slipping into dreamlike oblivion was almost blissful now despite the chaos he knew that ravaged the rest of the station now, his mind both emptied but full at once. He dreamt of everything and nothing, his memory capturing nothing but trails of thought that dissipated as quickly as smoke. But then... there was the droid.

It was an HK model. Not the kind seen on Peragus in any capacity. Especially considering a protocol droid was hardly needed here, if ever. It drifted about the room, as if floating, before suddenly appearing before Atton's face, its intelligence module mere inches from Atton's half-lidded eyes. He knew he was still dreaming, but part of this felt real – too real.

Atton tried to jerk awake, tried opening his eyes, but they only seemed to want to close further, the panic rising in his chest as the HK's amber eyes bore into his unblinkingly, saying nothing. He felt a metallic hand at his wrist, and then his elbow, and pluck. The IV the medic had inserted earlier was removed and replaced with something else, though Atton could not will his eyes to move enough to see what it was. The droid's cold fingers graced his wrist again, this time checking for a pulse. After a moment, it finally pulled away and paused, admiring its handiwork before gliding away.

But upon exiting the room, it stopped, poised in the doorway, unmoving. Its silhouette stilled, swaying gently on its metal perch for what felt like eternity, becoming a fixture in the room just as anything else, before it swiftly turned on its heel and rushed towards Atton's bedside again, this time to shut his eyes closed, cold fingers flitting over his face as though Atton were a corpse. He shuddered and the HK was gone.

And then the nightmares started.