Wincing, K'Satra Ulgo stepped forward into Javyar's Cantina. She'd found a basic change of clothes in a compartment nearby their hideout, and had kept her face low, sneaking past the odd Sith who might've recognised her. Even with the rest of their troubles, their worries, it didn't help that she came from a Royal House - one renowned for sending all it's members through the Republic military. Though it kept their heads cool, compared to other houses, it made them targets.
Rumours flew about regarding an assassin, Selven. K'Satra had heard news about her extended family's fate on Taris, but she hadn't put a name to the crime yet - that schutta! In one standard month Selven had managed to hunt down the Ulgo family on Taris to death, leaving the remainders to mourn on Alderaan. Were she not injured, if time were on their side, K'Satra would've made a point to get her back, to make her pay for her crimes.
But, as it stood, she was wrought with worry, with guilt. Carta and Diamar were busy tearing through the lower streets in search for Bastila, and all she could do was rest. Well, no more. K'Satra nursed her leg still, but could now walk, investigate. She'd found strange things, and a tense, almost hostile environment.
The music thrummed low as she entered the cantina's pit, spotting her newest interest quickly. She darted her eyes back and forth as the glitchy twitches rocked the place, losing herself within the crowd - still shocked at her appointment's appearance. It wasn't the first she'd met her, but the impression the warrior gave her was intense.
Scars dotted her body - a prominent one on her eye - giving her a dangerous edge. Her hair was cut short, dark, and greying, looking almost unkempt. The presence she exuded was enough to keep stragglers and beggars away from her table, even as she smirked and winked at the passing waitresses, eyes wandering. She was a Mandalorian - and it showed, war's toll having been taken, the experience behind her eyes, and the sheer muscle packed into her tall frame.
"Ah, I was wondering when you'd return, shovelhead. Come, take a seat," she welcomed K'Satra, voice like iron. "Your friends - the Jedi, the soldier, the cute one-"
"-They've purchased the droid," K'Satra advised, sighing, "and are en route. ETA is 1 hour."
"Then, pray tell, why meet with me now? My time is not to be wasted."
"Because I don't trust you, Mandalorian. Your war is over and your kind serve themselves as mercs and thugs, so, excuse me if I'm worried about our little project," K'Satra levelled a stare at her, calm, collected.
Caldera's grin faded, replaced by a thin grim line on her lips. "Best watch your mouth - 'cause last I checked, until you and your little Republic got the Jedi on your side, you were losing."
"And look at you now. Does my initial impression of you still fit?" K'Satra bit back.
"Mercenary though I may be, I've fought my battles and loved them. Your Republic still drags on as if it hasn't realised it's been dead for a while. And don't you dare take me for a hut'uun - my word is my oath, and we'll be with our prize soon enough."
Two drinks landed on the table, the server disappearing as quickly as she arrived, clearly wanting to stay away from the two.
K'Satra relented, softening her gaze, shoulders relaxing. "Good."
"Don't think I've thought of taking Davi's estate on by myself," Caldera grinned, motioning the other drink to her companion, "the Jedi and the soldier will be of help. The Wookiee too, and the Twi'lek charge she has. The only dead weight we could do without is that looker of yours - what was his name?"
"Diamar," K'Satra answered, sniffing the drink, holding back a retch. "He's… Sneaky."
"That's ne'tra gal - Mandalorian ale - is he any good in a fight?"
"He's fast, effective, if a little chatty. Makes a good distraction," she chuckled, shaking her head.
"We've got the droid for that, and the Twi'lek for sneaking, and I'm surprised his mouth hasn't been the death of him. How good is he in bed?"
K'Satra spat, choking on the ale, coughing until she was red in the face. "What!?"
"What, am I not forward enough? Is he a good lay? What other possible reasons could you have for keeping someone like him for the ride? Both the soldier and the Jedi make better leaders, so I'm struggling to see his role here," Caldera guffawed, howling at the chug of her drink.
Tracing the Republic soldier's expression, her grin came back in full force, a familiar heat lighting within her as the alcohol struck her blood.
"I'm," K'Satra balked at how fast the drink was affecting her, shaking her head, "I would have no clue, Ordo. Though in terms of flirting, I'd say he's a step under you. Besides, we don't abandon our troopers-"
"-Even when they've got nothing to offer? No survival skills, no battlefield experience? And you're telling me that's why the Republic's finest are knee deep in Sith, no doubt being held back by that di'kut?" she asked, challenged, leaning forward from her previous position.
K'Satra backed away a bit, noting the woman's love for that fight, no matter how small it was. Words or war, Caldera looked giddy, energised now, ready to rumble.
"Tell you what - when you do finally take him under the sheets, or in the refresher, or up the loading ramp, wherever it is you Republic girls like to take your prizes - you let me know," as if to emphasise her point, Caldera unzipped the top of her jacket, revealing bare, battle-worn flesh underneath.
It caused K'Satra to almost spit again, leaving the soldier blushing and stuttering. "And w-why the hell would I do that?"
Caldera's eyes darkened. "Battle is battle, be it in bed or in war, and battle makes for a brilliant experience."
Flustered, K'Satra downed the rest of her drink in one fell swoop, almost vomiting at the harshness of it, and met the Mandalorian's gaze. Like a hunter to a prey she leered at her, keeping her breaths low, quiet. Her jacket's zipper went down further, and K'Satra had to make sure they were still in public, that Caldera still knew that.
"Speaking of, I don't suppose you'd be up for gaining a little more experience, Ulgo?"
"No, no thank you. Our- hic-, erm, partners… Should be here soon."
"Your choice," Caldera shrugged, setting her eyes upon a server, "knock if you need me."
(Elsewhere…)
"...you understand a remarkable number of alien languages. That's pretty rare in a raw recruit."
"They say the force can do terrible things to a mind. It can wipe away your memories and destroy your very identity!"
"It is obvious to me that the Force has been working through you."
"Agh, damn it!" Mission screamed, recoiling from a blaster shot that scorched a spot in her arm. She recoiled under cover, desperately holding back tears as Diamar came to her side, laying down suppressive fire against a Sith squad.
As it turns out, a freighter wasn't an option anymore. Their worst fears had come to pass, and Diamar's stunt had left them infamous. What they were hunting now were codes, codes to pass by the Sith's blockade - given that K'Satra had secured them passage thanks to Caldera Ordo.
The party was stuck in between a locked door and a small army of guards, keeping them from reaching those slippery ciphers. Diamar had left Bastila to take the lead, believing in her experience as the Jedi who took down Revan.
A live concussion grenade was thrown their way - and swiftly lobbed back by Bastila, stunning two of the ten guards. Taking a moment from consoling Mission, Diamar peeked from behind cover, and fired two swift shots, piercing straight through the dazed Sith's heads.
"This is why we plan ahead! Now this whole base is going to come down upon us!" Carta yelled, jumping across the hallway to Mission's side, shifting the scoundrel out of the way. She treated the Twi'lek's wounds without a second thought, applying a small dosage of kolto before dressing the laser burn.
"I can handle this myself, I've been shot at plenty of-" Mission grunted out through gritted teeth.
"Mission, by all means, challenge me later - just not when we're knee deep in Sith!" The soldier barked, finishing up the dressing, rolling back to her side of the hallway. Behind them and around a corner, Zaalbar stood, attempting to bash a sealed door open.
"How's it looking there, chum?" Diamar called out, hurriedly concocting some strategy that wouldn't get them murdered.
"Why won't you lot just die!?" a Sith sergeant yelled.
"Still terrible! I think we should've stayed with the lock bypass!" Zaalbar roared back, tearing off pieces of the plasteel-layered door.
Beep-beep-de-reep went their new acquisition, a droid by the designation of T3-M4. Caldera had assured them this droid, commissioned by Davi Kang, would be their only ticket into the Sith's military station - a slicer built to escape Taris.
"T3 thinks otherwise, but, he says he's got your shields, Zaal!" the scoundrel barked back.
Without a word, Bastila reignited her lightsaber, and strode forward, deflecting blaster bolts back at the shooters, slicing through Sith and droid alike with ease. Even as their shields gave pause, the padawan was quick to dodge, weave, and strike again, targeting weak points so that the energy fields wouldn't have the time to recuperate.
Carta aided her charge with covering fire - now taking time to plan each shot carefully - eyes peeled for any grenadiers first. Mission and Diamar joined them, pressing forward behind the Jedi - marvelling at her skill with the saber.
And then he paused.
As the last Sith fell, as Bastila stood, with bubbling rage she actively fought to keep suppressed, he felt a headache come on. As Bastila retracted her blade, uttering "the force fights with me," Diamar felt his heart begin to pound, threatening to shatter his ribs with its intensity. The scoundrel mirrored her grip on the blade, almost instinctively, before he dropped to his knees, grunting in pain.
The dreams. They weren't visions. They weren't shared from Bastila, and Diamar soon realised even his own name was a lie, a farce. The Force - as he had felt it all those years ago, as a padawan, learning under masters, came back to him. It was baptism by fire - being submerged in the swirling inferno of Taris' life coils, the smoke of the struggle of life choking him. His nerves were stripped bare, made to bear the brunt of the full light of the Force.
Even in the depths of a sith military base, he could feel it, sense it, the energies of all life penetrating his body. The lights in the clean white hallways dimmed and buzzed eerily, and Diamar could still hear the hum of the blade - his blades - as if it had never left his side. Bastila placed her hand on his shoulder as she sensed the touch of the Force within him, fear building inside her.
"Is everything alright?" She asked, her voice quiet, concerned, and firm. He could only stare at her, horror in his eyes as other memories came flooding back to him - memories of his past life.
"I… I know you, Bastila…" He mumbled, cradling his head gently. Bastila backed away from him as she saw him stand, as she saw those eyes blink and change - as if war itself replayed in them, in an instant. When he finally met her gaze, fully, he was a different man. The one she was originally sent to apprehend - the one who had died, or so the records said.
There was a pause between them, as Carta, Zaalbar, and Mission passed ahead of them, the base now void of activity, void of sound.
"You tried to kill me," he uttered, voice now icily deep, extending his presence out towards the rest of their party. She backed away, though through his body language noted that he wasn't intent on attacking her.
"I… I was attacked… Betrayed. Malak..."
"C'mon, we gotta move!" Carta's shout came, echoing through the sterile halls.
Time slowed as she witnessed Revan resurfacing - his surly expression being carved into his face as he pressed on throughout the Sith base. He led them with no words - Zaalbar not caring or noticing about the change in expression, and Mission not saying a word about it.
"Bastila - what the hell is going on? What's gotten into him?" Carta asked, following his lead. She found his very gait to be different, less laidback and more furious - damn near stomping with every step. Bastila found herself torn between maintaining her cover, and letting slip the truth that had been lain before them.
Would Carta even believe her?
"Keep quiet. We've got more Sith coming our way - Mission, stay between Carta and Zaalbar, ensure your energy shields are active. Zaalbar - take up a blade and be ready to bring up the rear. Carta - provide some covering fire for the front, and Bastila?" he ordered, asked, planned, and executed, mind pulsing with the return of this information, this self.
Bastila steeled herself, hand death-gripping the hilt of her saber.
"What?"
"Keep your blade out of my back."
Mission went to question what the hell he'd just said, but was quieted when Diamar, Revan, pressed on. Though equipped only with a vibroblade, he weaved into combat like the thread of destruction he was - slipping between ranks like a phantom, and exiting like a soaring wind, making mincemeat of the Sith that stood in their way. He was not a butcher - not a brute by any standard, but a surgeon.
More confusion rose. Carta could only follow numbly - mouth agape at the prowess before her. This wasn't the plucky young soul that had accompanied her on her journey so far, no… This was someone else. Mission stuttered, having stopped firing, to simply gaze in awe at the warrior's skill. Zaalbar, keen to the most miniscule of movements, issued a low, warning growl at the mere change of scent.
The sith were dead in seconds, with nary a scratch to be seen. The warrior - Diamar, Revan, looked at his blade in a quiet disgust after finishing up, staring back to his party.
"Save your questions and steel yourselves - we've yet to see the worst this base can offer, and we must leave this planet soon."
"No," Carta argued, a sense in her heart piercing through her chest, "you're telling us what the hell is going on. What's happened to you?"
His cold gaze softened, and he sighed, shaking his head, ignoring the building pressure in his mind - that niggling, wriggling touch of the Force invading his self.
"I am not Diamar Thervan. I do not know who that is," he uttered, "and if I told you who I was - you would not believe me-"
"Try me. Try and make me understand who you are. Because if this is some sick joke - if you've been hiding this skill from me for this long, I-" Carta challenged him, the loss of her friends - those on the Endar Spire, ringing back. Their loss built and built upon her guilt, stilting her, fueling an anger deep in her chest.
"-I haven't," he placated her, motioning them all to continue, "I assure you."
No more haze. No more strings. No more lies.
"I am Revan."
They stopped. Mission burst out laughing, and Bastila felt her hope, her goals, crumble into billions of pieces. The Jedi Council had failed, twice now. This facade they had generated for him - shattered upon viewing the prowess of a lightsaber - upon viewing a Jedi in action - no doubt, upon being that close to a Force-user!
Carta's expression remained unchanged. Disbelief surged first, quickly replaced by rage. Sadness. A boiling, steaming anger and a righteous fury that shook her. Revan. The man responsible for the ignition of Telos IV. The one responsible for the death of her wife and child. He who had saved the Republic, the Outer Rim, only to plunder it.
"Man, that's a good bit, Diamar - you really had me going there for a sec-"
Revan looked to Mission, a tinge of sorrow in him. It was enough to halt her laugh - for it to choke in her throat, and for her to stop as well. So too did her eyes fall - and when they did, Zaalbar strode in between herself and Revan - weapons brandished. Carta then shot a look to Bastila, the shaking having stopped.
"You… You knew this, didn't you? Did you 'kill' him? No, wait, I know - that's not the Jedi way. You and the Council puppeted his brain-dead body and let him fly among us! You led Malak to us, got the Endar Spire destroyed!" she accused, voice quiet with a tempered wrath.
"Carta, please, I can explain-"
"Explain that the Jedi failed to kill one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy, only to, what, make him someone else?"
Carta whipped her head back to Revan, and struck him, clean in the face. He didn't flinch, didn't falter, and didn't make a sound, tanking the hit without complaint. He didn't retaliate. The Republic soldier panted in her storm of anger, daring not to stare him in the eyes again. Revan turned his gaze to the Wookiee, face set in a neutral line.
"Attack me if you wish, but the more we dawdle, the more Sith harry us," he offered, arms open to Zaalbar. The Wookiee raised her weapons, and let them fall, torn by indecision. This was articulated by a series of yowls, still low, still pondering.
"If you hurt her," she barked, motioning to Mission, "my life-debt to you will be void."
Revan welcomed the no-nonsense talk. No further words were necessary - your life will be void, was the message.
"As Diamar, I sought no harm to anyone in this party, including Mission. Though that identity lies in tatters, my impressions remain the same. You have my word."
With no ill will behind his words - no faux scent or hidden twitch of his facial muscles, Zaalbar holstered her bowcaster and trilled with relief, nodding to Revan. Revan then looked at Bastila, and finally, T3-M4, who had appeared to be scanning between the talking parties with great interest.
It beeped, clicked, and whistled at the newly-revived Jedi Knight.
"Agreed. Come then. K'Satra and our Mandalorian madam await, as does our ticket out of here."