"Apathy is Death."
It was easy to feel like an impostor in her own body, Temera thought. Since the end of the war, she woke at the same hour, ate the same plain foods, and maintained the most basic existence every day of her life. To indulge, to laugh, cry, hurt or cause pain onto others was to betray the final decision she made at Malachor V. The fact that she was allowed to escape that graveyard was a betrayal. A betrayal to the many soldiers and civilians, their lives cut so savagely short.
By the decision no other could make.
Malachor V, it's downfall and echoes, hardly registered consciously with her anymore. She took residence in a simple dwelling in Anchorhead, Tatooine, allowing herself nothing more than a simple shack. Like most of the buildings in the resettled port, it was hastily slapped together, likely as a bid to draw in potential labourers from all corners of the galaxy.
Despite her fugue, Temera strode through Anchorhead's silent streets with ease, her presence in the Force all but void. She deposited a credit chit into the Czerka landlord's offices on her way into the Dune Sea, seeking to lose herself like others had done. Like the lone Mandalorian who just wandered around in a rage, a Twi'lek scoundrel who slipped past life's cracks and found herself lost, or that crabby human woman who'd just lost her partner to a Krayt Dragon.
Temera had found a modicum of peace in her situation - originally she had thought to choose the life of a hermit; staying away from major population centres, to further enforce her own exile. She'd spent years out in the wastes, hunting Wraid for their meat and plating only when necessary, defending a single vaporator on the borders of the Jundland Wastes and the Dune Sea.
Whilst she found calm, freedom from her anger at the Jedi Council, the complete and utter isolation from life had withered away at her psyche. It was contemplating taking her own life that had her reconsider her choices; facing down the endless mirage of the twin suns, wondering if the next day was simply going to be worth existing in.
Back to Anchorhead it was, for the time being.
Coming back to civilisation had brought her rage back. She could feel the effects of the Mandalorian and Jedi Civil Wars on the farmers and refugees of Tatooine - those left vulnerable and weak were preyed upon by mercenaries and thieves. Those displaced by attacks on their homeworlds, and those injured by war often found themselves in the worst stretches of the galaxy, it seemed.
It reminded Temera of the inaction of the Council. Their unwavering, smug moral superiority, and their punishment against her. The removal of her connection to the Force. Even without it, Temera could feel strife in the emotional fabric of Anchorhead. She maintained assistance to those she could, patching wounds and donating credits, yet still it felt futile. It felt as if she was a child, sinking in an ocean, desperately splashing to morph the currents of the water around her.
Still, she had to come to terms with it. It wasn't too long ago she was fighting for Revan - fighting for the galaxy's right to live. Even now her reasoning remained the same - fight or die; resist against the Mandalorian hordes or be brought to heel for the next millenia. It was her raft in the swirling, dark tides that kept her from slipping.
She grew grim at the thought of Revan's death. The news was only recently broadcast, but few celebrated it, knowing full well that it only meant more chaos and destruction by the hands of the Sith's new leader, Darth Malak. It meant the extermination of more life, if the news of Telos IV was anything to by, yet more suffering.
The first male to be crowned a Dark Lord, and look at where he was now. Ashes, in the cosmos.
Temera hated to think of what she wanted to do to the man, the "Revanchist". She wanted badly to kill him, to sever his link to the Force, to ask him why he did what he did. She wanted him to answer for his crimes, past and present, wanted to know what made him betray the Republic as he did.
Yet the Exile knew the blame was not solely his; she gave the command to activate the Mass Shadow Generator, and she killed willingly under his name - whether or not it was for the good of the galaxy at large, she enjoyed it, the rich flare of adrenaline coursing through her veins as she brought an end to the "evil" Mandalorians.
It was coming face to face with this enjoyment that she knew it needed to be punished; to be excised from her mind - it was the main reason she went back to the Council to face judgement. She sympathised with the original Jedi that Revan converted to Sith; that feeling was unforgettable, and addictive, she found it hard to judge them for not repenting as she did.
The exile she felt now, the absence of the force was akin to a death sentence. Temera would not warrant it, would not wish it on her worst enemy.
Temera would remain on that remote, desert planet for the meantime. Helping those who needed it, ready to defend her own slice of exile. She would maintain this existence with daily trips to the Jundland Wastes, scrapping the remains of monoliths and corpses. She would remain deaf to the Force, forever separated from it's embrace, a stranger in her own body.
The Exile passed the time introspecting, staring idly at the sea of sand, or wallowing in the local cantina, keeping only the basest senses sharp. As the twin suns of Tatooine rose, she entered Junix's Joint, a brisk wind skating past her hooded form. She sat at the back corner of the dingy pub, and within seconds, had a fresh juma juice in her hand.
Nodding to the crotchety Junix himself, he went back to serving his regulars, and she went back to the holovid on the cantina's counter, which crackled to life after a short while. She mostly kept her eyes glazed over the pictures, tuning into the struggle of the other planets in the galaxy.
A sith occupation there, she thought, as the video showed a swoop race, wonder what made them publish this?
She'd known Taris' turmoil had stemmed from ancient governments and banished peoples - those on the surface lived and breathed without issue, leaving the undercity dwellers to suffer. Temera had found it an all-too-common theme shared by many ecumenepoli; a facade of prosperity hiding darkness. It made her shiver; if Tatooine's force currents were an ocean, then living on a planet like Taris would tear her apart, she feared.
It began to crumble at the last tethers of hope she held onto - how could you cure the suffering of a planet? How could you save billions from dire straits?
She sighed, knowing full well that something on that scale was impossible. She knew that a planet like Taris had to be torn from the roots and restructured for it's suffering to end, something that would take a millennia or more. Shaking her head at the vid, she was torn from her thoughts as a jawa was thrown into her, chittering with indignity, cups and a tray knocked from its hands.
Temera rose immediately, assessing the situation before her, the attacker's brutish stance telling her all she needed to know. It was Gurke, a hunter, and judging by the fresh sheen of sweat tumbling down his fat folds, he'd just come back from the Dune Sea. Temera sighed, summoning the energy necessary to talk down the thug.
"You push Ikbi! Ikbi has done nothing wrong, why must you push!?" The diminutive alien spoke, it's words belting out with fear. Without question, Temera helped Ikbi to her feet, and stood between her and the gamorrean.
"You steal credits, thief! You unhand them now, or I unhand you!" Gurke squealed, nostrils flared with rage. Temera sighed again, and held her hands between the pair, separating them. Knowing full well Gurke made this same complaint every other week, and having an inkling that the credits were pilfered off someone Gurke and his gang killed, her face dropped in anger.
"She has taken nothing from you, Gurke. Leave her alone," Temera spoke, ready for any sort of belligerence the thug might've thrown her way.
"How you tell, human? You not looking - small Jawa took my credits as I sit down!" He snorted, slapping his big belly, rearing back for a charge.
"You speak lies! Lies! Ikbi has stolen nothing from the angry green one, Ikbi would never!"
"She's telling the truth, Gurke. You don't want to get thrown out of here for killing one of Junix's servants, do you?" Temera defended the jawa, stepping fully in between her and the gamorrean. He huffed a horrid breath and grunted, puffing his chest out.
"I'll kill her, I will! Just you watch-" As he began to push the exile out of the way, Gurke was knocked to the ground, the Exile sending two savage punches landing in the fat of his stomach, and to the base of his throat. Tables and shelves shook as his mass impacted the dirt floor, a shockwave bursting from beneath him.
"You two," Junix barked, pointing to Narkal and Uzgak, the hunter's friends, "take his hide out of my cantina!"
Staring in shock and awe at the former Jedi, Ikbi scrambled to pick up her cups and tray, stammering out a "thanks". Junix turned his head to Temera, rubbing his temples, sighing as the gamorreans dragged out their comrade.
"And you," he grunted, "don't manhandle my clientele. I don't need a bouncer scaring off business."
"The less blood spilled, the better. Saves you having to search for another waiter, too," Temera bit back, attention back on the holovid. Junix huffed, shaking his head at the exile, grunting again.
"Jawa aren't hard to come by on this planet. Paying customers are," he mumbled, going back to serving drinks. A retort died in Temera's throat as her eyes caught an image of someone in the holovid - someone familiar.
There's no way, she thought, squinting at the replayed video, which reported on the race's winner, an up-and-comer / nobody, who had fought a rival swoop gang after being accused of cheating. And as Temera peered at the video, she noticed something in the face and the movements of the racer, something she hadn't seen in a long time.
He was confident in his movements, if sloppy, as if he was dictated by the universe to act the way he did. He moved with such grace that it was hard to keep up with the already choppy video, and his face… No. It was too far-fetched. No way in hell what she thought was going on, was going on.
The broadcast was replayed, showing a slightly different, fuzzier angle, revealing an unmistakable grip on the two vibroblades the racer wielded. Temera's jaw dropped in recognition, numbing her to all sensations.
"I can't believe it," she mumbled, already scrambling out the door of the cantina, ignoring the attention-grabbing chittering of Ikbi. As the sweltering heat of Tatooine bore down upon her once more, she clenched her heart, blinking rapidly. She was in a bind, even just trying to organise her thoughts.
That was Revan. Revan did not die. The Sith, having a blockade on the planet of Taris, likely monitored any and all communications coming in and out of the planet. This meant that Malak knew of this, or would know of it soon. Malak would then ambush Revan, or, if Telos IV was an indicator, wipe it off the face of the galaxy.
And how did Revan survive? Was this the act of some cloning device? A droid wearing his skin?
No, she thought, even with his sloppy form, she knew the movements of the man too well, had seen him fight in too many battles to not recognise his masterful skill with a blade. The most obvious answer would have to be the correct one - she knew that he was living, breathing, but didn't hold himself with the same gravitas as he did in the war.
No, she thought, correcting herself, he's not wearing his helmet, for one thing. His lightsabers are missing. Likely betrayed by Malak, perhaps living under a different name, or a disguise?
That still didn't make sense to her - Revan would be aware that Malak would be able to detect him in the same way she did, the true Revan wouldn't display himself so proudly in a scenario like this if he'd just escaped death. Why the hell would he be on Taris, of all places? Something was wrong with him, that much she could tell. The lack of finesse in his movements, his face, his missing lightsabers…
Perhaps Malak had dominated his mind? Or, when being attacked, Revan hit his head too hard? Whatever it was, the hero of the Republic was in danger. Either he'd play to Malak's rules now, acting as a potential agent for whatever was going on in Taris, or he was blissfully unaware of the goings on in the galaxy, simply meandering about.
Finding herself another chance, another much easier chance to find her answers, to kill Revan herself, or to bring him to justice, Temera felt the urge to jump planet and go after him immediately. She played it out in her mind - knowing full well that no matter what, abhorrent suffering would continue in the galaxy if Malak was left in charge of the Sith, knowing that a comparatively braindead Revan was a ticking Force-timebomb, and knowing she had the power to interfere with it all.
She was brought to reality by the incessant tugging at her robes by the small jawa again - the one from the cantina.
"I am-," Temera caught herself, huffing, catching up to speed on her thoughts, "I'm sorry, what do you need, jawa?"
Ikbi bowed, profusely apologising for the interruption, "Ikbi thanks the human. Ikbi dislike angry green one. If human need favour, talk to Ikbi."
Temera chuckled, the disbelief in the situation catching up with her, "Unless you have a starship that can get me off this rock, there's no need," she waved, turning heel to head to the nearest starport. She was stopped again by the jawa tugging at her clothes.
"Ikbi has no starship, but Iziz maybe, for credits. Talk to Iziz. Mention Ikbi. Mention angry green one, Iziz will help human."
Temera's eyes widened, and she nodded, thanking the jawa. She knew vaguely of the chieftain of the Anchorhead jawa, but had never spoken to him beyond a passing greeting. Energised by her new goal, she practically sprinted across Anchorhead's markets, recoiling as she saw the frightened jawa before her.
She held her hands up in placation to the jawa at Iziz's side, who aimed a blaster at her.
"Apologies, I mean no harm. I seek Iziz - I need a starship to get off-planet," she said, knowing simple sentences were the easiest for the jawa to interpret back to her. The jawa at Iziz's side lowered his blaster, tucking back into his robe as Iziz calmed himself.
"Iziz of Jawa have many ship. Iziz will not sell ship to human," Iziz chittered quickly.
"I aided Ikbi against the angry green one in the cantina, she said I could come to you for a starship," Temera then pulled out a credit chip, offering it to the jawa, "10000 credits should do."
She could see the eyes under the shadow of the hood practically burst in excitement.
"Iziz will sell ship to human. Human will need starmap, but ship will fly well," he assured her, taking her by the hand to the jawa's junkyard, "Tinu will change fingerprint of ship to you."
"And where can I find an astromech droid? I don't suppose you have one of those handy, do you?" Temera asked, following quickly behind the small alien. It seemed forlorn for a moment, before pointing to a nearby shop.
"Iziz of Jawa have no star-droid. Yuka of droid shop have many."
And with that, ducking past the stinking hot alleyways, ducking and weaving through mountains of junk and scrap, past a defunct sand crawler, Temera was led to her ship - an ancient, weathered piece of junk that only vaguely resembled an A-wing strikefigher. Ensuring that all systems were operational before she left to acquire a droid, she thanked Iziz, sprinting past him once more.
She found the droid shop again, and nearly crashed past the entrance, the scent of oil and rust tingling her nostrils in a most unpleasant manner. The Ithorian looked taken aback as she strode in, approaching him with purpose.
"I need an astromech droid. Any droid that can program a starmap," she requested, simply. Yuka nodded to her, and presented her with his "selection" - a measly mire of rusted wrecks and done-for droids. As he prattled on and on with his sales pitch, he grew curious, eyeing the woman closely.
"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" came Yuka's low, warbling undulations.
Temera held back a chuckle, "visiting family. Though if I told you the real reason, you wouldn't believe me."
"Fair enough, Yuka Laka will not pry," he mumbled, staring back at his most recent and only working acquisition, an assassin droid, "this one will work, maybe. Most droids can interface with starships, just a matter of downloading the latest navigational charts…"
He fumbled about with the model for a little while before turning it on fully. Even before booting, Temera could tell something was amiss with the droid, something deeper than a restraining bolt. As the HK model's head snapped up to attention fully, Yuka turned around, looking pleased with himself.
"This one… I could only read the last two numbers on the designation - series 47, I think. I'll let you have a chance to engage with it before you make a decision…"
As Temera approached it, it whirred to life, almost as if in recognition.
"Greeting: Hello to you, prospective purchaser. I am referred to as HK-47-" it began, the white-orange indicative lights on it's head turning a deep red. Temera ducked out of the way of the droid's fist, but was lifted into the air by her throat shortly after.
She attempted to break the hold of the droid as Yuka blurted out commands for it to stop, rocketing her legs into the chassis of the withered assassin. Droids, she thought, catching her breath, nursing her throat, cursed, cursed things…
"Statement: It is confusing, prospective purchaser. You remind me of someone my memory banks have long since forgotten - a target, you could say. Warning: I am filled with purpose; to murder you and appease my master," it spoke to her, it's tone strangely sardonic.
"I am your master, droid, and I say halt! Cease operation this instant!" Yuka roared, the unit's arm letting go of the Exile. She coughed, catching her breath as she backed away, skidding along the ground.
"Systems shutting down, master…" it's vocabulator drawled.
"What the kriff, Laka!? Why did that thing try to kill me!?" Temera roared as she grasped her rasping throat. The ithorian backed away from her, stammering out apologies. "HK… Hunter killer, right?" She asked him, the ithorian nodding weakly.
"Sounds familiar, s-sure," he answered. "A-And, I-I-I didn't order a-anything, uh…"
"Sith's blood," she spat, "what master did this thing have before you? Where did it come from?"
"A-A Systech rep, erm-," he stammered, "oh, I can't remember her, I'm sorry, I-I…"
Temera simply held her hand up to the salesman, looking at her options. This was ridiculous. She was doing all of this to see Revan. Was it even worth risking being choked to death, dying in some oily droid shop in the Outer Rim? She looked around his selection, and shook her head, noting the assassin droid as her only viable option. And she flicked a credit chit Yuka's way.
"I'm paying this and not a credit more. Transfer the droid's ownership to me," she commanded the shopkeep, who frowned at the price, but dared not argue with the woman. Temera made sure to back away a bit further before the droid came back online, but only after a few clicks and beeps of the unit's back, Yuka was done.
He shared a look with the Exile before powering the droid on, scurrying away just as quickly.
"Exclamation: Oh, it's you again. I should have-"
"Silence, droid. I am your mistress now, and I command you to erase your order to kill me," the Exile spoke, a strength to her voice present, like she had felt years ago. A short silence fell over the unit as it's indicators flashed from red to white.
"Affirmative. Statement: HK-47 is ready to serve, mistress."
"Good," she sighed with relief, getting Yuka to remove the restraining bolt from the droid's back. With apprehension, the ithorian's shaky hands worked until it plinked to the ground, rolling. "HK-47, state your primary functions and identify the master who ordered my assassination."
"Answer: With pleasure, mistress. I am HK-47, a hunter-killer unit designed to assassinate key targets as requested by my masters and mistresses. I of course would prefer to keep my purpose discrete, but you forced my hand. Addendum: Despite the removal of my restraining bolt, it appears I cannot access my memory core to ascertain your assassination request," it blurted, turning it's head all the way around, making a scan of the room.
Temera pinched the bridge of her nose, darting a dark glance Yuka's way. She then motioned for HK-47 to lead her out of the shop, towards the shipyard.
"Is your memory damaged, droid?" she asked.
"Answer: It has been deleted, mistress. Observation: At certain times, power re-routing forces some memory circuits to fire that were previously deleted. I cannot control this process, however."
The Exile sighed. "And, pray tell, why is that?"
"Answer: Because there has been considerable tampering with my systems, mistress."
"Just my luck, then. Right, you are to not harm anything unless it attacks me first. Is that clear?"
The droid's circuits halted for the smallest of moments before firing back up again, as if nothing happened. "Affirmative."
"And you will serve as a star-droid until I say otherwise."
Another pause. "Objection: Mistress, I must insist; my utilities are best served in the line of combat, not guiding some meatbag-hauling space freighter. To limit me to only guiding you through the stars would be an insult."
Temera grunted, guiding him past the skittering jawa. "Consider it one, then. Unless you're too basic to do simple astrogation chart work?"
"Expletive: Mistress, how dare you! Correction: I am more than capable of utilising astrogation charts; I am simply implying that they are below a droid of my standard."
"Your memory is shattered and you can't recall who ordered to kill me. As far as I'm aware, droid, you are lying to me. So, prove you can interface with the damned ship, and then perhaps I shall let you engage in violence," she presented the ship to it, in all of its rusted glory.
"Statement: Very well, mistress. I shall inspect this wreck immediately."
Sighing with relief, Temera left the droid to do its work, calming any and all jawa nearby that squeezed past her, keeping them away from it. It only took a few seconds for the droid to exit the craft, and approach her.
"Evaluation: The fighter is incapable of flight, mistress. Laser scoring has damaged it's motor matrix and as such, inhibited intake from power cells. Suggestion: Perhaps a maintenance droid could fix this, but, repairs could take days."
The Exile, staring to the sky, simply shut her eyes and embraced that darkness. For at that moment, she found it more comforting than the alternative. With one, final, draining sigh, she opened them and stared back at that cold, unmoving, unfeeling contraption, and levelled herself. It was then she felt something, a tug of a feeling, an alert.
Then the droid's ocular sensors lit up. "Warning: 3 fat, bulbous life forms approaching the alleyway. They appear to be gamorrean. Shall I engage with them in civil discourse, mistress?"
"Gurke…" she mumbled, hand on a blaster, "and no, droid. But keep your fire away from the jawa."