Modus Operandi
The vessel drifted silently through the dark corners of space, without purpose and without memory. The vessel was wedge-shaped in design, but forked into two sections—the dorsal bow and the ventral bow. The vessel was a former Sith Interdictor-Class warship, one of the deadliest of its kind. The vessel contained memories of war and bloodshed as it continued to move aimlessly. One thing was for certain: it was definitely in pristine condition for a warship that had fought in the most violent of wars.
A lone figure stood in the bridge, staring out at the massive specks of stars amongst the darkness. The lights had been dimmed, and no one—save for that figure—was on board that deck. At one point, the figure would have worn pure white robes—robes that had once meant something—but now there simply was not point to it. The white robes had held the figure firmly in the idea of protecting something—especially when they had ceased to be that ideal.
Her eyes had once been soft and compassionate; now it was just dark and cold. Her hair had matched her white robes, but its intensity died, as she let her hair fall. Her soft pink skin had become sickly pale, almost as if she no longer held any blood in her body. It seemed fitting, as her heart seemed colder—heavier and much more burdened. Her robes were now black—blacker than the night and the very space she traveled between.
For all of her changes, however, Atris had one stubborn habit: she could not abide an unkempt vessel or habitat. After all, the Leviathan was very much her new home. Somehow it seemed befitting that the bereft vessel had become her new home and with it, she had found those willing to follow; those willing to die for the promises she had made. The false promise of treasures from the ever-closer war and destruction of their enemies—her enemies: the Republic and the Jedi Remnants.
Unlike the Jedi's ignorance, Atris had her eyes opened from none other than Kreia—or the late Darth Traya. She realized then that the old woman had been right about the Jedi: they were ignorant fools that denied the truth of the darkness within them. They forced themselves to purge their own emotions, which led to the downfall of the entire Order. Atris, on the other hand, had been far more accepting; her anger had taken hold of her and allowed her to understand it over time.
Emotions were not bad at all—the Force was a tool she could exploit in order to ensure that the Galaxy would realize the truth of the Jedi: they were manipulative, foolish, unfeeling cowards. Brute force was something that was totally unbecoming, however, in her plan for revealing the Jedi for what they were, it was a necessity. Atris had other plans in store for the Jedi—though it included some measure of brutality.
Deaths were always a necessity. Soon, she thought to herself, I shall reveal the inner darkness within us all. The Jedi would soon be no more as they come face to face with their own failings—and what better failing than Revan? She smiled, as the thought of watching the Galaxy destroy itself from within by its own fears warmed her.
Before she could think of anything further, a channel beeped on her desk—someone was trying to communicate with her—and a pint-sized figure appeared on the holoprojector. "Mistress?" A gruff voice called out.
"Yes?"
"We're receiving an incoming message from the Core."
At last, she thought. "Put it through to my chambers."
The figure died away as another lit up to replace it. This time, the figure was wearing a military uniform—a uniform that carried the symbols of the Republic. He was clean-shaven and his short hair was parted at one corner and combed over the other side. He appeared no more than somewhere in his early 30s.
"Ah, General Scrimshaw, what news do you have?"
"Mistress Atris," he began, "I have allocated the proper resources and loyal troops necessary for me to carry out your orders."
"Good, good," she replied, her voice speaking softly and a smile forming on her face. "And what of the variables within your fleet?"
"They've been…disposed of."
"Excellent. What is the Republic's stance on the surviving Order?"
"The Republic is growing complacent, Mistress Atris."
"Good. Inform our mutual allies that they will soon be taken care of."
"Very well, Mistress. Scrimshaw out." With that, the figure faded. Erik Scrimshaw happened to be another one of her pawns that suited her plans.
Soon fear would consume the Galaxy—and then fire. Atris found herself warming to the thoughts once more.
