Surprise, Surprise

Jolee evaded the cruiser's relentless turbolasers, as he fired a salvo of missiles into the hangar, tearing apart the bay's doors. "Hold on to something!" He screamed as he brought the small, sleek vessel into the hangar, holding on dearly for his life as the ship slid across the surface, hitting unfortunate and slow Sith soldiers along the way, before it came to its grinding halt.

After a moment and the ship shuddered, Jolee looked back at his companions. "Told you I'd get us there."

Frreral merely growled in agreement and rose, helping Visas up to her feet.

"Thanks," she said, looking at Jolee, who had now moved toward the hold of the small ship.

"We've got company," he said, as the ship rattled slightly with blaster fire hitting the hull. "We need to get out now."

"Perfect," Frreral muttered, picking up his lightsaber.

Jolee smiled looking at the pair. "This is where the fun begins."

"Some fun," Visas replied.

Jolee ignited his lightsaber and he tapped a key near the doorway, watching the ramp open. "You ready?"

They nodded, igniting their lightsabers.

In a blur, they rushed out, deflecting blaster bolts that came streaking for them, only to be sent back into the ones who sent them forth.

Frreral let out a growl as he smacked away a bolt and brought his golden blade into the face of the hapless Sith.

Visas opened her body and mind to the Force, allowing it to enhance her movements as she impaled a soldier with one end and decapitated another with the other end of her blade.

Jolee continued to walk towards a pair of Sith who were firing relentlessly at the old man, who merely cast the bolts away and sent three bolts back into the chests of the Sith.

They paused for a moment, the sound of their lightsabers filling the silence as they looked around them.

The bodies of their enemies littered the hangar bay.

"That was easy," Frreral said.

"Too easy," Jolee replied, narrowing his eyes.

Visas looked around, allowing the Force to guide her sight as she looked past the bulkheads, seeing nothing but more bulkheads. After another moment of allowing her vision to look through the vessel, she came to one determination. "It's a ghost ship."

"Someone's either expecting us or something else is up," Frreral said.

Jolee looked across the hangar. "The ships are still here. Something is obviously not right."

They moved towards the doorway, opening it and looking through, their lightsabers still thrumming.

Nothingness filled the well-lit hallways, while the hum of the ship's engines filled the background noise, along with the dim sounds of battle.

They tread through the hallway, following Jolee, who appeared to have an immense knowledge of the vessel's layout.

"So far, so good," Jolee mumbled.

"Something doesn't feel right," Visas said. "There's something elusive, I can feel it."

"I can feel something too," Frreral replied.

"It will appear when it is ready to," Jolee answered, "just wait for it. Keep your mind focused on the here and now—it will come when we reach our goal."

Before he could finish that sentence, the trio stopped and quickly moved back to back, watching as several ripples in the air shimmered and revealed a group of Sith assassins.

Jolee's eyes moved away from their enemies as he realized where they were.

It was a junction between hallways.

"Split up," Jolee whispered, as they all moved into their stances.

"Are you serious?" Frreral growled, unsettling a few of the Sith, who all had their crimson lightsabers ready.

"I have to agree with our furry companion," Visas said. "It wouldn't be wise to—,"

"Just listen to me," Jolee hissed. "If we split up, we can take some of them with us and one of us can destroy the ship."

"No one is destroying the ship," came a familiar voice.

"That wouldn't do at all," came the same voice, but at another side.

"No, it wouldn't," agreed a third.

Jolee's eyes went wide with horror as he felt the presences of the Sith assassins who had surrounded them. "Revan clones." He also remembered the faint presences of the creatures he fought on Kashyyyk. They too turned out to be clones of his friend.

"Very good," replied another voice—a snobby and hostile voice. The figure appeared from a corner, walking with several soldiers clad in crimson and black armour, brandishing heavy blasters. His dark hair was slick back and he walked with an air of command.

What struck Jolee the most was how similar he appeared to Saul Karath.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said, "my name is Erik Scrimshaw." He smiled looking at the trio of Jedi. "These are from a familiar friend of yours." He eyed the older Jedi with interest. "Ah, so we meet at last," he said. "The ever elusive Jolee Bindo."

Jolee eyed the man darkly. "I'd say it was a pleasure, but you know how it is, what with you selling out the Republic to the Sith and all."

The man smiled smugly, which gave Jolee all the more desire to restructure his face. "Shouldn't you be dead by now?"

Jolee eyed the man. "Shouldn't you be kissing the Sith's--,"

"Enough," Scrimshaw replied, bristling slightly. "I made a choice, and I do not need to hear you try to tempt me to kill you." His hand moved around, revealing the Sith that surrounded him. "They can do it for me." He turned around to leave, moving with his Sith entourage, as the assassins stood poised, ready to strike against the three Jedi. "I'll be sure to send Carth your regards," he replied.

Jolee let out a low growl. "Did I ever tell you that I was there when Saul Karath got it?"

The man paused.

"So, you're his spawn," Jolee said, knowing that he had hit it on the nail. "Can't say that I'm impressed."

The man looked back, facing the old man and staring him in the eye. "I hope you suffer as they kill you," he spat back venomously, his spittle hitting the older man's face. "I want to see that priceless expression plastered on that face of yours as clones of your precious friend drive their blades into you. And as you're lying there, in those final moments, I want you to realize how you let down everyone you ever cared about as I go and destroy your Republic and Carth Onasi."

Jolee bit back a retort as he watched Erik walk away, along with an entourage.

Before anyone could react, the Revanites were sent flying back, courtesy of the Miraluka Force wave.

Seizing the moment, the trio plunged their lightsabers into the fallen Revanites, killing their opponents instantly.

Frreral turned about, after he finished killing his latest fallen opponent, only to be sent back from a burst of blue electricity that coursed along the Jedi's body.

Jolee turned about and managed to deflect the blast, as he spotted two more Revanites—these ones exceptionally skilled in the Force and in fighting.

The Naver brothers had come.

"Down!" Visas cried, as Horn leapt over the Miraluka for Jolee. Visas rose, turning about, hoping to slice Horn in half, only to hear the crackling of energy as Torn's lightsaber crashed against hers.

Frreral rose, his head swooning with pain as he struggled to regain his vision.

Jolee found himself hard-pressed, dueling the Alpha, while Visas engaged the other one, moving further away from the group.

Frreral found himself torn between a choice: aid Jolee or help Visas.

One thing was certain: someone would die.


Atton squeezed the trigger and watched his latest victim burst into flames. He allowed himself a smile. Another one bites the dust, he thought as he pulled his fighter about.

AR3 whistled a warning, as Atton's string of intergalactic profanity came back as a reply.

A trio of Sith fighters had formed up on him while he was engaging his previous target. His eyes shifted to the battle, watching as the Republic cruisers—and the Mandalorians for that matter—were hard-pressed to stop the Sith assault.

He felt his fighter shudder slightly, along with AR3's string of what could be considered droid profanity. "I know! I know! I'm doing the best I can!"

AR3 whistled a smart reply.

"Would you rather find yourself floating as a lump of molten durasteel?"

The droid didn't reply.

"Thought so." He breathed in deeply. Come on, he thought, hold on just a bit longer. I am doing this for Theresa. He gritted his teeth. He rolled the fighter between two light frigates pummeling each other, hoping that the trio would follow.

To his surprise, they did.

To his fear, they evaded the turbolasers.

"Hold on!" He screamed as he accelerated the fighter, pulling the yoke back as far as he could, watching the fighter rise above the frigates, as he moved towards a group of the strange Jedi fighters that successfully tore a dissident Republic cruiser in half.

The fighters continued to match him, evading debris and shrapnel along the way, eager to kill the fighter pilot.

Atton gritted his teeth, grimacing as he decelerated rapidly, hoping the inertial compensators would keep his guts from splattering all over the fighter's canopy. He felt his stomach lurch as hot, putrid bile ran up to his gullet. He swallowed, grimacing once more but allowing himself a smile as he watched two of the three fighters shoot past him, while the other was slammed with energy from the frigate's turbolasers.

"Got you right where I want you," Atton muttered, squeezing the trigger several times, watching as emerald energy lanced out of the mounted cannons.

The Sith fighters rolled, allowing the energy to roll around and pass over them, as they continued to scream away.

Atton gritted his teeth again, squeezing the trigger and watching his fighter expel mass amounts of energy at his skilled adversaries. "You're going down!" He screamed, as he felt his body tense and then suddenly relax as a wave of relief washed over him. His hands guided the fighter and without blinking—without realizing it, he watched one of the lances of energy crash into one of the fighter's solar panels, melting away and causing the fighter to careen into a piece of floating bulkhead.

The other Sith fighter looped around, hoping to catch Atton off guard.

Atton decelerated the fighter further, pulling the yoke tightly to his left, watching the stars slightly streak before he squeezed the trigger again.

In moments, the Sith fighter completed the loop, only to race face first into the stream of green energy.

The transparisteel glass shattered as the energy slammed into it, killing the pilot instantly. The fighter disintegrated under the impact, not even detonating into fire, as it fell apart.

Atton's fighter raced right past it, as a blue streak crashed into Atton's latest foe.

"Whoa!" He screamed as he watch his cockpit light up for a moment.

AR3 hooted and whistled, applauding the pilot for his skills.

Atton didn't have time to reply, as he watched streams of scarlet energy fly around him. "More? There's just no winning." He brought his fighter about, as he found himself remembering an old lecture from both Theresa and Visas. Keep your mind away from the negative—focus on the positive and trust in the Force to set things right.

"Theresa?" He looked about in his cockpit. He shook his head. She's not here—it's just my imagination.

Focus, came her voice.

He clenched his jaw, evading the lances of death.

Trust your feelings.

"Theresa," he whispered, closing his eyes as he found the bond with her once more. "Yes," he whispered again. He opened himself up to the Force, completely, letting go of everything and allowing his body to become loose.

AR3 whistled a warning, trying to wake Atton from his trance.

The Sith fighters were gaining on him.


Dustil tried to struggle against the dark tendrils that pulled him further into the dark abyss he created.

The dark figure before him grinned in delight. "Struggle all you want, you will never escape."

Dustil grunted.

The figure chuckled.

I will find a way out of here, he thought determinedly, as he bit back the urge to give into the Darkness and crush the man in front of him.

"You won't escape," he replied.

Dustil eyed the figure with something akin to disgust. "You will not win," he spat.

The figure brought both hands over his face and acted as if he were shocked. "My, my, that's a terrible tone you have. Do you kiss your daddy with that mouth? It seems to me that you're getting angry at me, aren't you Jedi Onasi?" He brought his hands down to his hips, "looks like we've got to teach you some manners, young man." He laughed hysterically as he waved his hands and brought Dustil's body in front of him; the dark tendrils were still holding him in place.

Dustil groaned and gritted his teeth, staring the figure in the eyes.

"Come on," the figure said, grabbing Dustil's face and squeezing his cheeks, "get angry. Come on, it would be fun!"

Dustil continued to stare icily at the figure.

After another moment, the figure removed his hand from Dustil's face. "Fine," he replied, mockingly exasperate. "Looks like I'll just have to have my way with you then." He brought his hands up and began to move the young Jedi about with a simple gesture, forcing the young man to dance, act as if he were in a web and essentially move as if he were nothing more than a marionette.

Dustil continued to groan and growl as he was moved about.

Close your eyes and concentrate on the Force, a soft, feminine voice said softly.

Dustil shifted his head about, looking to see if Bastila had arrived.

Trust in the Force, concentrate on the Light, the voice urged. It was definitely not Bastila's voice.

Dustil closed his eyes, as the figure continued to dance wildly about, stretching the young Jedi's muscles and putting the boy into every conceivable—and excruciating—position.

Remember what your Master taught you, the voice continued, as a wave of relief and serenity washed over the young Jedi.

The figure paused for a moment, watching as Dustil found his center and in an instant, a flash of brilliant pure blue light washed over him, bathing his spectral figure in an even brighter hue of blue as the dark tendrils melted away.

"What?" The figure screamed out in surprise.

"I am one with the Force," Dustil said, his voice sounding as if thousands had spoken at the same time.

The spectre of a blue skinned Twi'lek woman and an older man with a scar appeared alongside the young Jedi.

"Impossible!" The figure screamed as intense blue light washed over him, tearing holes into his dark figure. I have to escape, he thought as he felt the light sear through his limbs, burning his ethereal figure. Leaping back, the unknown Dark Jedi closed himself from the Dark Meditation and then faded away, into nothingness.

"Nothing is impossible as long as you are one with the Force," replied the older man, who watched the figure dissipate. Behind him two more figures appeared, both of them being twins. Very soon, many more spectres followed, crushing the dark pool as beams of light began to pull through.

The figures that shielded the young Jedi were none other than Alec Ness, Rin Mesa, Nathaniel and Xavier Ravenmoon and many other Jedi who had perished over the course of the last 10 years.

"Who are you?" Dustil asked, his voice filled with wonder.

Alec looked at the younger Jedi and replied, "we're the Force." He smiled after a moment and said, "you must be Dustil Onasi."

The young Jedi nodded in wonder. After a moment his thoughts turned to Bastila. "Where's Bastila?"

"She's fine," replied another Jedi, a Cathar female who stepped forward. "She is strong in the Force and she has come a long way since…"

"The Dark Times," replied another voice, this one very masculine. He had no hair, only dark tattoos that covered his bald head. "She has even won the heart of Revan," he said in his soft-toned voice, smiling cherubically.

"Perhaps, but there is still a lot of work that is left to be completed," came a gruff voice from none other than Vrook Lamar.

Alec looked at the gathering of the Jedi who had found a way to retain their spirits within the currents of the Force. He looked at Dustil and said, "now you must go, young one, lest these ones continue to bore you with their ramblings."

Dustil smiled, when he noticed the gruff spectre frown.

Alec smiled, "go forth, your Master will awaken soon from the dissipating dark pool. You will truly make a wise and strong Jedi. Keep faith, now you must complete your meditation, young one. No one will interfere anymore…"

Before Dustil could reply, he was sent floating away, almost as if he were weightless and were floating in space. Soon after, he knew no more, until he blinked and realized he was back on the heavily damaged Sojourn.


Carth watched on in horror as the loyal Republic fleet took a beating. Nothing would stop them now. It was too late. Thousands of specks fluttered away, as small plumes of fire lit the vastness of space.

I have failed, the Admiral thought dejectedly, lowering his head. The Republic fleet had lost significant numbers and the secessionists had almost achieved their victory.

The Sith had begun to aid Erik's fleet and Carth could only watch as the four powers collided against each other, the fleets trading fire against one another leaving hardly any vessel unscathed.

The Admiral ran a hand through his damp, messy hair. The bridge was filled with the acrid scent of smoke, klaxons roared, light flickered on and off, and whatever officers were still alive had suffered many terrible burns and injuries from the battle.

Almost as if it were to threaten the lives of the already battered officers, the Sojourn shook once more, sending a showering of sparks flying across the fallen bodies of the officers.

Carth had given up removing the fallen bodies of his officers during the first three hours.

He looked at the officers that still remained at their stations. The corner of his lips tugged into a small smile that quickly turned into a grimace as a dark crushing weight filled his heart. He had led them all to their deaths—the young, proud and strong officers of the next generation were all falling before him.

"Sir," came the voice of the female officer, her voice tired and weary as they watched on in horror at the carnage around them. "We're receiving a transmission from the Mandalorian flagship."

Carth nodded, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Put it through."

A blue-hued image of Mandalore—better known as Canderous Ordo—appeared before him. "This is a fine day to die, isn't it, Onasi?"

Carth was too tired to even form a reply. He just shrugged.

For once, in his battle-focused life, Canderous Ordo spoke in a softer tone. "Things aren't turning out the way we had thought."

Carth coughed, his eyes meeting the cold, faceless mask that continued to stare at him. "What do you have in mind?"

The Mandalorian sighed, his broad shoulder heaving slightly. "We've got a possibility to defeat the Sith."

"I'm all ears," Carth said, bringing his hands out in a mild gesture.

"We're going to board the Leviathan and destroy it—maybe that'll put a dent in their plans."

Carth's ears perked up, but resisting the urge to jump at the idea of the plan, he eyed the Mandalorian with wariness. "What's the catch?"

The Mandalorian chuckled. "That's what I've always admired about you, Onasi—you've got spunk."

Carth—as much as it surprised him to have the strength—stared at the Mandalorian hard.

Mandalore shrugged. "We need your proton cores—if you've got any."

Carth shook his head. "We're out of them—and our power core's on the verge of a meltdown with all the power we've used against those dissidents."

Mandalore shook his head, growling. "The one time I actually need your help and you're completely useless." He sighed again, looking at the Admiral."At least we'll go down in a blaze of glory."

Carth shrugged, smiling mirthlessly, "I guess this is one of those times when Revan would have saved the day."

Mandalore grunted. "See you on the other side."

"You too."

The image winked out.

"Sir?" The lieutenant asked, looking at the Admiral. "What are your orders?"

Carth looked about his bridge, feeling that somehow he had erred when he took the commission as an Admiral. He remembered his days as a pilot, feeling the squeeze of the trigger as he rid the Galaxy of one less evil to worry about.

"Sir?"

He looked back at the lieutenant and said quietly, "do we still have any fighters in the hold?"

She nodded, "we have four and a half."

Carth raised a brow. "'Four and a half?' What's the half?"

"Most of them are damaged and salvaged from other fighters, sir."

Great, he thought. "So which ones work?"

Her eyes shifted to the ground before they came back up. "One, sir."

Carth furrowed his brow and looked away, thinking for a moment. After another moment, he turned back to face her. "Have it prepped."

She looked at him, almost as if he were half-mad. "Sir?"


Bastila's sapphire blade struck against the mutilated Atris' scarlet blade, as ripples of the Force radiated around each strike.

The dark woman sidestepped the Jedi and snapped out with her red ethereal elbow, hitting the bastion of Light in the temple.

Bastila took the hit in stride, sending her pain whittling away into the dark corners of her mind—in this case, the dark pool, causing it to grow even darker, if it were at all possible.

"You won't win," Atris said, her voice pouring down with malice and with the strength of the Dark Side of the Force.

Bastila felt the cold weight pressed against her chest, forcing her to accept defeat and be crushed by the dark pool and Atris. She let out a gasp, feeling the weight continue to press against her.

Atris began to laugh, her voice resounding throughout the black depths, as she watched the younger Jedi Knight wrestle with the darkness—albeit fruitlessly.

Bastila continued to struggle, feeling the weight press even harder against her each time she fought against its power. She had relinquished her blue ethereal blade, causing it to dissipate within the dark pool.

"Continue to struggle," Atris sneered derisively, "it will only prove that you are going to falter and then become mine. You will never escape your mind—it shall be a prison for you, like mine was for me."

Bastila heard the words, her mind reeling as she thought of the meaning behind them. Revan, have you really caused us to completely shy away from the Light? She felt the weight continue to press against her, her eyes closing as she continued to doubt against the her lover's true intentions. She questioned his role in the clones, his role in bringing back the dark teachings and bringing the Jedi Order to the brink of destruction—and most especially, his true feelings for her and Vera.

Atris felt the struggling of the Jedi Knight, laughing in dark glee as she felt the tremors of Bastila's thoughts. "So," she whispered, her words echoing as if they were a cacophony of voices that belonged to screeching nails against boards. "You have lost faith in your 'Love.'" She laughed loudly, forcing the already reeling Jedi to collapse to her knees on the surface of the dark pool. "Your true feelings reveal the true, pathetic nature of who you really are. He will never truly love you—he is a creature destined for far greater things than a Jedi Knight who casts doubts on those that give their complete love and loyalty."

Bastila felt the weight press down on her, sending her falling further into the dark abyss. Where did this meditation go wrong? She felt the tendrils of dark energies stretching out to her, touching her and eager to suck out the strength from her, almost as if they were leeches of the Force. Pressure began to build in her, forcing her mind to focus on despair, as the tendrils grabbed hold of her, sapping the very strength and will to live from her.

"Your doubt is unbecoming of a true Jedi Knight," Atris spat, her screeching voice much closer to the younger woman now.

My…doubt?

Her voice had become darker and more of a lecturing Master. "Fool, only now do you truly realize that there is no true Jedi. We are all destined to fall—and I shall purify the Galaxy by removing all traces of the Force. Life will go on—but it will wither away and die, like everything else." She smiled as she continued her condescending lectures to the young woman before her.

Bastila found her mind focused on something new—and failed to realize until a moment after, that the weight was gone. She focused on the words of the Dark Jedi, feeling a burst of Light within her heart as she felt a wave of love; compassion, nobility, tranquility and determination wash over her.

Revan had restored his bond to her.

Bastila could feel him, almost as if he were there with her.

Another wave of warm-hearted emotions washed over the Jedi, but it was much more raw. It was her daughter, Vera.

She no longer held doubt. As Bastila felt all doubt ebbing from her mind as her thoughts turned towards those she loved. She felt a shaft of warmth trickle across her arm and solidify in her hand: it was the blue ethereal Force-sword.

Atris continued to sneer, raising her blade high above her head and watching as more dark tendrils began to close in on Bastila. "And so it comes to an end—your Meditation has failed, Bastila. The wave of despair will be felt by all of your friends. When you die, the Galaxy shall be washed in your despair."

Bastila felt the strength of the Force around her, as she released herself from all fear, anger and most of all, doubt. She found her mind was clear, filled only with thoughts of the ones she loved and the strength they had given her.

She could even feel the strength Dustil had poured into her.

Atris plunged the blade down towards the fallen Bastila's chest.

Bastila opened her eyes, revealing flaring blue energies crackling.

Atris stared in shock as her blade continued to descend. Her mouthed opened, as she hissed, "what?"

The black tendrils formed into blue swirls that spread throughout the dark pool, cleansing it of all doubt—all of Bastila's doubt.

Bastila rolled away, rising as her blade crashed against the crimson ethereal blade that shattered on impact with no more dark energy fueling it.

Atris was sent back in the wash of the sword's destruction. She called out to her companion, only to feel his presence no longer there. Her eyes went wide as she felt the hollow truth and the cold emptiness that wrapped itself around her heart. She had been abandoned to endure her cruel fate alone—just like she had been so many years ago in her self-imposed exile.

Bastila brought the sword over her head, her eyes fixated on the collapsed and weakening former Jedi Master.

The blue swirls of energy raced into the blue sword, as the dark pool began to dissipate, being purified as Bastila radiated an aura of purity—even her dark taint had been removed.

Her ethereal figure radiated a purer shade of blue than Atris had ever seen before.

"No," Atris whimpered, her mind reeling at the thought of her new betrayal. She closed her eyes, attempting to close herself from the Force and leave Bastila's mind—Bastila's Meditation.

But Bastila wouldn't let Atris leave—Bastila controlled her own mind. "No, Atris, you must be left to your fate—I sentence you to your true prison: your mind. You shall always be lost there, and so you will never truly be freed."

Atris' eyes opened wide, watching the sword point towards her as the shaft of energy drove itself into the center of her forehead. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out as intense waves of light surged into her.

Bastila watched her dissipate into complete nothingness. In a moment, Bastila felt herself rejoined by another figure—Dustil.

"Master," he exclaimed, his blue spectre rushing towards her.

"Dustil," she said, smiling to him, "you're all right. Thank the Force." She felt a great weight remove itself from her shoulders. She would have been worried for Carth had she been the cause of the loss of Dustil. The young Padawan learner had proven once more to her that he was going to be a strong and capable Knight. If they were going to survive this first.

The young Jedi nodded. "We have much to discuss, but first we need to complete the meditation."

Bastila nodded, her mind turning back to the situation at hand. "How bad is it?"

He looked down to the clear blue pool. "It's bad—we're losing."

She breathed in deeply. She cupped the young learner's chin with one hand. "We must aid them now—trust in the Force," she said.

Dustil smiled. "You're the second one to tell me that in the Meditation."

Bastila stared at him quizzically.


Atris flew back from her throne, a small burn etched into the middle of her forehead, as she landed several feet away from the turbolift.

The figure managed to move away in time, as he watched her presence fold in on herself, causing the dark Mistress to suffer the backlash of their assault on Bastila's Battle Meditation.

He had underestimated the young woman—and he could see now that this plan had come to a failure.

Atris lay still, her eyes open and the faint sound of a whimper escaped her lips, telling the figure that she still lived—albeit barely.

He walked towards her, bending down and resting on the balls of his feet, as he looked her in those glazed and faraway eyes. "I'm so sorry, Love, but I must leave you now," he said, smiling darkly as his sharp teeth glimmered in those dark, empty eyes of hers. Right now, he needed to formulate an escape plan. Traya had failed him and now he had to think fast.

He still had one trump card left to play.

He rose and left Atris' fallen form, putting one hand into a pouch on his belt and removing a hand held vocoder. He walked to the communications panel and pressed a key.

A few moments later, the voice of the Leviathan's commander spoke up.

"Yes, Mistress?"

His thumb held down on a switch and he spoke into it. "What is the status of the fleet?"

Atris let out a soft whimper as she heard her own voice speaking into the channel. She was immobile and powerless.

"We've begun to take on heavy losses—the Mandalorians and the Republic fleets have begun to coordinate their attacks and have anticipated all of our tactics. We're losing fighters quickly and we've lost most of our picket ships."

"And what of our allies?"

"General Scrimshaw's battle group has practically folded under the pressure—the Republic forces have beaten them into submission. Only his flagship and a handful of cruisers remain."

The figure frowned and furrowed his brow. The battle had turned in the Republic's favour—courtesy of Bastila Shan's Battle Meditation and the Onasi brat.

"What are your orders, Mistress?"

The figure frowned and spoke into the vocoder again. "Has General Scrimshaw relayed us the commands for the Stage Four planets?"

The commander's voice hesitated for a moment. "No, Mistress."

He bit his lip and clenched his free hand. He turned around and looked at the fallen Atris' body. He shook his head, weak, impudent wretch. You couldn't even do one simple task—I'll leave you to your fate. He turned back to the communications panel. "Tell him to detonate them—that is, if he still has the ability to. Continue to fight to the last man—we'll win this one out as soon as we destroy the Republic's capabilities to fend off another assault."

The commander's voice filled with sudden trepidation, "you want us to fight to the last man, Mistress?"

The figure scoffed and then spoke into the vocoder again. "Do not fear, commander, our allies will come along soon." As if, he thought bitterly. The truth was that he had no allies—he had been banished and now he was going to destroy all of his enemies.

The only problem was that the remaining Jedi managed to disrupt his plans.

"We have allies?"

The figure rolled his eyes. Do all of Traya's subjects question her? I'm surprised the wench didn't kill them off. "Yes, commander," he replied, his voice filling with impatience and annoyance. "I always ensure we have contingencies and plans that will aid us."

The gruff voice of the commander sounded much more hopeful. "Very well, Mistress, we shall fight to the last man!"

"Good," the figure replied, his lips forming a cruel smile. He closed the channel and turned to leave, passing Atris and hearing only a slight whimper at her being used and discarded like nothing.

He smiled.

He would bide his time and soon the Galaxy would be his.

All it took was a matter of planning.

Traya had accomplished more than he had originally sought and now he could bring more of his plans to the forefront.

First he needed a new apprentice, one younger and far stronger in the ways of the Force.

Aiden Carnus always found a way to survive.

He didn't care who he had to step on to rise to the top.


He walked through the golden plains, watching as sand and dust fluttered in the wind. Oddly enough, he couldn't feel the touch of the wind—or the grainy minerals of the sand that blew across the desert plains.

Nothing was left alive amongst the ruins that stood before him.

There was only four large, worn caverns that pointed to one thing: tombs. Large, black obsidian doors blocked the entrances.

They were worn and scored with much damage.

Further along the way there came a cliff that undoubtedly led to a deep, dark chasm below, while the sight of the few clouds in the yellowish sky and rays of red light streaked across the plains. The sun was setting and he didn't know where he was.

"Back again so soon?" Came an old, wizened and grainy voice that seemed to match the wind and texture of the sand—if he could ever have felt it.

"Who are you?" He asked, eyeing the lanky, pale and bald figure that walked towards him.

"Has it been so long, Dante? Surely you can recognize me—after all, I urged you to eliminate those aberrations of what I once stood for."

Dante eyed the figure, recalling where he had seen him. He would have instantly recognized the old man before him, had it not been for one thing: he just couldn't remember the memories that he repressed from so long ago.

The old man was clad in a black voluminous cloak that undoubtedly hid his black voluminous robes. His eyes were sharp and piercing; his face thin and predatory. He smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth, that only added to heighten the old man's high cheekbones that painted the image of more a predator than a wise teacher.

Dante eyed the figure, keeping his distance from the shadowy figure in the flat tundra. The voice continued to remind him of a long time ago—a time he had blocked out, a time he had almost died. Dante's eyes opened wide as memories flooded back into his mind.

The figure chuckled, which sounded almost as if it were sand paper grinding against wood. "Good, good. You remember me." A toothy grin formed across his dark features.

"Tulak," Dante whispered. "Have you come to finish me? Or have you come to excise me from my body?"

The former Dark Lord chuckled again and took a step to Dante, who quickly stepped several paces back. He looked up in surprise at the young Jedi. "Do you fear me so readily?"

Dante remembered what had happened last time—the shadowy figure tried to usurp his body when the Mandalorian, Dierak Hessian, had nearly killed him. "You won't take my form—I will destroy you," the younger man warned icily.

Tulak laughed. "I have come to do no such thing, young one." His eyes glimmered slightly as he tilted his head. "I have come to impart some wisdom on you."

Dante clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he replied, "I have no need for wisdom from someone such as yourself."

Tulak chuckled again. "Come, boy—do not test my patience. I must teach you this quickly, it is the only way."

"I will leave here—I am not going to listen to the likes of you." The Jedi turned to leave, but realized that he still didn't know where he was.

Tulak stood there, waiting patiently, smiling his toothy grin once more.

Dante bit his lower lip and then looked back at the former Sith Lord-now-turned-wandering-spectre.

"You have no idea where you are, do you?"

The Knight shook his head. "I want to leave."

Tulak shrugged. "Fine, but you will not survive without the information I arm you with."

Dante's eyes narrowed to thin slits that revealed only complete darkness in them. "Fine," he spat after a few more moments.

Tulak continued to smile. "Good." He began to turn away and move to the tomb towards Dante's furthermost left. A trail ran away from the four tombs but strangely enough, the old Sith didn't take it.

Dante still didn't know where he was.

"Come," Tulak spoke, as Dante reluctantly followed the dark figure. "You shall find what you truly seek in here."

They entered the dark cavern, going from the setting sun's reddish haze to an almost pitch black setting.

For some time, Dante listened to the old man speak about his time as the Dark Lord, gathering all of his strength and preparing the defences and war machine that was the Sith Empire.

Dante took note to monitor the tone of the Sith as he spoke about his betrayal and ultimately his death and the demise of the Sith.

"They're no longer worthy of the true mantle of the Sith—they have lost the secrets the first had ever created. No one can truly wield the power of the Dark Side and the ability to use their weapon as a true extension of themselves."

Dante looked at the old man. "You may have been the greatest duelist of all time, but you had eventually lost. Why do you insist on focusing on me?"

The bald man shrugged, his cold eyes showing something that hinted of warmth, which caused Dante to suppress a shudder. "You've seemed to take heed of the things I say—even if I am old and dark."

Dante raised a brow as he walked beside the thin, stick figure. "As I recall, you tried to kill me and usurp my body."

The old man nodded. "But you defeated me soundly. You focused yourself at the last possible moment and tore yourself from my grasp." His voice appeared exceptionally sincere, considering he had been one of the deadliest fighters of his time—in fact, it was rumoured he was the best swordsman in the annals of history itself. "You completed what so many had failed to achieve."

Dante didn't know whether or not to believe the old man. He wasn't sure whether the tone of sincerity was a ploy or actually genuine. For that matter, the Jedi Knight wasn't sure what to make of the Sith Lord who attempted to redeem himself but continued to fall ever further to the darkness within. "And what was that?" He asked, after another moment of pondering the old man's words.

"You continued to thrive on life—you fought with the fiery spirit and passion of a true Sith."

Dante couldn't help but shudder as he felt a cold tingling sensation at the base of his spine. "You say that almost as if it is something to be celebrated as an accomplishment."

The old man cast him a sideways glance as they traversed through the dark depths. Surprisingly, no one had stumbled. "It is. You do not yet understand the true strength you wield."

This time, it was Dante's turn to cast the old man a glance. "You said 'strength,' not 'power.'"

The old man nodded.

"And why's that?"

He looked at the young man again. "Because a true Sith understands that power comes only from within. A true Sith would fight to preserve his life and to tap into the inner strength of his spirit." He waved his hand in a casual gesture. "These 'new' Sith Order types do not yet understand the concept of true power. That is why they will fail—and that is why we must find a way to preserve what is solely the only reason why the Sith are feared by the Jedi."

"You're forgetting that I am a Jedi," the younger man replied, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"Perhaps," the old man said, "but you are much more than that. You are one of the few to truly be tapped into the only line that can really wield the strength that you will be given."

"What do you mean?" Dante asked, stopping.

"What I mean," Tulak said, turning to face the young man who greatly differed from the older man in more than skin colour, "is that you're a descendant of my line."