"There is a purpose to what I do," Master Dooku says. "A very specific purpose. I do what I do, because I have the skill, the temperament, the resolve, the knowledge, and the diligence to do it. You obviously know this, or I wouldn't constantly be sent into the outer reaches of space where I can operate without constant supervision. In other words, you trust me. So when I tell you that something dangerous, something that reeks of darkness, is about to unleash itself on our so very obviously ignorant Order, why will you not believe me?"
Dooku is standing in the middle of the Council chamber glaring into the eyes of every sitting member without the slightest hint of submission. He presents an imposing figure in his dark robes, polished boots and shadowy Force-presence. Intelligent eyes glint with barely subdued frustration beneath steel-peppered brows. Yoda observes all of this with a growing sense of dread. His former student has long labored as a chaser and searcher of the darker threats in their galaxy. The ancient master does not doubt the man's words.
He does doubt the man's resolve. Especially once Dooku hears their decision. "Be too hasty, we must not. Acknowledge your warnings, we do, and heed them, we will," he says, green eyes narrowing when the Sentinel turns stormy eyes his way. "But promote violence, we will not. An Order of peace, we are. Defend the Republic, we will, but create a military we will not."
Something shifts in Dooku then, a subtle shift that very few notice. Yoda senses finality, and not in a good way. Dooku's mouth ticks up in the tiniest and most humorless of smiles. "You misunderstand me, but I suppose that is to be expected. I don't know why I keep trying." The smile disappears, and he huffs out a short, uncharacteristic sigh. "I do apologize for wasting your time, masters." The last word is neither subtle nor elegant, and it most certainly is not respectful. It's a whipcord flick of a strike that catches them by surprise.
It shouldn't. This man is different and has always been different. Complex, brilliant, noble, private, and driven by a singular desire to rid the galaxy of evil. Ironic, since most would not look at Dooku as a very light individual. Not by Jedi standards, at least.
His philosophy of the Force is close to heresy, but he is very good at what he does, so they choose to ignore this. Perhaps it is to their detriment.
"Makashi?" Yoda had echoed when a much younger Dooku had chosen his form.
"It's focused, disciplined, and precise."
The youth had grown to master the form to an impressive degree. A very impressive degree. Dooku is now the embodiment of Makashi: an ever present potential threat that seems to weigh a person in a single glance, pinpoint every weakness, and then strike to devastating effect.
When he addresses them as "masters", Dooku means anything but, and he obviously doesn't care. The tall Jedi pivots smartly and moves silently towards the exit.
"Finished, we are not," Yoda practically growls. "Permission to leave, you do not have."
Dooku stops and turns back in a single, fluid motion. There is fury in his eyes now. "Permission to leave, I do not need," he snaps back. "You are all of you fools, and you will suffer for it. That is my final warning."
Days later, he is gone.
Months later, the semblance of peace that had been present throughout the galaxy is gone with him. When he reappears on Geonosis, Yoda is not surprised. His old padawan had always had a talent for manipulation. The man just seemed to get it. All of it.
What he is only just now realizing is how far the fallen Jedi's reach extends. He fears the galaxy is about to come crashing down. Dooku's fingers cease to spit lightning and he flicks his wrist, igniting a deadly, crimson blade and holding it steady out to his side. Do you feel balanced, master?
They duel. Yoda does his best just to stay alive and keep the other two alive as well. His mind is spinning, struggling to grasp what, exactly, the Count has managed to accomplish. Dooku's blade parries his own and jabs through his defenses with surprising ease.
Yoda dances just out of reach.
The three of them survive, but Yoda thinks it's only because Dooku decides to let them.
As the war drags on, the Count's (Sith's, former Jedi's) fingerprints are literally everywhere. He's convinced entire sectors of worlds to fall in line with the Separatist cause. He's brokered trade agreements, enlisted bounty hunters, murdered Jedi and directed armies. He's also eluded capture again and again and again.
Jabbing, cutting, parrying when needed, dancing around whichever opponent decides to test his mettle. Makashi at its very finest.
"Surrender; you will be given no further chance." Kenobi's gaze is confident. His words are fully committed.
The Count doesn't even bother to smile. He casually, almost lazily, plucks his lightsaber from his belt. "Unless one of you happens to be carrying Yoda in his pocket, I hardly think I shall need one," he quips. The words are a subtle warning and up until then the statement would have been true.
Yoda thinks his old friend might have appreciated the irony in the situation. Skywalker had become a living hammer in the Force, able to destroy even the most brilliant and persistent of duelists. Dooku falls, and yet the man somehow manages a victory even in death.
Without Dooku's expansive and, admittedly, controlling influence, the galaxy dissolves into chaos.