Trista Morace had once been a Jedi.

It was an indisputable fact. She had once been a General in the Mandalorian Wars, one hand of Revan herself. (Scholars sometimes debated which hand.)

Once.

But the galaxy had forgotten she was one no longer.

Most miners on Peragus didn't know her name, nor did they search the Holonet for her description. Someone claimed he served with her in that terrible, last battle at Malachor V. Not even her link to the Sith Lord Revan raised eyebrows.

All they saw was the giant credit sign hanging over her, and they were greedy and desperate to leave the remote station behind.

That she was incapable of touching the Force was unimportant. If they had bothered to fact-check the HK-model "protocol" droid they'd pulled off her ship, they may have left Peragus with their lives.

But... they didn't.

Three days after the Ebon Hawk landed on the facility, it was deserted.

It was then that the kolto tank registered the first signs of wakefulness in the former Jedi. It released her but, without a technician to assist, it shattered into shards. Trista, half-conscious, crawled a few meters as shards of glass cut into her skin, and collapsed in the center of the medlab.

An hour later she awoke again, hands and knees burning from glass embedded in now-healed skin. Trista pushed herself to her feet with an exhausted grunt, staggering across the shard-strewn floor until she could catch herself against a wall.

Cold. Metal.

Every thought came in one-word intervals split by an infinity of silence. She stumbled to a door, found it locked, and instead went through the next.

"Where am I?" she mumbled as she clung to a terminal. It took several tries for her to get her answer, which became easier once she could read the screen. "Peragus? Where's that?"

She found water and a stale ration bar in a plasteel container nearby and listened to the logs as she ate, hoping for any information on her current situation. When she got it, a modicum of disgust flickered in the closed-off void in her chest.

Someone had tried to kill her.

Repeatedly.

She pulled glass shards out of her skin and smoothed the wounds with leftover kolto, frowning deeply.

Not that she wasn't used to it. It was an almost constant occurrence in the less-populated areas of the Rim. But here? Where no one knew — no, it was obvious they thought she was a Jedi. Someone had said she was.

Why had it caused an uproar?

Trista groaned and, feeling more steady, opened the morgue door and headed in. The door to the rest of the facility rattled in its track, unable to open, and she knew of two things that would get through. A lightsaber, or a plasma cutter. One was more available than the other. She didn't enjoy robbing the dead... but she would not die here, either.

She grabbed the last sheet from a drawer inside and lashed it around her waist, giving her some modesty. Her bare feet ached from the glass shards, but she'd had worse. She'd had burns on the soles of her feet for weeks after Dxun.

Trista glanced at the woman who'd come off the same ship as her, still clothed on the morgue cot, but passed her. She might take her robe, though she was taller, but that was a matter for later. A footlocker should have contained most of the deceased miners' effects, but only a single plasma cutter and a few energy shields remained. She took them with a sigh. Hopefully the rest of the facility was more active and back to work. Then she could find answers and some clothes —

"Find what you were looking for among the dead?"

Trista spun with her plasma cutter brandished in front of her, dropping into a crouch. The old woman from the cot stood behind her, brown hood pulled low over her face. Though there was no way for her to see through the fabric, Trista had an uncomfortable notion of being scrutinized. She held the torch out a little further.

"Who are you? Why aren't you dead? How—" Trista paused and straightened, lowering the cutter. The sheet around her waist came apart, and she dropped the cutter to catch it. "I heard your voice, inside the tank."

Her voice was hoarse and raspy from several days in kolto incubation, and it grated in her ears. The woman replied with a curt nod, though Trista never felt her gaze leave her.

"I had hoped as much. I have slept here too long, unable to awaken. Perhaps I reached out unconsciously, and your mind was willing? Or perhaps you have received training for such things?"

Trista frowned. "No. I haven't. But if you can touch minds and feign death — then who are you?"

"I am Kreia." All right, sure. "And I am your rescuer, as you are mine, I fear. Tell me, do you remember what happened?"

"No."

"Your ship was attacked. You were the only survivor. A result of your Jedi training, no doubt."

Trista's frown deepened, and she turned back to the footlocker, making sure she'd left nothing behind. "I'm not a Jedi."

"Not anymore, perhaps." Finally. "But your stance as you hold a weapon, your walk, tells me you have been before. It is heavy, as if you carry something that weighs you down."

"Much as I love being analyzed, we are trapped and should rectify the situation." Anyone else might have snapped, but anger hadn't even flickered in that empty spot inside her. "Where are we?"

"I do not know." Kreia motioned to the door. "A survey of our surroundings may produce the answers we seek? And the ship we arrived on must still be present – we should recover it and leave."

She raised a brow. "Why are we in such a hurry?"

There was a subtle shift in the scrutinizing, like it had shifted to an annoyed glare. "We were attacked once by hunters that will not give up easily. And without transport, weapons, and information, we are easy prey indeed."

Trista sighed and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. The bun she'd last had must have come out in the kolto, and her hair hung down her back in waterlogged blond tangles. She'd need to find a hairbrush, or a scarf.

"Someone must still be alive here. I'll try to find them."

"You may also wish to find some clothing, if only for proper first impressions."

Trista self-consciously retied the sheet around her waist. "Before we go—"

"Before you go—"

"Before I go — the patients with me were killed by a lethal dose of sedatives. Know anything about that?"

Kreia was quiet for a half-second. "I told you, I was unaware of recent events. But why were you spared?"

"I wasn't."

She nodded. "A Jedi trance could protect one from such toxins... in fact, they may have been intended to keep you unconscious, given your training in such techniques. Curious."

"You seem to have more than a passing knowledge yourself."

"You will find I possess a 'passing' knowledge of many things." Kreia shooed her toward the door. "The enemy draws closer while we stand about wasting our time. I will remain here and attempted to center myself."

Trista sighed and turned for the door. She would be about as useful as an underwater mynock.

"I'll return soon to check on you."

"That will be unnecessary." Kreia returned to her vacated cot without another word, and Trista resisted the urge to sigh as she stalked out the door, her bare feet padding against the metal floor.

She needed people to drop this "Jedi" notion.

#

::You feel it.::

The first surprise was Kreia having no qualms barging into her head, regardless of circumstance. It wasn't foreign to her — she and Revan had once spoken across battlefields.

But that ability was long gone, and related to the reason she was bentover a security desk, gasping for air. Struggling to ignore the burning awareness at the back of her mind that was both comfortably familiar and terrifyingly foreign.

::It is quiet,:: Kreia continued.::But it is there.::

"No," she hissed again, her knuckles white on the edge of the security desk. "I don't want this. I don't want this! Not again, never again."

With the Force, she'd destroyed worlds, lives, entire cultures. This should be gone forever. She hadn't wanted it ever again.

She'd just gotten used to not having it!

"Please," she begged, fighting against the spreading feeling, almost like warmth, flooding from the empty spot that'd settled in her chest years ago. "Take it away, I don't want this. I can't—"

::You should not turn away.::

"I have to! You don't... you don't understand—" She pressed her forehead against the cold metal of the desk, her fingers slipping for purchase.

::Do not fear it. Reach out and embrace it. There is a storm coming, and you must be prepared.::

"I can't. You don't understand—"

::You will—::

"I don't care!" she yelled as rage finally broke from that void in her chest. Let the entire damn station hear her. "I don't care about whatever's chasing you. I don't care about storms or destines or — I want to be left alone! Why is that so difficult for everyone to comprehend?"

::Stop,:: Kreia chided. ::You are being a petulant child. You have no other choice. Reach out, and embrace it.::

"I can't."

She almost felt Kreia push her toward the feeling, the burning warmth of awareness and connection and pain. It wrapped around and drug her down, and she slumped against the desk she clung to. She knew she was being daft, even stupid — the Force wasn't alive. But it had a terrible mind of its own, and it would use her. Again. The last time it did, it'd positioned her to kill thousands and wreck an entire civilization.

Had she always been deaf to the Force, someone else might have given that final order, but it wouldn't have been her.

::Force. This is not the ordeal you imagine it to be. Now hurry — I fear our time is growing short, and we do not have the luxury of your emotional torment.::

"Go to hell," Trista grumbled as she laid across the desk.

::I have no intention of doing so until we have left this station. Now, be swift.::

Trista hauled herself to her feet with a sniff and scrubbed her eyes before turning back to the storage lockers. She shoved dim flickers of lesser emotions back into the void in her chest, but the pain and fear fought harder.

By the time her fingers fumbled their way through the lock, only a tinge of burning redness in her eyes lingered from her outburst. The warmth of the Force still struggled against the freezing cold depths in her chest, but that was a problem for the future, not the present. Inside she grumbled at the lack of clothing, but took the stealth generator and a few other items listed on the terminal. Probably would have killed them to have a spare uniform. She turned back to the security cameras feeds and flipped through them as she lashed the generator around her waist.

Nothing but droids. More droids. More droids. More — wait.

Standing in one room — Holding Cells, the camera said — inside a force cage was a man. Human, at least from this angle, pacing the confines of the small cell. Maybe he knew something?

::Be mindful of that one,:: Kreia said. Trista frowned as she looked up. ::He is difficult to read. But you have nothing to fear, and he may be useful.::

"So are you going to... hang around up there? See what I see?"

There was no reply.

Trista slipped out of the security room and down the hall, taking care of another few droids before reaching the door to the administration center. She looked at the door, down at the generator around her waist, and switched it on. "Time to give this a go."

As she opened the door, clicking and clanking filled her ears. The mining droids had a specific skittering pattern she was learning, and this room was full. With a deep breath she slipped into the large hall, glancing over the displays as she moved as soundlessly as possible.

She didn't drop the field until her hands were on the console, finding the switch the head security officer had mentioned. The droids stopped their movements, arms clunking to the ground. Nothing else on the terminal seemed to be working.

"All right, time to find out what this guy knows." Trista padded to the door and paused just as her hand reached for it. She looked down at herself with a heavy sigh. Her undergarments had almost dried, meaning her bra was, at least, not almost transparent anymore. She retied the sheet around her waist self-consciously, then changed her mind and fashioned a toga from it. It only came to her knees, but it at least covered her chest.

With a deep breath, and without thinking of how she must look, she slammed her hand into the door and opened it.

The man in the cell jerked around as the door opened, mouth already open, halfway through ruffling his hair with his hand. He stopped when he spotted her and closed his mouth. His lips jerked up in a suggestive smirk as his eyes skimmed down her. Trista cleared her throat, and his head jolted up.

"Weeell," he drawled, "nice outfit, sweets. Miners change regs while I was in here?"

"No." She pointed at her face. "Keep your eyes focused. Who are you, and why are you in there?"

He cleared his throat but, true to her order, kept his eyes on hers as he brushed an errant shock of dark brown hair from his eyes. "Atton. Atton Rand. I'd shake hands, but I'd like to keep my fingers. You?"

"Trista Morace. Now why are you locked up?"

"Ach." He waved his hand. "Violated some stupid rule on a supply run. This place is full of trumped-up regulations — just ask them, but they stopped listening just before they stopped feeding me. Now that's criminal."

"They didn't stop feeding you, this place is deserted. What happened?"

He shrugged. "You mean before or after a Jedi showed up? It's not complicated."

She raised a brow. "How so?"

"You know. A Jedi shows up and there's fifteen Republic cruisers crawling up your ion engine. Then, some miners thought — hey, since the Jedi's in a coma, or something, they can collect the bounty the Exchange posted for live Jedi without a problem. Then there were some explosions, I was sitting here for a while, then you showed up in a sheet and things got a lot better."

Trista rolled her eyes. "What's this about a bounty on Jedi?" That seemed unwise, as most Jedi should have the upper hand on most bounty hunters.

"Hey, I'm just a decent smuggler trying to make a living," he protested. "Maybe the Exchange wants a trophy, or someone's got something against Jedi — really, who doesn't these days? But there's not many left, so, wouldn't surprise me if the bounty's high."

"How—" Trista almost asked about his meaning, but then his last statement struck her. Her heart flickered. "What do you mean? Not many left?"

"Nah, they started killing each other. Most who survived switched off the lightsabers a while ago. I heard there's not even a Council anymore."

Internally, Trista wheeled back like she'd been struck. As usual, her features registered nothing.

"They killed each other?"

"Yeah, y'know, Revan and Malak and the Jedi that fought in the Mandalorian Wars. They came back and nearly leveled the galaxy?" He raised a brow. "Where have you been?"

"I, uh, I've been away for a while."

"Well. You remember Revan and Malak." She nodded – better than he knew. "They did what Sith always do. They went after the Jedi, then he tried to kill her and she paid him back for it later. You know women. Present company excluded."

"I don't understand."

"Oh, everyone knows the gist. The Jedi captured Revan, then she got out and killed Malak."

This was Revan he was so flippant about. Sure, they hadn't agreed, especiallyat the end, and they'd left on bad terms... but Revan was the only family she had. And she'd promised to take care ofher.

"They captured her, or she returned?"

"Look, they gave this Jedi named Anna Kyjjl and her crew some Crosses of Glory and said they took care of Malak. Then two years later she disappeared, and some Jedi leaked that Kyjjl was Revan." He shrugged. "I don't know details. That's about all anyone's got.

"All I know is that Dark Jedi are bad enough but, when a woman goes dark side? You better space yourself, just to be careful." He hesitated. "Uh. No offense, or anything."

Trista sighed. She hadn't looked up anything on the Holonet for a reason. She didn't care where Revan was, or what she was doing. There'd been rumors of this war he was talking about, but she'd spent so much time outside Republic space that tidbits were all she knew.

She also figured she wouldn't get more from him, not yet, and stepped over to the console.

"Great, but look — I need to get off this station."

"Yeah. Not like your half-naked interrogation isn't a personal fantasy of mine—wait!" She turned back. "You're that... you're her, the Jedi they were talking about! Where is everyone?"

"That's what I'm saying. This place is deserted."

"The miners can't be gone. But if they are—" He chuckled and glanced around at the force cage. "So uh, hey. Get me out, and I can help you." She gave him a dubious look. "I can. I've gotten out of trouble plenty of times."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"This isn't military, so we have a better chance. Shut down this security field, and I can reroute emergency systems and get us to the hangers. We grab a ship and fly out of here. Easy."

"No tricks," she warned. He nodded, and she padded to the controls, cognizant of his eyes on her backside.

"I know better than to double-cross Jedi, don't worry." She glanced back, and he grinned at her. "'Less you want me to."

Trista glared at him as she lowered the field. "The administration console is out the door to the right. After you."

Atton smirked at her again and jogged out of the holding cell, headed for the main console. Trista hurried after him, one hand tense on her plasma cutter, the other adjusting her sheet.

He made his way to the console and was in it before he'd even settled into the chair. Trista leaned on the chair, looking over his shoulder.

"All right. This console is set for automatic hail — you might have heard it as you flew in."

"I was in a coma, remember?"

"Right. Anyway, it's a transmission so incoming vessels don't get crushed by the asteroid field. They send a message, it gets pinged back, and they send the drift chart out so the ship gets to dock — no problems, no getting crushed into dust."

Trista tried to work dried kolto out of her ears.

"So all we have to do is alter the outgoing signal, bounce it back, and... pure pazaak, the console is unlocked. So all we need to do is reactivate the lifts, cancel the lockdown, and — heeeeeeeey."

Trista pursed her lips. "What? What is it?"

"I can't reroute all the systems? What the hell?" He dropped to the floor and investigated the bottom of the console. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Now what?"

"I see the problem." He reached into the console and pulled out a clump of blackened, singed wires and metal. "This used to connect this console to the station. Plasma cutter." He eyed hers.

"It wasn't me."

"It's severed this console from the main hub. I'd say after..." He tapped the screen. "Yeah, after it was shut down. We can't reroute from here." He glanced at the other two consoles. "I bet they're the same."

"Check that one." Trista headed for the right console as Atton headed for the left one, and a quick check confirmed the others suffered the same treatment.

"This isn't standard procedure in a lockdown," Trista said as they regrouped at the console.

"No, it's not."

"Can we access communications, then?"

"It's a different mechanism, so we can, but... we're still trapped up here. Might find someone to talk to, maybe play a game? If they were trying to trap you up here, and probably kill you, what do you think you'll do with communications, sweets?"

"Stab you if you call me that again?"

Atton held up his hands. "Noted."

"Just give it a shot."

"Knock yourself out. Just not literally."

She made a face at him as she leaned over the console, changing to a glare when he leaned on the next console and watched her. The dormitories were silent, and she didn't even try the medical bay. Kreia wouldn't answer her, anyway. As she called to the hangar, though, a burst of happy chirping greeted her. An Astromech?

"Are you operational?" She received an affirmative chirp. "What's your designation?"

"T3-M4!" came the reply. "T3-M4 = with Ebon Hawk ship = brought Jedi to Peragus/T3 deactivated = 2 days/Mining droids = repair ship = spaceworthy!"

Trista blinked. That was way more information than she'd expected. "That's... great, wow. Can you deactivate the lockdown so we can reach you?"

"... T3 = not sure = will try."

"Good, contact me when you can."

The droid whistled back, and Atton dropped into a chair.

"Are we relying on a droid to get out of here?"

"Or we can wait for the next ship to dock in this bustling port. Any idea where they keep food? I'm starving."