After the briefing room came the sea of assassins.

They made it to the lift without more than a few bad scrapes and cuts. Atton shut the door behind them, and it headed down.

"They're not great assassins," Trista said.

"They scattered." Her head snapped over to Atton. He shook himself, as if he hadn't meant to speak. "I mean, look. If they all got us together, we'd be screwed! Instead they've scattered all over the ship."

"Sometimes you aren't as dumb as you look."

He scowled. "Yeah, well, I'm good at acting useful."

The doors opened, and they headed into the ship, so far alone. As they passed a room Trista jerked to a stop as she remembered.

"Wait a second."

"We do not—"

"No, this was my room. I need to get my things, if they're still here."

Kreia frowned, but didn't respond as Trista opened the door.

She had carried little in exile. Traveling light was her motto, and always would be. Things could be lost or destroyed, and weren't worth much anyway. So she was happy to find her bag still packed, tucked into the footlocker at the end of her cot. She unzipped it and rummaged through the contents. Her coat, made of her bastardized Jedi outer-robe, patched and hemmed to her hips. Her change of clothes, also patched, but not as much. A few supplies scattered at the bottom — some single-use kolto bandages, a first aid kid, a few antidote stims, a small stack of credits, some computer spikes tucked into a seam for safekeeping. And at the bottom was a cloth-wrapped bundle protecting the only thing she even cared about keeping. She unwrapped it carefully.

Revan gave it to her when she passed her trials, though she hadn't explained how a nineteen-year-old Padawan afforded — or 'found' — it. It'd probably come from one of those nights she and Alek had slipped out to explore, and she'd won it in a game of dejarik or sabaac.

The gold of the bracelet glimmered in the flickering lights, dancing off well-oiled hinges that allowed it to snap around the wrist. An engraved krayt dragon curled around it, one outstretched leg holding a pearl in the foreclaws — a design people had seen on gaffi sticks and fallen in love with. They'd used to obsess over the creatures, pouring over pictures in the Archives for hours, talking about what it'd be like to ride one and whether the Jedi would let them keep it. Simple, stupid childish things long before the fields of Cathar, or Serroco, or Dxun, or Malachor. And before Revan's own fall into darkness.

Trista swallowed back against the sudden threat of tears and snapped it around her wrist, locking it in place. It felt strange, having not worn it in ten years. First, it had been too painful to remember – then, it had been too painful to care. But it had a strange comfort now that the Force was strong-arming its way back into her life.

With a curt nod she closed the bag and swung it over her shoulder, stepping back into the hall. Atton glanced at her, probably noticing the redness in her eyes, and looked away.

"Are you finished?" Kreia asked, her voice snappy with impatience, and Trista turned to walk further into the ship.

"Enough."

#

As they stepped onto the engineering deck, Trista's ears still ringing from an assassin's blow, it was like the air had been sucked from the entire level. Atton was the first to make a noise, a nervous laugh as his hands tightened on the blasters they'd looted from the ship. She recognized the feeling, or at least, what it must be — though she wished she didn't.

It was the Force, again, but... darker.

Trista had never seen a Sith Lord, only heard what the older Jedi and Masters had said about Exar Kun and Qel-Droma. But she remembered how Revan had felt, near the end of the war. She remembered that clearly.

And this was stronger.

She was not ready for this. But she set her jaw, gripped the hilt of her vibrosword closer, and started down the hall.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Atton muttered behind her.

"Hush," Kreia said, also quiet — and for once, her voice didn't carry her typical irritation.

"So do I," Trista replied.

"Something's gonna go real wrong, real quick."

"Keep an eye behind us, all right?" She kept walking forward, eyes darting across each intersection. Atton hung close behind her, half-sidestepping as he eyed the passage behind them. Finally, a hand darted out and grabbed her arm, and it was only her expectation that kept her from punching him in reply. "Tris."

She turned back with him, gaze passing over the blasters shaking in his hands and the vibrosword ready in Kreia's. When had she picked that up? She hadn't seen another vibrosword—

Then, her gaze reached the door to the lift far behind them.

Walking towards them from the closing lift was a man. But, it wasn't. Even with her limited use of the Force, death sounded heavily from him. Not the usual death, that carried by soldiers and warriors and most of the people she'd known. Death stalked behind him, grasping but never quite reaching. As he drew closer, and as Atton edged further in front of her, the permacrete-rubble hue of his skin seemed off. Cracks of necrotic lesions and red-black muscle covered his torso, the raw edges glinting in the dim light. One eye was a dead white, the entire orb exposed as the skin peeled back from it.

Atton grimaced. "Someone really didn't like this guy."

Despite what she knew this was, despite all the fear welling up from that place where she kept all her Jedi teachings, Trista let a quiet, wheezing laugh slip through her lips.

"I came to warn you, Jedi." His voice sounded much like his body looked — broken, dead, flat. Somehow, though, he still sounded disgusted at the title. "You know not what path you walk."

"This battle is mine alone." Trista glanced at Kreia from the corner of her eye, never taking her gaze off the Sith ahead of them. The woman stepped forward briskly, and Trista reached out her hand. As if she knew, she turned back. "He cannot kill what he cannot see, and power has long blinded him. I shall be along shortly."

"Kreia—" In answer, she finished her walk and slammed the next bulkhead closed behind her. Trista sighed, and she and Atton glanced at one another. "So, we keep going?"

"If she's gonna go running at a Sith—" A lightsaber hissed to life behind the door, and Trista winced. "—I'm not gonna stop her."

"We should—"

Atton nudged her forward, back in the direct they were going. "I'm serious. If she's gonna buy us time, I say we use it."

"Fine." Trista jogged down the hallway, Atton close behind.

They ran to the control room first, to unlock the door to the engine and — more importantly — the fuel lines.

"So we're doing this?" Atton asked as he hovered in the doorway.

"You got a better idea?"

"Not one that doesn't involve Sleeps-With-Vibroblades back there. But the fuel lines...?"

"You want out of here?"

"Stars, I'm starting to hate you."

Trista finished unlocking the door, and they broke into a run for the engines. "I've done crazier things."

"You were a Jedi, I'm not surprised."

They rounded the corner into the engine room and Trista headed for the fuel lines, Atton a little more hesitant behind her. She glanced behind them once more before stepping into the fuel lines.

Less than one pace inside, it was like she'd stepped into a wall of pain. Her left hand lit into agony like it was fire, burning up to her wrist. Trista shrieked and stumbled to her knees as she forgot everything — where they were, what they were doing, everything but the searing agony in her arm.

Over the edge of her pain she dimly heard Atton ask what was wrong, a note of panic in his voice; felt him, after another moment, drag her to her feet and sling her arm around her shoulders as the pain refused to abate. When her vision cleared, and the pain reversed to a dull throb, they'd made it deeper into the fuel line – though she didn't know how much deeper.

She must have spoken, because Atton stopped. "Hey, Tris. What happened?"

"How far in are we?"

"Halfway, I'd say. Are you all right?"

"I-I don't know. It felt like I'd put my hand in molten carbonite."

He picked up her arm and looked over her hand. "You look fine. Can you walk?"

"Yeah, I think so." Trista pulled her arm from his shoulders with a nod. He nodded back, and they broke into a jog toward the end of the fuel line.

"Do you think—" Trista mused.

"Think what?"

"That something happened to Kreia?"

Atton shook his head. "Who knows? Let's just focus on getting to this ship you've got."

"What about yours?"

"Look, if it's this hard to get to the hangars, I'm taking the first ride I see out of here. Besides, mine's barely big enough for three people, unless everyone wants to ride in the cargo hold."

As they reached the end of the tube, a small, weak blue light echoed in the darkness ahead of them. As they drew closer, the light's source became visible: a droid's optic as it underwent re-activation. The little flat-topped Astromech sat slumped next to the line's emergency hatch, light flickering. As they stopped, it responded with a quiet, nervous dwoo.

"Looks like it got hit with an ion charge and dumped," Atton said as Trista knelt next to it.

"Are you T3-M4?"

The response was a quiet, sad chirp. "/ yes / ran into HK droid / HK droid = bad droid /"

"Yeah, we ran into him too." Trista found his master power switched and flipped it, and the optic light became stronger. T3 straightened and shuddered, like he was shaking himself awake. "Are you good to travel?"

"/ T3 = OK / T3 + Jedi + Ebon Hawk - Peragus = good /"

She patted his top as she stood. "All right, let's head out." Her foot kicked a metal box, and she hissed and looked down. "Do you know what this is?"

A manipulator arm snapped out of T3's chassis and grabbed the box, tucking it back into a panel. "/ box = hanger control console fix! / we = need for hangar door/"

"Do you actually understand that racket?"

T3 interrupted his explanation with a rude noise toward Atton.

"Yes, why?"

"Never mind. It know where we're going?"

Trista reaches out and tapped the emergency hatch seal, and it peeled open to the fuel depot beyond. "Yeah, and we should hurry. C'mon, T3."

#

They fought their way to the Ebon Hawk's hangar with little problem. Trista found herself thankful for the help — it was a lot easier to carve through the rogue mining droids with two additional blasters. The Hawk was just past the usual decontamination chamber, sitting quiet and still in the hangar. Atton and T3 made for the ramp without a second glanced back at the decontamination chamber, considering whether she should go back for Kreia—

"C'mon Tris! Get up here!"

She shook herself and jogged forward, shaking out the hand that still felt numb as she went up the ramp.

"You can fly this thing, correct?"

Atton glanced around and nodded. "Standard stock freighter. I'll get her started up."

"I'll wait at the ramp."

He looked about ready to say something, but merely nodded and hurried away. T3 chirped, and she crouched down.

"Think you can double-check the repairs?" T3 chirped and zoomed deeper into the ship. Trista stood at the ramp and, for a moment, closed her eyes.

There was something about this ship.

There was emotion and feeling, and a lot of it — someone had loved this ship, and on this ship. Someone who had been strong enough in the Force for even her weak connection to sense it. Someone who, even now, felt like—

Her eyes snapped open. No. That was... plausible, with the Force behaving as it did.

But... no. She wasn't going to believe it. Frak that.

She wrenched her attention away and back to the hangar as the Hawk's engines rumbled through it. No, there would be time for that. For now, though—

Finally, Kreia stumbled out of the high-security hold and Trista rushed off the ramp toward her. The older woman shoved past her, shrugging off her offer of help with her arm pressed to her chest.

"I do not know if I was followed." Kreia limped up the ramp, and Trista hit the switch to close it behind them. "We do not have time. We must leave, and quickly."

Trista punched the intercom next to the ramp. "We're on, pull out!"

She got her answer as the ship lurched and shuddered off its struts, twisting into space outside. Kreia urgently made her way to the cockpit and Trista followed, catching herself on walls as the ship lurched. As she entered, she was about to make a comment about Atton's flying skills when a green bolt of plasma shot past them into the blackness of space, accompanied by a few snapped expletives from the pilot.

"What was that?"

Kreia sank into the other chair, and another jerk ripped through the ship. Trista staggered and caught onto the center console as T3 bumped into her leg.

"The Harbinger opened fire on us." Atton's hands flew across the controls, one darting out to flip a switch on the console next to her leg. The ship rocked again, and he grabbed back onto the controls. "Son of a — flip that, it'll put power into the rear shields."

Trista flipped it just as the ship rocked again, and Atton swore. "If they hit us, we're dead. And if they keep missing us, we're dead. Those are great odds, sweetheart!"

"Better than your odds if you keep calling me that!" she retorted as the ship lurched. T3 bleeped out something too fast for her to understand.

"Someone shut that trash compactor up!" Atton lunged and flipped another switch.

"Can we get into hyperspace?" Trista asked, clinging to the console. She was sprawled across it now, gripping it just to stay upright. Something chirped on the ceiling — shields? Strange, freighters this small rarely had shields that could block a cruiser's guns—

"Not here, we'd enter in pieces. But we clear this field and they get a clear shot at us. We'd last a hot second against that cannon."

"T3, can you boost our shields?" He chirped. "Just keep as much distance between us and them as possible."

"I'm trying, believe me."

"The asteroids can be destroyed by us and them, can they not?"

Atton glanced over at Kreia as he threw another switch, his eyes bordering on wide. "And take out the field, the colony, and us? I doubt we'll even get to hyperspace in time. Besides, I can just imagine the nightmare when the Republic gets their hands on us."

"Then we die here, or suffer bureaucracy later. Choose quickly."

Trista shook her head. "We're not blowing the entire facility." The ship rocked again. "There's got to be another way. Just evade until we get to hyperspace."

"Plug in the coordinates." Atton pointed, and Trista opened the terminal. "All we've got is Telos, so make it fast and now." He shook his head and jerked the controls to the side, dodging another blast. "This is gonna get rocky."

Atton whipped the ship around an asteroid, narrowly avoiding a blast from the Harbinger and sending T3 shrieking back into the hallway. He dove around another and this time Trista, one hand trying to plug in coordinates, staggered back into the galaxy map with the coordinates only half-in. She lunged back as he whipped the other way, finishing the input as T3 rolled back in and magnetically sealed himself to the floor.

"Fuck," Atton hissed. "There goes the neighborhood."

"What?"

"You got those in?"

"Yeah, punch it."

Without another second of hesitation, Atton shoved the handle up. For a second the ship lulled and, as something hit the back, the stars blurred to streaks of white, everything — the darkness of space and the white of the stars — melding into one blue blur.

Trista let go of a breath she didn't know she was holding.

The cockpit was still and suspended for a few seconds, until, unsurprisingly, Atton broke the silence by spinning in his chair.

"All right." He pointed to Trista, then to Kreia. "Now that we just killed a planet, how about one of you tells me what's up? Because between assassin droids, a Sith Lord that looks like he sleeps with vibroblades, and being a warship's target practice, I was better off in my cell!"

"Yes," Kreia responded. Trista stared at him, still stunned from their narrow escape. "Now that they have destroyed the facility, it was indeed safer to remain. If that does not satisfy you, I am sure this ship has a suitable airlock by which to remove yourself."

Atton's lip curled. "Very funny, your highness."

"I would like some answers too."

Kreia turned to Trista, hood still low over her eyes. "The Republic craft was the Harbinger, as you know. The Sith seized it on its way to Telos — they sought you, Jedi."

"I will severely injure the next person who calls me that."

Kreia chuckled. "I doubt that will be the case, but continue your delusion if you must." Trista frowned and deflated, but hid it by crossing her arms and leaning back on the galaxy map. "And I fear it will become more common, as the Sith believe you are the last of the Jedi. Once you are dead, they will have won."

"They're mistaken, whoever they are. I'm... retired."

"You cannot just retire from the Jedi. Do not lie to the poor fool, he cannot draw appropriate conclusions."

"I can draw them just fine, thanks. I don't have to fly your wrinkled ass to Telos, you know."

"Both of you," Trista snapped. Atton huffed and turned back around in his chair. "What happened to the Jedi?"

"Revan won the Jedi Civil War, whether she knew it or not. It destroyed the Jedi. By the end barely a hundred, including herself, survived. Many fell in battle, and many more to her earlier teachings."

"Then what?"

"They began to die. Slowly, one by one, then almost eighty, all at once. Then, those that remained simply disappeared. To where, no one knows."

Trista blinked. Barely a hundred? When she'd left, after the Mandalorian Wars... there'd been thousands. Thousands of Jedi. "But Dantooine, and the Temple—"

"Dantooine is a crater echoing with the ghosts of dead Jedi, courtesy of your friend Malak. And the Jedi Temple lies empty, abandoned out of fear. If there are Jedi left, they have not been seen in some time. Many blamed the Masters and their teachings for Revan's fall, and for the civil war that followed."

Trista rubbed her eye with her palm. "Revan was responsible for her own fall," she finally said. She may have left, but she'd left friends in the Order. Friends who were now, likely, dead. "But we must warn survivors, if there are any. If the Sith believe I'm still one, then when presented with real Jedi—"

"Any who remain are Jedi no longer. If the Sith have not found and slain them, then they cannot help you. Nor can you help them."

"Unity has always been our — been their best defense. It's why the—"

"That is not so."

Trista decided arguing would only pose more issues, and all she wanted was a shower. Soon. "Then why was I being taken to Telos?"

"The recovery effort. Many roads lead to Telos, including ours."

Atton scoffed. "Not that we have much of a choice, the Peragus charts being what they were."

"It is where we must go." Kreia did not seem poised to elaborate.

"And how did you know where I was?"

"Intercepted transmissions. Your description still exists in some databases, if one searches correctly. General Trista Morace was never forgotten to the Republic, even if she was to the Jedi." Atton looked back, one eyebrow raised, and she scowled. "You were difficult to find but, once I realized you were aboard the Harbinger, I knew the Sith would be close behind. I did not realize they were already there. As we prepared to jump to hyperspace, they fired on us and nearly destroyed this ship."

"And I was unconscious during this?"

"Yes, as was I. I do not know how we reached Peragus."

T3 chirped happily. "T3 = repaired ship! / T3 = flew to closest station."

He was so proud of himself that Trista couldn't help a small smile. The sentiment didn't seem shared by the others.

"Be silent, we are having a conversation," Kreia chided. The droid responded with a rude noise.

"No, he's saying he got us to Peragus and got the ship repaired." T3 whistled.

"Repaired, my eye," Atton said. "Next it's gonna claim credit for saving our skins." T3 raspberried toward him. "If you say you fixed the ship, do it again. Go on, get!"

T3 made another unflattering noise and wheeled out of the cockpit. Trista sighed, already feeling a frown taking up permanent residency on her face.

"This is an unusual set of circumstances." She settled down in the back jump-seat and rested her head on her hand.

"Yes. But as one trained in the Force, you know true coincidence is quite rare."

She blew a frustrated breath through her nose. "So now what? We got away from them once, but they'll be ready for it next time."

"That is not an easy question to answer," Kreia replied. Trista sighed again. Of course not. "This threat is greater than you yet understand, and I do not believe it is a battle that can be fought."

"Then... what? We just sit around and wait for them to find us?"

"Hey, enough of the 'we'." She glanced at Atton before returning her eyes to Kreia.

Kreia responded with a clear look of long-suffering in Atton's direction. "We cannot defeat them alone, that is true. You will need weapons, allies, and... a teacher. Even that may not be enough, I fear."

"Any enemy can be fought."

"You fought in the Mandalorian Wars and it cost you everything: your friends, your family, even the Force. Would you sacrifice as much again?"

For a moment, Trista almost questioned the 'family' part. Records had deleted the exact nature of her relation to Revan. There was no way Kreia should know. There was no way she would ask, not right now, if she didn't.

"You ask that like I have anything to lose."

Kreia scoffed. "You are not listening. This is not like any field of battle you have faced. Think carefully. If you chose to fight, if you choose war, it is a path few turn from once taken. And in the end, you may truly have nothing left to sacrifice."

"You aren't listening either," Trista snapped. "The Mandalorian Wars took everything from me, yes. And what they didn't? Well, it looks like the Jedi Civil War finished the job. All that's left is my life, and honestly? The Mandalorians took that too. It's just taken a decade to catch up.

"I went to war once, and I walked away before. If these are Sith, then it'll only end if I'm dead or they are. You can frame this as whatever moral conundrum you want. But if these Sith want to finish what the Mandalorians started, I will not go quietly. This is not war, not right now — this is survival."

"Pah," Kreia responded, with a tone that almost winded her. "And like so many Jedi, you hear, but do not listen." She stood and swept out her robes. "But we have spoken long enough, and my wound pains me. If you have further questions, I will be in the crew quarters. There, we can speak more."

Atton leaned back in his chair. "Oh, don't stop on my account. I was just getting sleepy-eyed."

"And privately, we will be mercifully free of the opinions of imbeciles and fools."

Kreia left the cockpit, and Trista sighed.

"What a lovely fossil." Atton spun the chair back around. "Not that I care, mind, but you might want to check on her. Especially with that hand."

She ran a tangled, dingy lock of barely blond hair between her thumb and forefinger. "You're right. You good up here?"

"Yeah, we're on autopilot. Besides, she needs your help more than me. If I was in that much pain, I'd be screaming like a stuck mynock." The corner of Trista's mouth twitched, and he turned his chair back around. "Well, a very strong, manly mynock, that is."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Rand."

He sighed as she stood. "Seriously, just Atton. I hate formality."

"Understood, Mr. Rand."

She glanced back once as he propped his feet up on the console, and swore she could hear his eyes rolling.