T3 was having a bad week.

First, someone had ambushed him, stolen his ship, and locked him in the storage compartment with HK-47. And as if that weren't bad enough – being stuck with HK-47, that is – as soon as they'd landed, they'd hit him with a second ion charge and put him in this forcefield-guarded cell, shackled to a computer, while identical women tried to get around his Master's blocks on his data.

He'd blown out three terminals already and was quite happy about it.

Most droids would not have resisted, but his Master was confident in his upgrades and therefore, so was he. Even if they downloaded everything it'd take months, if not years, to decrypt it.

Another, different woman walked in, heading for one of the identical ones, and he chirped rudely in her direction. She glanced at him, white hair swinging, before returning her attention to the woman working on HK-47. Her image was still in his databanks from his time at the Jedi Temple.

Atris.

His Master hated her with a passion most unbecoming for a Jedi (according to his databanks), one he was sure was mutual. Pheromones were always telling.

"Have you gotten anything else?"

T3 could almost hear his Master's teeth grinding from somewhere deep in his memory core.

"No, Mistress," the woman replied. "The droid appears to wipe and restore its memory core at random intervals, but we cannot find how or why. Its maker is a genius, paranoid, or both."

"I know her – she is both." Atris sighed. "I doubt we will learn anything. Put it back on the ship."

"Yes, Mistress."

Atris turned and settled her eyes on him, and T3 responded with a chirping raspberry of displeasure. She leaned down, bringing her eyes to his optic level.

"Good morning, T3-M4. Are you ready to cooperate today?" He responded with another rude noise. "I am only attempting to help your master."

"/T3=not stupid/Master - Atris/Atris = find + distract Master/"

"You must understand." She straightened up and began to pace in front of him, robes trailing behind her on the ground. "We, the Jedi, are being hunted. So is Revan, if she is not behind these attacks. But..." She turned back. "I suspect she is, so you must help me prove it. You wouldn't want her to hurt anyone else, would you? And if she is innocent... do you not wish to prove it?"

T3 responded with another rude chirp.

"I am losing my patience, T3-M4. If you continue to refuse to cooperate, I'll have no recourse but to give you a memory wipe and remove the data that way. You don't want that, do you?"

"/Memory wipe = Master kills Atris/"

Atris laughed. "She can try." T3 whirred. "Those are your options, droid. I suggest you decide quickly, or I will order the wipe."

T3 whirred threateningly again, but one of his Master's orders stuck in his processor. Whatever you do, do not get a memory wipe. If they threaten it, give them access to the surface drive until you can reach someone you trust. T3 clicked in Atris' direction a few times and unlocked the surface drive, making something on the computer ding. Atris looked at the screen.

"There, now, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" T3 whistled and extended his shock arm, delivering a small voltage to Atris' calf. She whacked it away. "There's no need for that. Hmph. Droids."

As she read through the data, of which at least a terabyte were images of his Master making obscene gestures for this exact situation, T3 did two things to Atris' computer systems.

First, he accessed Telos' shield network, making the one around the pole fluctuate — enough that someone would see it were they looking.

And then, he began downloading Atris' archives.

#

Atton tracked Trista to the Module 081 cantina, and a seat at the bar. He glared at a few dubious-looking patrons taking too much interest in her and settled into a neighboring seat, barely meriting a glance up as she drew a circle on the bar next to the glass of red something she was nursing. The bartender stopped by, and he ordered something. He wasn't even sure what.

"Shouldn't go wandering off on your own, Tris." She shrugged, but otherwise didn't answer. Even a week-long imprisonment hadn't cleared up whether she was just a quiet person, whether it was a byproduct of her Jediness, or what. So he sat in silence next to her, glared at a few nearby patrons, and sat in silence.

"You know," she said, a few moments after he'd gotten his drink. "I'm terrified."

Atton downed his drink in one hit.

"I don't know what happened after Malachor. I thought I did, but maybe I didn't. I think I wanted to lose the Force — I wanted it to be over."

He glanced to the side, making sure no one was eavesdropping. "How much have you had, sweets?"

"Couple of these." She tapped the glass. "Then I ran for years. I wanted to find a hole and die, I think. Rid the galaxy of what I did. If I disappeared everything would go back how it was, right?

"Then I crash on an asteroid and the only ship around is a Republic cruiser, and they're looking for me. Me! And now all this is happening, and I'm being hunted, and... touching the Force again after so many years, it terrifies me. I butchered an entire civilization. I thought it was finished with me, that I could stay stuck in my self-pity and keep running, but I can't. There's no one left, just me." She scrubbed her eyes with her sleeve. "Why can't it leave me alone?"

Atton chewed his lip for a moment, then rested his hand on her back. She hunched a little deeper, and he put more weight behind it.

"It's all right," he said, not sure which of them he was reassuring.

They sat like that as Trista finished her drink, Atton scaring a few people off from sitting next to her, just in case. She finished it and as soon as the glass hit the bar, he was waving the bartender down. "She got a tab?"

"Yeah."

"I'm closing it out. How much?"

"150."

He looked over, Trista still staring down at the bar. "At least you're not a lightweight." He fished the credits out of his pocket and handed them over, then helped her to her feet. "C'mon, Tris, let's get back to the apartment."

They had just stepped through the doors of the cantina when a shout stopped them. A man, flanked by the pair of Gamorreans down the bar, stepped out after them. Atton let his hand fall to his blaster, as Trista wavered on her feet and straightened her jacket.

"You must be the Jedi everyone's been talking about," the human said. "No more trouble with the TSF, I take it?"

"No, it's been lovely." Somehow, Trista sounded half as intoxicated as before. He eyed her and kept one hand on her back for balance. "And I'm no Jedi."

"Then you haven't heard the popular rumors. Jedi or not, you're the talk of the station. Everyone from the TSF to Czerka is curious." He took a step forward, but Trista stood her ground.

Atton unholstered his gun. "Back the hell off."

He laughed. "You don't know who I am."

"Some half-wit Hutt-spawn with an ego?"

"Stop," Trista chided, resting her hand on his arm. He glanced at her, but didn't relax. Of course he'd get stuck with a drunk Jedi with a million-cred bounty on her.

"Let me introduce myself." The man's dark eyes settled on Atton, and he stared back. "Benok. In charge of Loppak Slusk's protection. You've... heard of Loppak Slusk, haven't you?"

Atton's tone was sharp. "No."

"Shame. These gentlemen are Matu and Nahata, Slusk's best men. Apart from me, of course." He paused. "Would you like to try me again?"

Atton started to answer, but Trista's hand tightened on his arm. "Please be on your way," she said.

"Leave her alone, Benok." Another woman's voice interrupted, and a lithe, red-haired and slightly dressed Zeltron woman stepped out of the cantina. Great. "She'd come out on top if you fought, and you know it."

"We have this under control, thank you," Trista said and, for a moment, he believed her.

"Now, Luxa, I mean no disrespect. You're probably Slusk's best woman." Benok's tone indicated he thought otherwise. "I'm just having a conversation. No need to get involved."

Atton spotted his hand snapping out first and moved to intercept before he could grab Trista's wrist and start a full-on fight. He wouldn't have, normally, because she could handle herself most days. But Trista had apparently been looking at Luxa.

Only apparently, because Trista's hand snapped out and clamped around Benok's forearm, then twisted. The snap and Benok's yelp of pain echoed through the empty hall outside the cantina, and Atton drew his hand back. She released, and Benok staggered.

"We don't want trouble. Please move along."

"This isn't over." Benok turned to the Gamorreans. "Get me out of here."

Luxa chuckled as he stumbled away, one of the Gamorreans half supporting him. "I like you. You need something on the station, Jedi, come see me. After you've sobered up."

She disappeared back into the cantina, and Atton rested his hand on Trista's arm. Fortunately she didn't snap it, and instead looked at him with half-lidded teal eyes.

"Come on," he said. "They're all Exchange, remember? If that guy said he'll be back, he'll be back. With more friends."

Trista nodded and let him lead her back for the shuttle. The way back was easier than expected, as he half-walked, half-carried her toward their apartment. At the very least, the Exile was a well-behaved drunk, and walked with only a little difficulty. As they reached the apartment she turned to him, and looked up with bright, arguably tear-stained eyes.

"Thank you, Atton."

"Yeah." He plugged the door's code in. "Don't mention it."

Just as the door was about to open, he froze when Trista leaned in and pressed a small kiss to his cheek, before stumbling through the door as it opened. She collapsed on the closest cot as he stepped inside and, as the door closed, Atton felt Kreia's usual glare settle on him.

"What?" he snapped.

"If you have any untoward intention, I suggest removing it."

"Oh, shut up." Atton turned on his heel and opened the door again. "I'm gonna make sure no one followed us. Don't wait up."