She'd gotten used to joining Atton late at night, after everyone else had retreated to their corners in an attempt to avoid each other and the assassin droid patrolling the ship. The cockpit was always quiet, and there was something relaxing about watching the vibrancy of hyperspace zip by in companionable stillness. This time, though, she tried her best to act normal as she handed him his drink and settled in the copilot's seat. She tried to not look on edge. It didn't work.

"All right, out with it." She looked over. Atton hadn't even looked at her, staring ahead into the tunnel outside. "I know when something's bothering you, sweets."

Trista sighed, turning back to the viewport and pursing her lips as she watched the blur of hyperspace.

"Some people warned me about you back on Nar Shaddaa."

Atton was quiet for a moment... but she knew him, too. A brief waver of fear washed over him, cut off almost as soon as it began.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"They tell you anything else?"

"To stay away from you."

Atton took a sip of his drink, staring straight ahead. "I see you're great at listening."

"I like to think so." She stared out the viewport, almost stoically. "But in all seriousness, Atton... they said they knew you."

"Did they say I owed 'em credits, too?"

She contemplated her next move. "They said you were on Nar Shaddaa during the civil war, but that you weren't a refugee. And that your name isn't even Atton."

"Listen, sister," Atton snapped, with more venom than she'd expected this quickly. "I'm as Atton as 'Atton' ever will be. And I don't know who this trusted informant is, but yeah, I was on Nar Shaddaa during the war — along with a lot of people! Who were these guys, anyway?"

"It doesn't matter. I want an answer, Atton. Please."

"Don't you trust me?"

She finally looked at him, struggling to keep a handle on her churning stomach. "Should I? How can I, if you won't explain?"

Atton growled, almost, in his throat as he stared back out at hyperspace.

"Why are you givin' me the riot act? What the hell do you know about Blondie, or the Handmaiden? You aren't dogging them like this. Or — or Kreia, and she's way sketchier than I am!"

"She's actually not, surprisingly."

He scoffed dismissively. "Yeah, she really is."

"Why don't you want to talk about it?"

"Because you're asking about it! If I wanted to tell you, I'd've done it. Anything else?"

"I think I've got a right to know, don't you? After everything we've been through?"

That only made him lash out, for real this time. "What is this, an interrogation? You aren't very good at it. Why don't you just crawl in my head and dig it out rather than asking?"

Trista jolted. "What? Why would I do that? Force's sake, Atton, if you've got a problem, let's just settle it."

"Sure, yeah." Atton's voice raised. "You know what? I helped you get off Peragus. If I hadn't been there, you wouldn't have gotten off the administration level. I'm trying to help you. I don't know why I'm fucking bothering."

"Actually, if I'd been trapped on the administration level on Peragus when the Harbinger arrived, the Sith would have still come through the airlock and tried to capture me. And you'd be dead in your cell."

Atton deflated a little. "Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't look a free ronto in the mouth."

"And you're deflecting. I want to know where you were before you wound up on Nar Shaddaa."

"You know what?" He turned toward her finally. "Not once have I asked you about the Mandalorian Wars. Not once. I heard about Dxun. Everyone has. I heard about Serroco, and I sure as hell know about Malachor."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Trista's back tensed, like a piece of metal snapping back into place after being bent. The way he threw it back at her like an accusation—

"What makes you think you've got the right to interrogate me? You've got plenty of lives to answer for — all you Jedi do."

When she finally found her voice, it was only through clenched teeth. "If you have a question, then ask it."

"How did you even live with yourself after Malachor? Is that why you went back to the Jedi, really? Hoping they'd kill you for it?"

"Go on, get it out."

From his tone, he was certainly going to both 'go on' and 'get it out.'

"Maybe you thought they'd forgive you. Sure, maybe you thought they'd execute you. But you all don't do that, do you? At least not your prisoners. Maybe that's what you were counting on when you went back in chains."

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "In a coma, more like."

"Whatever. You got off easy — exiled, brushed under the cargo ramp, another dirty little Jedi secret. And you know what? All those Jedi at Malachor? They deserved it."

Trista was on her feet before she could stop herself.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. You weren't there."

Atton laughed, but it was cold. Harsh. Maybe even judgmental. "Shows you what you know — I sure as hell was at Malachor, in my fighter, watchin' people I knew go down with it."

She balled her hands into fists.

"That doesn't mean," she said, every word measured as she tried to not tremble, fighting back against the anger welling up inside her, "that you have any idea what Malachor was like. To feel every single death as it hit on both sides. Ours, the Mandalorians, the Jedi, all of it. Right here."

Trista jabbed her fingers just under her sternum. "Because I paid for every second of Malachor. Malachor took everything from me. When I woke up, I had nothing. My sister, people I'd fought with long enough to call them family, gone. The Jedi, gone. The Force, gone. I walked around dead for ten frakking years because of Malachor.

"So don't you dare act-" Something inside her whispered, hissing an encouragement to show him exactly what Malachor had been like. To tear a feeling of life out of him. And she shoved it down, away, as far away as she could. "Satisfied?"

Trista slammed her hand into door as she stormed back to the engine room before she did something she regretted.

She collapsed behind the hyperdrive again, burying her head in her arms. She didn't know what she was feeling anymore — everything had bowled into one massive, overwhelming feeling of bad, and she didn't know if she needed to cry, or scream, or punch something, or...

Something brushed her arm, and she almost snapped out, demanding to know what damn emergency needed her now. Instead she looked up at T3, flat top cocked, and he chirped questioningly at her. Trista scrubbed under her eyes, not fully aware that she'd been crying.

"I'm fine," she mumbled.

"/Master = not fine./" It wasn't even a question. A panel popped out and his manipulator arm gently touched her own.

"No." She sniffed. "I guess I'm not, T3."

#

Atton punched the back of the pilot's chair and collapsed down in it, swearing under his breath. Part of him wanted to go after her. Apologize, maybe? "Beg for forgiveness" was probably a more apt term. "Become friendly with the airlock" was a possibility too, even if he knew Trista well enough to guess that wasn't an option.

You should just tell her. Just get it all out. Let her know who he was — what he was — and get it over with, and just accept whatever she did because of it.

::You will not.::

"Oh, fuck off," he breathed. Of course she'd barge in now.

::You will neither endanger the Exile's journey, nor will you tell her what you have been.::

"Oh yeah? Then what should I do, your worship?"

::Preferably? Remain silent and allow her to keep her distance. I do not require you to interact. You know what I require of you.::

"Yeah, sure. Leave me alone, I'll figure a way out of this." He threw himself back into the chair and stared into the blue vortex of hyperspace, fingers tapping rapidly against the arm of the chair. Too soon his mind wandered, and he rested his head on his hand.

This was going to be a long night.

#

Eventually, when Trista found herself unable to get any sleep, she pulled her robe on and set out to walk the ship. Everyone seemed to have retreated to their usual corners save the droids, with T3 working in the comm room, chirping to himself, and HK standing outside the closed storage room door tapping his gun. Goto was... nowhere to be seen, and she was happy for that. She fetched some caf and settled down at the table with a sigh, staring at the holotable without moving for what felt like an eternity.

Between Zez-Kai Ell and Atton throwing Malachor back in her face, she just felt... numb. It was the closest to the past ten years she'd felt in months; like the emotions she'd just rediscovered all fled again to whatever pit they'd been trapped in since the planet imploded. A horrible malaise of nothingness that gnawed inside her chest like an animal.

"Are you all right?"

Mical's voice startled her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to find him standing at the synthesizer with a worried stare back at her.

"How long have you been there?"

"Only a minute or so." He filled up a mug and motioned to the table. "Do you want company?" Trista shrugged, and Mical stood there for another moment before joining her. "What's wrong?"

Trista shook her head. "I don't know that I can talk to you about it."

"It isn't related to what happened..."

She shook her head again. "No, no, it's not Goto-related."

"All right." He tapped his fingers on the mug. "You are welcome to talk to me, even if you think you should not. Or, I can simply keep you company. It is your choice."

Trista nodded and stared down at her mug for another few minutes, and they sat in silence. When the statement came out it was like a flood, like she couldn't stop herself once her mind made itself.

"Atton threw Malachor in my face."

"Ah." As much as she wanted it, there wasn't an ounce of judgment in his voice.

"Is that what everyone thinks of me?" Trista tried to keep the tremble out of her voice, but failed disastrously. She trailed her finger through the condensation on the tabletop, idly, desperately holding onto it. "When people find out who I am, is that all they think? General Morace, the notorious mass murderer, the butcher of Malachor. I... I didn't even want to do it." She sighed. "Bao-Dur gets to be anonymous — no one remembers who he is. But I'm the person who pulled the trigger forever."

Mical stared ahead as she fell quiet, not even sure she wanted an answer.

"Most people blame Revan, not you."

"Why? She wasn't even in the system. If she had been—"

Sure, if Revan had been in the system, she would have given the order. Instead, Revan had given the order, and she'd complied. She'd followed an order she didn't want to, and shouldn't have, followed.

"But she wasn't, so I did it. And every night I watch the planet die again. Every night. Then I ask him for a little bit of information and he throws it back in my face, right after—" Right after Zez-Kai Ell told her that the Jedi may have done something to her sister, something so heinous that a part of him wondered if Katarr hadn't been punishment for it. Right after the excitement of Nar Shaddaa. Right after everything.

"If it is any consolation, I don't think Atton has experience letting people in," Mical said, almost gently. "I do not look at you and see that. He was likely defensive and pushing you away in the easiest manner he could."

"You knew me before Malachor, even briefly."

Mical shook his head. "And I've seen the lengths you go to right things. You did not have to be involved with Dantooine's plight, or that of the refugees on Nar Shaddaa, but you were. What you are doing now is what you will be remembered for — not Malachor."

She sighed heavily, tracing her finger around the rim of her cup. "Maybe it's all I deserve, though."

"It is not."

"Thanks." She didn't particularly feel it.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Trista glanced up, finding him studying her thoughtfully. "Something other than Atton, and Malachor?"

Why did she want to tell him? There was something about him that was so... thoughtful and open. Analytical. Like he would get to the root of the issue, maybe even solve it — and that he actually wanted to, in a way that wasn't intrusive or manipulative. She looked back down at her mug with a sigh.

"What has the Admiral said about Revan?"

"Ah..." It didn't seem that he'd expected that. "Well, surprisingly, he is fairly quiet about her, aside from being vehement that she has changed. It is something he's clashed with Command on, given even the Jedi disavowed her. Many suspect that he was involved with her, and discredit his opinion due to it."

"Has he..." She frowned. "Mical, I don't — I don't know if it's—" What, appropriate for a trainer to tell their student that the organization they once shared was worse than either of them had believed? And she'd barely had a favorable opinion of them to begin with!

"What did Ell say?"

Of course he already realized Ell was the problem. Before she could stop herself, she was talking.

"He said the Jedi captured her above Sernipidal, but we all assumed that. He said he wanted to talk to her, to find out why she had fallen. He thought something had to have caused her fall — he blames the Jedi for screwing up the Republic every ten years, and I don't think he's wrong. But he said that whatever was done to her... he said he sometimes thinks that Katarr is the Force punishing them simply for what they did to her. But what could cause him to incriminate the Order so resoundedly?"

Mical sat in silence for a moment.

"After the Jedi Civil War, the Jedi did put out a recruitment call. Service Corps members, people that had left the Order... all asked to return for training to make up for their lost numbers. Of those I spoke to, none of us returned. The Republic is suspicious of Jedi teachings and, as you said, many blame the Jedi for the turmoil of the past few years. Despite his position, his opinion is not unique." He paused. "Though there is..."

"There is what?" she prompted as he trailed off.

"There are... rumors," he continued hesitantly, "that for much of the end of the Jedi Civil War, she was distant from her past. And it has always struck me as odd that the Admiral, who lost his wife to Malak's attack on Telos, would be so defensive of the woman marginally responsible for its destruction."

"... he's Telosian?" Mical nodded. "And he defends her?"

"I've wondered if he didn't know, and when he would have learned, but he refuses to speak of it." He paused again, studying her intently for a moment. "I also cannot help but wonder if you're attempting to distract yourself by solving your sister's mysteries."

"It's one of the few things I feel obligated to do these days. I need to understand as well as everyone else." Trista frowned. "I need to know if she wanted me to die at Malachor with everyone else."

Mical drew a slow breath. "That, I am afraid, I cannot help you with. You've opened a line of communication with Jedi Shan, so perhaps she would be willing to tell you more."

"Maybe." She sat for a moment, then stood. "T3."

"What about him?"

"I mean, he was Revan's droid before she abandoned the ship. He may know."

"Good luck getting anything out of him." Mical also stood.

"Wait..." Trista shook her head. Damn it, Trista. So caught up in your own bantha-shit again... "Are you okay? You're still up."

He shrugged. "I admit, the fate of Nar Shaddaa's refugees is weighing heavily on me. But until the Sith are dealt with, there is not much more we can do. I only hope our implied protection will keep them safe."

"Yeah. I... I think I'll go back there, once everything is done, and see what more I can do." Trista sighed. "Get some rest, Mical."

"You as well. You need your strength." He held up his mug in a half-salute and headed back toward the medbay, and Trista stood still for a moment before heading to the comm room. T3 was still chortling to himself, almost like he were humming, as he repaired a cracked screen. He responded to her entrance with a half-trill of greeting, without even turning.

"Hey," Trista said. T3 turned to look at her, still welding away. "Can we talk?" He chirped and drew his tool-arms back inside his chassis. "I know who your last Master was."

"/oh/"

She settled down, cross-legged, on the floor. "Yeah. It's okay. I think something happened to her, during the last war. The war where you met." He chirped. "One of the old Jedi Masters said... I need to know. I need to know what happened."

Why? It wasn't like she necessarily cared — Revan had burned that bridge herself. But there were so many questions that she needed answered that only Revan, or Revan's actions in the Jedi Civil War, could answer. That knowledge ate away at her. Even this far removed, even with so much anger, she was being forced to confront an emotion she hadn't ever felt for her sister.

Pity.

"Do you know anything that could help me?"

T3 chirped, his flat top rotating away from her like any person might look away during an uncomfortable exchange.

"/first Master = really nice/" he chirped quietly. "/T3 = misses/"

"I'm sorry. What was she like?"

"/Master = [T3-M4 = Sentient]/BUT Master = :( a lot/T3 = tried to help/"

Trista smiled. "I'm sure she appreciated it. Do you know why she left?"

T3 responded with a sad chirp, and she sighed. But as she opened her mouth he rolled a few steps back, and she heard a click. A holographic image of a man appeared, projected into the air — one she recognized from the Harbinger's audio records, the articles about the Jedi Civil War, and now as something else entirely.

"T3, there's not much time." It looked like the Admiral was kneeling, still in uniform, chest covered in the ribbon board and medals of an accomplished career soldier. "I've seen that expression on her face before. I don't know where she's going, but I know it's dangerous. She's going to leave without telling me — but there's a chance she'll take you. If she does, I need you to look out for her." He sighed and looked away. "She's strong, but she can't face everything alone. Do what you can, T3 — and if there's a problem, if she doesn't come back, then you need to. Find help. If not me, then other Jedi, the Republic..." He looked away again. "I can't lose her, even if she wants to be lost. Okay?" He glanced past the droid. "That's her. Stop record—"

"Is there any more?" she asked, almost hesitantly, and T3's anxious dwoo lasted much longer than usual before he projected another image. This time, she gasped as an image of her sister, older and more tired, stood in his place. It was frozen for a second, giving Trista just enough time to look it over – the thick hair twisted back in a braid, simple robes heavily mended at least once. Dark circles painted in darker blue under her eyes, making her look far older than she was.

Then, the recording started.

"Very clever, you two, telling T3 to get me back safely." It wasn't anger in her voice, but... exhaustion? "It's also unfortunate I know more about droids than you... and that I found this now, of all times." She shook her head with an exasperated sigh.

"I'm sending the droids and the Hawk back to the Republic and going on alone. There's... something out here. The more I see, the more I remember, the more I know I have to be here." She trailed off for a moment, staring into the distance before continuing. "I don't know if I can stop this, but I can delay it. It's even more imperative now that you two stay in the Republic. It, and the Jedi — as unfortunate as that may be — must be rebuilt to full strength. To past full strength. Both will be crucial someday, but I don't know when. Forget about me, I'm not important anymore."

Over her speech she'd looked away from the recorder, and finally turned back with a weak smile. "If it's at all possible, Carth, I will see you again someday. I love you with all of my being. If you ever see this... please know that. But try to move on, for my sake. You deserve better than to wait for a ghost."

Well, she wasn't entirely sure that was her sister.

It was definitely her. Her voice, her appearance, all of that was the same. But... she shook her head. "Were they really together?"

T3 responded with a sad whistle. "/it was a lot/"

"You can't tell me what happened to her?" A no. "Where did she go?"

"/Master = left T3 on ship world/T3 = go to Republic/T3 = find Jedi/Jedi = nowhere/T3 = found one/" He finished with a light tap of his manipulator arm on hers, and she found herself smiling.

"You definitely did." She brushed the worn streak in his top with an odd sadness, unlike anything she'd ever felt before related to her sister. "What the hell did she get herself into this time?"

T3's response was practically a shrug.

"You can't tell me anything else?"

"/no/"

"Okay." She sighed and got to her feet, rubbing his top. "I'm sorry. I think... I think wherever she was going, she couldn't have any vulnerabilities. That included you, little guy."

"/yes/" He chirped sadly.

"And you went for help anyway?"

"/yes/T3 = unsure/did find help?/"

Trista smiled weakly and put her hands on either side of his flat top. "You did. You found us, T3. And if we can stop the Sith, maybe... maybe we can help her, too."

He chirped happily, then chirped again and pointed at the screen. She chuckled. "Go on, I'm keeping you from your work."

As T3 returned to the screen, Trista retreated to the engine room and settled down on her cot. Her datapad still rested on the hyperdrive, and she opened up a new document.

She couldn't think about that conversation with Atton, or Malachor, or anything related. She had to distract herself and, in the absence of figuring out more about the Sith that had left them alone on Nar Shaddaa, Revan was an acceptable substitute.

And maybe then, if she fell asleep while working, she wouldn't dream of Malachor.