Welcome back! Here begins part 2 of this madness. For those of you familiar with The Old Republic MMORPG, this is where I start to pull in a few characters from that world (mainly Vitiate and Scourge). Their personal histories up until this point in time are mostly unchanged, though I have changed some details to fit my fancy.
Just a reminder, this is an AU where the events of KOTOR 1 and 2 are unchanged, but what transpired in between and after is substantially different than canon (although what does canon even mean these days for pre-Disney works? Sheesh).
Thank you for returning! I hope you enjoy it. In today's chapter (which is really more like a prologue), we have a dirty city and the big baddie with henchman accessory!
.
.
Seven years earlier
The rain fell dankly on the streets of Kaas City. It stank of swamp and pollution and left a tinge of oily residue everywhere it coursed.
Within a minute of exiting the bar, Revan's cowl began to sag limply against his neck and ears as the garment was wetted. He didn't bother to adjust it; instead, he held perfectly still, intently watching the drama unfolding before him. A Sith man – halfbreed, by the looks of it – stumbled and fell into a puddle. Three other beings stood over him like predators stalking wounded prey.
It was night, and the street – an alley, really – was poorly lit by red-tinged lamps at either end. Behind him was the doorway through which he'd just come, leaving behind an equally dark and much smokier space. The bar was one of the nicer ones he'd frequented in the last few weeks. The crowd was as gruff and dangerous as any but more restrained in both speech and the proclivity to rash violence. It was a bar for… professionals.
Revan should have walked on, but this scene fixated him for some reason. It wouldn't be the first assault he had ignored since arriving on the Sith capital planet. Interventions were strictly against the cover he had to maintain in this city of oppression, where every ordinary citizen whispered because they never knew who might be listening. Listening for traitors, for spies, for the disloyal… and for the useful.
He had walked away from any number of violent injustices since arriving in Sith space. Tonight he couldn't, though. It was hard every time – though getting easier, he admitted darkly – but larger things rested on the success of his mission. Things that couldn't be risked on behalf of one person's safety.
The man in the puddle rolled over and moaned. He looked like he had already received an excellent thrashing even before Revan had left the bar.
One of the thugs was raising a blade to finish things.
Why couldn't he walk away?
Frell it.
With a flick of the hand, Revan sent one of the three tumbling into the blade wielder with enough force to knock both over.
"What the hell, Ishi? You drunk?"
"Something pushed me!"
"I'll finish the sleemo," the third cracked irritably. "Idiots." He drew a knife and started a thrust toward the halfbreed's stomach. The movement was barely started when a loud snap came from his arm. It suddenly changed direction – as if on an invisible string – and pulled him, screaming, two meters over. The blade sunk into the thigh of his nearest comrade. That man started screaming as well.
There was a sewer access nearby. The durasteel lid suddenly flipped off and sailed through the air to crack against the head of the last uninjured thug. He dropped to the ground – unconscious, perhaps even dead.
Now Revan approached and pressed the other two into unconsciousness. They stopped struggling about and lay still. He glanced around to make sure no one was in sight. The victim was still moaning but had rolled onto his side, facing away. Revan stooped over the thugs and put all three of them into a healing trance. The one with the head wound was alive, but barely.
He pushed the halfbreed into unconsciousness as well, then slung him over his shoulder. He started traveling back to his latest apartment – he changed locations often – and took the extra time to find an unseen route. Fortunately, this Sith was lighter than average.
His apartment was small – a tiny fresher, a sink, and two bunks that flipped down from the wall. His table was a duraplas box that he'd pulled out of a dumpster. Revan placed the man on the lower bunk. He ripped wider some tears in his shirt to inspect his wounds and fortunately found nothing severe. He studied the man's face, surprised as a sense of familiarity dawned upon him.
Revan grabbed a compact datapad out of his pocket and flipped through the notes he'd accumulated in the last couple weeks. He found a matching image quickly.
Now he understood why he hadn't been able to walk away – the Force had pushed him towards this man. This meeting would be a blessing.
Assuming he could get the halfbreed to trust him.
Revan woke the bedraggled Sith.
"Zill Plusk?"
The man coughed violently, then wheezed out a few words. "Never heard of him."
"I can sense you're lying."
That got his attention. Bruised eyelids widened and he studied Revan's face. In the dim red light, whatever he saw wasn't comforting. He hung his head in defeat.
"You're a hound."
"No, just a keen study," Revan lied. Without the Force, he never could have discerned deception on those battered features. The man was surely a practiced liar, given his line of work. "I need some slicing work done. I'll pay you with protection."
"I don't believe you. You can't protect me."
"I protected you from those thugs."
"Anyone with a –" Zill's response was lost in a fit of coughing. Revan got him a cup of water and waited patiently for him to continue.
"Anyone with a gun could've shot those three."
"Do you remember hearing shots?"
"Doesn't mean anything. I was kind of distracted."
Revan paused for a moment, studying the slicer. Plusk studied him back, without any recognition in his eyes. The Empire's propaganda machine was working in his favor. No civilian in the Kaas system had heard of Revan Venachi, much less knew his face. Well, almost no civilian.
"I can prove my protective skills later," Revan said, changing tactics. "But I'm probably wasting my time here. No one can hack the Spheres."
Plusk sat upright a little more. It brought his face into clearer view and clarified more of his build. He was a kid – maybe late teens, maybe early twenties? A young, trouble-seeking punk.
His heart clenched. Mission would be nineteen this year. Force, he missed her.
"Not no one. Some have."
The guy was so bad at being cagey that Revan suspected his pride was completely hampering his better judgment. Revan already knew that he had successfully sliced the Sphere of Imperial Intelligence. It's why he needed his services.
"You have. And it wasn't even for a job."
The young man froze. "You're full of shit."
"Among other things that you discovered on your little foray into unsanctioned data, you learned the name Revan Venachi. You know who he was and how he betrayed the Emperor."
He saw a flicker of recognition before it was shut away. The kid's pulse was starting to race.
"You've seen things no one is supposed to," Revan reminded him.
"You're crazy." Plusk's voice was weak.
"Am I? I know you've read reports, even watched some battlefield footage. I got my information from a good source."
"What – the end of a spice stick?"
"The intelligence officer that was leading the investigation into your hack. I ripped the knowledge from her mind before I killed her." An exaggeration, but a useful one.
"Who are you?"
Revan smiled. Suddenly everything in the room – including Zill – lifted into the air. He gasped and flailed about in the sudden weightlessness. A lightsaber hilt floated very precisely in front of his eyes.
"I'm Revan Venachi."
He watched Zill's eyes go wide, waited a moment for the information to sink in, then returned everything gently to the ground.
"I need your help getting information."
"What kind of information?"
"The kind that tells me when Vitiate is going to invade the Republic."
"That's treason."
"You don't care. You hate it here almost as much as I do."
Zill looked down, not bothering to deny it. He studied the bandages across his torso.
"Stay here until you're healed," Revan urged. Give me a few days and I'll make your problems with those thugs go away. I just need their employer's info."
"Don't bother. Even if you can, I'm not going to help you. That's suicide."
"No one will trace it back to you. The counter-intel group wasn't close to finding you. And that was before I found them. Now they'll never find you."
Revan sat in a chair across from him, regarding him levelly.
"Look, just think about it for a couple of days. Let me take care of this debt for you, and after that's cleared up, I'll ask again. No pressure. I can't force you into using your skills."
The young man eyed him with a wary curiosity. "Why would you help me? You used to be a Sith."
"And I was a Jedi before that, and after. I'm not one now, but I do still hold to a lot of their teachings." Revan stood, favoring the young man with a soft and heavy gaze that he couldn't possibly understand. "And my favorite Jedi once told me that if we don't stand up for those who cannot defend themselves, we have failed at living out our beliefs."
Now
Lord Scourge followed his master's angry pace into the catacombs of the Imperial Citadel. Rare was it that the Emperor ventured beyond his palace. As he stalked forth now, a cold wave of fear and despair preceded him like the front of a bitter winter storm. He radiated power and cruelty. Scourge reveled in it.
He also feared it.
While the Emperor lacked the imposing stature and build that characterized Scourge and many other Sith Lords, even one wholly unacquainted with their ruler's reputation was brought to a trembling knee in his presence before he even consciously exerted power. Today that presence was especially terrible.
The traitor had survived.
Someone – perhaps many persons – were about to die for their errors, real or perceived.
Everyone in the halls scurried away if they thought they could do so unnoticed, or if not then they threw themselves prostrate to the ground. But the Emperor cared no more for their obeisance than one would for the adoration of mites. Inconsequential. Scourge had enjoyed their cowering for a time, but that had long ago ceased to bring him any sense of pleasure or power.
They entered the central command center of the Citadel. It was a massive circular chamber that sprawled with holoprojectors, data screens, and planning tables. Giant monitors were mounted along the entire perimeter, presenting every bit of information that a commander could ever wish to see. This space – shared by the three Spheres of Defense, Offense, and Strategy – was used to coordinate fleets and divisions or direct individual ships and platoons. From here, the battle over Arkania had been carefully managed, culminating in a direct order given by the Emperor himself, from his throne in the palace, that the Issuance was to crash itself into the city to kill the traitor.
The order had been obeyed… but executed imperfectly.
A deathly hush fell upon the room as the Emperor's proximity was felt. The staff – all high ranking, regardless of their particular assignment's significance – were as accustomed to the presence of Sith Lords as one could be. It paled in comparison to what they now experienced, however. Every spine was stiff, every throat clenched, gazes downcast, and knees bent.
The Emperor's belted cape swished softly as he proceeded to the center of the room. Only the bravest eyes tracked his passage – all others remained fixed upon the floor. A raised dais was where the highest-ranking officers could oversee and command operations. The trio of persons upon it had wisely chosen to step out from behind the data stations before kneeling. It was unwise to give the impression of cowering behind an obstruction. All knew the Emperor's wrath would find them no matter where they stood.
Presenting themselves before their ruler was not exactly bravery, but fear of failing to comply. Sweat was dripping from the brow of Grand Moff Castilege and making tiny splashes on the deck. Scourge noted this and smirked from his position over the Emperor's shoulder.
The Emperor ascended the two steps up to the dais and stopped. He gazed silently down at the tops of three bowed heads – a Moff, a general, and an admiral.
"Moff Castilege, rise." The Emperor's voice was smooth and dark. The Moff did as he was told, reluctantly looking into a sickly pale red face with burning yellow eyes.
"My Lord." To Castilege's credit, he managed not to stutter.
"You commanded the battle over Arkania."
"Yes, My Lord."
"The traitor lives…"
"My liege, we have not been able to confirm… although the Issuance did not directly strike the city, the collateral damage was tremendous. The target could have been killed –"
The Moff's neck snapped suddenly; his head lolled to one side at a queasy angle and the body dropped. The Emperor cast his gaze about, looking both irritated and bored.
"General Desh."
"Yes, My Liege?" the Sith commander responded, daring to look up at his ruler.
"Prepare our invasion of the Atravis sector. I will send you command when you are to begin."
"My Liege, has the Dark Council designated the target worlds?"
Scourge took this as his cue to provide the datapad that the Emperor had given him before leaving the palace. It had not come from the Dark Council. The traitor's continued existence had prompted the Emperor to assume a more direct role in the Empire's strategy. The Council and the Sphere of Strategy would chafe under it, but it mattered not. Their victory over the Republic was inevitable.
General Desh stood to receive the datapad and skimmed the list with glinting eyes. "It shall be done, Your Majesty."
The Emperor turned and left without acknowledgment. Scourge followed dutifully in his wake. As they exited the chamber, the Emperor spoke.
"Darth Sarvyas was aboard the Issuance, yet somehow he managed to escape and is returning to our space. See that he comes to the palace immediately."
"As you wish, Your Majesty," Scourge answered.
Scourge idly pondered whether Darth Sarvyas would choose to put up a fight or take the quicker route and offer his neck submissively. Neither option would grant him an easy death. The Emperor had lived for millennia; for him, the mock challenge of defeating a Sith Lord was an eye blink of time that neither strained his patience nor satisfied it.
He was immutable as time, and the rest of the universe revolved trembling about him.