It's evening the next day when guards with Force pikes arrive to escort Meetra to Sion. She expects to be marched back to the throne room for another uncomfortable interview. But this time, her retinue takes a different, longer route. Her heavily armed procession troops in and out of an elevator and then winds through the fortress to yet another elevator. This one exits to the outside. When the doors open, Meetra finds herself looking out on a breezy rooftop at night facing an enormous glass and metal pyramid structure. It's covered in meter-sized, glazed rhombus shaped glass panes. They are translucent, showing light glowing from within but only hinting at the structure's contents.

"What is this?" she asks the lead guard.

He doesn't answer. "We wait," he tells her. The curt response gets her worried that this is Sion's stylized torture chamber. Meetra gulps and swallows her dread.

Fortunately, the wait isn't long. At the base of the pyramid, a door slides open. The lead guard takes that as his cue to release her from the tight handcuffs.

Confused, Meetra warily asks again. "What is this?" The more she looks at the pyramid, the more it reminds her of the Sith holochrons Kreia had once tried to interest her in. Could this be some sort of Dark Side temple? Because if it is, she'll pass. She demands a third time now, "What is this?"

"Go in," the guard responds. "He's expecting you."

"Great," Meetra comments under her breath. She doesn't know what to make of this. But she can guess who 'he' is.

"Go in, Jedi." This time, it's not a terse request, it's a growled command. To reinforce this point, the guard puts a hand on his holstered blaster pistol. It's a clear hint at violence.

"Alright," she nods, capitulating to the threat. Gingerly, she steps forward while the guards remain standing where they are. With a deep, fortifying breath, Meetra walks through the open door.

She inhales the scent of roses. The mysterious glass pyramid turns out to be a greenhouse.

Inside, Meetra finds neat rows of flowerbeds teaming with mature rosebushes. They are covered in blooms of every color. Red, pink, white, and orange, and every hue in between. Each row of plants is arranged an ombre array of color, ranging from deepest to lightest variation in shade. The sight is arrestingly lovely, perhaps all the more so for its unexpectedness.

Meetra stands there in a shallow puddle taking it all in. There are hoses, shovels, hoes, and other gardening equipment lying about. Clearly, the tools get regular use. There's even a deactivated droid that looks to be have some sort of irrigation function. It sits next to an old fashioned wheelbarrow heaped high with soil. The air is humid and earthy beneath the top note of flowery sweetness. After days spent in a sterile, overly air-conditioned cell, Meetra finds the cloying mixture to be pleasing. It's pungent in a good way.

Where is the gardener? No one has come to meet her. So, Meetra begins walking forward into the greenhouse. The place is huge. She passes row after row of flowerbeds until she reaches the far side of the pyramid. Here, the rosebushes give way to tall fruit trees in large pots. They are arranged to form the perimeter of a sizable space. It's basically a room delineated within the otherwise open structure.

This area appears more like an elegant conservatory than a working greenhouse. There is furniture scattered around. A large rug is underfoot in lieu of puddles. But like the rows of bushes she just wandered through, this place has a lived-in feel that suggests constant use. Meetra spies a datapad lying on a table. There's a discarded empty water bottle left on a couch cushion. And look, there's a comlink someone dropped that rolled under a chaise lounge and has probably been forgotten. None of this holds her attention, however. Meetra's focus is on Darth Sion.

The armored and caped Sith Lord stands facing away, gloved hands clasped behind his back. He's holding a rose, like he did in his throne room. The flower flicks slightly as his thumb twitches. It's an impatient gesture that matches his testy tone when he speaks.

"You're not wearing the dress. Did you not like the dress?"

Meetra smooths her hands over her loose tunic. Earlier today, she was brought a change of clothes. She had expected to receive a prison uniform but instead she received an expensive dress. Weirdly, the dress had felt more demoralizing. So, after the fastest shower of her life, Meetra put back on her tunic and leggings. "I prefer my own clothes."

"I do not," the Sith snarls. He's still facing away, a stance that seems to convey extra displeasure. But who can tell because he's still in that concealing helmet? "Things are different here in the Empire," Sion lectures. "Women do not dress like men. And ladies of education, status, and accomplishment do not dress like peasants."

Meetra lets the sharp censure roll off her back. She's familiar with the rigid social class distinctions of the Sith. Plus, as Kreia has discovered in her Darth Traya version, there are definite gender roles in the Empire. Unlike the Jedi Order, the Lords of the Sith do not welcome female peers. It's one of many cultural differences between the Light Side and the Dark. But all that aside, Meetra's not interested in Sion's attempt at a girly makeover. She can count on one hand the number of times she has worn a dress. Dresses are unsettlingly decorative and impractical in a fight. So, no thanks. She'll wear her own clothes.

The Sith must be in her mind because he continues. "You are no longer an asexual nun or a general preparing for battle. And there's no need to pretend that you blend in with the working class. Leave the Jedi identity behind. They cast you out. Accept it."

Meetra shifts her weight and cocks her head. "You feel pretty strongly about that dress."

"I feel strongly that you leave behind the shame and sadness that hold you back."

"What does that have to do with a dress?" she challenges.

"Everything. How you present yourself to others—how you wish to be perceived—says a great deal about who you think you are. And you are better than the homeless, bedraggled waif you appear. Move on from the penitent sackcloth and ashes you have adopted. They are unnecessary. You will never atone for your sins in the eyes of your people. Stop trying."

It's more tough love. Sion, like the rest of the prideful Dark Side, feels everyone needs a carefully curated image. But does she really look that bad? Meetra tucks an errant strand of hair behind one ear that has fallen loose from her ponytail. She doesn't have a quick comeback for Sion's scorn. So, hoping to earn some goodwill, she gives her captor the win. "Very well. I will wear the dress."

"Good. I insist that you be open to change," Sion rumbles. "You must unlearn what you have learned. You will need to confront your prejudices. To step out of your comfort zone."

"I said I'd wear the dress," Meetra repeats through gritted teeth.

"A wise choice. Now then," Darth Sion turns around with a whirl of his black cape, "welcome to my garden."

Meetra nods coolly up at the angular black mask she now faces. Up close in bright lighting, she can see that Sion's headgear is etched all over in strange runes. She wonders what they mean. Surely, they mean something. The Sith are ever intentional, even about small things.

The mask is silent and her captor's body language is almost expectant. It must be her turn to talk. So, Meetra drawls, "Now I know where the roses come from," while trying to sound as unimpressed as possible.

That's Sion's opening to offer her the bloom in his hand. "For you, my Lady." Again, he executes the quick, courtly bow she recalls from the throne room. It's a slick, formal courtesy that is very Sith. The Dark Side relishes its pageantry and symbolism, giving its Lords a grave dignity. They talk to you in riddles even as they swing a sword. More often than not, a duel begins with a salute. Fights tend to end with a vow or a curse. Why? Because that's how you do it. Rigidity and control are pervasive concepts in Dark culture. There are unwritten rules for how to do almost everything and rote scripts to be followed. It's an attitude very at odds with the casual, laidback, often improvisational ethos of the Republic. As one of the founding members of the 'anything goes' Jedi Crusaders, Meetra finds it all very strange.

But she dutifully reaches to accept the rose like it's tribute due. Unfortunately, the motion causes her baggy tunic sleeve to slide back. The movement gives Sion a peek at the faded tattoo on her forearm.

He doesn't miss a thing. "What's on your arm?"

"It's nothing." Meetra yanks down her sleeve, thereby ruining any chance at seeming unconcerned.

"Why do you hide it?"

"It's nothing." And wait, that came out too fast.

"You tattooed yourself. Surely, that means the mark has meaning."

Feeling annoyed, Meetra reveals, "It's nothing. Just an old motto."

"Show me."

"Fine." She pulls back her sleeve to display the words printed on her skin.

"What language is that it?"

"It's Basic. You're looking at it upside down and backwards. It's meant for me to read. Not for others."

Sion's curiosity is still not appeased. He walks around to hover over her right shoulder and reads the words she inked long ago on the inside of her forearm. "For the Force and for the Republic."

He's standing close. Too close. Meetra gets an unexpected whiff of rotting flesh. It's one fetid breath, but it rolls her stomach. She immediately steps forward to put more distance between her and the zombie Sith. The guy is gross.

"It's the motto of the Crusaders," Meetra mutters, jerking down her sleeve again. "Look, Alek had a hard time at first. He had second thoughts . . . doubts. Kept asking Revan why we were fighting. Alek finally tattooed the words on his sword arm so every time he fought, he could look down and read them for reassurance."

"By Alek, you mean Darth Malak?"

"Yes. We all got inked after Alek did it. You know, to support him." The permanent words on her arm seem galling now. For the Force and for the Republic. It's like a record of good intentions gone wrong. But at least back then she had clarity of purpose.

The sly Sith doesn't miss a beat. "Would you like it removed?" he offers. "I can have it erased."

That's something Meetra has never contemplated. She freezes, ever so briefly allows herself to consider the possibility, and then firmly rejects the option. "No, thanks."

"Have you other markings on your body?" Sion inquires.

"Just battle scars."

"What? No 'Revan Forever' encircled by a heart?"

Meetra looks up sharply at the Sith Lord. Is he teasing her? Mocking her? Maybe taunting her? She can't decide. She immediately changes the topic. "Will you show me the garden?"

"As you wish." Sion starts walking and gestures for her to follow. He talks as he conducts his quick tour. "It has grown very large through the years. Those are the oldest plants," he points to the row of bushes with deep crimson blooms. "They were grafted from the original varietals my wife tended. This was her hobby, not mine."

Meetra says nothing to this oversharing. She's never thought of Sion as a person. As a guy with a wife and after-hours pursuits. That's not generally how she tends to approach her enemies.

"My Lady had the touch of the Force. Retrocognition is what it's sometimes called."

"Your wife had the Force?" Did she hear right?

"All Sith Ladies have the Force."

"I see." And who knew? As far as Meetra can tell, Sith Ladies don't really exist in public life. Probably because they're all locked up in their menfolk's fortress hideaways barefoot and pregnant. It's in that patriarchal context that Kreia—the self-proclaimed Darth Traya—elicited more snorts than fear. Few on the Dark Side were prepared to respect a Jedi-turned-Sith, most especially a female one.

Her captor keeps walking and talking. "Lady Sion was a special kind of seer. She learned through the Force from the objects she touched. Mostly, it was the past. But sometimes, she saw the future. It is a rare talent that she grew weary of at times. Gardening was her respite. She never received visions from natural objects. So, she kept her hands in dirt and on plants a lot."

"Where is she now?"

"Dead," Sion answers matter of fact. The automatic response of 'I'm sorry' dies on Meetra's lips as the Sith volunteers, "I mourned her and let her go. It's been over two hundred years now since my Lady became one with the Force."

"Oh." Okay. Whew. At least there's no zombie Sith wife lurking around to add to Meetra's troubles.

"I use this garden for meditation and relaxation, like she did," Sion relates. "It is good for me to be around living things . . . to be surrounded by life."

"For its Force?"

"Yes. Life creates the Force and makes it grow. Do you feel it now?"

"No."

"We shall change that." The masked Sith now looks around and complains, "Let Traya brood on Malachor at her Academy, let her preach her doctrine of nullity and self-destruction. It is pointless. Life is the Force and the Force is life. All life is power," Sion declares staunchly. "But it must be tended to, much like this garden. One must take care to cultivate the Force. The closer you are to the Force, the closer you are to truth."

If the decaying, practically dead Sith Lord finds any irony in his soliloquy on the living Force, he doesn't show it. He merely moves on, ushering Meetra back to the far end of the greenhouse pyramid where she first encountered him this evening. "Let us get to work. Sit down." He urges her to take a seat on a sofa and then promptly seats himself beside her.

"Relax," Sion instructs, sounding almost amused, but Meetra is dubious of that plan. Nothing about the armed, masked, caped man sitting beside her puts her at ease. Especially when he starts speaking like a Jedi Master.

"Close your eyes." Sion's amplified baritone is a loud whisper. "Good. Now reach out. Reach out with your feelings. Stretch out with your senses. I'm here. Feel my presence."

Meetra can't sense anything other than herself. It's dispiriting, but not surprising. She's tried this so many times before and failed. Why would it work now?

"Quiet your mind," the Sith chides. "Let go of those negative thoughts. Block out your physical surroundings. Stop thinking of me."

She's trying. She really is. But Meetra is very aware of her company. Sion just feels dangerous. Her mind and her instinct tell her not to trust him. Plus, he smells faintly like week old roadkill and it's extremely off putting.

"You will get used to me," he assures her. "Now focus."

"I'm trying," Meetra outright whines.

"Block out all external stimuli. Concentrate."

"I'm trying." This feels so foreign. She never used to have to try. The Force was like breathing or blinking. It was something Meetra did without thinking but that she could control if she wished. But now, she has to try and it is frustrating.

"You can do this. Let go . . . Let go of conscious thought and just be in the Force."

Damn, this is disconcerting. Sion is really rattling her with his Jedi Master impression. Meetra grumbles, "You sound like one of us when you say that."

"Do I?" He's amused.

"You do." And it's not funny.

Sion considers the point. "I suppose that makes sense . . . Many of our most basic teachings are those handed down by the Dark Jedi exiles. Lightsabers came to our people from the Jedi as well. That long ago schism had enormous consequences for the galaxy."

Meetra grunts. "We didn't know that until recently. We had no idea the Sith were still around. We thought your kind died out after the Great Hyperspace War."

"That's what your High Council told you. They knew all along that we were out here. Darkness never dies. If you learn nothing else from me, learn this: where Light exists, Darkness persists."

"Two sides of the same Force . . ."

"Yes. There are many among the Sith who believe that the Dark Side is supreme. They are similarly wrong to your partisan Jedi brethren. There is no Dark without Light. The Force is both sides simultaneously. Neither is dominant."

"That's Jedi heresy," Meetra mutters.

Sion chuckles, and it's a strange sound coming from the mask. "It's Sith heresy as well," he admits. "Our religion and our politics are deeply intertwined in the Empire. To be curious about the Light is one step removed from treason for a Lord of the Sith. The work we undertake now is dangerous. But keep trying," he urges with what sounds like devious glee.

"I am."

"My people have long whispered that those who are strongest with the Dark Side are called to the Light. That the Darker you become, the more sensitive you are to detecting the Jedi Force. Does it work that way for your people? Are the strongest Jedi more likely to be drawn to Darkness?"

"I don't know," she answers honestly. "We are taught to fear Darkness. To turn away from it. To resist its temptation. For a Jedi Knight to fall to the Dark Side was unheard of . . . until recently."

"Revan."

"And others," she adds sadly.

"Do you feel anything yet?"

"No. But keep talking. I think it's helping."

"I agree. I can feel you relaxing."

She grumbles, "You're hard to relax around."

"I am not your enemy. In time, you will come to recognize that. You will get used to me."

Meetra's not so sure. But talking helps, so she asks a question. "Tell me about this call to the Light concept. Have you heard it yourself?"

"No. Never. But I woke up one day with you in my head. Does that count?"

Was that an attempt at humor? Meetra's not laughing. She considers his question at face value. "I don't know . . . No one in the Order ever discusses these things. The Dark Side was a mystery to us all until the war. We had never seen anyone use the Force that way before."

"What did you think?" Sion sounds genuinely curious.

She doesn't have an answer. "I don't understand how you use the Force. It's so different from how we are taught."

"How so? Tell me."

"Well, we are not encouraged to increase our power. We develop our skills, but we don't try to augment them."

"How . . . unprecedented."

"Jedi are discouraged from using their power too often, especially in public."

"Why?"

"It frightens laypeople. It intimidates them."

"Why is that a concern?"

"In the Republic, all citizens are created equal. The Order doesn't want to be perceived as using Force power to gain too much influence. The Order expends a lot of energy on setting limits. Our primary mission is to be public servants."

"I see. That is indeed very different from my experience. We have laypeople, but what they think doesn't matter. The entire Sith upperclass has the Force. It's far more prevalent than in the Republic, as I understand it."

"That's true. There are about twelve thousand Jedi Knights."

"So few. I suppose that is to be expected given you are all randoms."

"What's a random?"

"A Force sensitive person who did not inherit their talent. True randoms are very rare in the Empire. Almost all of us are from families with Force strong genetics."

"There are no Force strong families in the Republic. Our Code forbids us to marry and raise children."

"Why is that?"

"The Jedi are public servants with no allegiance beyond the Republic. That dedication is easiest when there are no families to support and care for, no aspirations beyond the Order, and no concentrations of Force power in dynasties. We say the Jedi live to serve . . . that our legacy is peace. Working for peace and harmony in the Republic is our primary goal."

"So no personal fulfillment? No relationships? No ambitions?"

"Only within the confines of what the Order will allow . . . which is not much."

"And did you personally maintain these strict rules?" Sion wants to know.

"What do you think?" Meetra asks dryly.

"I think not." Sion answers without hesitation.

"You're right. Look, this isn't working," she complains. "I can't feel you . . . I can't feel anything . . ." And talking about her old life is making her sad.

"Patience. You haven't even begun to try."

"Oh, I'm trying."

"Tell me more about the Jedi. What rules did you break?"

"All of them. Look, talking about the Order doesn't help. It gets me upset."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yes. You need to feel these emotions. To unlock the layers of your repression."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Meetra huffs.

"You have spent a lifetime ignoring suppressing your emotions. That will be a hard habit to break."

Stung, Meetra sneers back. "Is this therapy or meditation?"

"Maybe some of both," he muses wryly. "Can you sense me at all?"

"No." She has gone from discouraged to frustrated by now. Time to change things up. "Touch can promote a connection. We should touch. Give me your hand." Meetra offers hers.

Sion nods and offers his left hand. She clasps it, lacing her fingers into his to maximize the surface area of their touch, even if it's through his glove. "Yeah, this might help . . ." She could swear that her senses have sharpened as a result.

"Relax," Sion intones from beneath his mask. "Patience. Don't rush this."

"Keep talking," Meetra responds. "Tell me what happens if your Dark Side buddies find out that you're interested in the Light. Do you get dragged to your Emperor for execution?"

"If Vitiate wanted me dead, he'd send assassin squads. But that's low risk. My Emperor doesn't even know my name. That's intentional."

"I thought all Sith Lords wanted power and fame."

"Only those foolish enough to be obvious."

"Explain that."

"Vitiate fears rivals. Any man in his position would. It's best to stay beneath his notice. That way he doesn't know the extent of my power."

"And he won't suspect your ambitions?"

The mask nods. "You were listening in the throne room."

"I might have guessed had you not told me. So you want to supplant your Emperor, to rule it all . . . that's the usual thing for your kind . . . "

"Yes, but I might actually pull it off," Sion purrs.

Whatever. Meetra sighs. "It's not working. It's the glove."

"I'll take it off."

"N-No. No!" Meetra reflexively declines.

Beside her Sion stiffens. "It's not as bad as you fear."

"I'm not afraid. I just don't want to touch your zombie rot." She might catch some disease from that sort of thing.

"It's not as bad as you fear."

"I saw you on Korriban." Sion's shriveled skin has been terrible. The guy looked like an archaeological dig with his bones showing through. Meetra never wants to see that again, let alone touch it.

The jailor Tony had warned her that his boss would be offended by comments about his appearance. But Sion at least superficially takes it in stride. "For a general, you're pretty squeamish," he remarks as he untangles his hand from hers and reaches to pull his glove.

She panics. "I said no!" She needs to set some boundaries for whatever this bizarre relationship is.

Sion surprises her when he backs down. "Very well, then." He offers his gloved hand once more and Meetra accepts. She sets to work trying to find the Force again.

"Talk to me some more. For a second there, I thought that I heard you in my mind."

"Good. Goooooood," he approves. Sion leans in close and yet again, Meetra inhales his scent of decay. "You know how revolutionary this is, yes? A Jedi Knight and a Lord of the Sith working together to explore the Force. No one's ever done this before."

He's right. If someone had told her last week she'd be sitting side by side, hand in hand with Darth Sion exchanging small talk about the Sith and the Jedi Order, she'd call them a liar. But here she is. A prisoner of a Sith Lord who is treating her kindly and trying to help her. If the High Council knew what she and Sion are up to, they would be apoplectic. The Council Masters believed the worst of her, but this . . . this unorthodox, forbidden experimentation is next level treachery. What's more, Meetra doesn't care.

"A little heresy now and then isn't a bad thing," she gripes, thinking of all the change the dogmatic Jedi Order needs. It prompts her to brag, "I've been told that I shake things up."

"You are a favorite of the Force."

"Hardly. I have no Force."

"It is an expression of my people. We say that the Force chooses favorites to advance its purpose. They are change agents, enacting fate through their free will. To be a favorite of the Force means that you matter far more than the rest of us. But it's a blessing of glory, more so than happiness, I'm afraid. Is there an analogous Jedi concept?"

"No. There would never been such an idea. The Order doesn't like its members being too influential. They fear the potential to subvert the democratic process. That's partly why Revan and the rest of us got crosswise with the Council. The Council thought we should follow the lead of the Senate, rather than be at the forefront of its decision making."

"So the Jedi Order wants to exert influence, but not too much influence?"

"Yes."

"That's hard for me to comprehend. In my culture, no one shies away from using power."

"I get it. Restraint isn't really a Sith thing."

Sion laughs. It's a strange snickering sound when amplified by his mask. "You are dry, Meetra Surik, so dry. I like it. Sarcasm is very Sith."

"I see you never met Jedi Revan," she deadpans. Revan had an acid wit.

Her first impression misled her, Meetra is realizing. Darth Sion is far more sly and thoughtful than the brutish warrior she met on Korriban. He's surprising her with how interested he is in Jedi teaching. Opening her eyes to cast a glance at the Sith, Meetra begrudgingly admits, "You're not at all what I expected."

"Neither are you," he observes, "and that's a relief."

Encouraged by this moment of accord, Meetra impulsively decides, "Alright. Take off your glove."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. But don't make me look."

"Very well."

But this time, Sion is the one to hesitate. For a moment, Meetra isn't sure which of them is more intimidated. But slowly, Sion tugs off his left glove to reveal his corpse hand. His skin is an unnatural human hue of grey-brown. Bone shows through his knuckles and some of his finger joints. To Meetra's relief, there is no blood. This part of him appears more mummified looking than truly gory.

"You're looking at me."

"Yes." Meetra doesn't want to look, but she can't look away. "I'm looking at you," she acknowledges softly as she stares with revulsed fascination. "Oh, look at you. Yikes. That's enough." She averts her eyes.

"It won't hurt you to touch me. It won't hurt me either."

Cringing Meetra is now sorry she ever proposed this stupid idea. She starts backtracking. "I'm sorry, but . . uh . . ." She definitely does not want to touch him.

"I understand." Sion is philosophical about her reaction. "It is natural for the living to abhor death. Everyone wants to turn away from what they themselves will someday become."

"It's just uh . . . I mean, er . . . "

"I will put on the glove, if you wish But you are here to face your fears. Start small today with this. Take my hand." Sion offers it up.

"This is starting small?" she gulps.

"I'm afraid it's going to get far worse."

Meetra gulps a second time. "Why am I doing this again?" she asks in a small voice.

"For the only reason that matters . . . for power."

"You mean for the Force," Meetra instantly amends, feeling far more comfortable with that phrasing. "I can't believe you talked me into this scheme."

"I didn't have to. You would have agreed no matter what the terms and we both know it. It was the same for me. You have what I need. Now let us both be brave about it."

"I'm not feeling so brave." She probably shouldn't admit that, but she does.

"Would it help if you closed your eyes?"

"Is that silly?"

"Not if it works. I'm more concerned that you face your fear of Darkness than you face your fear of me."

"I'm not afraid of you," Meetra immediately bristles.

Sion's unconvinced. "Everyone is afraid of pain and death."

"Not a good Jedi," she grumbles. "A good Jedi accepts death, maybe even welcomes death as a return to the Force. I should have died at Malachor . . . I should have made the sacrifice I asked of others . . . I know some on the Council thought that."

"More likely they wished you were dead so they didn't have to confront you," Sion counters cynically. "Your death would have solved a problem for them."

"That too." But now, she's left with crushing survivor guilt.

"I am glad you lived. Now, be brave, Meetra," Sion encourages softly.

"Okay, here goes." Eyes closed, she reaches to place her hand lightly on his. She is passive as he tightens his grip around her fingers.

"There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

No, it's not. Sion's hand feels like anyone's hand. Warm and somewhat soft. With her eyes closed, Meetra can easily pretend that he's normal.

"Now, try again."

Calmer now, she endeavors anew to find the Force.

"Feel the energy that binds the universe together. Feel the life in the garden. The tension between a tree and the soil it grows in. The promise of a bud, the fruition of a flower, and the natural cycle of wither and decay that follows. Everything exists in balance . . . and when all is optimized, the plants will flourish . . . life flourishes."

"I don't sense any of that," she whispers sadly.

"What do you feel?"

"Nothing." She experiences nothing. Suddenly, Meetra feels like crying. For she cannot express in words how bereft she is without the Force.

"Don't give up. We are just getting started. Be patient. In time, we will find your power."

Sion sounds beguilingly certain and he makes Meetra want to feel certain too. But she's not. And she's still stumped as to Sion's true intentions. What is he really up to? Meetra flat out tells him, "I really don't understand your motivation in this." She's not expecting him to answer her truthfully, but she wants to hear what he has to say.

"It's simple: I want your help. Where else am I going to find someone willing and able to show me Light Side healing techniques? You cannot compel that sort of thing through torture. I know because I have tried. Good Jedi captives always martyr themselves."

Meetra frowns, irrationally feeling dissed that she's not in the good Jedi category any longer.

"Stop that," Sion chides her. "I know what you're thinking. When you are close like this, I hear your actual thoughts. Usually, it's just random impressions."

Great, Meetra thinks. Now, she's at a complete disadvantage.

His answer is quick squeeze of her hand. "It will be alright. I'm on your side."

Meetra's not fool enough to believe that. A Sith Lord is always looking out for his own best interests. She snatches her hand back fast. "I hate this Force bond! I've never heard of a one-sided Force bond. Oooooh," she groans out her rising irritation, "this is all your fault! You must have caused this to happen when you tried that Nihilus technique to drain my Force . . ."

"Yes, that is a possibility I have considered," Sion concedes. "But I prefer to think of our connection as a blessing rather than an accident."

"A blessing?" Seriously?

Sion nods piously and informs her, "The Force ties us for a reason."

"So I can get my Force back and then you can get healed?" she surmises.

"I hope so. I don't think the Force wants for anyone to turn away from its power. It's unnatural."

Yes, she knows. Being a so-called wound in the Force is very unnatural. But then again, so is being a centuries old zombie Sith. Could the Force really be looking to reconcile with them both?

"Traya's theories are wrong," Sion insists. "Is she in your head? Does she speak to you?"

Meetra knows better than to lie. The one-way bond will betray her. "Kreia has helped me a time or two. She lends me her Force. She did it on Korriban." Meetra can't use her own Force, but for some reason she can use someone else's.

"That explains why you fought so well without your power. She was helping you?"

"Yes. She saved me."

Sion sniffs, "I let you go. Even back then," he growls and clenches a fist, "Traya wanted to keep us apart. She must have foreseen our meeting. Be careful of that heretic. She will use you. She will offer you power and take the opportunity to get in your head and control you."

"Like you?" Meetra sharply retorts. "Look, I'm not stupid. I know that she's got an agenda." Like Sion himself does.

The Sith is quick to recognize his self-interest. "Be careful for both our sakes. Your head might reveal me to her too."

"Worried that I might use her power to escape?" Meetra dares to threaten. "Worried that I might betray you—her so-called ally—to her?"

"Think it through. You're far safer here with me."

Meetra's eyes narrow at this blatant attempt at manipulation. It's like she has feared all along. "I'm the pawn in a Sith Triumvirate powerplay? Right?"

Sion phrases it differently. "We are helping each other. The choice between Traya and myself is clear: I will help you regain your Force. She will never do that."

He's correct, and Meetra knows it. She would never have agreed to tolerate this creepy guy if he weren't her best—really, her only—chance to regain her connection to the Force. Like it or not, she's stuck dealing with Darth Sion.

"Do not," he warns, "be taken in by a feeling of kinship for Traya from your shared Jedi background or from your mutual regard for Revan. Traya is evil!" he hisses. "Any teaching that abhors the Force is evil! I have spent centuries grasping for power to stay alive. I know how valuable life—the Force—is."

That comment hits a raw nerve. "Yeah?" Meetra jeers glumly, "well, I don't know that anymore . . ." She is a stranger to the Force now. Uncertain what she believes. Adrift and even hopeless on bad days. Upset, Meetra leaps to her feet and stomps a few paces away. She hugs her arms to her chest and presents her back to the Sith.

Sion appreciates her predicament. As he rises to his feet and moves to join her, he speaks. "If you will work with me, my Lady, maybe I can help you find your faith again." He extends a hand and the flower he presented earlier flies into his grip. Sion offers it once more. "We could be just what the other needs to be happy again. We are broken souls, you and I, but by the grace of the Force we will fix each other."

The words are spoken with compelling intensity. Meetra can almost feel how fervent Darth Sion is . . . how desperately he wants this vague happy ending he's promising. For a moment, Meetra thinks the bond might be working both ways for her to sense it. But even if she's deaf to their connection, Meetra has fallen for Sion's bargain completely. Suddenly, she wants their plot to succeed every bit as much as he does. She and this monster in a mask are conspirators out of necessity, not from any true affinity or meeting of the minds. But maybe, just maybe, they can achieve success . . .

It's irritating how easily he has convinced her. Meetra shoots that angular etched mask a peeved look. "You're very good at lures," she observes tartly.

He takes it as a compliment. "I am a veteran of the study of human nature. I know that the most effective temptation is to give someone what they want most, even if they are afraid to admit it to themselves. Compelling someone with leverage—with violence, with extortion, or bribes—yields compliance only for a time. Lasting loyalty comes from fulfilling a meaningful desire. And you, Lady Surik, desire what I desire: power."

Meetra doesn't deny it. Yep, she sighs inwardly, she's a total failure as a Jedi.

"Don't waste further time trying to meditate in your cell. Instead, try to connect with me through the bond. See if you can access my Force like you accessed Traya's."

Meetra is alarmed at the suggestion that she get inside his head. "I'm not going Dark!" She thought she made that point very clear yesterday. "I will never be Sith!"

Sion nods and slowly speaks words she refuses to hear. "Beautiful, sad Meetra, you're already Dark. You just can't see it. You can't bring yourself to be Dark and so you cut yourself off from the Force. It is too abhorrent to you. You recoil from what you have done . . . from who you have become."

"That's not true!"

"It is. I want you to behold my Darkness, my Lady. Use it as a starting point. Once you get comfortable with my Shadow Force, perhaps you will be able to confront your own."

"I am not Dark!" Meetra fairly shrieks at Sion. She's not Dark. She can't be! Sure, she's not Jedi, but she's not Sith. There isn't really a name for what she is. Meetra's bottom lip is trembling and her cheeks feel hot. "I am not Dark!" she insists. "And I don't want to look into your mind!"

"Will it help if I give you an inducement?" Sion coaxes.

She fumes, looks away, and refuses to answer.

Sion is standing very close now, at her shoulder and in her space. Like some trolling bad angel whispering encouragement to misdeeds in her ear. "Get in my head," he suggests huskily. "Work at it. When you succeed, you will learn all my secrets. And then, you will know whether you can trust me."

Meetra scowls and mutters, "I thought you wanted me out of your head . . ."

"Work with me," Sion prods. "Promote the connection from your side when you are alone during the day. Each night, you will come to me and we will join our efforts. If we work together, I know we can discover the secret to regain your power."

Meetra knows she should say no. She should rebuke this Sith like the tempting devil he is. She should cling fast to the teachings of the Order, no matter what the cost. But she doesn't. Feeling humiliated by her weakness, Meetra bows her head. A single, stubborn tear meanders out as she sighs, "Alright." Furious at herself, at Sion, and at the universe in general, she swipes at the evidence of her emotional distress.

"No, don't." Sion intercepts her hand. "Let yourself feel. Don't bottle it up. Emotions are powerful. Do not run from them." The hand holding her wrist is the ungloved one. The grey, chapped, and bruised zombie hand she held a few minutes ago. That hand now leads her in silence through the greenhouse and then back outside. Sion hands her off to the waiting guards.

"Until tomorrow night," he tells her before the elevator doors close.