Meetra looks up as the door to her cell slides open. In saunters Tony. He's holding a steaming cup of caf and munching on a cookie. "Good morning," he announces brightly.

She eyes him coolly. Her eyes linger on all that thick, perfectly combed auburn hair.

Tony takes a slurp of caf and digs into his pocket to produce a little wrapped bundle. "Want a cookie?"

"No, thanks."

"Not hungry?"

"No." And if those cookies are a peace offering, she refuses that too.

"They're warm."

"I said no." Her words come out sharply. Meetra is seething and she won't bother to hide it. Cookies aren't the topic they need to discuss, and he knows it.

But Tony is as blithe as ever. "They're good," he coaxes as he pops another one in his mouth.

"It's too early for cookies." No one's even brought her breakfast yet.

"Very well. Suit yourself." Tony pockets the extra cookies. "More for me," he jokes. When she doesn't even begin to crack a smile, he frowns. "Bad night?"

Is he being coy? Meetra growls, "Something like that, yes."

Tony plays dumb. "What happened?"

Meetra sits back on her bench, crosses her arms, and cocks her head up at the jailor. "Why don't you tell me, Tony?" she jeers, spitting out the nickname she's given him. "You seem to know a lot about what happens around here."

Tony doesn't reply immediately. Instead, he stares at her long and hard, looking as though he is deliberating.

Meetra raises her eyebrows at him expectantly. It's his move.

"Okay." Tony begins improvising. "So, the cook was giggling a bit when I saw her just now . . . Lord Sion told her to bake a wedding cake."

"Yeah?" Meetra looks away, annoyed by his lie.

"Aren't you going to ask who's the bride?"

"No."

"It's you."

Fuck this. Meetra explodes at him. "Shut up, will you?" She doesn't want to hear more lies. "Better yet, go away!"

Tony doesn't take the hint. "Naturally, I had to come by to see you to get the scoop on the big news." The jailor takes another long slurp of his drink and remarks dryly, "Congratulations. From prisoner to Lady Sion in three weeks. That's got to be some sort of record. You really are the femme fatale of the Light Side."

"Seriously," Meetra warns in a voice that those under her command would know to heed, "shut the fuck up. You're just digging a deeper hole."

"Hey now—"

"Shut the fuck up and go away!"

Now, he's pissed too. "I'm not going anywhere. It's my job to look after you."

Yeah? Meetra leaps to her feet. "Are we doing this? Are we really still doing this, Tony?"

Understanding shows on the jailor's face. He mutters, "I guess there's no need to pretend any longer—"

Irate Meetra snarls, "Why stop now? I'm going to pretend that you just happened to come by to offer me cookies so you could accidentally on purpose check on me for the boss. I'll play along and you'll play along—"

"There's no need—"

"There is!" She glares at Lord Sion's jailor and decides, "There is because I want you to negotiate on my behalf. You can bring back my list of terms to Sion. Since you're so good at playing the go-between . . . "

"List of terms?" He frowns.

"You did say that marriages were negotiated and strategic among your people, did you not?"

"Well, yes. But you should really speak to Lord Sion directly—"

Meetra interrupts. "Why? When I have you?"

That last word hangs in the air between them, an oblique accusation.

Again, Tony stares at her long and hard. Is he going to come clean? No. "Very well. Let's hear it."

Okay, here goes. Meetra rehearsed her objections all night in her head. She leads with the crucial point. "I am a Jedi—"

"Ex-Jedi."

"I am a Jedi. They threw me out. I did not quit." Gritting her teeth, Meetra hisses, "There is a difference."

Tony digs in and nearly growls, "You are no longer a Jedi," with a vehemence that betrays he's no mere bystander regarding the matter up for discussion.

"The point is," she glares hard back at him, "that I don't do attachments. I don't want a relationship. I won't get married."

"You should be telling this to Sion."

"I'm telling YOU!" And was that clear enough?

"Then before you get much further," Tony calmly responds, "you should think hard on how much you dislike this cell. Because you will never get out of this cell—you will never get the chance to build a new life and make even the most commonplace of personal decisions—unless you do it under Sion's protection and control. And the easiest, most socially acceptable solution to accomplish that is for you to marry the Master. Perhaps if this were the Republic, there would be another way. But you're in the Empire now. Men and women do not live together unmarried. They do not have close friendships unmarried. They do not spend significant time together unmarried. To do so is to invite gossip and scandal, and that will call attention to you both. A man in Sion's position must be careful not to gain the notice of the Emperor. And need I remind you that there is a bounty on your head? You are wanted dead or alive, Jedi General Meetra Surik."

She scoffs. "I'll take my chances." She's been risking capture for years now.

"You might be willing to risk it, but he won't. Sion will keep you locked away, if that's what it takes, rather than hazard that the Palace assassins show up one night and finish the hit job Vitiate ordered two centuries ago. On Dromund Kaas, Lord Sion is believed to be a broken man, half insane, more monster than man. And that fiction keeps Vitiate from worrying about the true extent of his power. If the Emperor knew of his abilities, if he knew of the dyad between you, your lives would immediately be forfeit for the threat it presents to the regime."

Meetra isn't persuaded. "I have heard enough about how my imprisonment is for my own good—"

"Then start to believe it! That last mission we went on—the one we returned back with so many captives-that mission came at Traya's behest. She seeks to find you and she has approached multiple Lords to hunt you down by promising to top the official bounty. Sion's playing along, pretending he's looking for you too. He's going to need to fake your death convincingly to take the pressure off. But it won't help if there is gossip about a Republic Jedi woman living with him."

"How is marrying me going to change that risk?"

"Men will think twice before they gossip or inform on Sion's wife. But if you're perceived as his mistress, you have no status. Or perhaps it's better to say that you will have negative status. We are a moralistic, some say misogynist society, where loose women are not applauded. As a Republic Jedi, you will earn even more scorn for that particular transgression."

"You mean Sion's at risk, isn't that it?" she goads, feeling cynical about this explanation.

Tony shakes his head. "You're not getting this. No one will point fingers at him. They will clap him on the back for ostensibly deflowering a virgin nun of the Light. That's how the Empire works. There is a double standard for behavior for Lords and for Ladies, and you won't even merit the respect given to a proper Sith Lady unless you have the title wife."

This scheme is ridiculous. She throws up her hands. "He can't marry a fugitive enemy of the state."

"It's risky, yes. But don't you see that he is offering to share the risk with you?"

She's confused. "How?"

"Let me put it this way: if tomorrow you were discovered in this cell, Sion could simply hand you over and earn commendation for your capture. If there has been some delay in the process, he could explain it away as time spent on interrogation to ensure your true identity before reporting you to the Palace. Then, Sion would go on as before and you would die horribly."

Meetra gulps. She can't argue with that logic.

"Contrast that with the scenario in which you are discovered masquerading as Sion's wife. Now, he's harboring an enemy of the state. He's entered into an illegal marriage fraudulently represented to the Palace. That is a conspiracy, and Vitiate will surely want to know the motivation. And that's," Tony informs her, "where the true risk lies."

"Treason . . . " she breathes out softly.

"Indeed. There are no easy, assured solutions for your predicament, Lady Exile. But Sion's offering you a path forward with this marriage offer. You're a general—you're used to weighing the pros and cons to make difficult decisions, right? Consider his proposal the same way."

"Does it have to be marriage? Can't I be some cousin come to visit?"

"It has to be marriage. That relationship will garner the most automatic deference and it will provide a social role for you to play. You need a cover story for your existence in this household."

Meetra understands that pragmatism, but Tony's still not hearing her fundamental objection. "I don't want an attachment."

"Those rules no longer apply—"

"I," she jabs a thumb at her chest, "don't want an attachment. That's not a rule someone's making for me, that's a rule I'm making for myself."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes. Why?"

Why? Because it's too late to embark on that sort of thing now. Secular married life is a path she might have taken a decade ago, but not now. And not with Sion here in the Empire. Maybe with another man. Well, maybe with Revan. But that's beside the point. She's too emotionally scarred to offer anyone anything right now. Meetra knows she's at a nadir currently. She's gone from being in personal and professional crisis to sulking aimlessly in deep depression. And that experience has her far more fragile than she lets on.

Sion, drat that masked fucker, must see it plainly thanks to the bond.

Sure, she needs stability and a cause. Some protection would be helpful, too. But marriage to a Sith Lord seems like a steep price to pay for those benefits. It feels uncomfortably like prostituting herself, and that is an affront to both her ego and her dignity. Plus, she's never contemplated what it means to be a wife. That status clearly means specific things here in Sith culture and it makes Meetra extra dubious.

Tony is looking to her for an answer. She replies truthfully. "I'm not up for an attachment now. Probably not ever."

He digests this response and replies with a question. "What is an attachment exactly?"

She gives him the short version of the Light Side catechism. "The commitment to the Order and to the Republic is foremost in a Jedi's life. Romantic and family relationships are forbidden lest you neglect that duty in favor of a spouse, lover, child or other relative. Jedi have no actual family. The Order is our family. That is intentional. A Jedi must not be conflicted in their loyalties."

"But you already broke that rule . . ."

"No," she disagrees. "I had hookups now and then. We all did. That wasn't exactly approved of, but it happened and no one objected." Least of all her Crusader peers who did it themselves far more often than she ever did. "Moreover," Meetra snarls, her indignation outpacing her embarrassment at this increasingly frank conversation, "those uh uh nights were entirely of my own uh choosing." No man ever tried to maneuver her into bed. If drunken memory serves correct, she was usually the aggressor.

He's confused. "What's a hookup?" Evidently, the Republic slang doesn't translate.

"It's casual sex. A one-night stand. You know . . . with no expectations of commitment or a relationship. It's not even dating. It's just sex." She shrugs as she feels her cheeks turn pink. Meetra looks away to avoid Tony's clear disapproval. "Look, think of it as a purely physical thing. You fuck for fun and then you move on."

Tony's face wrinkles with distaste. "The Sith do not do that."

Yes, she knows. She read the datafile he gave her. The cultural gulf between the personal freedom that women in the Republic enjoy compared to their Sith sisters cannot be overstated. Honestly, she never anticipated that the Dark Side would be so prim. She figured the Sith would be all-in for debauchery and excess. But it turns out, they're not.

"You're saying that the Jedi Order would prefer you to have anonymous random encounters rather than marriage?" Tony is squinting at her in puzzled disbelief.

"Well, yes."

"And you don't think that's backwards?"

"No. Why would I think that?"

"Because sex within the confines of marriage provides the most economic and social resources for the rearing of children and the protection of women."

"Jedi women don't need protecting and they don't have children," she points out.

Tony keeps trying to understand a viewpoint that is obviously contrary to his mores. The Sith clearly ascribe a lot of social capital to marriage and chastity, whereas the modern Republic evolved past those ideas centuries ago. Back home, traditional marriage is now one of many acceptable lifestyles people can choose to pursue. "So you're saying that the attachment problem isn't the sex, it's the wedding commitment? It's the loyalty? The companionship?"

"Where Sion is concerned, it's all a problem," she harrumphs.

"But you said—"

"I am not fucking him and I'm not marrying him!" Was that clear enough?

Apparently not. Tony tries a new angle. "You don't think this dyad connection is the beginning of an attachment?"

"No."

"I see." He looks disappointed. "Very well. I shall tell the Master that."

"You do that," Meetra sniffs. She plops back down on her bench and scowls.

Tony's eyes sweep over her. His face is hard. "You are very angry."

"You think?" she jeers.

"He offers you mercy. He will risk giving you his name, his home, and his protection, and you are offended . . ." Tony looks genuinely confused by that reaction. "Other Ladies—proper Ladies, not exiled enemy fugitives-would be honored."

That comment pisses her off. Is she supposed to be overcome with gratitude for this bizarre marriage proposal? Meetra vents, "Sion once told me that leverage is everything, and I guess he feels he has all the leverage here. Well, no deal! I'll stay in this cell, thank you!" Fuck Sion and his coercive, condescending happily-ever-after.

"He's rich. You will have whatever you wish."

"Sion can't buy what I want." Namely, her Force, her freedom, her good name, and her happiness back.

"He's well connected. He could—"

"Go make this pitch to some other woman, will you?" she rudely cuts him off. "I'm sure there's one somewhere who will accept."

Tony's lips settle into a compressed, grim line as he continues to study her glumly. "So, when you said you had terms for me to present to the Master, you really meant a rejection? Not a counteroffer?"

She looks up. "Will he actually negotiate?"

"I will present the conditions you propose, and he can decide," Tony punts, adding, "I'm just the messenger."

Yeah, right. But Meetra now starts listing one-sided demands that she knows Sion will never agree to. Because what the Hell? It's worth a try if it might get her out of this cell.

"The marriage would need to be a sham. I will not enter into any true legal commitment to a Sith Lord."

Tony nods. "The legalities would have to be faked at any rate. The Palace would never approve such a marriage. Go on. What else?"

"It can't be a personal commitment either."

"Meaning?"

"I'm not promising to love, honor, cherish, or obey him."

"What are you promising?"

"To heal him."

Tony thinks a moment. "Sith marriage vows promise passion for strength, strength for power, and power for victory."

She smirks and deploys her sarcasm. "Sounds romantic."

Tony ignores the nasty comment. "Could you promise those things?" he wants to know.

"It's all a sham. I can promise any lie," Meetra responds flippantly.

"What about loyalty? He won't want you running to Traya."

"Then he had better not give me reason to do so."

"And what about fidelity?"

"I'm not fucking him. That's non-negotiable. I don't care who he fucks, but it won't be me."

Tony nods slowly. After a moment, he sighs, "I suppose that means no children . . ."

"Damn right!" she affirms. She's not the mother type.

This seems to be the first real sticking point. Tony goes silent again before he pushes back. "Might you be convinced to be open to children? To be open to new life from the Force?"

"What does that mean?" It sounds like some sort of buzzword euphemism that connotes a lot, and that has Meetra suspicious.

Tony explains, "It's not a firm and forever 'no' to children. It's a 'maybe, someday, perhaps under the right circumstances' approach to children."

Meetra shakes her head. "I doubt that's even possible. Before I left for war with the Crusaders, I took the Order up on their offer of permanent birth control. The kid thing is probably a non-starter for that reason alone."

"I don't understand."

She flushes at the embarrassing topic. "Look, I had a medical procedure to end my fertility. Lots of Jedi women do it so they can dispense with menstruation and all the crap that comes with it." No one wants to leave the bridge during command of a battle to go change a tampon. The procedure took care of that entirely. "It's not a requirement, but it is encouraged." She shrugs. "Why not? I mean, I'm never having kids . . ."

Tony looks aghast. "They—they s-sterilized you? The Jedi sterilize their women?" His eyes are wide with affront.

Meetra fidgets uncomfortably at his dismay. Maybe she should have expected this reaction, but it feels harsh nonetheless. She bristles. "It was my choice."

"You're telling me that the Light Side fears attachments so much—they fear the fruitfulness of their women so much—that they encourage you to self-mutilate? Oh, Meetra, I am so sorry for you."

He's utterly sincere, and that makes his stark, loaded words grate. Meetra again asserts, "It was my body. It was my choice."

"That you believe that statement makes it worse." Sounding uber-Sith, he laments, "You were socially conditioned not to value your biological power as a woman. Orphaned and taught from childhood to resist a woman's natural inclination to family . . . "

"No, that's not it." Suddenly, she's being framed as the victim of extremism in comparison to his fascist, patriarchal Sith mindset. Meetra resents it. Because sure, his kind might be committed to family, but it comes at the cost of almost all opportunities for Sith women. And why are even they talking about this? It's just one more thing to bicker over. She sighs. "What's done is done."

He nods slowly and amends that sentiment by muttering, "Force's will be done." It feels like another attack on her agency in the matter, but Meetra lets it slide. It's not like she's going to sleep with Sion anyway. This whole point is irrelevant.

Meetra keeps negotiating because why not? She's gotten this far, so she might as well ask for anything and everything. "I decide when this sham marriage ends."

"Why does it need to end?" Tony counters.

"I want an exit strategy in case it doesn't work out." Which has a very high likelihood in her estimation given how different she and Sion are.

"There is no divorce in the Empire."

"This isn't a real marriage, so divorce isn't a relevant concept," she points out. "But I want an exit strategy agreed upfront."

"Where would you go? You can't go back to the Republic."

"Where I go would be my decision," she informs him tartly. "That's the point. If this charade doesn't work, or it runs its course and we achieve our goals, we go our separate ways." And that's important. Because whatever this ruse is, it is not a real commitment. This isn't an actual relationship. It's not an attachment, it's an alliance, Meetra decides on acceptable neutral terminology.

Tony knows what she's doing. "You have made this very illusory."

"That's right. It's a sham marriage of convenience that I can end at any time," she sums things up.

"You're asking for a lot and giving very little."

"I'm healing him. Unless there's another Jedi around willing to do that, I'm his girl. Leverage," Meetra smugly quotes Sion, "is everything."

"He already has your healing. You can heal him from this cell."

That's a point Sion surely knew before he proposed this marriage. Whatever he's really after, it's obviously more than Force healing. Meetra decides to press her leverage. She flashes a tight smile, "You're right. I guess this marriage idea won't work after all. Forget the conditions, tell him I decline."

Again, Tony sees what she's doing. "You drive a hard bargain. But I can take your terms to the boss and see what he says . . . "

"To be clear: I'm fine to stay single here in my cell," she sniffs.

He looks her in the eye and delivers a curt response, "After a few months, you might feel otherwise."

Meetra shrugs off the implied threat. Hopefully, by that time she'll have her Force back and she'll be gone.

"I'll talk to the Master and see what he says. But don't get your hopes up."

She snorts. "Do I look like I'm getting my hopes up? And wait-add another thing. I'm not going to bow and scrape and call you 'my Lord' every other fucking sentence."

Did he catch that pronoun? It was an intentional slip.

Tony does not react. Never breaking character from his strawman alter ego, he tells her, "I'm sure he will expect you to show the usual deference in the proper settings, but that need not be a constant habit. The Master does not keep an overly formal household. This isn't Dromund Kaas."

Meetra glares and swallows the bitter accusation that's left waiting on her lips. Because what's the point in unmasking Sion's deceit to take him to task? What will that confrontation earn her? And will he even acknowledge it? Far from looking threatened, Tony looks almost happy now. Perhaps relieved? Wait-could he be in her mind currently? Maybe so. Well, good. Because if that earlier remark didn't adequately convey her suspicions, maybe the bond will. Tony, you faker, I see through you . . . Mask or no mask, Sion, I have you figured out . . . She might no longer be a Jedi, but she still remembers her Jedi teaching: when you sense a trap, spring the trap.

"I will take your requests back to Lord Sion. You can speak with him tonight."

Whatever. Meetra looks away. If she was angry when Tony walked in, she's doubly angry now. Because the only thing more infuriating than an overdue knockdown, drag out fight is discovering that you're fighting an opponent who refuses to engage.

"Until then, this will keep you busy." Tony digs into his pocket—the one without the rejected cookies—to produce a datafile. "You wanted some new reading material? Plug this into that datapad. It's the trashiest novel the Empire has ever published. It's banned now. But Sion's old enough to have an original copy."

"Banned? The Emperor bans books?"

"He bans all sorts of things. Lady Chattel's Lover is just the start of his censorship."

Forgetting for a moment her outrage, Meetra is intrigued. "What's so bad about the book?"

"Read it and see. The political and class commentary is pretty tame, if you ask me. I think it was banned for all the smut. Lady Chattel spends much of the book in bed with a servant cuckolding her impotent war hero husband."

"Does it end with an honor killing?" Meetra groans. "If so, I'll pass." She's had enough moralizing and slut shaming for one morning.

"I won't spoil it," Tony smirks, "but one mark of a compelling story is that its tropes are the beginning, not the ending."

"Oh, so you're a literary critic now?"

"Not really," he grins sheepishly. "But maybe this is just what you need to get in the mood for a honeymoon."

"There is no honeymoon," she growls.

"You might change your mind after you read that steamy book," he teases.

"Get out! But give me the book first."

"As you wish." Tony now approaches to hand over the datafile. He doesn't drop it in her waiting open palm like she expects. Instead, he offers it in his own hand. When Meetra reaches for the file, Tony closes his grip. And for a second or two, he deliberately holds on.

Meetra feels the rush of Force as the bond flares open on her end. There could be no more conclusive proof of the deceit of Lord Sion. But he's not just leaving clues now. He's silently admitting to it. What game is this? Is more manipulation ahead? Does he want his alter ego to be some sort of open secret between them? Some kind of inside joke? Could this be a prank? Feeling more upset than triumphant, bewildered Meetra orders, "Get out!" again.

This time, the Sith Lord posing as his own jailor meekly accepts the dismissal.

Hours later, Meetra is summoned. She girds herself for an uncomfortable conversation about her least favorite topic: becoming Missus Sion. Will the Sith drop the idea entirely now that he's heard her list of conditions? He wouldn't attempt to forcibly marry her, would he? Unsure where this is all heading, Meetra accepts the enveloping black hooded cloak the guards present her without comment. As she pulls an arm into the heavy garment, she catches a faint, ghostly whiff of old perfume. She refuses to let it worry her that Sion's dressing her up in more of his dead wife's clothes. She simply pulls the hood up and low as instructed and follows the guards.

Meetra is surprised when her retinue marches to the throne room. Inside, she finds Sion wearing his full regalia as he lounges manspreading on his high chair in a power pose. He has his mask on, but at least in this setting he is who he purports to be: master of the fortress moon from which he commands an entire system in one of the Sith Empire's most outlying, least developed sectors.

"Ah, my Lady, welcome." Sion waves her forward like this is a social occasion, not a command appearance. This time, the zombie Sith does not dismiss his guards. Their meeting will apparently have witnesses.

Meetra shifts her weight and fumes. She's annoyed that Sion has chosen to conduct this interview from his high throne looming over her small below. If he's trying to play up the power imbalance between them, this setting accomplishes that. Could he be attempting to preempt a screaming match about his ruse as his own jailor with this formal setting full of onlookers? Or, are they not going to talk about that? The biggest unsettled issue between them is his marriage proposal, and that's a discussion she had assumed they would conduct in private, but maybe not.

Sion must be in her thoughts because he stands and walks down from the dais. "Walk with me," he invites.

She falls into step beside him as he exits the public doors at the back of his throne room and keeps walking. They are alone now. Or as alone as you can be in a fortress decorated with guards every few meters.

Sion starts making casual conversation. "I was ten years old when my grandfather gave me my first mask. He said I needed it because I was the type who had a face that shows what I'm thinking."

"He was right." Meetra liked the open, honest face of Tony the jailor right away. Looking back, she thinks that earnest face was part of what made him so convincing.

"Transparency is a dangerous thing in a leader, my grandfather believed. He taught me that whenever I grew up to sit on a throne or to confront an enemy, I must do so wearing a mask. Keep them guessing, he used to say. Never let them see what you think. Make them fear. Confuse them and use it to your advantage. He was old school in his tactics, even for back then."

"Is this some sort of apology?" Meetra grinds out impatiently. She's wondering where this monologue about deceit is heading.

"The Sith do not apologize," Sion responds simply.

She raises an eyebrow. "Did you learn that from Grandpa too?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"So what is this, if it's not an apology?"

"It's an explanation. When I came to confront the enemy who bested my men on Korriban, I did so under false pretenses. I was seeking information. You spoke to the jailor more readily than to Sion."

"That's true," she concedes, "but it doesn't excuse the deception."

"I have been trying to take this mask off for you for days. You didn't seem to want me to do so."

"That's not the same as inviting you to deceive me," Meetra snaps.

Sion shrugs off the point and keeps refusing to be drawn into an argument. "I am cautious by nature, and not just for you. Who I appear to be in many settings is not who I truly am."

"So deception is a habit?" She'll remember that.

"Yes, to an extent," he admits. "But things are rarely what they outwardly seem in the Empire. We are a society of secrets that relishes privacy."

Meetra comes from the oversharing 'look at me' culture of the Republic where the distinction between public and private long ago gave way to the need to demonstrate authenticity so as to appear relatable. Transparency is a core value where she comes from. Truth matters. "Well, there's the best reason for why I won't marry you," Meetra snarls. "I don't trust you."

Sion has anticipated this objection. He asks, "Do you trust the Force?"

"That's not relevant."

"Of course, it is. The Force is what's connecting us. Trust in the wisdom of the Force and take this leap of faith with me."

Is he kidding with that argument? He must be kidding. Either that, or he truly is the religious nut she fears.

For her part, Meetra is not sympathetic to his 'I'm cautious' explanation or his 'I'm a Sith and we do this' excuse. Moreover, she's been primed and ready since this morning to vent her anger for his deception. That context makes this mild-mannered debate of points and counterpoints feel very underwhelming. Yet again, Meetra is not getting the satisfaction of a good argument. So, she accuses, "You're delusional!" in a loud voice that draws looks.

Sion doesn't react. And yet again, Meetra feels thwarted. The Sith is not so much aggressive as he is ruthlessly logical in his efforts to manipulate her. And that's disarming. Sion is far less confrontational than she's used to. She worries that she's playing checkers and he's playing chess . . . that his is the far more sophisticated gameplay. Because here he is ostensibly giving her a choice even as he lowkey insists on having his way.

They have traversed the public gathering chamber that abuts his throne room and then wandered down two wide corridors. Now, they exit the fortress itself and descend two flights of stairs to walk out into the expansive green space surrounding Sion's headquarters. It's lush and perfectly manicured, as befits the estate of a gardener Sith Lord. But Meetra's too annoyed to appreciate the pretty vista. She's focused on avoiding getting maneuvered again by Sion while still getting out of her cell, if possible.

Her captor resumes speaking of the past. "My grandfather Darth Signal was the inflexible sort, but I adored him. His greatest wish for me was that I would live to see the much-anticipated war with the Republic so I could kill a Jedi and bring honor to the family. And now," Sion remarks wryly, "I find myself marrying a Jedi. Grandfather would be most displeased."

"I haven't agreed to marry you."

"Oh, but you will," he softly cajoles.

"Does that mean you will submit to my demands? All of my demands?"

Sion laughs. It's a spontaneous braying sound coming from the mask. "That sounded very Sith of you, Meetra."

"Answer the question."

He chuckles again and observes, "We are definitely rubbing off on you."

She stiffens. "I've always been direct."

"Yes, I know. I like that about you. I like how you don't filter yourself to account for other's feelings, but you all too often can't bring yourself to admit what you want. You are proud. I admire that. But you also have a blind spot a sector wide for your own needs."

"I do not!"

"It's all that famed Jedi selflessness, no doubt. Never lose you contradictions, my dear. They are part of what makes you beguiling."

She stops walking now, forcing Sion to halt as well. Enough of this prevarication. Meetra declares, "I am not marrying you unless it's a fake commitment that I can end at any time for any reason." That's worth agreeing to so she can escape her cell, she reasons, and it won't cost her anything.

"That's fine."

"Er . . . what?" Did she hear right?

She did. Sion assures her, "It's like I told you the first time we met in my throne room: you may set whatever conditions you wish for us. Whatever demands you make, I will agree to. There. The negotiations are done. Now, we can get married."

That's not the response she is anticipating. Meetra is confused, hopelessly confused, and wary of being deceived again. "Why do you even want this fake marriage?" she mutters.

"For many reasons, that cell is not a good long-term solution for you. I need an excuse to let you out and keep you around. Power like ours," Sion confides conspiratorially, "must be nurtured and concealed."

"I thought you wanted me out of your head." That's the pretext under which this all started.

"That was before I understood what you could do . . . before I perceived our dyad."

She sighs, "This is about power . . ."

"Yes. This is the Empire. We don't marry for love. We marry for strategic reasons and then love grows in time."

She snorts. "Yeah, right." As if that will ever happen.

"Admit it—you like me," he goads. "You might not trust me yet, but you like me. That's a promising start." He leans in to confide, "I find you fascinating."

"We barely know one another."

"Sith unions are arranged. We probably know each other better than most betrothed couples," he assures her.

"We have nothing in common."

"Our differences complement one another. We shall learn from one another. Plus, we are a dyad. What the Force joins together, only death can tear asunder. Face it, Meetra, we are destiny," he gushes. "Stop fighting it."

That kind of talk makes her nervous because it sounds nothing like the sham relationship she's stipulating. Looking away, Meetra huffs, "I have a bad feeling about this." It doesn't help matters that she's standing here shrouded in black like his bona fide wifey already.

"You're scared. That is not the same as a premonition."

She digs in. "I still have a bad feeling . . . "

Yet again, Meetra's not getting any spectacular fight from the Sith. She and Sion have merely resumed their earlier negotiations. She pushes, he pushes. She stabs, he falls back. And then again, they begin to circle one another, each assessing the next move in their ongoing verbal dance.

"I am giving you what you want. You have won. I am vanquished," Sion declares. "Accept your victory gracefully and let's get married."

"I don't want any of this," she grumbles. She definitely doesn't feel like she's winning. It feels more like she has negotiated the terms of her surrender.

"Perhaps you would like to get back in your cell?" Sion muses. "Will a few more weeks of solitary convince you to take your place as mistress of all this?" He gestures to the expansive greenspace and towards the imposing fortress they have just left. "Stop being stubborn, my dear. We both know you want to accept. Make us both happy and say yes. Now, come." He resumes walking.

She keeps up. "Where are we going?" They are deep into the garden now.

"Where are we going? Is that a philosophical question?" Sion teases coyly.

"No. It's not." She shoots him a glare from beneath her hood.

"That's too bad. Meetra, I want you to think bigger than just the here and now. I know that you can let go of the Republic hegemony if you try. I am many years older than you, but I have laid aside much of my own early teachings."

"Except the mask."

"True. The mask still has its uses."

Her sarcasm is thick. "So I have noticed."

"Get over it," he complains. "Let us start anew today. You will forgive my initial deception and I will forgive your bitchiness."

"My what?"

"You will heal me and I will help you find your Force. Revan and Vitiate can wait. First things first. You need to rediscover your power."

That's what Meetra wants most of all, Sion knows it, and he's leaning hard into it.

"The stronger we are individually, the stronger we will be together," he plots. "We must rediscover your power for both our sakes."

Meetra now asks a question that she knows she shouldn't. "Will you really let me go if this fake marriage plan doesn't work out?"

"It will work."

"But if it doesn't—"

"Then you may leave. With the dyad, there's nowhere in the galaxy you can hide from me," Sion reasons. "But I will grant you freedom and trust the Force to protect you if you feel you must forsake me."

She shakes her head and frets, "You really are a little crazy, aren't you?"

Sion chuckles and owns the accusation. "I'm a dreamer and a fool," he shrugs, "and I wouldn't have it any other way."

Meetra has no rejoinder to that self-effacing remark. It strikes her as something Revan might have said. The old Revan, who she followed off to war with blind admiration based largely on statements like that.

They are coming up on some form of picturesque grotto now. It's surrounded by a large circle of flowering trees that sway gently in the breeze and litter petals on the ground. This would be an idyllic, placid spot for reflection, Meetra thinks, were it not for the pair of guards whose threatening presence mars the beauty. But she's in the Empire now, where, like it or not, violence is commonplace and displays of force apparently belong in gardens.

"What is that?" She gestures ahead to where the guards stand sentry.

"The entrance to the Temple."

"Temple? That's a Sith Temple?" She wouldn't have guessed. It looks nothing like Korriban.

"It's constructed in the post-war style, nestled among nature and built underground. The Temples built after the Hyperspace War had stealth as their hallmark. Our people wanted to avoid attracting notice." Sion adds, "They also doubled as bomb shelters for when the Republic might return to finish us off."

"Oh." Recalling the sad history she read, Meetra understands. The Republic really was brutal in the defeat of the first Sith Empire. But coming from the Jedi perspective like she does, Meetra knows that the Sith were—and still are—perceived as an existential threat back home. "Why are we here?"

"To get married."

"You get married in a Temple?"

"Yes. Doesn't everyone get married in some church?"

"Not in the Republic."

"Marriage is a sacrament here. It must be blessed by Darkness."

Her eyes narrow. "You never said anything about that."

"The Force is the only authority that truly matters. In the contest between church and state, I choose church. I will lie to Vitiate about you, but I will confess all to the Force."

"Oooo-kay," she swallows. "So, you're saying that you want this to happen—"

"Now."

"Now?" Wait—what? She looks to him sharply.

"Yes, now assuming you'll have me. Well? Will you be my wife?"

"Uh . . ." She looks away as they keep walking. Meetra is panicking inside and looking to stall for time.

"Will you be my pretend wife?" Sion amends his proposal. "You don't have to be the Exile. You can start again here . . . now . . . with me. On your own terms and for so long as you wish."

"Uh . . . " Suddenly, her heart is racing. Meetra feels conflicted and put on the spot. She thought they were just discussing the issue of marriage, not actually embarking on it.

"I will accept your healing as a dowry. Here," Sion offers his gloved hand, "take the Force as my wedding present. I can offer you a great deal more, but all we really need is one another and the Force."

Meetra stops walking and stares at his outstretched hand. It's uncomfortably tempting. Even if she cannot connect with the Force on her own, the reflected glory of his connection is good consolation. The bond she doesn't want has its benefits.

"You like heroes, right? Force willing, one day I will be a hero for my people. Join me," Sion offers with sly perception, "and you can be a hero too."

That's the pitch that clinches it. For the chance to get her Force back, to get out of the cell, to maybe help Revan or do something else meaningful in the course of history, Meetra will accept the risk and brush back her doubts. It's not like she has any better plan. Plus, if this deal with Sion is as illusory as she intends, there is little downside. And so, with a deep breath, she decides. "Alright. Let's do this. Let's do this now." Before she loses her nerve. Or maybe comes to her senses.

Meetra takes his hand and the bond instantly activates even though he's wearing a glove. Sion's first thought whispers between her ears. You won't regret this.

"I think I am passed regret," she mutters aloud an ugly truth. Maybe Sion is right. Maybe it's time to stop wallowing in apathy about the past and start thinking about her future. This isn't really what she wants, but it's the best decision she can make under the circumstances. And that weirdly seems fitting. Is this moment her personal Malachor V? The moment when she damns herself by thinking she's doing the right thing? For Meetra, all things still inevitably come back to that one decision that ruined her life and the lives of thousands. Regret she can lay aside, but guilt will always be with her.

There is no script for the antihero/villain who survives their own morality tale. Where do you go after failure? After disgrace? After exile? When you have been brought low and left wanting? Meetra still doesn't have those answers. But as she stands hand in hand with the Sith Lord she once automatically perceived as a deadly enemy, she thinks it a delicious irony that an insurgent Dark Side zealot like Sion is the one to reawaken a glimmer of hope within her. The Force truly does work in mysterious ways. She thought he captured her to torture and kill her. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined a fake marriage is where they would end up.

This sham marriage might be her most foolish decision ever. It certainly confirms the Council's worst fears for her judgment. This is how low she has sunk, how desperate she has become. If she's not officially Sith from this alliance, she's certainly Sith adjacent or half-Sith or Sith-by-marriage or whatever the right term is. Maybe that knowledge should sting more than it does. But Meetra brushes it off and tightens her fingers around Sion's. "I will fake marry you," she ratifies her decision.

The whispered words come out with more conviction than she truly feels. Sion knows it. Again, he assures her. You won't regret this.