Meetra is awakened by a discreet knock on her door. "My Lady?" It's Mrs. Warrath, the housekeeper. "My Lady, the hairdresser is here."
"Uh. Whaaaat?"
"My Lady, the hairdresser is ready for you."
"Right. Uh. Thank you."
Meetra blinks fully awake and wipes at her eyes. Where is she? She's lying fully clothed on her bed in her bedroom at Fortress Sion. Huh. That's a surprise. She fully expected to wake up in a cell.
The curtains are closed, but daylight peeks in from the sides. What time is it? It's late. Really late. Brunch time late. The hairdresser has been waiting for two hours at least.
"Lady Sion?" It's the housekeeper still at the door. "Would you prefer that I send her away?"
"No. Give me ten minutes please," Meetra improvises as she sits up and yawns.
Ten minutes gives her time to shower and brush her teeth. If she's going to flee to parts unknown, she might as well do it with good hair and breakfast. And that's how groggy Meetra finds herself seated in her dressing room in a robe, sipping hot caf and nibbling on a pastry as the hairdresser silently works away.
"Lord Sion was up and around early today," the housekeeper informs her. "He always likes to get an early start after he's been away. Plus, it's a picnic day, so he'll want to find time to drop by to say hello to our visitors."
"Picnic day? What's that?" Meetra asks.
"Once a month, a group of local schoolchildren visit the Temple for a blessing. Afterwards, they have a picnic on the grounds."
"I see."
"It's really quite charming. You should stop by and greet them." The housekeeper looks to her hopefully. The woman seems determined to launch her into the community as Sion's personal representative. Little does she know that Meetra is about to disappoint her for picnic day and everything else going forward.
"What a nice idea . . ." Meetra mumbles weakly, trying to be noncommittal.
Still half awake, she suffers through the rigorous process of beautifying. First, there is the hairstyling. Meetra now has the shiniest, chicest mullet ever. Next, she allows her first-ever manicure to be repainted. While her fingernails dry, she submits to eyebrow pencil, mascara, blush, a dusting of powder, and the obligatory crimson lipstick. When the process is complete, her alter ego Lady Sion stares back at her in the mirror. It's really a rather effective disguise. No one who saw her in her shaved head general days would recognize her this glammed up.
Meetra dismisses the hairdresser and the housekeeper. Mrs. Warrath is helpful and nice, but she has a tendency to hover. Plus, Meetra is embarrassed by the woman's clear assumption that she slept late because she was up all night having newlywed sex with her returning husband.
All that's left to do is dress. Meetra puts on the grey gown Sion initially gave her. It's by far the simplest, most practical option and that might make it useful going forward. Lastly, she dons the stark black overpiece that hides her weapons. Now, she is ready to take her leave of Fortress Sion and its resident Sith Lord sadist.
"Don't you look lovely!" the housekeeper exclaims as they pass in the hallway. "I just saw the Master. He mentioned that he was heading to the picnic. If you hurry, you might catch him."
Mrs. Warrath says this last information with a knowing wink. The housekeeper clearly thinks that there is romance afoot. Meetra can feel herself blushing. And dammit, that reaction probably confirms the woman's misperception. But whatever. Meetra heads to intercept Sion.
But once she makes it to the back terrace that overlooks the garden and the Temple, Sion is nowhere to be found. It's just the guards, a dozen teachers, and about a hundred rambunctious younglings shrieking and running all directions. Uncertain how to proceed, Meetra loiters there two floors above the chaotic assembly.
That's when Sion walks up. "Oh, good. I was hoping you wouldn't leave without saying goodbye." He has his mask on, so she can't see how much she healed him, but she can sense Sion's unseen smile. She can also sense how physically good he feels. This morning, she's not experiencing any sympathetic pain on his behalf.
Meetra eyes the large bouquet of flowers he's holding. Is he about to attempt another one of his heavy-handed romantic gestures to convince her to stay? She smirks and raises an eyebrow. "Are those for me?"
"No, my Lady. They are for the teachers. But I have plenty more for you where these came from. Care to join me to greet our guests?"
"Your guests," she corrects him. And no, she doesn't want to continue this charade of marriage any longer.
"This won't take long, and then we can chat in my office," Sion tells her brightly. He strikes her as altogether too agreeable about her departure, but maybe that's a consequence of how happy he feels to be healed.
She keeps her position on the high terrace as Sion descends the steps. Once he is spotted, everyone stops what they're doing to sink to one knee in the grass. In a matter of seconds, the boisterous group is quiet and kneeling with eyes downcast. The Republic citizen in Meetra inwardly bristles at this cowering. Where she comes from, all beings are created equal. There is inherited wealth and status, to be sure. But not inherited authority. In a democracy, you must be elected or at least appointed by someone who's elected. You also have a term of office. Perhaps it's a rare lifetime term, but eventually someone new outside your family gets a shot at your job.
Not so here amid the hierarchical Sith where a small ruling class of Force sensitives oversees everything in one giant pyramid that culminates at the top with Emperor Vitiate. Watching Sion's reception, Meetra thinks it illustrates so much of what the Jedi Order fears about attachments. Yes, the Light Side seeks to avoid conflicting priorities between a Jedi's duty to the Republic and to their loved ones. But prohibiting attachments is more than a matter of allegiance. The Order must also be trying to preempt just the sort of entrenched feudalism she's witnessing right now. Because if Force users marry Force users to beget more Force users, inevitably there will be a tendency for that talent and power to consolidate. And that might vest too much in the hands of too few, which is the antithesis of democracy, which locates power in the people. In fact, the fawning public obeisance to Lord Sion is everything the Order strives to avoid back home. From the traditional humble work clothes that Jedi wear, to the prohibitions on Jedi holding public office, to the limitations on the ability of Jedi to speak to the press, the Order constantly seeks to downplay its members' influence. The Sith system is completely opposite, she perceives.
From her vantage point on high, Meetra continues studying the group—the children in rumpled, grass-stained uniforms and the teachers in dignified dark dresses. They kneel in respectful assembly before their leader. Everyone seems to know the rules for how to act and what to do. In the Empire, citizens each have a role and they dutifully play it. That inherent institutionalism impresses her. The Dark Side has a strong collective sense of identity and purpose. The disaffected might want change, but they seem to be of the mindset to work within their system to achieve it. And so, a privileged iconoclast like Darth Sion and an everyday grumbling layperson like his housekeeper both cling fast to the pillars of their faith and their community despite their complaints. To Meetra, that speaks to a deep well of shared societal values.
She can't help but to compare it to the Republic. Back home, cynicism and apathy have long been the greatest threats to democracy. There is justifiable fear that many citizens have become morally soft and politically disconnected from any firm belief in the liberal democratic values that built the Galactic Republic. People are so wrapped up in their individual lives that collective concerns achieve no traction. And that means short of a crisis, nothing ever gets done. Change is incremental at best and the status quo persists. It's how corruption and inefficiency became hallmarks of the Senate. Revan used to worry that the Republic had peaked and was slouching fast towards steep decline, that the Senate and the Order were relics dependent on notions of civic duty that made sense only within a bygone context. Meetra remembers Revan summing up the problem one night when he was thoroughly drunk and venting: these days, no one gives a fuck about anything that truly matters.
The Crusaders sought to change that, to renew the virtuous vigor of the Republic. To remind people of its principles and to set an example by taking action. But the lurching decay of the Republic was by then too pronounced. Even when the very real—some say existential—threat of the Sith Empire was uncovered, it didn't seem to register on Coruscant. The Senate couldn't achieve consensus mostly because few outside the Jedi Order cared. And even the High Council sought to publicly downplay the risk, fearing that they would be blamed due to Revan's fall to the Dark Side. So, at the very moment when the Republic needed clear, decisive leadership, the Senate and the Jedi floundered.
And that's why her punishment as the Exile grates. Because had she not destroyed the Mandalore/Sith forces at Malachor V, the Republic would have been in deep shit. Her people were totally unprepared to resist a true Sith invasion. Her use of the mass shadow generator saved the Republic, although at great cost. But no one other than her, Kreia, and Revan sees it that way. There was nuance to her violence, but the Council disagreed.
That attitude should have come as no surprise, but it did. The Jedi teach that there are good people and bad people. The bad ones, if not redeemable, should be punished. Morality is a choice that we all make. And if you stubbornly choose to do evil after being shown the way to choose good, then you are lost. That teaching learned young gnaws at Meetra's heart. She doesn't feel like the bad guy, but she's still the bad guy. Enter Darth Sion and now she finds herself a bad Jedi fake married to a self-styled good Sith, which just begs the question of whether human complexities defy such easy categorization.
Down below on the lawn, Meetra watches as Darth Sion regally bids his audience to rise. Many of the children are beaming with pride, but several look terrified. It's clearly a big deal to be in the presence of the local Lord. Sion is too distant and facing away, so she can't hear clearly what he tells the group. But she does hear the polite laughter that ripples through the crowd in response to a joke. And she witnesses the cheering applause that repeatedly interrupts his speech. Sion truly seems beloved by many of his people. Meetra can't help but wonder if he's a benevolent tyrant.
Sion keeps his remarks brief. Then he turns the children loose to resume romping around. And now, the man she saw torturing mercilessly last night begins passing out long stemmed red roses to the teachers. The teachers are all women and, Meetra knows from her reading, they're probably spinsters and widows since they are working outside the home. They each approach to kneel and Sion gallantly offers them his hand to rise. Then, he presents each one with a rose from his personal garden. Sion's gesture is most appreciated. Even at a distance, Meetra can see how the women bask in the attention and recognition. One even wipes away a tear. The body language is unmistakable—the women are completely charmed.
Is this the treatment Tony expects from all women? Meetra smirks to herself. How she must be disappointing him.
Sion turns to look up. He beckons her over, but Meetra stubbornly keeps her position as an observer on the periphery. This is how she has mostly participated in his world to date—at a respectful, deliberate, privately cynical distance—lest she fall headlong into his ruse and one day wake believing she's part of it. That's a low risk since she's leaving today. But even were she to stay, Meetra judges it unlikely. For the more she has begun to mix with people since leaving her cell, the more keenly she feels her loneliness . . . her otherness. Everyone she has met since becoming Lady Sion has been exceedingly polite but distant. The social hierarchy means she won't be making friends with the household staff or common folk. That just leaves Sion for a companion. Sion, who clearly wants more than friend zone status. Sion, who through the bond knows all her secrets. Sion, who believes he's the good version of a bad guy.
Meetra used to think she knew who the bad guys were. But that was before some of the people she admired the most became bad guys themselves. The Crusaders were supposed to destroy the Sith, not join them. But by the war's end, she and the others had already ventured so far from the traditional mindset of the Order that it seemed more of a stumble and less of a fall to the Dark Side.
She has long been aware that the Jedi need the Sith's influence to ensure their own purity of heart. The threat of the Dark Side affirms that the champions of the Light are the good guys. But not all Jedi are as good as they pretend. Lately, she's learning that not all Sith are as bad as they posture.
And what about her? She's a bad Jedi. The very worst Jedi. A Jedi cast out and exiled. All because she believed that there is a kind of existential threat that justifies betraying your own values. Why did she take such a step? Why activate the mass shadow generator? Because she believed it necessary under the circumstances. She broke the rules of engagement to save the Republic, to fulfill a Jedi's most sacred duty. Shouldn't that arguably make her a good Jedi, not a bad one? She sacrificed her own soul to save people who are thoroughly ungrateful.
Fighting the Sith ended up destroying the Crusaders and nearly toppling the Jedi Order. It revealed an ugliness to the Light Side that Meetra can't unsee. It's a sanctimonious, finger pointing, moralizing paranoia that likes to condemn. And that's pretty much what she herself did to Sion last night.
He felt misjudged, like she felt misjudged by the Council. The wisest of Jedi Masters didn't want to hear what she had learned of the Dark Side—knowledge was never their goal when they interviewed her about Malachor V. They wanted to blame. To make an example. To draw a bright line rule for others to follow. And the more Meetra thinks about that attitude, the more she thinks Sion might be right: that the Jedi are terrified of the Dark Side and desperate to ensure that no Jedi learns what powers come from combining both sides of the Force. That's why the Order took the extraordinary step for her case that they hadn't taken in many thousand years. She was exiled, like the Dark Jedi Sith ancestors long ago. And that comparison terrifies Meetra. She worries that if she's not already Sith, she's on her way to becoming one. This pretend marriage is surely a big step in that direction. But, she worries, does the dyad pretty much make it inevitable?
Is she resisting the will of the Force if she leaves today?
Does she owe Sion an apology for her harsh words last night?
Is she the one who's wrong? Did she overreact about his torture?
Fuck! Here she goes again brooding her way into a never-ending loop of self-doubt. Darth Sion keeps forcing her to confront her own prejudices. To reevaluate her value system. It's confusing. Upsetting. Once she gets in these moods, she can't think straight.
Is Sion in her thoughts now? He might be. She watches as he hands out his final roses and pats a few more kids' heads. Then, he climbs the stairs to retake his place at her side. Together, they watch the crowd.
"You made those women's day," she remarks offhand, looking for something to say.
"I hope so," he responds. "They might have the hardest jobs in the Empire. Kids are a lot of work, but I like them."
"Then you came to the right place. That's a lot of kids," Meetra harrumphs sourly. She's nervous about leaving and it's making her antsy.
But Sion seems in no hurry to launch her on her way. He wants to talk, telling her, "Vitiate started the four-child policy as soon as he took charge. It was intended to repopulate our Empire. But it's had a lot of other positive, lasting societal changes."
"Four-child policy?" Did she hear that right?
He nods. "Every woman is encouraged to bear four children, if practicable."
"Four children!" Yikes!
"There's no prohibition on more."
"Four is a lot!" In the Republic, humans rarely have more than two offspring. "Four is too many."
He disagrees. "The future belongs to those who show up. The Sith intend to show up."
"Why fight a war?" she snickers nastily. "You might just as soon overwhelm us with a big picnic."
Sion takes the comment seriously. "Indeed. A strong, vibrant culture might one day supersede the Republic without shots being fired. That would be a new twist on the revenge of the Sith."
"If you can feed everyone," she points out. "How many natural resources are you consuming for this exponential population trajectory?"
"Plenty. But that's what they're here for. The Force wants us to be fruitful and multiply. More life, more Force. More Force, more power."
"You gotta be kidding me . . . "
"Oh, I'm not. More people also tends to grow the economy by default. You know—more producers, more consumers, more workers. It also fills the ranks of the infantry."
It's Sion yet again sounding like a policy wonk. One striking revelation about this man is how administrative his life is. And sure, control is a Dark Side fetish, so she figured the Empire would have its own bureaucracy. But still, it's so . . . well, mundane. As far as she can tell, the Sith Empire is far less a sleek military industrial complex than it is sprawling command economy with layers of social safety nets that are de facto social controls.
"Is that why there are so few droids?" she wonders aloud. "Is it because you need to give sentients jobs?"
"Yes, but it's mostly because we don't trust droids. They aren't created from the Force."
Oh. Okay. That's weird, but whatever. "Does no one here question the pursuit of unlimited growth?" She tries and fails to keep the disapproval from her tone. "The Republic moved past that mindset many centuries ago."
"Why?"
"Why?" she echoes.
"Yes. Why?"
"For starters, it squanders the future. The galaxy is finite, you know. If you want sustainable living that doesn't unduly damage the natural environment, you must set limits. Moreover, you cannot fall into the trap of structuring an economy that is growth dependent or you will crash and burn eventually. It's like a pyramid scheme that one day falls apart if the next generation fails to outperform the last."
Sion is listening. "Interesting thesis."
"I'm sure there are individual costs, too. Just think of all those women stuck at home with four children and no opportunity to find happiness and fulfillment." Meetra shakes her head in sympathy for the oppressed Sith sisterhood. "That must be so discouraging."
"Not really. The children are their happiness and fulfillment."
"Of course, that's what you would think." Meetra's tone is peevish. "The Dark Side patriarchy for win, I guess," she snarks.
"I'm the only one here who's been a parent," Sion points out.
"And I'm the only one here who's a woman," she retorts. "But whatever. What do I know? I probably shouldn't worry my pretty little head about such things."
"No, keep talking. I want to know what you think. No one around here thinks like you think."
Meetra snorts at that remark. "I don't doubt it."
He chuckles now too. She feels his appraising eyes from behind the mask. "Have I told you yet how beautiful you look?"
Meetra blinks, then frowns. "Don't go there," she warns.
"You understood the assignment to become Lady Sion. I saw it right away last night. I would have told you then, but you were too busy screaming at me."
"You deserved it."
"I know you think that," comes his diplomatic rejoinder. Then, he's back to musing over her appearance. "You look like a Dark Jedi from long ago, like one of the original exiled princesses of the Force. I love it," he gushes. "I knew that once you dressed like a real woman, you would be arrestingly gorgeous."
Arrestingly gorgeous. Meetra is flummoxed. She finds herself suddenly blushing and tongue tied at this pronouncement. But she is simultaneously irritated at his approval. She consented to this girly makeover as part of her disguise, nothing more. So, if he's implying that she's casting lures, he's wrong.
"Come inside," Sion now beckons. "I have something to show you."
"That won't be necessary," she declines. It comes out a bit churlish, but whatever. She's still angry about last night. Guilty too about her harshness. "Look, if you will just point me to a ship, I'm ready to leave."
"You're going to want to see this," he persists. "Plus, I need to give you some credits, and those are in my office."
"Very well," Meetra relents. She won't get far without money. She's planning to accept all that he offers her. She's not too proud to take his charity. And should she be suspicious that he's taking her departure so well? Because this is not at all how she expected leaving would go.
Meetra follows Sion back inside and then down a long corridor of offices and conference rooms that runs adjacent to the throne room. She's never been in this portion of the facility before, but she knows it's where the system governance gets done. As she and Sion walk by open doorways and glass paneled meeting rooms, heads look up and faces turn. Is that curiosity for her? Or is that merely the power of Sion's presence? The Lord of Pain, like all Dark leaders, seems to have a cult of personality among his followers.
Ignoring the many of pairs of eyes that mark their progress, Meetra trails Sion into his office. It is clearly a private space. It's also a mess, and that immediately makes her like it.
"Where is it?" Sion starts rummaging around amid the top layer of items on his desk. His workspace is a heaping pile of datapads, datafiles, comlinks, and other random items. There's also caf cups that look at least a week old and a fresh plate of the cook's special protein cookies. "Where is it? I just had it . . ."
Meetra's lips twitch as she watches him poke around. "Hold on," she preempts his search. "First, take that mask off. Show me how you look." She's curious to see her results before she leaves.
"Oh, right." Sion waves the door shut with the Force and then removes his headgear. "Take a look."
"Wow." Just wow. It's better than she hoped.
He runs a self-conscious hand over his spiky, short hair. Whereas yesterday, he was mostly bald, now he has a growing out buzzcut. "If I eat more and sleep more, it will grow in faster," he assures her. He still seems very embarrassed by his appearance.
For her part, Meetra is amazed at her handiwork. She knew she put a lot of effort into his healing—maybe too much effort for her own good. But the results are incredible. "Let me see." She approaches for a better look, moving around him to see both sides of his face. Those sores on his cheek and scalp are gone. His skin looks very normal, if a little pale. Truly, the change is remarkable.
"And the rest of you?" she asks hopefully.
"Almost as good as when I left you."
"So last night—"
"You worked more miracles," he finishes, beaming down at her. "I don't like you healing until you pass out, but I can't deny your skill. Now, if I could just get some downtime to sleep and eat, we'll really see how much you did. It takes time for the healing to fully develop." With those words, Sion reaches for a cookie to pop in his mouth. "Want one?"
She shakes her head. "You eat them. You need them, Sion."
"Tony," he corrects her as he grabs another. "Regenerating takes a lot of energy. I suppose that's why Force healing depletes you. But you can binge heal me anytime you want." He grins at her. "Little Jedi, you're absolutely amazing."
Before she can think to suppress it, Meetra grins back. "You really needed my help," she judges.
He sheepishly agrees, "I did. Last night, I was almost to the point where I need to take my armor off."
"Like at Korriban . . ." She remembers his shockingly bare, decomposing body at their fateful meeting.
"When my skin gets too fragile, the armor makes things worse. It feels better just to be bare . . ." Tony looks away, clearly uncomfortable at the topic. "I usually cover up until I can't cover up . . ."
"You were pretty scary that day," Meetra recalls. "Like full on 'meet-the-Lord-of-Pain, I'm-your-worst-Dark-nightmare' kind of scary."
"Is that good?" he smirks.
"I don't know if it's good, but it certainly made an impression. I was thoroughly intimidated."
"You didn't seem intimidated."
"Yeah? Well, I was. I really, really was. You scared me shitless, Tony." And wait, that sounded like she was flirting. Like she is playing up to his Sith ego. Meetra instantly redirects the conversation. "So . . . what did you want to show me?"
"Hold on. I still need to find it."
She takes a seat across as he resumes searching his messy desk. Tony eventually comes up with a datapad that he hands to her.
"Take a look."
She accepts the device and starts reading, scrolling, and swiping.
"Officially as Lord Administrator, I've got several teams out looking for you, as do all the other systems in our sector. We share information and I get all the reports. You're looking at the latest one right there."
Meetra peruses the data with interest. "My last known location is on Ziost . . . Wait, I was never on Ziost."
"That misinformation comes from me. I've been trying to throw the hunters off your trail with false sightings. I want them to believe that you're still at large."
"I see." Judging by the last five supposed sightings of her over the preceding months, Sion's been protecting her for a while.
"There's more," he tells her. "The first tab on the right side is the Empire's dossier on you. The second tab is a list of other known Republic agents operating within the Empire. I'm sure you'll recognize a few names. The list has shortened considerably since Revan's capture. The last tab is a summary I have compiled of freelance Lords who are actively looking for you. They aren't searching in any official capacity. They want the bounty and the glory for nabbing you."
"That's a long list of Darths," Meetra gulps as she clicks on the last tab for a look.
Tony nods grimly. "There's some ex-praetorians on that list. Those guys guard Vitiate. They won't be easy to kill."
"Good to know," she sighs and gulps again.
He continues, "Ever since Revan's Empire fell, there's been a rush of Lords seeking to test their skills against the enemy and make a name for themselves in the process. Vitiate officially outlawed marauding last century, but he is permitting it again currently until all the big bounties are claimed."
"I see."
"Yours is the biggest one left now that Malak's dead and Revan's captured."
"Great," she groans. She's the prize kill. With a sigh, she reads from her official arrest warrant, "Wanted, dead or alive. No disintegrations. Considered to be armed and extremely dangerous . . . "
Tony falls silent now as she keeps skimming through the data. It's intimidating information. A lot of thought has gone into capturing her. The level of detail in her official file is impressive. "You Sith really do your homework . . ."
Tony nods and settles back in his desk chair to watch as she takes it in. She's a general, long used to sifting through copious amounts of reported information to glean the gist and tease out the significant points. But this exercise in comprehension is very straightforward: there are lots of people hunting her in a coordinated effort. The endgame is clear: it's only a matter of time before she is captured.
When finally she looks up, Tony meets her eyes steadily. "This is what you're up against. I thought you should know."
Meetra makes a face and postures with an indifferent shrug. But she's certain the bond is conveying her discouragement.
"Ideally, you would have your Force back before you struck out on your own again. On your own . . . without your full Jedi skills . . . well, you won't last long against any of those Lords. Once you're outed, the game is up. If you're found, you're dead."
Yes, she realizes that. Hiding is the only strategy that will succeed. Fighting is far too risky.
Tony now piles on more disheartening information. "Those files don't include the guys who Lady Traya has hired to chase you. There's more than what you see there who are presently chasing you."
"Well, that's good news . . ." Meetra lays the datapad aside glumly. Fleeing Fortress Sion just got a lot less appealing.
He knows what she's thinking. "I won't stop you from leaving. I know better than to tell a general what to do," Tony attempts a joke. Neither of them smiles. He adds, "I would feel a lot better if we faked your death before you go."
"Yeah . . . that would be better . . ." It would take her off the target list for the intimidating Sith dragnet that's after her. Because as things stand, her chances look like long odds.
"How do you want to die?"
That's easy. Meetra answers immediately. "Heroically."
"How typical." Tony chuckles and smirks.
She sees nothing funny about the matter. "What are you laughing at? If I get to choose, I want to go out in a blaze of glory." Preferably in some redemptive self-sacrifice like a good Jedi so her story ends like it should.
"Let me rephrase that," he tries again. "How do you want to fake die?"
Oh. Right. The question is about faking her death. Well, that's different. "I don't know. I'll have to think about that. Can I get back to you?"
"Not really. Once you're gone, it will be too risky to communicate."
"You're right." Transmissions are too easily intercepted and traced. She'd be leading her enemies right to her.
Tony now observes, "It would be easier to fake your death if you were here to help."
That makes perfect sense, but she's unwilling to admit it. Meetra is increasingly—uncomfortably—aware that most of what Tony says makes perfect sense. This ruse pretending to be husband and wife is pretty ingenious. She's . . . well, she's persuaded that he's right. But she's not happy about it. And she's not ready to say it out loud. Because can she handle being Lady Sion?
"Stick around and help me fake kill you?" Tony angles hopefully.
Meetra raises an eyebrow at him. She has been anticipating some sort of eleventh-hour ambush to make her stay, but she didn't realize it would be done with data and logic. Yet again, the Lord of Pain has surprised her. He is far more sly than he is violent.
"So," she gestures to the discarded datapad, "is this your last-ditch pitch for me to stay?"
"Yes. Is it working?"
She doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. He reads her mind.
Softly, Tony reminds her of what she already knows. "I could have kept you in that cell. I could still put you in a cell. But I have never wanted you for a prisoner. I want you to want to be here."
He keeps saying this. But only this morning when Meetra awoke in her own bed did she begin to believe it. It occurs to her now that his motives might really be as straightforward as he claims. The Lord of Pain might be deceiving others about her, but he's not deceiving her.
"I won't force you to stay. Meetra, I am over two hundred years old, and I have done my share of misdeeds. That's how I know the limits of what violence can achieve. Now, I seek to persuade not by brute force, but by reason."
Yes, Meetra thinks, and that's what makes Darth Sion the good sort of Sith. He's far from Light, though. Can she handle that? Just how Dark is he? His enjoyment of that torture session last night was deeply unsettling.
"Surely, you can see the wisdom of remaining here with me."
Meetra eyes him, but refuses to agree. Because that's not really the point. The issue is can she live with herself for staying? How morally compromised is she for allying herself with a cold blooded, but politically principled, killer? Is she better off taking the high road and dying a Jedi martyr on the run? That's certainly what the Council would urge her to do.
Tony meets her eyes across his desk. He lowers his chin and stares her down. He's got that enigmatic, intense look that Revan used to get at times. It's the steely look of a man who knows what he wants. "Look, I don't know if you need to hear this again, but I want you to stay. Please stay. Regardless of what's on that datapad, here in my small corner of the Empire, you are wanted. You are not the Exile, you are Lady Sion. You belong."
"Until we're caught."
"I am the ultimate civil authority in this system. I answer only to the Viceroy, to his superior the Regional Governor, to the Sector Overlord, then to his boss on the Dark Council, and ultimately to Vitiate himself. There are five men in the Empire who can discipline me. Five men who outrank me in the chain of command and get to oversee my decisions. If anyone can successfully hide you, I can."
Meetra frowns and shakes her head. "Tony, don't take this the wrong way, but I don't want to belong here."
"It's not so bad," he offers softly. "We're not so bad. Give us a chance."
"You're bad enough," she harrumphs. Abruptly, Meetra launches to her feet. She paces a few steps away before she whirls to demand an answer to the question she can't stop thinking about it.
"Do you really know where Revan is?"
"Yes. I think so."
"But you're not going to tell me," she guesses.
"And have you fly off to kill yourself in a one-woman rescue attempt?" Tony shakes his head. "No. I will tell you when you're ready . . . when we're ready. We will do it together."
"You don't trust me!" she accuses. "You don't trust me, and I don't trust you!" And really, that's all she needs to know to make her decision. She needs to go. She really needs to go. Why is she stalling?
"This will never work. I'm leaving!" she announces, swallowing her misgivings and ignoring her better judgment. "Get me a ship and some credits and I'm moving on. I just . . . I mean . . . I can't stay . . . I can't stay . . ."
Sion's eyes narrow. The bond betrays how much he disagrees. "So . . . you are decided?" he demands after a long moment.
No. "Yes."
He frowns as if he knows what she's thinking. With the bond, he probably does. It's clear that Tony has a long list of unspoken objections at his lips, but he accepts her decision. "As you wish." He pulls a comlink from his pocket and orders an unseen lackey to prepare his ship.
She's surprised. "Your ship?"
"Yes. You can take my personal ship."
"Is it a fast ship?"
"It's fast enough for you."
"Will it be traceable back to you?" she worries.
"We'll scramble the transponder."
"Okay."
Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulls out a large handful of credit cards. He stands and crosses the room to present them to her. "I use these for missions that I like to keep quiet. They are small denominations that won't attract attention. They're drawn on a major bank. You should have no trouble spending them."
"Thanks." She reaches for the cards. Her fingertips must brush his, or maybe they're close enough now that their proximity alone is sufficient without actual touch, but for a brief second Meetra feels the bond bloom to its full potential.
It's a rush of Force that gives her pause. For the briefest of seconds, she shuts her eyes and revels in its power. It's so tempting . . .
Then, Meetra remembers herself. She pockets the credit cards alongside her concealed weapons. Looking down, away, anywhere but Sion's—no, Tony's—stern face, she stammers. "How long until the ship's ready?"
"Not long. I'll walk you to the landing pad."
"Alright." But now, mindful that this is the last time they'll be together in private, she asks, "Would you mind . . . That is, would it be okay if—"
"Yes?"
"If I uh . . . I mean, if we . . ."
"Yes?"
"T-touched?" Geez, this is awkward. "Can I feel the Force with you one last time?" she ventures sheepishly.
"Power is what the dyad is for," he responds solemnly, sounding very Sith. Still, as he opens her arms in invitation, Meetra gladly flings herself into them.
Last night, she was screaming at Tony, but today she's drawn to him like a tractor beam. Well, not to him, but to his Force. She's going to miss the Force so much. This effortless energy is everything. How she wishes she could sense it on her own again. Standing loosely encircled in Tony's arms has such comfort. Whatever else he is to others, he has been nothing but kind, patient, and generous with her. And that's frustrating because it means he is fully capable of being the good guy—he just doesn't want to be the good guy. And that's something she just doesn't understand. If you can be good, why wouldn't you choose to be good?
Meetra mumbles into his chest, "I would stay . . . but . . . but . . ."
"You're afraid."
"Yes." She's afraid to lose herself in his Darkness. To be seduced into his schemes. To become the true Lady Sion, and not merely his pretend wife.
Meetra feels a soft kiss on her forehead and immediately looks up in surprise.
Tony smiles down at her. "For luck," he tells her.
"There's no such thing as—"
"There is," he insists. "There is luck. Maybe it's the logic of the Force, but I believe in it." He cracks that slightly lopsided smile she likes but rarely sees. "I'm counting on luck because I'm trusting the Force to look after you for me."
She says nothing, she just closes her eyes again to revel in the moment. These are the last, fleeing moments that she will experience the Force, perhaps forever.
"Do you know," he rasps huskily above her ear, "how much forbearance I am showing? It's killing me to lose you. But I respect you, so I will let you go."
He's respecting her choice. Well, that's nice. But dammit, this would all be easier if he would simply force her to stay so she wouldn't have to make the decision herself. Because Meetra knows she should stay, she wants to stay, but she feels like at this point she needs to follow through on leaving to make her point. He won't change. And that means screaming matches like last night are going to reoccur regularly to no avail. Ultimately, Meetra suspects, she's the person who will change—she'll be ground down into more moral relativism that a true Jedi should resist. So why set herself up for that? Well, that answer is simple: so she can survive . . .
Tony's face is inches from hers, hovering close. This is how they have stood together several times already when she has healed him. But this moment feels different. More urgent. Strangely fraught. Meetra is hyperaware of him in a way that's new. When Tony's got his mask off and he's normal looking, he's really rather magnetic. Like Revan, he's more average looking than handsome, but that does nothing to diminish his appeal. It's not his good looks that draw her in . . . it's him. Who is is, what he wants, who he might someday become. Really, aside from his torture fetish, there's a lot to admire about Darth Sion.
"Tony, I . . . I . . ." she babbles artlessly. She's feeling nervous. Already regretful. Like she owes him explanations and excuses.
His light eyes flash yellow in the moment as he bids her, "Goodbye, Meetra." And then, before she can pull away, he plants another kiss on her upturned face. This time, the soft, lingering salute lands on her lips and not her forehead.
He pulls back.
She pulls back.
Then, for a slow, breathless moment they stare at one another. Each waiting for a reaction. And . . . not knowing how to react for themself.
Don't go. Not yet. Not ever. His mind is screaming at her.
Her thoughts start racing as she panics. Tell him you'll stay. You know you're afraid to leave. You need him to hide you.
His calm acceptance is clearly an act, for Meetra hears his desperation in her mind. I need you. You are my future. Let me save you the way I couldn't save Cornelia. Stop being so stubborn!
Meetra now starts bargaining with herself. Being the Exile is a trial to test your faith. Trust yourself to remain Light among the Sith. Stay and prove your virtue. Show the Council they were wrong, you're not like the rest.
He's having second thoughts now. Stun her with the Force and lock her in a cell, you fool! She'll hate you, but she'll live.
Tell him you'll stay. She's having second thoughts as well. Tell him you'll stay and help him confront Vitiate. It's the only thing you could ever do to prove to the Council that you're still Jedi.
"Meetra—" he now begins aloud.
Even as she chokes out, "T-Tony—"
But neither gets any farther speaking, because suddenly they are kissing. And this time, Meetra is no passive recipient. She is an eager participant.
Last night, their dyad connection led to anger. The sparks that flew were his Force lightning and her denunciations. But today, their chemistry is altogether different. She's feeling uncertain and he's quietly frantic. She's anxious from nursing doubts all morning. He's emboldened by her indecision. And so, the sparks that fly combust entirely differently this time.
His reckless mouth is all over hers, but her hands grip his waist hard. She's pulling him close with an aggression that refuses to be denied. Meetra has never been shy about sex. It's all the encouragement Tony needs to keep going. His hands are in her hair, leather gloves laced into its roots. He has her head tipped back as he claims her lips for his. When they both finally come up for air, he simply moves to her throat. Trailing kisses down her jawline, he tells her, "This is meant to be. The Force sent you to heal me. It wants me to protect you."
"I don't need you," she assures him even as she twines her arms around his neck. "I can take care of myself," she insists before she intercepts his mouth for another never-ending kiss.
He knows better than to disagree. And that's very Tony. He lets her have her way again. But, in this case, they both want the same thing. She wants to stay but needs to save face. He wants her to stay but doesn't need to gloat. For all along, since he captured this remarkable Light Side siren and discovered her incredible power, he has been willing to agree to anything to keep her.
Meetra sighs with contentment because oh, this feels rapturous. The Force, his lips, his hot, panting breath on her cheek . . . The rush of desire through the bond—is it his? hers? She's not sure and doesn't care. The bond has their minds as entangled as their tongues are now. The feel of his hard armor pressed up against her body . . . his lightsabers hanging at each hip that dig into her sides. His gloved hands that creep up the front of her dress to her chest . . . Meetra feels herself getting worked up fast. She wants more, like he wants more.
If this were back during the war and Tony were a fellow Jedi, Meetra would sweep an arm across his desk to clear the top. Then, they would throw down their weapons, undo their clothes, and go at it on his workspace in a half-clothed and determined pursuit of pleasure. Afterwards, there would be no awkwardness or explanations. No expectations either. Sex was a purely physical, entirely casual endeavor between peers for stress release. No one talked about it much, but they all did it. Well, except for Alek who wanted to keep to his vows. But there was never any risk of hurt feelings or dashed hopes because the ground rule was clear: no attachments.
She's pretty sure that Tony won't have that view. He's the marrying, fall-in-love-forever, put-you-on-a-pedestal, possessive type.
So, Meetra abruptly tears herself free and takes a long step back. "That's enough." She needs to put a stop to this impulsive folly lest Darth Sion get the wrong idea.
Tony looks confused at her actions. Maybe upset. His eyes flash yellow and this time it feels like a warning.
Spooked Meetra immediately turns on heel and marches clear across the room. She puts as much physical space between them as the office layout will allow. She presents her back to Tony in a not-so-subtle rejection.
He takes the hint and does not attempt to renew their tryst. He does, however, renew his efforts to persuade her to remain. "Stay. Please stay. Tell me you will stay."
Something about the tone of his voice has her turning to confront him. And fuck, look at those gleaming yellow eyes. Danger now radiates strongly from Darth Sion. Tony's words might beseech her, but his eyes threaten all kinds of unspecified Darkness.
Meetra swallows hard. Crossing her arms over her chest, she pops out her hip and postures. "Look, if I stay, it won't be because you want me to. It will be because I want to."
He nods. "As you wish. Whatever your terms and conditions, I accept them."
"I've heard that before," she complains dryly.
He takes a step forward. "I can help you . . . Let me save you . . ."
Really? She bristles at her depiction as a damsel in distress. She's not the type who gets saved, she's the type who does the saving. "You were the one getting helped last night," she reminds him tartly.
Tony doesn't argue the point. Instead, he affirms it. "We make a good team."
"Team for what exactly?" she frets. "Look, I don't know what treason you and your buddies are cooking up," she begins, thinking of the group of Lords she stumbled on in the Temple at vespers, "but I'm not here to enable your personal ambitions. I'm more interested in rescuing Revan than I am in killing Vitiate."
"This isn't about me. I'm trying to save my people. Killing Vitiate isn't about me claiming his throne."
Tony says this indignantly, and she believes him. Darth Sion truly is something of a Sith patriot. He's a moderate reformer. A stealthy dissenting voice for tolerance. A Dark leader who wants to coexist with his Light Side counterparts. If there ever were a Sith who Meetra could make an alliance with, Sion's it. But can she get past his Darkness? That's the big issue.
"Tolerance works both ways," he asserts, reading her thoughts.
"I know."
"I won't change you, if you won't change me."
"I don't know if I can do that." Can she look the other way the next time he tortures?
"You can do it," he cheerleads. "Maybe if you heal me more—"
"Fine. I'll stay," she blurts out, preempting more argument.
"You'll stay?" Tony looks elated.
"I'll stay . . . for now." But fearing that she's giving in too easily, that he will misinterpret her change of heart, Meetra feels compelled to add, "I'm mostly staying for Revan, just so you know . . ." Not for Tony's kisses that make her weak in the knees. And not for the mix of sympathy and guilt she feels for his health situation. Is he getting this? "I'm not staying for you."
"Okay." Tony looks downright pouty as he says this. She hurt him with that remark.
Well, good. She doesn't want him getting too comfortable. "I might still leave at any time," she threatens, tossing her head a little and squaring her shoulders. "So don't think this is some future commitment."
"Understood."
"Good. Don't forget it. You got lucky this time convincing me."
"But you're staying?" he wants to confirm again.
"Yes, I'm staying."
"Good. Whew! Thank the Force!" Tony exhales and grins. Then, looking her over, he playfully offers, "Can I kiss you again? You know—to seal the deal?"
"N-No! Look, as far as I'm concerned, that kiss never happened." Meetra gives him a stern expression like she would a disappointing underling she's had to discipline. "Don't get any ideas."
"But—"
"I told you that I won't sleep with you. That was our deal!" And wait, that came out really shrill.
But Tony, like usual, doesn't fight her. "As you wish." He looks too happy to be perturbed. The man is smiling ear to ear. And wait, now she's smiling back at him. Damn the bond, it makes emotions downright infectious between them. His mood bleeds into hers, and vice versa.
"Can I keep that datapad?" Meetra points to the device she discarded. "I want to read it."
"Sure," he agrees. "If you have any questions or ideas, we can talk about them after dinner in private."
"Dinner?" she echoes questioningly.
"Yes. Be on your best behavior. My old Apprentice will be joining us."
"Apprentice? You have an Apprentice?"
"Don't worry. He'll love you."