Meetra flees the Palace.
She pilots Darth Azamin's speeder right past the Palatine Hill residential enclave where its owner's villa sits. She's wary of returning there to risk being ambushed by the dubiously loyal praetorians who might be unaware of General Lacerate's capture. Instead, Meetra heads for the giant spaceport on the edge of town where Tony's brand-new shuttle has been parked since they arrived.
This ship is empty, as expected. No one has refueled it or made other preparations for a return flight to Fortress Sion. But that's fine. It will do as-is. Meetra won't risk a delay. She commandeers the craft, haughtily staring down the spaceport techs who are bewildered by the sudden appearance of Lady Sion. She has arrived dressed like a queen complete with a crown, but her dress has blood splatters and even a few carbon scorch marks from close calls with laserfire.
"Is everything alright, my Lady?" one man asks before exchanging looks with his colleague. While these men are used to taking orders from the capricious Sith elite, her disheveled appearance raises concern. "Are you hurt?"
"Lord Sion and I were presented at the Palace today," Meetra starts improvising a version of the truth to deflect attention from herself. "There was trouble—Lords arrived to start fighting—they tried to kill the Emperor!"
"They whaat!?"
"How dare they!"
"It's okay! He's fine—I promise! Lord Sion is with him still. He sent me here to take off immediately. He worries there are traitors everywhere!" she wails. "This is Darth Azamin's speeder—could someone return it to his villa for me? He's at the Palace with my husband . . . "
It's a jumbled tale spoken in breathless haste. But the urgency of the situation is conveyed, as is Meetra's true dismay. Neither man doubts her credibility. They strive to help. And that's how, five minutes later, Meetra has successfully stolen Tony's shuttle and left a raging wildfire of rumors in her wake. She lifts off and heads to take her place in the queue of space traffic waiting to enter the upper atmosphere of Dromund Kaas. Right now, she can't put enough distance between herself and the participants in Darth Vitiate's throne room.
Meetra runs from General Lacerate's failed coup and the bloody purge that is sure to follow. She leaves behind Emperor Vitiate, the peevish unseen tyrant who will likely become more entrenched than ever. She rejects the bizarre priest Darth Tenebrae who is lacking in social intelligence but overbrimming with pride. She also disdains the overly cautious Darth Azamin, who is content with the status quo and knows full well that Tony won't act without him. Tony . . . Tony . . . most of all, she deserts Tony. Meetra needs to put physical and emotional distance between herself and the Lord of Pain who she last saw reveling in others' suffering. It was a disgusting display of Darkness.
The Empire is a toxic stew of testosterone fueled dysfunction, deadly power plays, and betrayals. Meetra was willing to play along if it meant killing Vitiate and freeing Revan. But now that's effectively off the table, she quits. Time for a strategic retreat to reassess and regroup.
But that just begs the question: where should she go?
Meetra has ten minutes to decide as she waits her turn to jump to hyperspace. Her options are limited, given her fuel reserve. Even if she wanted to return to Fortress Sion, she couldn't. Maybe she'll go back there eventually . . . and maybe she won't . . . But if she does, it certainly won't be until she's ready, and she is not ready now.
Meetra can only imagine how ugly a confrontation with Tony might be given her current mood. And, how potentially pointless, too. Because with their conspiracy to unseat Vitiate scuttled by Darth Azamin, Meetra has serious doubts about relying on Tony to rescue Revan. Will Darth Sion be willing to unleash Vitiate's arch-foe and thereby defy his loyalist brother-in-law who fears civil war? Meetra worries that the answer is no. Because if Tony is unwilling to oppose Azamin over killing Vitiate, there's no way he will oppose Azamin for the sake of Revan. All that talk last night about her freeing Revan presumed that Tony was dead and not around to fight his bestie Azamin . . .
And if that's the case, then why is she with Tony? She doesn't need him to hide her as Lady Sion now that Meetra Surik is officially dead and the Emperor seems to accept that fiction. Tony pressures her for an attachment that she doesn't want, even as he fails to deliver on the plot he promised. We must stay together, he had urged her time after time. But at the critical moment, he was the one who couldn't follow through. There's a lesson there, Meetra thinks: for things that matter most, she must rely on herself.
With that insight in mind, she decides that her next move will be to rescue Revan. She'll do it herself while the Emperor is distracted by the coup. Tony's ship already has the location of Revan's prison pre-programmed into its navicomputer. But there's a problem. Meetra can't fly there directly—she doesn't have sufficient fuel for the long and tricky journey. She'll need to stop along the way to prepare. Where should she stop? After quickly skimming some star charts, Meetra chooses a place she knows Tony will never think to look for her.
She plots her jump for the Trayus Academy in the Malachor system. Meetra's hoping that Kreia—now known as Darth Traya-will help her if she knows it will help Revan.
The jump to remote Malachor will take almost a week of transit time at a moderate rate of lightspeed. Tony's shuttle can travel much faster, but that will burn fuel inefficiently. Meetra has to conserve what fuel she has in case Kreia refuses to help. She might, too. Things did not end well between them. But her choices are limited, and there's nothing safe about plotting Revan's jailbreak anyway. What's a little more risk?
Meetra is poised to pull the lever for the jump to lightspeed when suddenly Tony's voice is in her head. She is startled. They are miles apart and she's in orbit, and yet the dyad bond is as strong as if Tony were sitting beside her in the copilot's seat.
Go home and wait for me. We will work this out. His thoughts are at once commanding and placating, and it pisses her off.
Leave me alone.
Don't be afraid of me.
Go away!
Meetra—
Leave me alone! She's not in the mood for this right now.
Tony backs down, like he always does. As you wish. And that kind of angers her too. She feels very managed. He's treating her like a petulant child and not a grown woman with legitimate reasons to be upset. This is the moment to go high, but instead Meetra goes low. She snarls, Fuck you! and in the process manages to sound like the petulant child she isn't. But whatever. It's how she feels and Tony's the one always telling her to get in touch with her emotions.
As soon as she makes the jump, Meetra yanks off the ridiculous tiara and removes the rest of her borrowed baubles. Then, she washes clean the fancy makeup she's still wearing. It's smeared from sweat and tears. Her face looks as disheveled as her dress. But at least her eyes aren't yellow when she looks in the mirror. The dress itself cannot be remedied. Meetra has fled without any personal belongings. She has just a few toiletries, some underclothes, a robe, and a nightgown stashed in the Lord's quarters of the ship. She's unwilling to flounce around in her Lady Sion Palace gown for the duration of the trip. Meetra decides to spend the next several days in her lounge clothes wrapped in a blanket. And why not? She's alone in space.
She might not look presentable, but she is well armed. Luckily, she snuck her blue Jedi lightsaber onboard for the trip to Dromund Kaas. The red version Tony brought for her to use has been left behind in the Azamin villa.
Meetra spends the long flight brooding and reading the Sith holonet. Not surprisingly, there is no public acknowledgment of the coup attempt. There are, however, several stories referencing the Jedi slayer Darth Sion's appearance at the Palace. Each features a picture of her and Tony standing together in the moments before they entered the throne room. His face is covered by the mask that matches his ceremonial armor but she's smiling excitedly like she's happy and proud to be there. It's disconcerting to see how convincingly duplicitous they appeared. But it worked. In the end, the Emperor was either fooled or didn't care who she was. Only that creepy priest recognized her Light Side Force imprint, and it seemed to lure him rather than expose her.
Tony continues to attempt to contact her through the bond. Each time, she brushes him off.
Where are you going? I'll meet you when I'm done here.
You're not done! You're frying Army officers for Vitiate! Meetra knows Tony's torturing for the Emperor—even in hyperspace, she can sense his pleasure through the bond. It's gross.
This will be over soon.
Not soon enough. And it's too late because she's already gone from his life.
Or is she?
Off and on since the ruse began, Meetra has contemplated whether she should stay as Lady Sion irrespective of the situation with the Emperor and Revan. Tony is offering her a new beginning and a nice life. But does she want it? When the coup situation dies down and it's back to her healing his wounds and there's no need for torture, can they put Tony's latest sadistic binge behind them? How much will Meetra compromise her own ideals if she looks the other way yet again for the Lord of Pain's twisted pleasure? Her feelings on this topic are a confusing mix of revulsion and pity. Fear, too. For no matter how often she sees her pretend husband use the Dark Side, she's never gotten wholly comfortable with it. The fear of the Dark Side the Jedi Order instilled early sticks with Meetra. She was willing to tolerate Tony's Darkness if that's what it took to bring Vitiate to justice. But absent that goal, why should she masquerade as Tony's lady?
This is temporary and Vitiate compels it. You know I can't say no. Stop faulting me for what I'm doing.
I hate what you're doing.
It will be over soon, and it won't happen again with you around to heal me.
Who says I'm healing you ever again?
You can't have it both ways. You don't get to condemn me for torture and withhold your healing.
Sure, I can. You're not my responsibility.
We're a dyad. I am yours and you are mine. The Force wills it.
We'll see about that.
But I need you.
That's your problem.
Enough of this bickering. Meetra starts experimenting to shut the bond down. She manages to dim it some. Maybe it's the growing distance between her and Tony that lessens the dyad's potency. Or perhaps he gets the message and simply gives up pestering her. But for whatever reason, Tony's overtures become more muted and brief. By about the fifth day, he stops making contact altogether. Meetra is relieved. She can still use the Force through the bond, but Darth Sion is finally both out of sight and out of mind.
The new sense of privacy comes none too soon. Meetra needs some mental peace as she draws closer to her destination. Retracing her steps back to Malachor is a humbling, anxiety inducing experience.
She has spent years processing the professional and personal fallout from the culmination of the war. It's a delicate dance of introspection and suppression, for the enormity of the events that took place here cannot be downplayed. Here is where hundreds of thousands—friend and foe alike—lost their lives in a pivotal battle won at pyrrhic cost. Here is where the Crusaders stopped flirting with Darkness and gave themselves fully over to the seduction of the Shadow Force. They used Sith tactics to out-Sith their enemy, and won the dubious victory of becoming the very thing they swore to destroy.
This system is the graveyard aftermath of an unabashed war crime. It is the scene from a holonet disaster movie come to life. There were heroes and villains, but mostly there were victims. Two great civilizations collided, two competing religions clashed, and a prototype experimental superweapon was unleashed as the climactic culmination of a long and bitter war. And when it was all over, her Force was gone and she was exiled.
Was it worth it? Some days, Meetra thinks yes. Other days, no. But most days, she doesn't want to think about it. It happened, and she can't change it now.
The magnetic disturbances from the destruction of the system's fifth planet make hyperspace too risky. Meetra is forced to exit lightspeed early. That necessitates a slow weaving plod through debris-filled space using the shuttle's sublight engines. This final leg of the journey takes Meetra past tumbling hunks of twisted metal that used to be spacecraft. Sometimes she spies the remnants of painted insignia markings that identify the wreckage as Republic or Empire. But most are unrecognizable. She sees individual human bodies frozen in the inert void of space. They are icy and fuzzy looking from collecting random dust as they slowly drift. It makes them appear ghostly at a distance. Small asteroids continually bounce off the shuttle's shields. The rocks are pieces of the shattered Malachor V planetary surface that were expelled beyond the pull of the gravity well the super weapon created.
The system is still supercharged from the massive energy release the mass shadow generator caused. Flashes of electromagnetic lightning continually illuminate the shuttle's surroundings in a spooky light show. Random gravitational pulses occur as well. They cause her ship to spontaneously lurch towards its destination.
It is frightening to confront the apocalypse she caused. Still, Meetra forces herself to watch it all from the pilot seat. Confronting fear is the destiny of a Jedi. And whereas she might not be ready to confront the Darkness of Darth Sion, she can confront the Darkness of her own making. The horrified words spoken by the inventor Bao Dur in the aftermath of his weapon's success come to mind now. Meetra whispers them aloud. "We have become death . . . we are the destroyer of worlds . . ." The Crusaders fought for the Light and succumbed to Darkness in the process. She and the rest of her peers worried too much about why they fought and not enough about how they fought. Their zeal blinded them to the moral compromises they were making. All they knew was that the Republic, the Jedi, and the Light must survive. They achieved that goal, but paid dearly for it.
"I'm sorry . . ." Miserable Meetra mutters it aloud from time to time. She's terribly sorry that she felt she had to do this. Terribly sorry that she, Revan, Alek, and the rest couldn't find a better way to win. Maybe the issue shouldn't be whether she would do it again, but how she can make sure that those same circumstances never reoccur. That way, no one else will break their own soul and lose their Force trying to fulfill their sworn duty to protect others.
Many hours into her slow-moving reverie of regret, Meetra receives a hail from the Trayus Academy. Identify yourself and state your business, she is commanded. There's no point in lying. They'll see who she is soon enough. So, Meetra answers back the truth in cryptic language: tell your mistress that a fellow exile has come to see her.
Will they let her land? They do. Meetra receives orders not to deviate from her present course. She is instructed to cede control of the shuttle during the final approach to the Academy. Her ship will be landed remotely from the surface. No one's taking any chances that she might blast the place upon arrival.
Meetra accepts. What else can she do? She will trust Kreia in hopes her gesture will promote trust in return.
Even controlled from afar, Tony's big, flashy red shuttle lands neatly without even a jolt. Meetra deploys the ramp. Then, she sits stalling in the cockpit. Second guessing herself.
Is she ready to do this?
Everything about the return to this place and to these people feels like regression. But she needs help. And so, she is resigned to come here—to the scene of her best/worst moment to beg aid from her zealot frenemy fellow ex-Jedi who also happens to be Revan's much beloved teacher.
There's Kreia waiting for her on the landing pad below. Is that Nihilus with her? It is. Meetra would recognize that distinctive white striped mask anywhere.
She sighs and stands to her feet, wiping her palms on the skirt of her Palace dress before grabbing her sword. Time to get this over with. Kreia's very unlikely to kill her, Meetra thinks. But there is a good possibility that she will turn her away. And who could blame her? Meetra girds herself for rejection.
She descends from the shuttle into the gloomy and deserted hangar. Meetra walks towards her welcoming party, but she stops a good ten paces shy of the intimidating pair.
They eye her silently for a long moment.
Meetra eyes them back.
Kreia looks the same as she always does—the woman never seems to age even though she's at least in her upper seventies by now. For as long as Meetra has known her, ethereal Master Kreia has appeared to be frozen at some indeterminate stage of middle age. She looks seasoned by life experience and yet vibrant, fit, and undeniably glamorous still. It's not unlike how some on the Dark Side, like Lords Azamin and Tenebrae, seem to remain in their prime long after their years suggest otherwise. Except in Kreia's case, it has nothing to do with Dark power.
"Look who it is . . . back from the dead . . . " The former Jedi Master turned self-styled Sith Darth Traya greets Meetra without enthusiasm. "You must want something awfully badly to come back here."
"Or she's planning to kill us," Darth Nihilus posits from his position looming over Kreia's shoulder.
Meetra immediately disclaims violence. "I'm not here to fight."
"Why are you here?" Kreia crosses her arms and it causes her armload of gold bangles to clink. She peers from beneath her elaborately embroidered hooded cloak. Kreia looks Meetra directly in the eye, something she rarely does. Many erroneously believe the woman to be blind since she employs the mannerisms of a person whose eyesight is impaired. But in truth, powerful, highly cerebral Kreia has been so long in the habit of seeing with the Force that she seldom bothers to employ her physical senses.
She does now. Her cool blue eyes rake over Meetra's disheveled form and linger on the saber she clutches.
"She's here to hide," Nihilus guesses correctly. "With the Emperor murdering half the Army for their support of Lacerate, she's looking to lay low. Either that, or someone must have figured out that she's not dead after all."
"Yes, from the looks of her, the secret's out. Nice dress," Kreia comments dryly, taking note of the bloodstains. "Who'd you kill wearing it?"
Meetra sidesteps the question to frown at Nihilus' mask. "You know of Lacerate's coup?"
"Everyone knows. It's the worst kept secret in the Empire. And it ended the way we all expected it would."
"Why are you here?" Kreia repeats her earlier question impatiently.
"I need some hyperfuel, a full system charge, and provisions," Meetra replies. "If you can help, I'd appreciate it. I'll be on my way afterwards," she quickly promises.
"Send her away. We owe her nothing," Nihilus sniffs disdainfully.
Ignoring him, Meetra beseeches her former colleague. "For old times' sake?" For years ago, when they were on the same side and wanted the same things and shared the same views . . . for before war and loss and disillusionment sent them each hurtling in different directions as exiles from the Republic.
"After we help you—if we help you—where are you going?" Kreia wants to know.
"I'm not exactly sure," Meetra lies.
She doesn't fool her audience.
"She's lying. Send her on her way." Nihilus warns, "Helping her gains us nothing and could endanger us. We'll be aiding a fugitive and complicit in the conspiracy to fake her death."
He's is right, and all three of them know it. Meetra's appeal is purely to sentiment at this point. Helping her has no upside.
Kreia considers a moment before she dismisses her side kick. "Leave us, my Lord. Let the General and I have a private chat." Kreia's Sith Lord groupie acts peeved by the request. But when Nihilus lingers too long, Kreia prods him. "Go on. This won't take long."
"Very well. But I'll be close by if you need me," Nihilus growls from behind his mask. He shifts his hand to rest on his lightsaber in a silent threat before he stalks off inside the Academy.
When he is gone, Kreia rolls her eyes and snorts. "As if I would ever need his help . . ." Then, for the first time she cracks a small, coy half smile. It's very Kreia. The woman has a cocky streak that men inevitably find sexy. When coupled with her intellectual smolder, it has long made her a magnet for male admirers. Kreia is the real Jedi femme fatale, Meetra thinks. Definitely not herself.
"I saw your picture on the newsfeeds. That dark hair didn't fool me. That was you at the Palace with Sion. Were you two helping Lacerate?"
"No. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Are you with the zombie now?"
"No."
Kreia raises her eyebrows and quietly goads, "I noticed the photograph was captioned Lord and Lady Sion . . ."
"That was a cover story. We're not together."
"Broke up, did you?"
Meetra shakes her head emphatically. Maybe a little too emphatically. "We were an alliance. Nothing more. But that's over now."
"I see. How curious. I would not have put you two together." Kreia's eyes twinkle at her. Darth Traya is enjoying her discomfort and clearly drawing her own conclusions. "What were you and Sion doing at the Palace? Isn't that a little risky even for you?"
"We came to kill the Emperor. We didn't plan on Lacerate's coup preempting us."
"That sounds at least partially true," Kreia smirks. "Sion's got no love for the Emperor." As usual, Kreia's bracing honesty has a hard edge. She frowns and worries aloud in her whisky-and-cigarettes voice, "Are you in trouble, Meetra?"
She shrugs. "Just the usual trouble as the fugitive Exile."
"That trouble has never prompted you to seek my help before."
"It did on Korriban."
"Ah, yes. I forget. There was Korriban . . ."
Meetra shifts her weight and mutters, "Anyhow, I was in the neighborhood and I thought maybe—"
"You're a terrible liar," Kreia interrupts. She shakes her head and long, beribboned grey braids sway with her body's motion. "Stop telling me lies. I tire of it."
Meetra is sheepish but encouraged for where the conversation is heading. Kreia seems less angry than concerned. "Can I stay for a few days until I plot my next move?" she asks hopefully.
"I'd let you stay, but I am leaving myself tonight."
"Oh?"
"Yes." Her hostess reveals, "I am abandoning the Academy to go in search of a world called Dathomir."
This is news. "Datho-what?"
"Dathomir."
"Never heard of it. Is it Republic or Empire?"
"It is neither."
"What's there?"
"It is home to coven of Force witches."
Meetra is confused. "But I thought you were done with the Force." It's why she eventually broke with Kreia and her followers. Meetra couldn't bring herself to disdain the Force that she missed so desperately.
Kreia glances away and sighs before she answers. "I cannot deny the Force. Believe me, I have tried. My Academy . . . it has been a grave error. What I believed—what I taught—is wrong. All wrong."
Meetra blinks at this thoroughly unexpected reversal and mea culpa.
Kreia starts walking the perimeter of the hangar bay and motions for Meetra to join her. All her initial hostile posturing is done. Kreia speaks to her as an equal and a friend, not as an adversary. Like one Jedi Master to another.
"I think the Academy was a means for me to process my grief. Like you, I was raised to deny grief . . . to pretend that loss should be easily accepted . . . to believe that mourning is a personal failing. That's a lie. So much of the Jedi teaching is a lie. But the Sith are no better." Kreia shakes her head with bitter frustration. "Both orthodoxies are wholly inadequate to explain life's myriad of experiences."
Meetra says nothing. She can barely believe what she's hearing.
Kreia continues. "I'm done with the Jedi and the Sith. I quit them both. I don't want what either religion offers me, and I tire of the toxic politics that surrounds the two sides of the Force. That is why I plan to seek the Witches of Dathomir. I've been having visions of Dathomir. It seems I must quest there to find answers."
"What are you searching for?"
"The same as you. Peace. Closure. Meaning," Kreia answers, adding, "Happiness, if I can find it." She confides, "Nihilus doesn't know that I am leaving. He won't take it well."
"You and he are . . . ?" Meetra deliberately leaves her words hanging.
"We are nothing important. Not from my end anyway," Kreia dismisses the relationship entirely. She curtly warns, "Nihilus is not trustworthy where you are concerned. When I leave, you will need to leave as well. Otherwise, he'll sell you out to the highest bidder, if he doesn't kill you himself for the glory and the bounty."
Meetra has never trusted Darth Nihilus, the Lord of Hunger who likes to feed off others' Force energy. But nonetheless, she expresses gratitude to Kreia to build rapport. "Thanks for the head's up."
"You're welcome."
Kreia comes to a halt and Meetra stops as well. As they face one another, the older woman grumbles. "We have seldom seen eye to eye, but I feel responsible for you in the way I feel responsible for all who Revan led to war."
Meetra immediately absolves her. "Revan is not your fault. Neither am I. None of us are your fault."
"Oh, I'm not accepting all of the blame," Kreia sharply retorts. Then she quickly reverts to her soft, resigned tone. "But I think I should bear some . . . "
With Kreia about to disappear perhaps forever, Meetra takes the opportunity to ask about an issue that intrigues her. "Have you ever heard a story that Revan was born a Sith and smuggled into the Republic to be raised by the Jedi?"
"There are lots of rumors about him, just like there are lots of stories about us. The fake news is even worse here than it is back home," Kreia laments. "History will get us all wrong, I'm certain."
Meetra hears the evasion and doggedly follows up. "Is Revan born from the Dark Side?"
Kreia hesitates a moment before she replies. "Yes."
Yes? Yes! Meetra sucks in a breath. "So, it's true . . . You're sure?"
"I was there when his Sith mother ran into the Council chamber on Coruscant. Back then, I was the junior non-voting member. She thrust newborn baby Revan into my arms and told me to raise him. Then she dueled the praetorians sent to kill her and died by her own husband's sword. That," Kreia remarks wryly, "was Revan's introduction to the Jedi Order. We knew he was trouble from the beginning," she adds with a contrarian note of pride.
"Wow . . . " Meetra marvels at the dramatic tale. "How did the Council keep that a secret?"
"The Council keeps a great many secrets. Too many, if you ask me. They hoard knowledge and then fault those who go seeking to discover the truths they vehemently deny. They set us up for failure, those gatekeepers . . ."
Meetra nods to agree with this sour assessment. There is so much reform needed back at the Order. Not that it's likely to occur nowadays, however.
"Does Revan know his heritage?"
"He knows," Kreia confirms. "After that Mandolore leader revealed the Empire's role in the war, I told him what little I knew of his past. It made him curious." From her pained voice, Kreia clearly regrets her actions. "I set him on the path to ruin—I set all of us heading in that direction—when I pricked his curiosity for the Dark Side and for his Sith roots."
"We were all trending Dark before then," Meetra sighs. "Don't blame yourself."
"His parents weren't red Sith, but they were pretty purebred looking," Kreia recalls aloud. "I always wondered how they ended up with a throwback Dark Jedi looking child. I convinced myself that the Force did it to protect him—that the Force made sure that Revan looked Republic enough to blend in with us undetected. But that was before I realized there are still a small minority of Sith Lords running around today who look like us. Sion, for example."
"Yes, and Tenebrae," Meetra thinks of the thoroughly Jedi-looking Palace priest who even sports a beard. She wonders now: could Tony's hunch be right? Is Revan the Sith'ari? Taking a deep breath, she impulsively asks, "Do you have to go straight to Dathomir? Can you join me on a mission first?"
Kreia brushes off the suggestion. "I'm not interested in confronting Darth Vitiate, if that's what you're asking. I told you—I'm leaving behind the Jedi and the Sith."
Meetra steps closer now to reveal in a hushed tone what she didn't dare say in front of Darth Nihilus. "I know where Revan is. Help me rescue him?"
Kreia looks down. "He's dead."
"He's alive! He's alive and you know it—"
"He's dead to me, Meetra." Kreia gives her a sharp look that betrays just how uncomfortable the offer to help Revan has made her. She is momentarily torn. But still, she refuses. "I told you—I'm leaving the Jedi and the Sith behind."
"Does that include Revan too?"
Kreia bristles. "It includes all who perpetuate the religions that cyclically tear the galaxy apart as the Force lurches between Light and Dark. I'm through with it—all of it!—and all who adhere to it!"
Meetra looks her up and down with undisguised contempt. "You'd pass up the chance to save him—your own Padawan Learner—because of your disdain for ideology?" Maybe she shouldn't be surprised by this view—Kreia has long been motivated by ideology. She's always looking for theories to guide her behavior. But in this case, that mindset is leading her to turn her back on Revan for the sake of adhering to her newest principles. It's ironically very Jedi in its rigidity.
Kreia, of course, sees it differently. "Let's pretend for a moment that you know where he is—that it's not a trap or a lie like most of the rumors about Revan's location are. And let's pretend that you can manage to rescue the most closely guarded prisoner in the Sith Empire. Then what?"
"Uh . . . we'll figure it out, I guess . . ." Meetra supposes.
"Don't be naive! Revan will do what he does best—start a war!" Kreia hisses.
"Does that matter? I mean, do you really care?"
Kreia shoots her a withering look. "The Meetra Surik I used to know would not have asked that question."
"You're fine to let the Emperor keep him and torture him?"
"Revan knew the risk he was taking when he came back."
"He got what he deserved, is that it?"
"No! I'm saying that he's responsible for his own decisions. He doesn't need his mother—his Master—to save him anymore. I can't save anyone," Kreia sighs and frowns, "not even myself."
"So . . . that's a 'no'?" Meetra is thoroughly disapproving.
"Yes, and it's my final answer. Get Sion to help you. The zombie's good in a fight."
"Yeah . . . yeah, he is . . ." Meetra acknowledges.
She wonders now whether she ought to at least attempt to enlist Tony's help for Revan's rescue. But that approach will inevitably raise a lot of uncomfortable issues and a promote personal conflict between them. Frankly, Meetra would rather avoid some awkward breakup conversation. Plus, she's pretty sure Tony will be insecure about her where Revan is concerned. Tony has said more than once that he worries she will dump him for Revan. And well, he might be right . . .
Kreia changes the topic away from Revan. "I didn't expect you, but I'm glad you are here. I have two requests of you in exchange for my help."
Meetra is instantly wary. "Okay . . . "
"After I leave, tell everyone I am dead. Say that you killed me. Make up whatever story you wish, but tell history that Kreia died by your hand."
"You want me to fake your death. Why?"
"I wish none to come looking for me."
"Okay . . ."
"I mean it. I do not wish the Jedi-Sith conflicts to follow me to Dathomir. I want to let my past die."
A clean break sounds nice, resentful Meetra scowls, but she herself can't ever seem to escape the past. There are no satisfactory new beginnings if what you wish to begin again is your own prior experience. "So, you're just ghosting Revan, Nihilus, and everyone here?"
"Having others believe you have slain me will boost your reputation," Kreia points out. "Lords will think twice before taking you on."
"Yeah, I suppose that rep might be a deterrent," she concedes.
"Don't act like you haven't done this yourself already. You're supposedly dead."
"True." And Meetra has basically ghosted Tony at this point. She really has no moral high ground on this point.
"I may have been a bit obsessive about the Academy and my theories, Meetra, but I was never your enemy. I was misguided in the lessons I derived from our circumstances, but I was always well intentioned. I thought I loathed the Force, but instead I loathed myself and my choices. I blamed god the Force for my own failings. I see now that it was arrogant and ungrateful."
Listening to Kreia sounding like a remorseful, repentant sinner is a little unnerving. This woman is far from humble, as a general rule. But Meetra plays along. "I believe you."
"Learn from my mistakes. The Jedi are wrong, the Sith are wrong, but I was wrong as well. Let us hope the Witches on Dathomir know some truth . . ."
"What's the second request?" Meetra presses.
"I wish for you to destroy the Academy and what remains of Malachor V. Wipe the slate clean for us both."
This is a task Meetra cannot accept. Tony's ship has some sweet tech, but it's hardly up to destroying the remains of a planet. "I don't have that kind of firepower."
"I do. Here." Kreia beckons a finger, and a small droid activates from its position in far corner of the hangar. It sails through the air to whirl and beep at Kreia's side. "Take this."
Meetra stares hard at the droid. Her eyes slant to her hostess with suspicious and alarm. "Where did you get this?"
"Bao was here. He left me his machine. Told me to use it when I was ready."
By Bao, she means Bao Dur, the brilliant Republic engineer who served the Jedi during the war. Bao is the inventor of the mass shadow generator. And this droid is the only means left to reactivate the secretly still-extant super weapon.
Meetra stammers nervously. Everything relating to the weapon upsets her. "He told me he destroyed this droid—this droid is the remote that—"
"Good. You already know what it is," Kreia interrupts. "Get yourself safely away and use it. It will destroy everything, including the weapon. Finish what you started, General. Make sure no one else can repeat your actions."
Meetra nods slowly, gulps, and commits. "I will." It's best to destroy the technological terror the Crusaders created lest some other fool find it and wreak more havoc on the galaxy.
Impulsively, Meetra now asks, "Can I join you on Dathomir?" Maybe she and Kreia should team up after all. Yes, this woman is as manipulative and deceptive as a true Sith Lord. But she has redeeming qualities. And she and Meetra share a lot of ugly history as fellow outcast exiles.
Kreia raises an eyebrow. "I thought you were going to rescue Revan."
"I am! I mean, I will! It's just—"
"You want to run away?" Kreia guesses.
"Well, er . . . yes." Yes, she does. "After I help Revan, I could follow you—meet you—" Meetra starts in hopefully.
"No," Kreia's voice is decided but kind. She flashes a wan smile. "Your destiny lies along a different path than mine."
"But—"
"You're still so Jedi," Kreia observes. "In fact, you might be the greatest Jedi. And that means you're not ready to go where I am going."
Meetra sputters and starts to protest. "But I'm the Exile—I'm not a Jedi—certainly not a great Jedi-"
"Time will tell. But I think you will be a great Jedi."
Feeling confused—and maybe even ridiculed—Meetra snarls, "That's not a compliment coming from you."
Kreia's reply is enigmatic. "I can still respect what I disagree with." Cocking her head at Meetra, Kreia muses, "The hero's journey is different for a woman than for a man . . . "
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Heavy footsteps now sound and both women turn their heads. It's Darth Nihilus rejoining them. He has news.
"We've got another incoming ship. A small craft just exited hyperspace into the system."
"We're popular today," Kreia smirks. "Did they identify themselves?"
"It's Sion."
Now, Kreia is really smirking.
"Let him land. He's probably here to collect Lady Sion." Kreia glances at her and chuckles. "Look at that face. Let's let them meet alone, shall we?" Kreia tucks her arm into Darth Nihilus' cloak and grins mischievously up at his mask. "Come along, my Lord."
"But I want to hear the news from Drumond Kaas," the Lord of Hunger mutters.
"Yes, yes," Kreia pats at his arm as she firmly leads her latest Sith Lord crony away. "But first, let them have their lovers' quarrel."