Cruelty leads to suffering, and when one suffers, it is the way of life to spread suffering - Kreia

The Second Sister's bisected remains were disposed of like all those who perished behind Fortress Inquistorius's high walls. Down the chute, they tumbled until finally stopping when they landed on a pile of bodies stacked high in the ballast tank of the facility. Here, sewage was flushed out into the ocean along with the memory of the dead. The water surrounding the mound had long been stained a muddy, crimson hue.

Entangled in the limbs of the Empire's victims, her victims, Trilla refused to submit quietly to fate's grand design. For a conflagration still raged at the unfairness of it all. The encroaching shadows of oblivion were struck back with primordial ferocity. Anger, hatred, and agony. The triplets of the dark side swelled forth like blackened tentacles as they wrapped themselves around the two halves of her body, wrenching them back together. The cauterized gnash was broken as split bone jammed against split bone, drawing a choked, bestial groan from her lips. Viscous puss mixed with the blood leaking from her back, pooling on the bloated corpses below.

However, despair crowned itself the principle emotion to brace Trilla's mental bulwark for what was to come. There was nothing left for her to lose. She had been used up and when she could offer nothing more; she was thrown away. Five years of dutiful service repaid with a cowardly slash across the back. Ruminating on her hatred for the Empire, sinews of muscles began the arduous process of sewing themselves back together, like needles through fabric. Trilla experienced every microscopic movement. Every single tremor. It was as if phantom worms were wriggling underneath her skin, piercing deep into the crevices of each muscle.

You are a monster .

Cal's assessment was more correct than he would ever know. It acted as a thorn embedded in the center of her frontal lobe. One impossible to dig out.

You are nothing but a slave.

Her own assessment was birthed from a powerful self-loathing. Trilla tried to make a fist, but to no avail. Instead, she dug her nails into the maggot-riddled skin of the deceased mass of flesh beneath her. Nakedness was to be expected. The Empire was nothing if not ruthlessly utilitarian.

Well, would you look at this? The mangy mutt still lives. Whatever lingered of the Second Sister made her opinion readily apparent.

Trilla forced the hurricane of voices away. Get up. Her inner monologue returned with a singular demand. Get up, are you really going to give them the satisfaction of dying here?

Similar to a marionette, she complied, jerking into a seated position. An incalculable mistake. Almost immediately her vision dimmed and her already weak control of the Force wavered. As it did, the upper segment of torso started to slide, her spine separating again.

No!

The taste of iron flowed into the back of her throat, washing over her tongue as she sputtered blood through tightly gritted teeth. With the aid of the Force, her spine was resettled on the severed vertebrae. A movement in which caused her to buck, whimpering pathetically.

No! I don't want to die a slave!

This proclamation rooted Trilla in reality. The sickeningly sweet odor of rot overwhelmed her nostrils, bringing with it a typhoon of explosive fury as she fought against a backslide into dissolution. A tortured wail formed in her sternum, but instead, settled itself in her throat. Unable to go any further as the wall of pain created an impenetrable barrier preventing any noise besides a moist gurgle to form. Grotesque congealed fluids sought to choke the very life out of her.

Avenge us.

The words sounded ridiculous when stewing in the chaos of a brain addled by oxygen deprivation. Not only because there was no one left to avenge. Trilla Suduri had perished already at the hands of the Second Sister. But also because only the weakest of the weak begged for others to seek vengeance on their behalf. Nothing could be more reprehensible to force that burden onto another.

If what remained of the woman once called Trilla lived, then vengeance and the strength required to enact it was her pursuit alone. A solitary path to be carved without mercy. The Force had always connived for her future to be different than those who found solace in the light.

One final voice rose above the maddening chorus. I know the choices I made took all yours away. Even in such a forsaken place, Cere interloped with her arrogance. Able to speak from on high with the hypocrisy only a Jedi could posses. And I am so very sorry.

"No. I'm sorry… Master," Trilla rasped aloud. She grimaced as foul bile rose in her throat. "For my childish faith in you and your teachings. Know this, Cere!" Her eyes grew wide with a burning intensity. I've… already forgotten you."

Chilling emptiness of a personal genocide yet to be unleashed settled in her breast. Loneliness devoured her. Even the Force was transformed into a deafened murmur. Reduced to a pitiable tool utilized clamp together halves of her broken body.

Trilla sat for a long time, trying to in vain to assess the limits of her state. Minutes became hours. Hours became days. During which new corpses intruded upon her domain, disturbing her meditation. Some joined the mound, others rolled down, splashing into the water below.

As Trilla remained motionless, she found a profound sense of control. The Force wrapped around her, granting her a sense of wholeness in the cacophony of frayed nerves misfiring from the tips of her toes to her teeth. Her heart's beat was as unrelenting as a barrage from a Tie Fighter's cannon, desperately trying to pump blood where it could not flow.

When Trilla inhaled, her lungs could expand only partially before deflating, trapping her in her the throes of suffocation. Droplets of stomach acid spilled from the rupture, scouring the shredded edges of her small intestine. Almost rendering her blind from the agony.

Yet through all this, she drank from a tainted wellspring of power. Trilla had already been transformed into a sharpened weapon by the Empire. Now that same weapon longed to impale its former rulers. To tear open their eyes and show them the cruelty she considered salvation.

Trilla shifted, pulling her legs into a position more conducive to escape. There was a railing running along the edges of the structure, where a single door sat. Used on the odd occasion when a manual flush was needed to release the refuse into the ocean. She would only get one chance to land upon it and even then, it was not out of the question that, upon doing so, she would fall apart. Literally.

She coughed. Chunks of her lungs graced her bare thighs. If she kept losing pieces, it was going to be a short trip. Trilla counted down, then pushed off. Nothing happened. She remained unmoved.

No doubt somewhere a nerve was not sending a proper signal to the muscles or her spine remained split, making the fact she was sitting upright all the more impressive. As usual, self-inflicted cruelty was the answer. Trilla was going to force herself to move and if doing so destroyed her in the process, she deserved to die with the rest of the filth.

"Move," she snarled, glowering down. Her arms remained limp by her side. Her left had been severed at the shoulder, so its lack of response could be understood, however, Trilla did not tolerate her right's resistance.

Frustration overtook her. Somewhere the Second Sister cackled at her suffering, causing a lapse in concentration, costing Trilla her left arm. It separated from where the Force had held it in place, rolling down the pile of bodies. A ghastly noise sputtered from her throat, transforming in a hopeless shriek as instinct took over and she dove after the arm. The Empire would not steal anything else from her.

She was spared the indignity of sliding all the down the corpse pile, as through desperation the Force caught her arm just before it fell into the water. As Trilla strained to reach for it, her index finger twitched. Such a subtle thing brought a flood of relief filled her as gently her left arm was returned to her shoulder. All that remained was one small jump.

A flash of clarity granted Trilla pause. Once she stepped out of the gutter, she would be vulnerable. The smell of decay alone could easily lead to her discovery. Let alone if other Force sensitives lingered. Instinct spoke of cutting down all who crossed her path, but such fantasies were of a weak mind cracking beneath a conflagration of abuse. She had no weapon to act on them. The hanger was her best bet, but then what? It was not like she could fly in her condition.

Contorting herself, Trilla brought her functional arm upward. One chance, and she certainly hoped she could make a fist. The jump itself came naturally, sending her into the air as her focus split between catching the edge of the railing while also staying in one piece. Her fingers did their job, grabbing hold of the edge. However, being jerked was the last thing Trilla needed.

Her internals shifted. The rush of blood became a roar as it brought on a bout of vertigo. Like a meat accordion, the two halves pulled apart, veins and musculature straining to hold her together. The sensation of her lower body flickered like a bad connection; miliseconds of brief respite of absence, quickly consumed by blinding jolts of her own body being torn open. Lightning hot flashes screamed down her ribcage and spine, before leaving her gasping for air that did not come.

But Trilla did not break. The dark side of the Force encased her in its blackened tomb more intensely than ever before. Brought on by the reality of a body pushed far beyond its physical limits. The torture which broke her into the reality of darkness might as well have been a pleasant dream, by contrast.

There were to be no more screams. She would escape, and she would do so through her own power. Pulling herself onto the platform was a blur. Primal rage took control, compelling her stiff limbs to move without input. First, her fingers inched forward, then she swung her leg up. Eventually, Trilla lay face down on the grate.

Crawling to the door, Trilla touched it weakly. "Open. Delay me no longer," she groaned between labored breaths. Summoning the remainder of her strength for another push, she roared, "I said… Open!"

A tormented screech of metal followed as the titanium crumpled beneath the weight of her demand. It flew backward, crashing against the interior wall. Trilla slumped over in a fit of fluttering gasps, although she did not allow herself to rest for long. Scraping her nails against the floor, she clawed her way out of hell.

The humidity receded behind her, as did a trail of guts and muck. A welcome reprieve from the fetid stench of death. If she lay any longer, it meant making her former employer's job easier. Through a gnashing of teeth, Trilla stood, finding herself remade. Upright again. Only she got to decide when she would fall.

Purge Trooper designation PT-612 kicked his feet up at his post. Nothing beat garbage disposal duty. Sure, his entire unit was under scrutiny from the Grand Inquisitor, thanks to the recent breach of the fortress. But hey, that was far beyond his pay grade. The Second Sister had already paid with her life. That's why he loved working for the Empire. Officers died so frequently for their incompetence it was like a revolving door in the upper echelons.

It made advancement easy for those driven enough and made it even easier for those like himself to go unnoticed. Still, PT-612 felt a little a disappointed to lose such a capable inquisitor. Although that might have just been indigestion. Ration quality had declined before his eyes, and whatever he was eating gave his intestines one hell of a punching.

He removed his helmet, placing on the desk next to the intercom button. Settling in for a long shift, PT-612 put his hands on his gurgling stomach, glancing to his left to make sure his shockstaff had not wandered off. The last thing he wanted was a surprise inspection and to not have his weapon. Boy, he sure got an earful on that day.

Maybe the Second Sister being dead was not worth feeling morose over. She had always had a massive stick up her ass about everything. Then again, the Inquisitors were an unpleasant lot in general. Just the dullest types to listen to. He snorted. Private treasonous thoughts were a luxury for the rank and file. He needed to put in for that transfer to the Emperor's guard. Three proper meals a day was a hard deal to beat, even if it meant putting up with the geriatric's bizarre sense of humor. Or so PT-612 heard. Private treasonous thoughts, after all.

A faint whisper from the blackness tickled his inner ear, pulling his attention to the expanse of the corridor. He squinted, but only shadows conducted their solo dance. PT-612 scratched his bald head.

"I keep telling them. Couple extra lights and we wouldn't have a problem with breaches," he grumbled to himself. "No, PT-612 the darkness is part of the ambiance. It strengthens us." He scoffed. "Yeah, well, if I stub my toe one more ti—"

Slap. Wet flesh smacked against dry steel. He jumped up, grabbing his weapon. "Someone there?" No answer. Slap. The sound grew closer. PT-612 rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. You've got me."

No answer. Instead, the light in the ceiling exploded into a shower of glass. He dove out of the way. PT-612 looked around in a daze. "Whole damn place is falling apart."

If they wanted him to care, they would pay more. The second light in the row shattered, much like the first. PT-612 tensed, taking a combat stance, flipping on his electrostaff. The Phrik alloy on either end coursed with an electrical current. The air became corrosive with the malodor of decay and his blood froze in his veins, seeing two red-rimmed yellow eyes peering at him from the inky shadows.

Slap. Trilla lurched into view. She was quite a sight to behold. Her torso had a diagonal rupture traveling from shoulder to hip. On both ends, her once tawny skin was graying from lack of bloodflow. Filth caked her legs, making the prospect of getting assaulted by a naked dead woman a slightly less frightening. But only slightly. And while her face had taken on a similar sallow hue with deep bags underneath her eyes, at least her black asymmetrical bob was as greasy as he remembered.

"Do you fear me, trooper?" She asked.

PT-612 inched backward, keeping his shockstaff trained on her. "Y-you are supposed to be dead."

"The Second Sister was weak." Glass shards formed a canopy above Trilla. "I've allowed her to rest."

The shards tore through the air, whistling with murderous intent, but PT-612 nimbly avoided the ones he could and destroyed those he could not. Trilla moved to close the gap, while he still remained stunned by her ghoulish appearance. He recovered, jabbing once, then rolling into a swing for her abdomen.

Trilla felt the tip of the staff scrape along her side, but the strike did not phase her. There was nothing it could add to her suffering besides yet another break in the skin. So when a second stab followed, Trilla impaled herself on it readily. She bore fangs. "Here, I thought the Empire's finest would put up more of a fight."

PT-612 tried to free his weapon. Using a portion of the Force swirling around her, Trilla focused on his knee, visualizing the bone buckling under pressure, until seconds later a savage snap echoed off the sterile hallway. He collapsed but was not beaten. PT-612 grabbed his baton from his belt, slashing at her.

Another blow, another lack of reaction. Trilla kicked him back with her foot. Moving was getting easier. The threat of a gruesome end at any second granting her freedom. With considerable effort, she pulled the shockstaff from her stomach, then clenched her fist, using the Force to reconnect the broken tissues once more.

Looming over him, a crooked smile scrawled itself upon Trilla's face. PT-612 stared at her in terror. "What are you?."

"What your Empire should have burned." She plunged the electrostaff into his throat. Currents of electricity caused PT-612 to convulse as his eyes liquefied in his skull. His skin bubbled beneath his armor with reddened pustules forming on his skin. Smoldering flesh brought a perverse comfort to Trilla as she leaned into the staff, catching her breath.

She had done it. Trilla had bested a foe in her sorrowful state of half-life. A surge of newfound confidence granted her a burst of a powerful desire for more bloodshed, feeding the dark side ever more deeply as it raked her spirit and penetrated every inch of her. The Second Sister was weak. A frightened child forced into the dark; who could only ineffectually lash out at those weaker and more desperate than her. This time, Trilla allowed herself to fall. To slip away into a void which she had no intent of returning from.

Dragging the electrostaff from the dead trooper's sternum, Trilla set to liberating PT-612 of his armor. Even a wretched beast like her deserved a modicum of dignity. It fit poorly, but the helmet would conceal her identity at a glance. Ascending to the hangar level, Trilla still carefully avoided patrols. Half-expecting an alarm to sound when PT-612 failed to check in. With a little luck, a few hours was all she needed to find transport off of Nur.

The hangar bay was busier than anticipated. Recent security concerns had caused an increase in the standard garrison. New arrivals were still streaming in from off world. The Purge Troopers broke into squads shuffling to their assigned posts. Off to the side stood a Pau'an male, wearing a vacant expression on his tattooed face. An impenetrable shroud of darkness whirled around him.

From her hiding place, Trilla found herself trembling. The Grand Inquisitor would have no trouble sussing her out and condemning her to the pit again. In fact, she was shocked he had not detected her already, given the sheer amount of Force eating away at her. Perhaps he had other matters on his mind.

As far as options for escape, she had few. Docked Tie Fighters were out of the question. Which left a supply ship and transport shuttle. Neither were appealing options. For all Trilla knew, she would trade one Imperial prison for another.

The Force would have to be her eyes. Trilla took a shaky step forward, drawn toward the former ship. She just needed to avoid arousing suspicion for a bit. Two troopers carrying a crate of weapons paid her no attention as she shuffled by.

A wave of fear crashed against her as the Grand Inquisitor barked, "Troopers, Line up for inspection!" So much for a quick escape.

"Damn it," she muttered, joining the others in a set of three parallel lines. Everything that could go wrong seemed determined to do so. Trilla tried to stand as straight as she could, straining against the pull of gravity.

The Grand Inquisitor slowly walked along the first row, his cape fluttering behind him. "There are going to be changes around here. Intrusions on this ground are unacceptable." He stopped surveying one of the Purge Troopers, satisfied he nodded, moving on to the next row.

Trilla tried to calm her erratic breathing as he drew ever closer. As expected, he stopped in front of her. The Grand Inquisitor sniffed. "Trooper… what is your designation?"

"PT-612, sir." She tightened her hold on the electrostaff. One chance was all she had to strike him down before his skill would win the day.

"I see and PT-612. Are you injured?" The Grand Inquisitor leaned forward, making her grateful to have a mask between her nose and his putrid breath. "I can taste the pain radiating off you. It's exquisite."

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Trilla liked to imagine herself as a calculated individual. Oftentimes she had a handle on any situation that arose. But her nerve was failing, as a rush of panic set in.

She steeled herself. "Incident during training, sir. I overextended my reach."

"Hmm. Is that so?" The Grand Inquisitor sounded unconvinced. "Odd, though. Training injuries are hardly so… agonizing." He raised a hand approvingly. "I'm impressed you are upright with such a wound. Has medical cleared you for duty?"

He had to be screwing with her. The Second Sister's judgment lashed across Trilla's mind. He knows. He knows. You're doomed, little rat..

"After the breach, I requested early release," she said, her knuckles turning white as she prepared to lunge at him. "That Jedi killed my brothers. I wanted to repay the favor."

"Oh. Such fanaticism is refreshing." The Grand Inquisitor smiled, revealing a mouth of yellowing fangs. He looked left, then right. "You men could learn a thing from PT-612's devotion. She scowled. The Grand Inquisitor stepped away but stopped short. "PT-612."

"Sir?"

"Have I worked with you in the past?" He stood before her again. "Your hatred it is familiar to me."

Out of options, Trilla turned on the electrostaff, breaking from the line as she launched herself at him. The Grand Inquisitor's lightsaber met her readily. He brushed her aside with a single push, unimpressed. "Now, now. Is that anyway to treat a superior officer?"

He motioned for the other troopers to not interfere. Directly in the gloom of his shadow, Trilla struggled to her feet and tore the helmet from her head, nostrils flaring. "Hello again, Grand Inquisitor. I'm afraid my next report is going to be late."

It was all or nothing. She dashed forward, striking with heavy blows. The Grand Inquisitor was put on the defensive. "Second Sister? Now isn't this… Interesting." He knocked her away again with little effort. He stared at her thoughtfully, his pale yellow eyes becoming wide as he saw the Force storming around her. "Ah! This is why you were always may favorite… To think you had such power hidden away."

"Spare me a lesson," Trilla stepped left while he stepped right. She feinted, and he swung, his saber narrowly missing her nose. She followed up with an upward slash, scraping across his breast. "I once thought I was stronger because of the pain." Trilla did not relent, continuing her flurry of swings, dredging up every reservoir of strength she could. "But now… Now I know you know nothing of pain."

The Grand Inquisitor's free hand shot out. He grabbed hold of the electrostaff, jerking her closer. "Fascinating. It has been a very, very long time since someone has used the Force in such a way…" His knee struck her in the stomach, and something sloshed beneath the carapace. He roughly spun around, kicking her toward the floor. "There is an ancient Sith legend that speaks of such abilities."

"Grah!" Trilla rallied, continuing her blind assault. "Shut up!" Sparks flew through the air, the troopers retreated to avoid being caught in the crossfire. "I'm leaving this rock!"

"Then what?" The Grand Inquisitor sneered. "You'll find no kinship among the living." He noticed her stance widen for another charge. "Heh, I see. You'll seek the dead." She bolted forward, staff raised, but he was ready. Calling forth the Force, he caught her mid-air and cruelly slammed her into the floor.

Pinned flat, Trilla twisted her head in his direction. "Go on then! Be done with it!"

"No," he replied with chilling malice, retracting his lightsaber. "Oh, it would be so easy to break you again. Your screams were always my most cherished." Mockingly, he called them up from memory. "Master Cere, save me!"

Unable to move, Trilla lashed out in anguish. "I'll tear you apart! All of you!"

Still amused by her defiance, he raised both arms. "Go ahead. Strike me down, dear sister." When she could not, he sneered. "No? Very well."

He brought his boot down onto her back. Trilla felt her grip on her halves weakening. The Grand Inquisitor knelt. "That's better…" He inhaled deeply. "Wondrous fear." She recoiled as he touched her cheek with the back of his hand. "My dear. What if I offered you salvation?"

"I'd rather die."

"Oh, believe me, death would be a mercy if Lord Vader discovered you survived him." He caressed her tenderly. Behind his predatory gaze lurked a primal hunger. His covetous desire laid bare. "To think… you were once so beautiful. So… full of hope…"

Trilla snapped her teeth down on his groping finger as it explored her lips. She tasted blood on her tongue. "Don't touch me."

The Grand Inquisitor grabbed a handful of black hair, forcing her to stare at him. "You should show more gratitude." He released her, standing. "For I am going to let you live."

Trilla felt the weight crushing her evaporate and writhed, unable to rise. "Hah… Hah." She groped blindly for the electrostaff. "Why?"

"The Second Sister is dead. Her sentence has been carried out." He twisted his head, peering back at her disdainfully. "You are not her. The Empire has no use for such a reprehensible creature." He signaled to two waiting troopers. "Escort this masterless dog to Nar Shaddaa and leave her with the rest of the trash." The Troopers hoisted Trilla upward, dragging her toward the waiting shuttle. She did not resist as the edges of her vision darkened.

"One more thing," the Grand Inquisitor's voice sounded faint. "Don't forget my charity. When we meet again, I expect you to be worth killing."