Cal stumbled through his descriptions with plenty of wild gestures to truly convey the theatrical experience of his nightmare. It was the most animate Cere had ever seen him as he paced wildly back and forth. He was the portrait of combat fatigue; the deep bags under his eyes and jumpiness were a testament to how much Nur affected him.

After hearing the full tale a second time, a stormy expression fell over her normally stoic face. He stopped mid-step. "Give it to me straight. Is this a trust my feelings kind of deal or you're a traumatized son of a bitch kind of deal?"

Cere rubbed her forehead, not letting herself speculate beyond what was necessary. "The former, I'm afraid. Although the latter might provide us a little clarity."

Seated on the couch, Merrin used her magick to connive away Greez's mug of Caf. She took a thoughtful sip. "How's that?"

"I can only theorize, but there were records of Force-bonds forming under extreme duress." Cere chose her words carefully, in order to avoid falling into hope. She wanted to believe more than anything that her padawan was still alive.

"If that is the case, I would have felt it when Trilla got…" He paused, remember who he was talking to. "You know."

"It might not be a particularly strong bond." Cere reached over, plucking the Caf from Merrin's hands, who frowned. "Just enough for her to survive the shock. Could have been entirely an unconscious." She took a sip, immediately shuddering as the burnt flavor washed over her tongue.

Seeing Cere's displeasure, Greez folded both sets of arms. "Oh, sorry, was my Caf not to your refined palette?"

"In the nightmare, you say it felt like her. Can you elaborate?"

Cal thought for a second. "Well, yeah, she wanted to kill me. Like every other time I've been in a room with her."

"Anything else?"

"My hair got really greasy. I don't know what product Trilla is using, but it is absolutely throwing off the oils of her scalp." Silence descended on the cabin.

Merrin did the math in her head, one finger raised as she counted to herself. "How much do you spend on your hair, Cal?"

"Uh, let's just say on Bracca I got used to a certain texture that is hard to replicate." He instinctively ran his fingers through the front of his frustratingly perfect red hair. For a moment, a gust of wind whistled through the cabin, causing his gleaming pink poncho to cling to his wondrous abdominal muscles.

"For some reason I doubt the Empire has a great selection of military issue hair gels," Greez mused, hand on his chin, trying to ignore the possibility of a pressure leak in the hull. "Let alone the helmet. Yeesh, could you imagine sweating in that thing for a couple of days? Surprised she has hair at all."

Cal nodded, but was soon pursing his lips, troubled. "It's not just the hair. The anger, the bitterness and… the fear. It was all Trilla's. Exactly the same as on Nur." He stepped over, keeping a measured tone. "Actually, it was a different kind of fear. On Nur, she was afraid of failing to stop me. In the nightmare, I think, she was afraid of hurting me."

He swiped the cup of Caf, ducking Cere's attempt to reclaim it. Merrin raised an eyebrow. "Way you described it, I don't think she is afraid of that at all."

"No, both emotions were there." Cal raised an objecting finger.

"Right, killing you just won out," Merrin said; "Maybe I should meet this woman. She sounds passionate and kind of sensitive."

"Exactly. Wai—"

"Please, Cal. You've dueled her multiple times. I imagine both your passions were running wild." Merrin giggled ominously. "Who knows, maybe deep down, Trilla hoped you'd save her?"

Cal's eyes flicked down at the suggestion. Cere cleared her throat. "A Force-bond would explain the intensity of the feelings and may have provided her enough of your Force to repair her wounds." She heaved an exhausted sigh. "The problem is she can always fall farther and might be lost forever." Her bereavement struck a motherly chord.

"Kind of hard to fall below state-sanctioned murderer," Merrin interjected, preparing to make a pass at the mug.

Cere winced at the assessment. "I'd prefer to not speculate."

Greez inched around the cabin, hoping to liberate his lost mug. "I am still of the opinion we should not be trying to find the homicidal woman who is trying to kill one of us in his dreams."

He made his move, only for Merrin to float the mug back over to her. "I vote we do. She knows more about the Empire's dirty laundry than any of us."

"Alright, I going to make some more," Greez said finally giving up with a clap of his hands.

Cere ignored him. "We should let Trilla decide. If you two truly are connected, she may reach for you again, Cal. Or you may choose to reach for her, but I warn you. Trilla has enough darkness to consume the both of you, so be careful."

"I understand." Cal nodded. "But I want to at least know I tried."

"Very good," Greez said, pumping his fist sarcastically. "Until then, might I suggest we… how do you say?" He snapped a finger. "Keep our heads down."

The Moff's villa was cordoned off from the other high rises around it through a series of manned checkpoints. A planet like Nar Shaddaa might have been sympathetic to the Empire, but that did not make a paranoiac like Disra any less wary of the local populace. No matter how high one was in the Empire's hierarchy, a culture of assassinations meant even those with affluence had to watch their backs. Stormtroopers were posted at every entrance and even in the buildings surround his home. Bucketheaded jackboots who had little to do besides harass those who missed the signs announcing the area had been subjected to a quarantine.

Laying prone on the roof of a nearby walkway, Trilla peered through Silri's binocs. "Six at the front." She zoomed in on the pair of troopers seated around a makeshift of fire of sorts, trying to heat their rations. One was puffing on a cigarette before passing it to his comrade. "Once we blow open the gate, more are going to swarm out. It is standard protocol to neutralize…"

She trailed off, realizing Silri was making a talking motion with her hand. "Yeah, yeah Ink. You act like this is my first time killing bucketheads. Where there is one, there are probably a hundred." She shook a belt of thermal detonators. "I know you're popping your high treason cherry and all, but please, that fish out of water look is killing me."

Trilla paused, self-consciously touching her cheek. Did she really look so ridiculous? "I've killed Stormtroopers before."

"Why? Cause some poor bastard thought he'd take a leak during one of your important speeches?" Silri asked disdainfully. "I know your type. Get just a bit of power over others and you rush to abuse it." Her words were like a knife in the belly. "That's not real power. It's banal and performative. True power is living for yourself and no one else. Neither with masters above, nor slaves below."

"You've made your point." Trilla frowned, hating the sense of being lectured. She pushed herself up, handing back the binocs. Her hand went to the lightsaber. It was cool in her palm, and the weight made Trilla feel better. "Once they see this, it's gonna bring down every inquisitor in the sector on top of us."

"So? They are your fucked up family." Silri tittered.

"I know. I want their heads."

"Of course, I was never one to deny someone their indulgences." Silri grabbed hold of Trilla's arm, pulling her close. "But it goes without saying, get captured or otherwise seem like you are having second thoughts… I'll have no choice but to kill you."

Trilla brushed her off. "Ah, well, then I guess it's not much different from my old line of employment."

TK – 534 cast jealous eyes at his comrade's meal. "Is that real Scazz meat?"

"I told you they always cheap out on the stew," TK-112 said between bites. He swallowed, reaching his canteen. "So what do you think the Moff is doing up there? It's been days."

"I know what I'd be doing."

"Yeah, I do. But I don't seem to recall any tweeks or financially destitute whores being brought up."

TK-534 frowned. "You make it sound so sordid. I'm a generous lover."

TK-112 raised a hand. "After how you left the last girl…." He shivered. "I ain't bunking with you anymore, all I'm saying."

"That was an accident."

"Sure and that's what I'll tell HR when they come snooping around." TK-112 returned to his meal. He stopped, scanning the dark street corner.

"Thinking of the farm again?"

"Almost time for the harvest. Just wondering if it was better than last year."

"Doesn't matter, really. You know our glorious Empire will take 80 percent of it," TK-534 said cynically. He raised a half-hearted fist. "Long Live the Empire. Our kids starve so the Emperor can have a new Star Destroyer."

"Here, here." TK-112 reciprocated the gesture. From above, thermal detonators rained down, landing at their feet. They blinked at him. "Wa—"

The blast that followed leveled the segment of the wall behind them and sent TK-534 crashing down onto the ground. A high-pitched ring deafened the noises of Nar Shaddaa, as he groped blindly. His horror grew upon realizing his legs were missing below the knee.

He screamed as the shock receded, allowing the agony to roll forth. Trilla appeared over him, plunging her lightsaber into his skull. A siren was triggered, filling the air with a mechanical wail. Stormtroopers flooded into the courtyard, rushing to assess the situation as the metal barriers slid shut over the doors and windows, locking down everything.

"Leave them to me," Trilla said, taking the lead. The taste of blood awakening her passions for violence.

"Whatever you say, Inky."

Despite already being skilled with the sword, Trilla still had to adjust to her limited range of motion. Her advance was slowed as she tried to decide what suited her. A heavy slash broke a nearby trooper's carapace into a rain of plastoid shards as he crumbled.

The first of many blaster bolts hit her below the rib, but Trilla shrugged it off with a blank expression. The Force would keep her together. What mattered was carving a path to the Moff.

"Jedi!" a lead trooper shouted back into the foyer. He pointed. "Get her!"

Silri watched, intrigued as like a tank, Trilla seemed unfazed by any wounds sustained as she cut through Stormtrooper after Stormtrooper. There was a savagery behind her measured demeanor. Bodies were thrown against each other, only to be impaled. Arms and legs were slashed off at the joint, leaving a roiling mass of men in Trilla's wake as she pushed onward.

Seated in his study, Moff Disra stared at the Sith Holocron on his desk. It had brought him nothing but trouble and now, in the hue of the emergency lighting, he guessed it had finally decided it was time to finish the job. He sighed, reaching for his glass of wine. Swirling it, he reflected on what game he had unknowingly become a part of.

Just another sacrificial piece on a galaxy spanning board. Next to him, a hologram displayed the interlopers' progress. The lobby had been wiped out, and the hallway was being reinforced. Disra placed a blaster next to the holocron. He never had the constitution for suicide, and that had always made him a poor Moff compared to his compatriots. Soon, the double doors to his study came crashing down in front of him. Silhouetted by the dust, Silri sauntered inside, placing a hand on her hip. "You the Moff?"

"Mhmm." Disra nodded, raising the glowing red cube. "Come for this?" He tossed it to her. "It's a fake."

Silri caught the holocron, an eyebrow raised. "Is it now?" She squinted at the object, turning it over in her hand. "Well, I'll be." Silri dropped it and watched as the holocron shattered into a million of pieces. "That's such a shame. Guess we'll have plenty of time for some fun…"

Disra watched as she unfurled her lightwhip. He got off one shot, and the red light arced out, wrapping around his wrist. As if dipped in lava, he watched as his skin was reduced to the consistency of melted cheese before his eyes.

Sitting on her knees, Trilla heard the agonized howls echoing off the desolate building. It really was just like home. Death was all around her. Mangled bodies of Stormtroopers provided a garnish to the grim scene as she waited. A figure appeared outside as a stillness settled over the foyer. She smirked. Right on schedule. An Inquisitor stepped over one of the dead Stormtroopers. His black kama flitted beneath his heavy cloak as he moved defy into the foyer. A riveted, dome shaped helmet concealed his eyes beneath a blast shield, leaving only a gray mouth visible. Anonymity was coveted in Inquisitorius. It both dehumanized them and made it easier to wield violence so readily. He slowed, noticing Trilla.

She smiled. "Good to see you again, Sixth. I had a feeling you were still in this sector."

"So you did betray us, Second Sister…" Sixth." He was not sound surprised. "This your doing, I take it?" He gestured to the surrounding dead. "Thorough, just at the Grand Inquisitor, taught you."

Trilla looked at his cybernetic left arm. Crudely hacked off during training to impart the lessons of loss. They had all become intimate companions with loss. She clicked her tongue. "Taught me? Hardly. I just did what came naturally."

Sixth raised his lightsaber, producing both ends of the weapon. "I am sure you did." He hunched his posture, readying himself to attack. "To think I used to respect you."

Trilla stood. Her lightsaber came to life as well, its blue hue already transforming into a bloody purple. "How interesting. I never thought about you."

He was upon her in seconds. A shower of sparks engulfed them as Trilla realized the power gap between a member of her family and a Stormtrooper was significant. Limited by her mobility, Sixth Brother was able to leave her wracked by several determined swipes. The burn of his lightsaber was just that. An obnoxious burn. All it achieved was motivating Trilla's blows to be heavier and ruthless.

With her lightsaber in both hands, she forwent any sort of grace, hacking viciously at Sixth. Each blow knocked him back a step, as he found his attacks had little effect. Their blades connected. Trilla smirked, pressing forward. "The Inquisitorius has misled you, brother. It's taught the wrong lessons and made you weak."

He headbutted her. His helmet cracking against bone. "Save your poisonous words." Sixth used the Force to throw her backward, then hardened his stance. "Bringing the head of a traitor back will earn me the favor of his majesty."

"Is that what you think power is?" Trilla asked mockingly. She touched her forehead, relieved there was no break, only a dull ache. "A child with a blaster can take a life." She held out her arms toward the mangled troopers. "So can they." Trilla became still. "Let me show you the power they hid from us."

She charged, but Sixth was ready, revealing a handful of thermal detonators from his sleeve. He threw them and they clinked to the floor. A blast followed. "You never used to fall for that one sister," he mused as the dust rose into the air.

A fluid-filled cackle shattered the serenity of the scene. Trilla had ducked, avoiding the mass of the explosion, but that did not mean she escaped unscathed. Sharp shards of rock and glass had torn into her face. A defined upward gash in her cheek hung open. Ripped fabric around her abdomen provided a window to her angry bowel pulsing exposed to the air.

"Because back then I needed to avoid it," Trilla said, digging her finger into the open wound, letting this fresh reservoir strengthen her. "Your infantile hate is nothing compared to the darkest corners of the Force."

Fear swept over Sixth and he was unable to muster a defense. He tried to raise his blade, only for Trilla to hack off his arms, before wrenching off his helmet. Sixth blinked, falling backward. His breathing was erratic as he tried to move limbs that no longer answered.

"Merciful darkness… After so long," he choked up.

Trilla stepped up to him, preparing the final blow. "Goodbye, brother."

"P-promise me…"

She waited.

"You'll kill them all." He wheezed. "Make the Empire… bleed for what it did to us."

Trilla did not answer, severing his head from his shoulders with a single slash. "I release you from your duty, Sixth Brother. I hope oblivion grants you peace."

A clap caused her to turn, to see Silri beaming. "If you are quite finished, our ride is here." Seeing Trilla's face caused her to jump. "Oh, yikes. You gotta little… shrapnel, well, everywhere."

Trilla ignored her, grabbing Sixth's lightsaber. "You won't mind if I take this, right, brother?" The corpse remained silent. She carefully stripped off his cloak, throwing it onto her shoulders. Her eyes paused on his gray face. He was finally at rest. His road finished.

The vibroknife's kiss sang as The Grand Inquisitor dragged it along his pectoral. Blood dripped onto the floor below, while he worked on his next mural of flesh. Pain calmed the mind and purified the spirit, granting him a merciful reprieve from the visages of torment produced by years of hunting the living. His personal quarters amounted to little more than a square gray block and did not even have a bed. He preferred to sleep aboard his ship, adrift in deep space. Only when embraced by the void could The Grand Inquisitor enjoy the dreamless quietude of darkness.

A beep on the center terminal beeped with an incoming call. However, despite the line being a private one between him and Lord Vader, the Grand Inquisitor made no moves to answer. He already knew what it was about. Shaving away a piece of gray skin, his thoughts drifted to Trilla. Namely, as she always appeared in his memory. A frightened girl in desperate need of guidance. He liked to think her stubborn survival was a product of his… personal intervention. Sure, the Grand Inquisitor loved all his children equally, but he took particular pleasure in destroying her sense of self.

Finished with the vibroknife, and with the terminal still beeping, he touched his bleeding wound. The warm blood was pleasant on his fingers. He loathed the Jedi preference for the lightsaber. Such a bland weapon, when there were so many cruel implements of destruction.

He put the knife down and went to the terminal, bowing low before as he clicked it. "Lord Vader… To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Mechanical breathing filled the room. "Grand Inquisitor. It has been brought to my attention that you recently allowed someone to escape who is supposed to be dead."

"Our dear second sister, my lord." The Grand Inquisitor felt the pressure forming around his neck, but his breathing remained stable. "Is it a crime to grow bored with one's work?" His eyes flicked to the hologram. "The Jedi die too readily. I decided to give myself something worth pursuing."

"That was not for you to decide." Vader released his grip. There was a moment of quiet between them, punctuated only by his hungry breaths. "However, your ambition is commendable and since you are under-stimulated, I am tasking with Trilla Suduri's prompt recapture. Alive, Grand Inquisitor. I want her alive."

"Alive?"

"Our Advanced Weapons Research would benefit greatly from dissecting her."

"I understand, my lord, and will see to her prompt reclamation." The com went dead. The Grand Inquisitor stood, walking over to his weapons locker and collected his lightsaber. He tightened his grip on the hilt, he did not want to lose his muse.

Zann's flagship was a modified CR90 Corvette which appeared as though it had been lifted out of some forgotten scrapyard. Perhaps he had borrowed it from Bracca when no one was looking because it still bore the Republic symbols. A coat of black paint did little to obscure the fact its owner was a pirate, thanks to a degree of armaments that dwarfed some Imperial craft.

"A fake?" Tyber repeated in a state of disbelief. He leaned against the conference room table, his brow furrowing. "Guess I underestimated the old man."

"You think?" Trilla crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. "The Emperor is not the bumbling fool you assume." She had tolerated the application of a bandage on her face, but already regretted it. The chaffing against her raw skin was making her ready to kill someone.

"Says, the Ink who went along with it anyway," Silri snorted, spinning in her chair. "Bet what is left of your face is plastered all over Imperial space now."

Trilla stayed silent. Tyber waved a hand. "It doesn't matter. There are other ways to crack a vault." He tapped the side of his head. "We'll just have to search for the other keys."

"Look, I helped you get the holocron." Trilla made air quotes. "But the Emperor rarely contacted the Inquisitorius, so I'm not going to be much more than a liability if you intend to pursue his vault."

"Hey Ink." Silri stopped spinning, kicking a boot onto the table. "You aren't a slave. If you want out, just say so."

"Strange. I seem to recall two separate threats of death."

"Those were before the plan changed and when you were an unproven asset," Tyber said. He jerked his chin at the lightsaber on her belt. "Keep it, but I would like to have you on retainer. A former inquisitor is someone I want in my back pocket."

Trilla could not recall a time in her life when the door was open, and she was free to leave. The notion made her paranoid about their intentions. From which she sensed the faint glimmer of sincerity. "If it is all the same, I have nowhere to go at present or papers to my name. They'll hunt me down in no time."

She knew ways to slip off the grid. It meant resorting to methods to similar to those of the Jedi. Preferences ranged from the isolation of the outer rim or getting lost in the crowds of bustling metropolises. However, her physical degradation added a new challenge to going by unnoticed.

"Then stay on until our paths diverge." Tyber shrugged. "My merry band of psychopaths could always use another." He looked at Silri. "We have a spare cot, don't we?"

"Oh, no. I'm not sharing my room with yet another agitated stray you let wander in." Silri jumped up. "Shove her into storage with the rest of the junk.

"Silri!" Tyber flashed a playful smirk. "Where is your sense of hospitality?"

"Brute, you know damn well I like to make noise."

Picking up on the sexual tension between the two and Silri's ravenous eagerness to pounce on the man, Trilla sighed. "Storage is fine." She slipped out into the hallway before things got too physical. The gloom and small space provided a sense of comfort to Trilla, who liked being able to keep her eyes on all the shadows threatening to surround her. She laid out the items liberated from her Sixth Brother, and in the dim light removed her bandages.

Using a shard of glass, she assessed the tear in her cheek. Pushing on the loose, ragged flap of skin, Trilla experienced a sense of loss. She was no less vain than the Second Sister. Liberated passions brought with them many indulgences. Violence and the act of taking were secondary to more personal joys. A helmet might have obscured her makeup, but she embraced the feeling of control, the act of applying it granted. It was humanizing in the darkness of dehumanization. Continuing to fight meant more injuries were inevitable. Trilla did not want to lose her beauty. The anxiety motivated her to fashion Sixth's cloak into a black headscarf and veil that would serve as a barrier between her face and the ravages of revenge.

The same was done with his helmet, thanks to the workbench behind her. When finished, Trilla studied her handiwork. It was of crude construction. The dome remained in one piece, it's ability to protect her skull was not to be underestimated. Crude chunks of metal were warped to protect the rest of her facial bones, meant to be covered by the veil. As she worked, Trilla's eyelids grew heavy, and despite the never ending zaps flying across her nervous system, she slumped over onto the bench. The sounds of a ship with people living in it, granting her yet another comfort. The vent echoed with the laugh of a crew member celebrating his winning of a generous sum of credits.

She thought of Tyber and Silri. Their romance must have been one chaos that could only be understood by existing on the bounds of civilized society, under constant threat of death. Silri's darkness did not frighten Tyber and maybe even enticed him. Trilla found herself once again wracked by jealousy. Such love was robbed from her weak hands by the torturous claws of fate.

The presence of another caused her to jolt. Hair standing on end, Trilla shivered, glancing back as a figure took shape behind her. The overwhelming scent of ozone filled her nose as a head of red hair became visible.

"Trilla," Cal said. His voice was barely a whisper. She flicked on her lightsaber, striking at the specter.