For the dark side is only for those who value self-determinism over all else existence offers – Darth Plagueis

"Whoa!" Cal leapt back instinctively. The tip of the lightsaber passed right through him. "Hey! Easy!" He ducked another crazed swing, still trying to get his bearings as he found himself backed against a shelf lined with spare ship parts. They clattered against each other as he held out both hands in a pacifying gesture. "I'm just!" The storage room was becoming clearer the longer he focused. It was a cramped space, piled with all kinds of junk, useless to those without a keen eye for ship repair.

Behind a snarling Trilla was a workbench and by her foot was a small alcove she had cordoned for herself. He blinked twice, rubbing beneath his eyelids. "Huh, this is about what I imagined, actually."

Nostrils flaring, eyes wide with bloodthirsty fantasies, she readied for another attack. Borderline delirious by his sudden intrusion, she did not appreciate that she was also granted a window in his room aboard the Mantis. "Y-you aren't here."

She stabbed forward, burning a hole in the storage room door. Cal stammered. "Trilla. Trilla." He danced around her, arms outstretched as if cornered by a feral animal. "Listen, if I am here… It's only because you allow me to be."

"Go away." Trilla grabbed hold of a wrench and hurled it at his head. It banged nosily against the wall. "I've finally lost it," she mumbled under her breath, turning away. "Nights without sleep…" She counted on her fingers, trying to ascertain the potential toll of being an insomniac.

"I'm not a hallucination," Cal interrupted, keeping his ready posture in case anything else came flying. "We're connected."

Deciding the best course of action was to ignore him. Trilla retracted her lightsaber, and slid to her knees in front of the workbench. Placing both lightsabers next to each other on the metal surface, she set to dissembling the pair. Her hope was to rebuild them into something more natural to use. She placed the pommel caps aside.

Poking his head over her shoulder, Cal asked, "What you got there?" She grunted, continuing to work. Noticing her trembling, broken hands with missing nails and crooked fingers, he experienced a unique sense of loss. "I'm here as a friend, Trilla. Just give me a chance."

"We aren't friends. The real Cal Kestis would know that," she said bluntly. "You're some kind of infection in the blood."

Brow furrowing at her stubborn insistence of his spectral status, he folded his arms. "Well, I guess my dogged persistence has been forgotten already. Here, I thought it was my greatest virtue."

Trilla stopped, heaving an exhausted, labored sigh. A headache gnawing at the base of her skull. She did not like having her own words thrown back at her. Her gaze went to her palms, which were caked in black soot. She jerked up, walking through him toward the door, before stopping to stick a finger in his face. "Don't follow me."

"You can't avoid me forever. I'll stay as long as I have to."

"Of that I have no doubt, Cal." She lingered at the door as it slid open."If you really are that mealy-mouthed worm and not some mutilated product of misfiring brain synapses." She glanced back at him. "I've not had access to clean running water for longer than I care to think about. So I want a shower, then just maybe I'll listen to your babbling."

She did not wait for him to respond, vanishing into the unformed blackness, indicating the limits of their bond. Alone, Cal pat his thigh thoughtfully. The inclination to rummage through her things too hard to ignore. He was a scavenger at heart, after all. So curious, he peered at what few possessions she had. The remains of the Sixth Brother's helmet of particular curiosity as it bore the symbol of the Inquisitorius.

Cal had already assumed she was no longer affiliated with the Empire, but the trophy confirmed it and made him feel a little less uneasy about trying to reach her. He tried to touch the top of the dome only for his fingers to go right through it. Despite this lack of physical connection, a nauseating phantom pin pierced the center mass of his brain.

Assaulted by dizzying flashes, Cal watched the inquisitor's final moments from a first-person perspective as Trilla prepared to deliver the killing blow. She did so with the same mercy as which one might kill a wounded animal. The vision left Cal roiling with emotional uncertainty. If only because the decapitation was welcomed readily by the Sixth Brother.

The crew quarters were quiet, aside from a few sleeping pirates and an ancient R4 unit conducting repairs on some exposed wiring. Tucked in a glorified closest was a single stall with a nozzle. Hardly glorious, but somehow offering more privacy than those on Fortress Inquisitorius. Budget cuts were to blame, she assumed.

Peeling out her ragged uniform, Trilla shuddered when the spray of cold water collided with her skin. Not because it hurt, rather the numbing sensation was not unlike having a rope burn. Black soot, dried blood, ash and all other varieties of debris were washed down the drain. A revitalizing experience, until the stream of water reached the exposed portion of her bowel. The moment the two connected, Trilla's vision grew black, and she had no memory of collapsing onto the tile floor.

With a choking gasp, she jerked back to reality. The water was pooling around her as she returned to the troublesome conundrum of her death march toward total physical dissolution. An added layer of reinforcement would go a long way to at least protecting her from basic injuries. A lightsaber or blaster were not the only concerns on the battlefield. She had seen and now experienced firsthand the damage shrapnel could do someone unarmored. There was also the ever present concern of losing her arm again. Trilla remembered seeing some mesh tape in the storage and it gave her an idea. A crude solution was still a solution. After toweling off and borrowing some baggy pants from one of the sleeping ne'er-do-wells in the quarters outside, she returned to her cave. Her displeasure upon finding Cal was seated on the floor, meditating, could not be overstated.

He opened his eyes, getting a clear look at her for the first time. "Damn, Trilla. You like you've been through hell." The nasty gash on her cheek was nothing compared to the blue and black fist-sized bruises circling her throat. A knife wound in the stomach that deformed with every movement. Most prominent of all, of course, was the raw zipper that separated her two halves. Her left breast had been all but destroyed. Knotted edges of tissue shrunk its volume considerably and the nipple itself was missing.

"Just noticed? Your powers of observation never cease to impress," she grumbled, shuffling around him. The mesh tape was waiting for her, tucked behind one of two toolboxes on the bottom shelf. He laid eyes on the blooming flower of decay, spiraling outward on her back from the gored fissure, traveling shoulder to hip on her back. Blaster holes accented the horrifying visage, turning it into some kind of mutilated constellation of incomprehensible agony. The sight of which brought up an intense wave of grief from deep within his gut.

"Hard to notice the little details when someone trying to cut your head off," he retorted, falling back into old habits. His tone softened as he leaned forward. "How'd you do it? I watched that … monster cut you in half."

Trilla paused. "He, although monster is an apt enough way to describe him, is Lord Vader. Be grateful you were hardly worth his time." She picked up her spare bandages, sitting across from him. "As for the how… Simple, I chose not to die."

"Chose?"

"Yes, that's right. I refused to let the Force decide my fate from on high," Trilla said, wrapping a layer of bandages around her upper arms before following it with the tape. Noticing he was studying her, she looked at him. "What?"

Cal seriously considered what she was saying. "So you used the dark side."

"Pass judgment if it makes you feel better." She gritted her teeth, tightening down the tape until the pulsing subsided. "There is no light and dark, Cal. Only those who are ruled by the Force and those who rule it."

Cal bristled, becoming defensive. "Have you truly forgotten all of what Cere taught you? The dark side mutilates the Force for its own twisted vision." He indicated to her arms. "Surely you can't believe you are better off in your current sate."

"I'm. Alive." She spat angrily.

He risked alienating her; Cal changed his tone, raising a hand. "You're right. I'm sorry." He smiled sincerely. "For what it is worth, I'm glad."

"Why? Cause you still have delusions of saving me?"

"I sense conflict somewhere deep inside you. Same as on Nur."

"Then you are as foolish as ever."

Cal moved his head to one side. "Your pain is real, Trilla. I'm not denying that… But what you are feeding now is only on the surface. There is a yearn—"

"Spare me Cere's poisonous arrogance." Trilla cut him off with a curt chop. "I am no longer her padawan. And neither of you can possibly know what I want anymore."

Another raw nerve had been struck. Cal leaned back. It was not going well. "Right. Right." He slapped his knee. "Um, no reason, but how much do you know about Force-bonds?"

Tape between her teeth, Trilla thought about it. The cogs churning visibly in her head; her face lost even more color. "Oh, no."

"Surprise?" He flashed a goofy smile. "Guess I should have led with that."

Trilla remained stunned, her mouth agape. Slowly, she shut it. "Well, isn't this a horrible revelation?"

"Cere thinks it might be a weak bond."

"Cere knows?" Trilla twitched as if pricked by a needle; "Pray tell why did you go blabbing to her?"

Cal shrugged. "Who else who was I going to tell?" He watched as her face became cold and vacant as a sullenness descended over it. "… You still resent her."

"The Second Sister resented, Cere. I'm indifferent to her existence." Trilla doubted her own words as soon as they left her mouth. She had affirmed to herself a commitment to leaving behind her master's memory. Easier said than done. It was difficult to forget the closest person she had to a mother.

Having lost focus, Trilla bucked as she tamped the tape around her abdomen. A searing inferno sent a chilling snakes all the way to the top of her head. She flopped against the shelf, writhing against an invisible fire. That was the last thing Cal saw before finding himself alone aboard the Mantis.

Realizing he was gone, Trilla allowed herself to whimper. It was a small noise. A residual expression of hopelessness. She jammed her palm against her forehead, honing in on the pressure. Her breathing steadied, and after a few minutes, she could stand.

The storage room suddenly felt unpleasantly small, so she dressed. Pulling the ragged trooper's uniform over her taped torso and arms proved to be a challenge. However, after some aggressive shimmying and plenty of choice words, the fabric complied. Trilla inspected the blaster holes thoughtfully. She really needed to get a change of clothes.

Such a fleeting flash of humanity brought a reserved smile to her face. Wandering the quiet hallways of the cruiser brought a sense of familiarity. Some things did not change regardless of flag one lived under. If anything, Trilla was not used to seeing so many other species in one place. The Inquisitorius might have been eclectic in its recruitment, but the same could not be said for the rest of the Imperial war machine.

A bang drew her attention upward to a vent. Metal whined as something scampered over her head. There was an impassioned squeak, and she took a step back right as a blur crashed down in front of her. A Jawa to be precise. It wore a gray robe with a fine point in its hood. On its back, secured by a bandoleer, was a wrench as large as the creature. Its big yellow eyes slowly rose to her face and, upon seeing Trilla's cheek, it grew agitated. Crawling over, the Jawa yanked insistently on her leg.

"M'nuta!"

"Hey," she protested, debating if kicking a crew member might have repercussions. The Jawa pointed to the elevator at the end of the hall, squeaking passionately.

Trilla had dealt with Jawa during her hunts, but those interactions were hardly so cordial. Curious as to what exactly it wanted to show her, she opted to humor it. To her surprise, she was brought to the medical ward and directed to one of three empty beds. The Jawa waddled over to a cabinet, returning seconds later with a bactapatch in its small hands. Climbing up next to her, it attempted to press it against her cheek.

"I appreciate the sentiment." She stopped the creature, holding it in place. "But that isn't necessary."

A torrent of annoyed squeaks followed as the Jawa struggled free. "M'nuta! M'nuta!"

"Does this distress you?" She asked, pulling on her dangling skin. Trilla let the Jawa apply the patch, figuring an experiment could not hurt anything. Although she had her doubts, it would help.

The Jawa relaxed, hopping off the bed, walking to the door. Realizing she was still sitting, it waved its arms, beckoning for her to follow. "Might as well," she sighed reluctantly. Certainly beat thinking about her conversation with Cal.

The Jawa lead her all the way back to the reactor room, where behind a series of crates was what constituted its room. A small mat was strewn with various droid parts and paneling. To be expected. However, she also noticed the bucket of rifle parts, meticulously ordered with bands around each set of barrels. The Jawa lead her all the way back to the reactor room, where behind a series of crates was its room. A small mat was strewn with various droid parts and paneling. To be expected. However, she also noticed the bucket of rifle parts, meticulously ordered with bands around each set of barrels. Finding an understanding with another wretched little beast, Trilla restrained her urge to kick over the bucket. The Jawa popped open its footlocker, revealing an ornately carved glass pipe.

"See you met Collot," a gruff voice said from behind her. She turned seeing a male Torgruta with blue striped lekku, in engineer's garb, drinking quietly in the adjacent corner. "He's harmless. Guessing you had some kind of cut or something, right?"

"How'd you know?"

"He has trypophobia, as far as we can tell. Fancies himself a nurse, where his only ever recommended treatment plan is plenty of Spice."

Collo gave a series of agitated squeaks, pushing to pipe into her stomach. Trilla lurched backward, feeling a metallic taste in the back of her throat. "Stop it!"

"Don't be like that," the engineer chided; "He's trying to help your pain."

Despite her anger, Collot remained adamant, holding the pipe up. "Tando."

"Look… It's not going to help." She trailed off, realizing like before, what did she have to lose? Trilla no longer was an inquisitor. So nothing to uphold morally there. And she definitely was a far cry from a Jedi. Death was no longer a concern, either. She deserved a chance to develop some unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Trilla shrugged, joining Collot on the mat, who quickly lit the pipe. It took a pull, then passed it over to her. The first problem came from her humiliating lack of knowledge about how to imbibe Spice at all. After numerous fumbles and much violent coughing, Trilla succeeded in keeping a pull down.

Through watering eyes, she wheezed. "See? Easy?"

Collot raised both hands into the air, cheering for her success. "Eyeta!"

Trilla found herself relaxing into a pleasant haze, as her aches receded, allowing her to slump against the wall. Weightlessness. A welcome change from feeling her bones grind against each other as she moved. She scarcely heard Collot's squeaks as he took another pull. Trilla was acutely aware of her breath. The rise as her lungs fought to fill themselves with air and the whistling fall as they emptied. There was a brief break from her unnatural existence, allowing unfortunate memories to rise to the surface.

"Master Cere used to always used to tell me about the what the Republic meant to the galaxy," Trilla mumbled aloud, opening her eyes. "But all I remember is a Republic that sent me to a planet where bombs fell like rain."

Collot leaned against a tactically prepared pillow large enough for him to sink into. "Kebee'oto?"

"That's the odd thing. I can't recall the name, just the sleepless nights clutching my lightsaber as the ground was ripped out from under us. She stared at the blinking lights on the reactor's terminal. "Heh. The Jedi Order told me we were keepers of the peace; thanks to them I got to see a galaxy in ruins."

The war had taught Trilla conflict and shaped her into a tool the Empire would wield later against her former masters. Collot leaned forward, enraptured by her story. His large eyes scanning the creases in her face. "Ja'bo'ba?"

"Expecting stories of a heroic padawan and her master leading their loyal clones to victory?" Trilla shook her head. "I have none. We landed on separatist worlds with the morals of a conquering army." She laughed bleakly. "You try looking a mother in the eye to tell her children will go hungry because supply shipments have been rerouted to support another front."

Realizing another was seated next to her, she twitched, finding Cal had reestablished their connection. "Oh, how kind of you to drop by again. I so do love having my personal space invaded at will," she murmured, nowhere near clearheaded enough to tolerate another intrusion.

He looked from her to Collot, to the pipe in the Jawa's grip. "Spice? Really, Trilla?"

"This little guy made a very persuasive argument." She shrugged, shutting her eyes solemnly. "It's nice, you know? To dull the Force's exhausting warbling."

Cal was not sure what she meant, however. He also recognized the dark side's chains crushing in on all sides of her. It was as though he was seated next to a black hole. To look at her was to find his the vein of his temple bounding against his skin. "Yes, and I saw what it does to a person, back on Bracca."

"Concerned about me, are you?"

"I'd prefer we not be enemies."

"Pity. I want to kill you."

Her threat had less conviction behind it than usual. Cal called her bluff. "You've failed three times already."

"The Second Sister failed because she was tricked into confusing cruelty for power." She turned away from him, taking another pull as Collot did not seem bothered by what, to him, was a one-sided conversation. "I don't blame her for her weakness. She was a slave."

He side-eyed her warily. "You still bear the responsibility for your actions."

"Never said I didn't. I saved myself where the strong might have chosen... martyrdom." Trilla shifted herself into a cross-legged position, rolling her neck. "You would have chosen martyrdom. Isn't that right, Cal?"

"I certainly wouldn't have turned to the dark side or hunted other Jedi."

"No, of course not." She matched his confidence with a powerful animosity. "You're exceptional. Different from all other padawans who were dragged before that butcher…" she trailed off, remembering the Grand Inquisitor's probe, prodding her gray matter with the deftness of a surgeon. "Tch. You'll never understand."

"Try me."

"No. You aren't entitled to my past."

Cal recognized the fatigue in her voice. "Sure…" He scratched his head, unsure what there was left to broach. Their conversations always seemed to end up right where they began. He decided on a different approach. "Trilla."

"Hmm?"

"Are you going to fight the Empire?"

"An amusing suggestion, since it assumes I have another option."

"Then why can't we work together? We share a common enemy."

Trilla snorted. "I think we'll disagree on tactics."

Massaging his temple with his thumb, Cal said, "So what? The Empire is only getting stronger."

"Careful. Start talking like that and who knows how far you'll fall?"

Cal knew it was a dangerous line to tread, but he also knew that the Empire was not going to be beaten by playing by the book. A talented combatant like Trilla was an invaluable ally in the face of Imperial terror.

"I won't kill anyone; I don't have to. But it's not like I can stop you."

"Oh, and does Cere feel the same?"

"This isn't about her. I'm asking you, Trilla." He offered her a hand. "Let's meet. Face to face."

Trilla stared at his hand, then gestured vaguely between them. "Aren't we already?"

"Humor me. "

"Fine. We can do things your way." She would need to convince Zann to loan her Consortium ship. He had been cordial thus far, so Trilla was not concerned. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Umbara."

Trilla raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, you've heard about the Empire's new mining projects?" He nodded, and she cracked a frightening smile. "I'll meet you there."