A scream from the Force brought Cal to his knees; he covered his ears, desperate to shut out the incessant howl enveloping his being. This was unlike any of the nightmares he had previously experienced. In those, he stood alone on a ship he did not recognize, approached by the one who was Imperial doom made manifest. Cal would have traded anything to see the black armored juggernaut again. At least then, he would see death approaching.

On this scarred planet, he was smashed beneath gravity's merciless grasp, as millions of dead voices flooded his mind. The many lives struck low in an instant through an act of strategic desperation, during a battle centuries ago, made demands that were impossible to fulfill. He was in hell, Cal was certain of it. If it was not hell, he would gladly take hell in this planet's his fingers and watering eyes, he saw shadows blackened into the gray rock. Tall spires, blasted smooth as a result of whatever weapon was used here, scraped the clouded sky. Trapped in perpetual darkness, Cal no longer saw color, or, for that matter, he no longer could feel his fingers against his skull.

Far in the distance, he saw a hunched figure, draped in a ragged black cloak, walking toward a pyramidal structure. A sense of needing to stop them overtook him, and Cal climbed to his feet, giving chase. Whatever the person planned to do, he knew it would spell disaster. For who? He was uncertain. Regardless, with shadows bearing fangs around him, Cal readied himself for a confrontation. Through the maze of spires, the figure remained just out of reach. He tried to yell out, only to find no sound would leave his lips. Finally, Cal stood at the base of the stone steps, the figure about halfway up the structure. He looked around for something to hurl. Anything to delay their progress. However, upon trying to lift a stone, the Force remained reluctant. It intended for him to meet the stranger at the summit, so Cal climbed after them.

The figure was pacing when he reached the top. Their movements were languid, as if they were dragging their body along with each step. When their boot touch the ground, Cal felt a ripple of exhaustion. Like a weary traveler unable to rest, his quarry was agitated, ready for conflict. A lightsaber appeared in their gloved hand, and while Cal expected red, an eerie blade of bleeding tyrian emerged instead. He readied his own, taking a defensive posture in the glow of beautiful saffron.

His enemy blinked first, darting toward him with vigor. Their blades connected, and the duel took on the character, as so many he had experienced. However, as they remained equal in skill, his opponent grew more and more savage. Their strikes were more reckless, more unrelenting. Cal found himself on the back foot. An upward slash presented an opportunity he used to slice across their upper arm. To his surprise, his opponent did not flinch, as their sleeve revealed graying skin with visible bone protruding.

The sight of it caused Cal to retreat and firm his stance. From the darkness of his opponent's hood, he saw yellowing eyes with a red rim peering into his very soul. There was a momentary restraint as the two circled each other, surrounded by oblivion, mired in a mass grave. The two circled each other at the edge of oblivion. Standing upon a mass grave to a war long forgotten. Another tyrian lightsaber appeared in his attacker's left hand, and the battle started again. There would be no quarter this time. They struck at him with a relentless flurry. Cal blocked the first blow, only for the second blade to come crashing down against his own with a terrifying ferocity.

Trying to create some space, Cal made a gamble. He tried to maneuver his hand to take hold of their wrist. When he did, a downpour of misery shattered the serenity he had reached during the fight. Total self-negation grew from where the two connected until he collapsed, hands trembling violently as he stumbled over his words.

"I—I know you."

He waited for the strike that would free him from the nightmare, but instead, his attacker returned their lightsabers to their belt. Slowly, they removed their hood, revealing Trilla's gaunt face. Fissures from hundreds of waged campaigns snaked over her cheeks and Cal was certain he saw a forlorn smile on her colorless lips. She provided no reassurances. Offered no explanation. Trilla strode forward, grabbing hold of his poncho and dragged him over to the edge. Struggling against her grip, Cal kicked his legs. "How? I watched you die."

Trilla stopped, mouthing something inaudible then—She flung him into darkness. He awoke with a grunt, promptly rolling off his cot and smacking onto the Mantis's cold floor.

"Bwoo?" BD-1 expressed its concern, having heard him mumbling in his sleep. Despite being a droid, its glittering eyes conveyed more emotion that most humans.

Cal sat up, rubbing his forehead. "I'm fine." The bipedal droid bounced around, dropping onto his lap.

BD-1 beeped doubtfully, noticing his tremor.

"I just need… Something to drink." He stumbled into the seating area with BD-1 on his back, and found Merrin already waiting on him. Her umber eyes conveyed an affectionate gentleness. They had grown closer following the raid on Nur, finding all sorts of mental scars to pick at together.

"Another nightmare? They are becoming more frequent." She had felt his fear long before hearing him fall.

He waved his hand, walking over to the kitchenette, searching for some water. He found some, downing it all in a single gulp. Able to breathe again, Cal sighed. "I need you to tell me something."

"Anything."

"Can the dark side stop someone from dying?"

"There are stories of such feats," she answered seriously, reflecting on the memories of her sisters. "Although, I shudder to think what such a pursuit would cost a person. " Merrin went to him, gently touching his arm. "Who did you see? The executioner?"

He shook his head. "Trilla."

"Cere's padawan."

"In the decaying flesh. She looked like she had taken a bath in vibroblades."

Merrin pulled him over to the couch, allowing Cal to rest against her as she ran fingers through his hair. "It was a nightmare." BD-1 jumped off, deciding to let them have some privacy.

"If it was, it was the realest I've ever had…" Cal's brow furrowed deeply. "Her world it has no color, no light, no touch or kindness. There is nothing." He took solace in the touch of a former enemy. "She's alive. We've got to find her."

Merrin scrunched her face. "Maybe talk to Cere first." She knew he was unconvinced. "Putting aside the fact you don't even know where Trilla is… If she's alive." Merrin made him look at her, speaking softly. "Do you really think she would want to be found after everything? The kind of anger required to stave off death itself… It is a thing no one comes back from whole.

She spoke the truth. He leaned into her hand on his cheek. "Still, if there is a chance, we might be able to help her live with it."

Cal would have done well to heed Merrin's assessment. Trilla was in no mood for anyone's pity. On her first night on Nar Shaddaa she was gifted a vibroknife in the stomach by an opportunist mugger, who stole the trooper carapace right off her as she lay stunned. Just like on Nur, her desolation called on the Force to hold the injury in stasis, while she dragged herself into the shelter of a nearby awning. Freedom was an unkind master, even in contrast to her previous one.

Pain settled itself as an inescapable presence, the curse of her resurrection becoming clearer. Half-starved, Trilla found the taste of food was drowned beneath the wails of her nervous system and anything solid quickly climbed back into her mouth upon being swallowed. Water still alleviated her thirst but only because each drop threatened to drown her. Reduced to a desperate beast, she darted from shadow to shadow, picking pockets for enough credits to afford a room to on the fourth day, Trilla learned the pain would never grant her such a reprieve. Like a cattle prod to the thoracic, she felt her spine groan even when laying flat, protesting her continued heretical degeneration against the order of life. Exhaustion finally granted her moments of oblivion, only for her to awake choking as fluid filled her lungs.

Claiming a spot for herself on a street corner of one of the many slums spreading across Nar Shaddaa's lower levels, Trilla assessed the limits of her state. Mobility in her left arm had returned enough that it was no longer just dead weight. Although she remained protective of it, anxious about losing it again. The tip of the vibroknife confirmed her fingers still had a dulled sensation. A little victory, she was grateful for. Trilla theorized whatever allowed the Force to keep her from death functioned similarly to the other automatic processes of life. With one important difference. The Force was not healing her. It was overriding her body's ability to fail.

Under normal circumstances, a knife in the gut was a death sentence, yet as she prodded the opening, all Trilla found was more rivers of pain. Another immediate consequence was she found her ability to wield the force for practical purposes greatly diminished. The basic act of pulling credits from a pocket left her drained, almost paralyzed. Her connection to the Force bolstered through anguish and rage.

So with nowhere to go, she was forced to turn her attention inward, into the darkness that defined her life. Her pride as a padawan whose skill with a lightsaber earned her praise. The betrayal of Cere, from which Trilla was too weak to survive. The rise of the Second Sister, a ground down shell who enjoyed the execution of the Second Sister, which had broken Trilla's chains allowing her to reemerge, changed forever. She was freed from her attachments by the actions of others. But it was no one else but her who was prepared to pay the terrible price to live again.

The agony cascaded into a roar, as Trilla embraced her new curse, listening to every single nerve as they spoke tales of horror. She did so with a hand outstretched, hoping to collect some extra credits while oblivious to the weeks into these ruminations, while her face was buried in her knees, a note was pressed into Trilla's open palm. Jolting her from her stupor. Whoever had given it had already vanished into the crowd. She opened the torn cloth. On it was an address along with a message.

I have a proposal, let's meet.

- A friend

Filled with disdain, Trilla crumpled it. Although without another option, she decided to see what the contact wanted. Climbing to her feet proved to be her first challenge, as a symphony of microscopic shrieks ricocheted beneath her clammy skin, creating a cold sweat on her brow as she waited for the nausea to subside.

Treading the winding streets, Trilla was brought to a seedy bar on the outskirts a manufactory. Built into a hunk of rusted metal, it brought back brief memories of Tatooine and a hunt that ended with a Jedi's corpse in the sands. She scowled, pushing the Second Sister away. One as weak as her old self had no right to intrude upon her present. As she too was now among the hunted. Not eager to be stabbed again, Trilla avoided the seamy individuals playing Pazaak on a table outside the bar. They cast her uncertain glances, then returned to their game. Scraping the Imperial insignia off her uniform had been the right call.

On the inside, the bar was the standard affair for scoundrels. Drinks were poured liberally, bounty hunters checked their holopucks before racking their blasters, and a Twi-lek dancer entertained all comers who crowded around the stage. Trilla briefly lingered, watching the emerald-toned woman's movements with envy. Fluidity was something Trilla regretted taking for granted.

Turning her attention to the patrons, she scanned the faces, unsure who summoned her, until a door at the very back of the establishment caught her attention. Curious, she investigated. The hallway had three adjoining rooms, with another at the end. A woman's smoky voice filtered through the latter door. "Aren't you a naughty boy? Are you really so eager to end up in a Bacta tank? As Trilla grew closer, listening, the same woman said, "Unfortunately, it seems we're going to be interrupted."

As good invitation as any, but Trilla's face twitched upon laying eyes on the intimate scene. A pale woman, with black tattoos around her eyes was seated on the lap of a man with fine, silvery hair which flowed down his back.

"This the one?" He asked, projecting an aura of calm dignity.

"Oh yes, Tyber, this one is surrounded by shadows." The woman grinned, sliding off his lap, drawing closer. An intrusive thought rose to the top of Trilla's mind as she wondered what it was like to experience such intimacy with another. To be held as an equal rather than being handled as a thing. Resentment burned within her.

"But I have to wonder." The woman rose onto her tiptoes so they could be eye to eye. "Why an inquisitor is begging for scraps on the street? Did the Emperor get bored with his poppet?"

Trilla found her voice. "I suggest you to get out of my face, Nightsister." She touched the hilt of the vibroknife on the back of her belt.

"Or what? You'll stab me with that pitiful little thing?"

"Silri, we talked about this," Tyber said; "She's an important piece for our game."

Trilla disliked being referred to as a piece, but remained silence as Silri smirked, returning to his side. She put both hands on his broad shoulders. Ever on guard, Trilla started to pace the small room, noting the blasters lining the table between them."I don't believe we've met."

"We haven't." He leaned forward, picking up one of the blasters to inspect it. "My name is Tyber Zann. Perhaps you have heard of me."

"Can't say I have."

"Good, then the Empire remains ignorant." Tyber touched the Nightsister's hand. "This is my associate, Silri. She's the one who found you."

Silri offered a creepy laugh. Trilla's eyes narrowed. "How did you know I was an inquisitor?"

"Because you aren't Sith yet, you carry yourself like one," Silri snarled. "That can only mean you are, or rather, were one of the Emperor's black dogs. I've flayed enough of your kind to know."

Tyber held out a hand toward an empty chair. "Sit, please."

"I prefer to stand," Trilla said, continuing her pacing as her eyes moved between the pair. "What is this proposal?

"Straight to it then? Good." Tyber tossed the pistol away, crossing his leg as he leaned back in his chair. "We're planning a heist. Nay, the heist to end all heists." He flashed a devilish smile. "We're going to crack open the Emperor's vault."

"Which is why we need someone proficient in the dark side and knowledgeable of secret Imperial comms," Silri added. "And since it looks like you have a reason to bite the hand that used to feed you. I figured you'd want to hear our offer."

Trilla had not expected them to be so forward. They were confident in their ability to sway her. Not that she needed swaying. A chance to go for the brain of the Empire was enough to entice her egotistical ambition. Let alone the prospect of unlocking what the Emperor himself might have collected over the years.

"Sounds like a suicide mission," she assessed bluntly. "I'm in."

"A woman after my own heart." Tyber reached into his coat. Silri pinched his cheek as he placed a hologram on the desk. The face of an uniformed Imperial with harsh features greeted Trilla. She thought he was familiar, but could not place him.

"This is Moff Disra. He earned a boon from his majesty for his genocidal march across the Shelsha sector," Tyber explained.

That was where Trilla remembered the officer from. A damnable celebration she had been an unwilling participant of. "Yes, I know him. He's a braggart with a droll sense of humor."

"And did you know this braggart was gifted a Sith Holocron?" Silri asked, enjoying the disdainful expression growing onto Trilla's face.

"You are joking. There is no way the Emperor would hand out something so significant to a mere Moff," Trilla said doubtfully. Another pustule of desire swelled inside her.

"We thought so too." Silri had expected skepticism. "But I have reason to believe this is part of a grander game on the part of his majesty. He's breaking up his collection."

Tyber nodded. "My contacts have confirmed as much. You'd be surprised how much you can learn when you own an officer or two in the right places." He looked back at Silri. "Speaking of, have we gotten a return on that senator yet?"

"We will, patience my dear."

Trilla pursed her lips, getting the conversation back on topic. "Even if that is true. I still doubt Moff Disra would be dumb enough to keep it on his person."

"I have already confirmed that he does." Silri smirked. "You Imps are always such vain fools."

Trilla bristled. "The Empire has no claim to me anymore. Don't forget that, or this will be a short partnership."

"Strange, you still smell like an Imp. Bet you bleed like one too." Silri reached for her lightwhip, eager for a fight.

Tyber intervened again. "Ladies, please. Let's save the bloodshed for after we're all rich." He made sure they were both listening. "I suggest you two pay him a visit."

Silri snickered. "We can cut off pieces until he tells us where it is."

"He won't dare tell the Emperor of the holocron's theft," Trilla said, realizing the simplicity of the plan was a feature, not an error. "Fool probably has no idea of its worth."

"Exactly, Inky."

"Moffs don't travel alone. He'll have a company of bodyguards at minimum." Trilla considered the possibility they would also have to contend with her old comrades.

Silri walked around the table. "Scared?"

Trilla's expression darkened. "Of course not, but you have me at a disadvantage." She raised her empty hands. "I am unarmed."

Tyber smiled coldly. He reached into the drawer and placed the hilt of a lightsaber in view. "Then this is your down-payment for accepting the job because once we get started there is no backing out."

Trilla approached cautiously, picking up the weapon. It was of simple construction with a scarred, blackened surface. "Not to my preference…" She flipped the switch, producing a rather standard blade of blue. Brief interruptions of being a padawan rose from the depths of her psyche and Trilla squeezed the hilt. A rush of anger caused the saber to flicker for a second, its color darkening.

Seeing this, Silri grinned. "My, aren't you a damaged one? Tell me did someone break your black heart?" She placed her chin on Trilla's shoulder from behind, and whispered, "How I'd love to crack open that little skull of yours and see what makes you tick."

Ignoring her, Trilla focused on Tyber. "Where did you get this?"

"Don't seem so surprised." He shrugged. "There are credits to be made trafficking such things. Collectors will pay a fortune these days."

Trilla pointed the blade backward over her shoulder and hissed. "Release me, witch. I won't ask again."

"Me~ow. She's found her fangs." Silri slunk back to her man. "I know not why you were cast down, but you are as good as dead, like all of us, with a connection to the Force." She cracked a smile. "The question is, are you content to rot in irrelevance or will you remind the Emperor even he can be reached by those lowest?"

Tyber's eyes watched Trilla closely. "You'll get your cut of the spoils, of course, along with any other information on the holocron."

Trilla took a step away, retracting the saber. She did not have much to think about. It was only fair the Empire harvested the rotted fruits of its effort to turn her into a monster. "You have yourself a deal."

"Wonderful. I hoped we'd be able to reach an accord." Tyber clapped his hands together. Standing, he offered her a shake. When she did not take move, he nodded. Bringing out a comlink. "Urai. Evacuate all our operations, we're going to kick the hornet's nest.

Silri licked her lips, staring daggers into Trilla. "Betray us, and I'll have no trouble slicing you gizzard to gullet."

"Don't be so sure," Trilla said, placing the lightsaber on her belt.