We all wage war with the past, and it leaves its scars - Kreia

The sound of blaster fire slowly receded outside, and Trilla hid her trembling hand in her sleeve. She held the Rodian close, letting the youngling cry into her chest as she tried to stifle the waver her voice. "Shh, it's okay. Cere is going to come back." She had to be brave and have faith her master would not abandon them.

It was easier said than done. Being the eldest, the others looked to her for guidance she could not provide. Trilla was as frightened as they were and, despite her training, too young to comprehend the scale of the apocalypse unfolding. A genocide set in motion centuries before she was even born, because of the crimes of men who were just playing their part in a larger tragedy.

"Are they going to kill us?" The Rodian's question was weak.

Trilla did not know how to answer. Did she tell him the truth? That Cere was probably dead, and if they were found, so were they. Her hesitation was enough, and the Rodian hugged her tighter.

Footsteps on stone, just outside their hiding place, turned her blood to ice. She opened her mouth then exhaled shakily, touching her lightsaber. This was it. There was nowhere to run; she had to fight. Trilla turned back, zipping her lips, standing between the younglings and the entrance.

Unhooking the lightsaber from her belt, she took a deep breath, trying to reflect on her training. Her thoughts slowed, granting Trilla a moment of respite to weigh her options. In such tight quarters, she had the advantage. However, as more troopers flowed inside, she would be overwhelmed. Trilla made a bleak resolution. She had to fight and nothing could be held back.

"This is the place," a trooper's mic crackled. "Just like the crone said."

Just like the crone said. Trilla's stomach flopped. She might have fainted if her adrenaline was not in full tilt. Shadows dancing off the water caused her eyes to narrow. Her mind went wild with chatter, but Trilla knew if this was the end, she would never forgive herself for making it easy.

The dark side called to her. As its powerful offers had always been the tool of the downtrodden. An equalizer that placed a thumb on the scale of justice in favor of those who needed to resist fate. It was then, at that moment, Trilla discovered her true self. And found she had the black beating heart of a Sith. The Faustian bargain dangled in front of her and despite her desire to reach for the fruit, Trilla remembered Cere's teachings.

Trilla restrained herself. She released her weapon as the Troopers surrounded her. Trilla shut her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Instead, something metallic clacked shut tight around her throat.

"Huh?" Trilla looked down to find a collar attached to a pike leading away from her to the lead soldier.

She watched wide-eyed as the leader flipped a switch, and as the current of electricity sparked toward her, Trilla regretted her faith in her master. Her teeth rattled in her skull as the arc blew off two of her fingernails before being turned off.

Gasping, her arms were pinned by two clones, with a third placing the barrel of his blaster against her back. A shot echoed throughout her eardrums; Trilla flinched, a high-pitched whine giving shape to the scene. Right in front of her, the Rodian's chest smolder. The youngling bobbed once, then crumpled into the shallow water.

"W-why?" Trilla stammered.

They ignored her. One trooper pushed his boot into the corpse. "Eh, they're not so tough."

"Quick, get a picture," another said. The squad crowded around, pulling the lifeless Rodian up as they posed with it.

Through her tears, Trilla could only repeat her original question. "Why!? She trembled against her restraints, ready to kill them all. Her answer came as a rifle's butt against her head.

Trilla came to bound to an Imperial torture chair. Her wrists throbbed as metal bindings chewed into her skin. Rising panic sent in her into a frenzy, as Trilla tried to pull against these shackles, only to find she could scarcely move aside from her neck. Her pulse was a drum, sounding the warning of the doom. From the shadows, the Grand Inquisitor revealed a yellow grin, dragging himself into view. A Pa'un, his height alone, was intimidating, but it was the length of his thin arms, a normal facet of his species, that unnerved Trilla the most.

Visible from beneath his black cloak, they hung limp as he lurched closer, reminding her of a wind-up toy. His movements were stilted and unnatural, as though he was not used to moving his body. He stopped in front of her, his grin receding into an expression of disdain.

Trilla sunk down onto herself, wishing she had remained unconscious. She saw the terror he wished to crush her beneath, written in his empty gaze. Not pain. That was too rudiment. Terror was subtle by contrast, corrosive as it imposed its will from without.

"W-who are you?" Trilla's voice emerged, a weak croak.

"Me? Oh, I suppose you could consider me... Your salvation."

Her eyes flicked to his scars. "You aren't going to kill me." She found her mouth dry as the notion settled in her breast. Overwhelmed by fear, Trilla's knees wobbled as the sterile atmosphere made her feel like a lab rat before dissection. "Please… kill me. Like the others."

"Your fear is exquisite." The Grand Inquisitor made no moves. His stillness possessed a menacing quality, like a trap getting ready to spring. "But I am afraid I can't grant your request. We're going to be coworkers."

Trilla's eyebrow twitched, making a fist. "I'll never work with you." The whispers were back. Quiet offers from the Dark. It was still ready to protect her, and she resisted.

The Grand Inquisitor smiled. "Everyone does eventually. It's good you're so … youthful, Suduri. Your thinking can still be… corrected." He produced a vibroknife from his cloak, bringing it to his neck. "Don't you wish for absolution? I can guide you."

"Absolution?"

"For making the formation of our new Empire necessary."

He brought the knife over to her, placing its tip below her eye, forcing her to see. She grunted, finding her wit. "Right, because I was plotting the overthrow of the Republic from a mossy cave. Brilliant acu—"

Crack. The Grand Inquisitor punched her in the center of her face. She felt blood well up in her nose, dazed by the blow. "I'm afraid… you've already been sentenced. That is why you were brought to me." He returned the knife to the folds of his uniform. "You tried to protect treasonous rebels. Our Troopers were merely doing their duty."

Two red streams trickled onto Trilla's upper lip. Filled with defiance, she fixated her gaze on the floor. "Duty," she repeated sourly, her lip curling downward with disgust. "They murdered younglings."

"Perhaps we need to revisit the incident together."

Trilla tensed as he raised his hand, expecting to be struck again. She soon wished he had kept hitting her, feeling phantom tendrils probing her thoughts. The Grand Inquisitor's approach was brutish. Once he identified her memory of the cave, he replayed it. Over and over. Making sure to linger on her dark thoughts, and the anger cultivated through her restraint. As he wormed through her mind, Trilla's eyes bulged against her skull, threatening to pop out entirely. At some point, she bit down on her tongue, seizing violently in the chair.

The Grand Inquisitor released her, and she slumped against her binds. He snorted. "Now now. We aren't finished."

A cruel shock jolted Trilla back into the terror of reality. She whimpered hopelessly, seeing she would not be granted the gift of death.

"The younglings died because you were weak, Suduri. That is why you could not protect them." He walked to her side, lowering a voice. "It was your fault."

"It was my fault," Trilla mumbled; "I was weak."

Detecting the infectious growth of her hatred, with a healthy dose of it directed at herself, the Grand Inquisitor reached over, touching her hand. "Shh. I forgive you. You were misled by the Jedi code." He paused as she looked away despondently. "It crippled you, Suduri. Shackled you to empathy and an incompetent master who never appreciated your potential."

She found herself tightly gripping his finger. "Where is Cere? Is she dead?"

There was a pleasing malice in Trilla's question, but the Grand Inquisitor simply shook his head. "I'll answer in due time. First, we must reinforce the lesson."

He input a command on the terminal, controlling the chair, and turned to leave. The gears whirred, clanking nosily, Trilla growing pale as she was lowered into the pulsating blue pylons. Her screams echoed throughout the facility.

Backstabbing was a way of life in the Inquisitorius. When the Inquisitors were not killing the Jedi, they were killing each other both outwardly in duels and quietly with knives in the dark. Trilla secured herself as second in the hierarchy through the former. Whenever another Inquisitor rose to far, she was there to make sure they perished. Sometimes the lightsaber was not sufficient and in those cases, Trilla ensured her competitors fell victim to their ambitions. Withheld information meant many never made it back from a hunt.

However, just as she kept others down, the Grand Inquisitor remained illusive. Always several steps ahead of her schemes. It was his direct line of communication to the Emperor that Trilla wanted. She needed such a favor. One evening, unable to stomach being in the Grand Inquisitor's shadow any longer, she pushed her tray away.

"Grand Inquisitor."

Her brothers and sisters in the mess hall fell quiet, sensing the descent of hostility. All eyes were on their skeletal "boss" as he continued to pick over his raw meat. He tore into it, speaking between bites. "Careful, sister. I'd hate to lose such a competent subordinate."

"I'd hate to continually be hamstrung by your incompetent leadership," she retorted, gripping the utensil in her hand tightly.

He did not answer immediately. He finished chewing, then stood. "Pity, I suppose, can't be helped. Who am I to deny oblivion to those strong enough to grasp it?" He stopped behind her, casting a long shadow over her shoulder, causing her to freeze. "I won't kill you, there is still much pain can teach."

The thrown gauntlet spread like wildfire through the Fortress, and the training complex was filled with all ranks. Everyone crowded around the octagonal platform in the center where duels were conducted. Storm and Purge Troopers put up bets, considering the skills of both participants evenly. Despite her skill, Trilla was viewed as an upstart, so the odds favored the Grand Inquisitor by a notable margin.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the metal beneath her feet, Trilla walked a semi-circle around the arena, confident she had nothing to fear. She had kept tabs on the Grand Inquisitor when he sparred with others and on the days he trained alone. His style was a methodical one, uncommon among their ranks, he preferred luring attacks over instigating them.

She had devised her stratagem in advance. If Trilla stayed on the offensive, taking advantage of her speed while alternating between broad and quick strokes, he would have a hard time anticipating her moves. His strength was his proficiency with mind probe. He utilized it exclusively, even in the thick of combat.

There was just one problem. The Grand Inquisitor was late and his absence was making her ill at ease. There was no doubt he would duel her, as choosing not to would damage his reputation. She was not even sure they could refuse a duel once one was proposed. Champing at the bit for action, her thumb hovered over her lightsaber's switch.

Thoom. The lights above flickered as the air left Trilla's lungs. Thoom. She flinched, growing cold as the terrifying sound of mechanical breathing filled the space. The Stormtroopers scurried right and left to clear out of the way of Lord Vader as he took a position in the center of the platform, crossing his arms. Trilla melted in his presence, the weight of her fear turning her limbs to lead. His helmet made it impossible to know where his eyes fell, but she could feel them boring a hole into her side.

"I hope you don't mind, but I invited Lord Vader to assess our duel," The Grand Inquisitor said, slinking behind the other Inquisitors as he moved around the arena to the steps. "Your confidence, sister, convinced me my fall should be one of record."

She had made a grievous error. There was no way to back down, either. The Grand Inquisitor descended the steps. He pushed his cloak from his shoulders, revealing a bare, gray chest. On which were crude etchings of dashes and dots cut directly into the skin.

Squinting, she soon recognized them as stance patterns for lightsaber forms, descending parallel from chest to lower abdominal. The first combination of dash and dot was foot placement. The second was for the weapon.

Reading her perplexed expression, he explained, "Everyone has their trophies, Second Sister. I prefer one more intimate." He gave a curt laugh. "I'm an archivist of sorts." He readied his lightsaber, producing only one half of its blades.

Ensnared in whatever plot he had devised, under the unfeeling eye of their boss, Trilla knew her only way out was to fight. She took a breath, focusing on the man across from her. The rest of the room faded into the background.

But for the first surprise of the duel, the Grand Inquisitor bolted forward. He jerked left, then right, carrying the momentum into a downward slash. Trilla reacted quickly, blocking his attack. She gnashed her teeth, spinning off him, swiping at his side.

He answered by thumping her across the knuckles with the hilt of his lightsaber. A humiliation that only served to wound her ego. Trilla fell back a couple of steps, adjusting her posture. He remained in pursuit, so she stabbed at his dominant hand.

Her saber singed down his wrist. His height gave him the advantage, however, and he smoothly was able to push her off with a flick of his wrist. The Grand Inquisitor stamped on her toe, grinding his boot heel into her foot.

"Arh!" Trilla kicked his shin, shoving him off with the Force. Tired of being treated like a learner, she surrendered to her reckless urge, throwing herself at him. He side-stepped, slashing her along the small of her back.

She stumbled but caught herself. Trilla spun, readying another attack, but stopped her with an outstretched hand. The mind probe went straight for her buried and painful memories. She froze, grasping at her head, struggling against his worming probes.

"You disappoint me, sister. Disappoint us all, in fact," he said, forcing her knees. "I suppose it is no surprise. You never did rise above a padawan."

With some effort, Trilla forced his probe out, restoring her mental acuity. "Do you just lecture Jedi to death?" She skirted left, her lightsaber finding its mark.

Her successful hit must have annoyed him, as the Grand Inquisitor's style abruptly changed. He widened his stance, mimicking the center dots on his abdomen as he launched into an aggressive barrage. Unceasing until, he successfully swiped the ground right out from under her.

The duel ended with a slice across both her upper thighs. Trilla hit the floor, the smell of cauterized flesh reaching her nostrils. She clutched at the wound, groaning, as she tried to stand. Nervously, Trilla looked at the crowd. Vader was gone. He must have lost interest, and in the haze, she never heard him leave.

Standing tall over her, The Grand Inquisitor retracted his lightsaber with a sigh. " Do want to know why you will always be second, sister?"

"I assume you are going to tell me," she replied dully.

"You still think your life has some kind of value. That you are owed anything for your loyalty." The Grand Inquisitor uncurled an elongated finger. "You are nothing, Second Sister. Less than nothing. An asset who can be easily replaced by anyone present here." He turned, putting his hands together behind his back. "You'd do well to internalize it."

Unwilling to roll over and accept defeat, Trilla let loose one last despondent cry. She threw her lightsaber. It spun in his direction, but the Grand Inquisitor effortlessly brushed it aside. "Enough… I'm bored and there are Jedi to hunt."

"Hah… We're finished when I say so," Trilla growled, struggling to her feet. Her defiance did not last long. He penetrated her mind again, ruthlessly dredging up her greatest fears. Those of weakness and inadequacy. Being captured by the Empire turned her into a victim at the hands of those stronger than her. He aimed to remind her there were fates worse than death.

Trilla writhed against his intrusion, her breathing growing erratic as she was shown her master abandoning her in the cave. The dead who were her responsibility. Her failure to stay upright as the Grand Inquisitor cut every piece of herself away.

When he was finished, Trilla found everything grew silent. She lay limp on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, unblinking. Her intimate thoughts never stayed so anymore. Instead, they were cruel tools, used to bludgeon her into submission. The sneer of defeat lingered as everyone else filed out. The bleak Imperial world fuzzed as she struggled to her feet. She collected her lightsaber, limping back to her room. Void of color, the glorified cell was the only home she had anymore. On the writing desk, smirked the Second Sister's helmet. It was heavy in her hands, a weight she knew well.

Trilla place it against her forehead, staring into the red visor. In the reflection, she saw tears. Faint trails which smudged her dark eyeliner. She snapped, throwing the helmet. It clattered nosily to the floor. Trilla punched the steel wall until her knuckles were left cracked and swollen. Only then did she collapse, head in hands onto her bed. To be wholly alone meant to be wholly dependent on her inner strength. Even if she held nothing but hatred for Cere, Trilla still needed her master's approval. To show she had become stronger in spite of Cere's teachings.

Trilla was a minor tragedy. Imperceptible among all the tragedies echoing across the galaxy as the Imperial noose tightened itself around the galactic throat. How many fell across thousands of planets? How many more would fall? How many would do so by her hand? She was exhausted. All Trilla wanted was to rest and yet, she found herself on a death march from which there would be no respite.