Like a cool murmur upon the wind, the Ninth Sister's death reached the Grand Inquisitor, who crouched atop his perch overlooking the city, allowed himself to hold a private celebration. While the loss of one his flock should have been a source of disappointment, as their failure reflected poorly on his philosophy, this case was different. Trilla had exceeded all his expectations and, through her persistence, proved unequivocally the Grand Inquisitor's method produced superior inquisitors to Lord Vader.

Therein lie the Pau'an's error. The Emperor did not want warriors. He wanted fodder. Mindless husks who would impale themselves on whatever enemy he pointed them toward. Such a utilitarian perspective left no place for one like the Grand Inquisitor, who possessed the patience of the dead and sought to offer a meaningful alternative to the Jedi Order. The Grand Inquisitor saw the end of his Inquisitorius fast approaching. Bringing with it, a release from his duty that could not come any sooner. He had told the Seventh Sister the truth. He was old. Even by his species' venerable standards. An ancient among the ancients. Not that he attached any significance to his longevity. Life was a dull affair after the first century.

Footsteps on stone drew him from his ruminations. Without looking back, the Grand Inquisitor said, "I've felt it as well. Our sister has allowed her overconfidence to be her undoing." He paused, considering another possibility. "Or, I severely underestimate the Jawa's capabilities."

The Seventh Sister stood with pride, holding her hands behind her back. "Speaking of the rat. Why do you want it alive?"

"Is it not obvious? That creature is something our Second Sister values enough to keep as company." The Grand Inquisitor's voice rolled off his tongue with cruelties hidden behind a civil veneer. "We have a duty to take it from her." He pushed his hands together in front of his face. "And rumor has it, Jawa meat is savory when well seasoned."

The Seventh Sister could not tell if he was serious, and the thought produced abhorrent flashes as she tried to imagine the nightmare of removing a Jawa's fur. "Then, as our next move, I propose dealing with Second Sister together. There can be no more mistakes. Even you Grand Inquisitor cannot disappoint Lord Vader forever."

"Concern for me, is it? Or is it concern there is no one to replace me, who will protect the rest of you from his wrath?" The Grand Inquisitor asked without a hint of feeling. He stood, curling around onto himself like a serpent. Their eyes met. "Your fear is well-founded, sister, but do remember. Should I fail, Lord Vader's only resort is to kill me. As there is no torture I've not inflicted or experienced… personally."

The Seventh Sister believed him. His creativity when it came to breaking the mind and the body inspired her own sadistic experiments. "Maybe so, but you once told us to not cling to our lives out of blind egotism. Should you also not rush to your death out of the same?"

"Hah! So you have heard me speak." The Grand Inquisitor straightened up. "Rest assured, I do not seek death for melodramatic reasons. There just comes a time when one is not as spry as they once were." He walked to her side. "I will face the Second Sister alone. You are to conceal yourself on my shuttle and wait."

"Grand Inquisitor?"

"My shuttle contains answers our sister will find too tantalizing to ignore. Who am I to deny them to her?" He snickered. "You'll have the advantage of surprise; I'd go for the head, if I were you."

He left, and the Seventh Sister gulped. The impression she was offered up as a sacrificial lamb to further Trilla's growth created an unignorable knot in the Seventh Sister's gut. Like hell she would accept such a fate.

The sewers granted Trilla and her company much needed freedom of movement when combined with PT-709's radio. Leaning into her instincts, she took a winding path to a ladder that would leader back onto streets of Iziz. Stopping, she finally allowed Collot to address her cauterized wrist, which he did with his usual excitement.

Her arm hanging limp, as he worked, she said, "The Duros is my priority." Trilla winced as the bandage was pulled taut.

PT-709 continued to monitor chatter through his helmet's radio. "They are withdrawing the incinerator teams."

"One less problem. No doubt the snipers will remain on overwatch." Trilla found her knees growing weak and allowed herself to slide to the ground. She used to relish to fight, but as a routine set in, she found it to be an exhausting performance. "Collot. Is there anyway we can get PT some arms, quickly?"

Satisfied her hand would stay in place, Collot looked at the trooper. "There is a surgeon who handles similar injuries." He had met so many friendly people during his last visit to Onderon. Granted, he had also spent most of the time inebriated and thrice landed in jail for disorderly behavior.

"Where is this surgeon?

"Collot would know the place if Collot saw it."

She sighed, taking a second to massage her thigh, where the Ninth Sister's parting mutilation stung. Now the pain left in her wake was all Trilla would remember of her dead sister.

PT-709 stared down at her. "Second Sister, permission to speak freely."

"Go ahead." She twitched, grazing the exposed bone, sending a fiery spark all the way to the sole of her foot.

"How did you do that… thing with your hand?" He, like other Purge Troopers, had been trained to take down Force users, but nothing during those years had described a feat like the one he witnessed.

Trilla held up her bandaged appendage. "For five years, the Second Sister carried nothing but the pain of betrayal." She curled her fingers into a fist. "Lord Vader's lightsaber rendered it all so meaningless. But her suffering meant something to me!" Trilla's eyes ignited with passion. "It is my body! No one elses!" Her hand trembled as her voice became a whisper. "I want to live, even if I lose everything."

Jawa can pick up on subtle vocal ranges hidden to other sentient species. Hearing the waver of distress in her words, Collot reached over. He took her hands in both of his. "Ink needs to be more careful. Just because Ink can lose limbs, doesn't mean Ink should want to."

"You make it sound like a choice. Sometimes sacrifices must be made to gain an advantage and now I can afford to make them." Trilla allowed her hand to linger, surprising even herself. Tenderness was a foreign concept for one such as her. She rubbed her thumb against his palm. "You didn't sell me out, Collot. I won't forget that."

He chirped, coming in for a hug. An action caused her to freeze. "Collot would never betray Collot's tribe! Never again! No matter what!

Trilla glanced at him, seeing for the first time, even the plucky Jawa carried the burden of an unknown sin. Whatever made him unclean in the eyes of his people must have weighed heavily on his soul. She did not want to pry, and pulled herself with the ladder's rung. "We cannot linger any longer. Collot, take PT to this surgeon. An extra blaster will go a long way toward evening the odds."

"Collot will get Peetee arms!" He brimmed with confidence, his boundless energy infectious for his grim companions.

"Not to put a dampener on our little strategy." PT-709 looked right then left. "But I can't exactly climb."

Collot slapped his back. "That's okay! There is bound to be an outlet pipe!"

"PT. You've spoken of loyalty to the Second Sister." Trilla met his gaze. "If you truly wish to be her black knight, swear yourself to her service for now and forever."

PT-709 clicked his heels, then fell to one knee immediately. He bowed his head low. "Second Sister. I have admired you since I transferred into the Inquisitorius. My life for yours is all I can offer."

Trilla smiled, placing a hand on his helmet. "Rise then, my knight. Protect Collot, as you would me. He has earned my trust."

Collot squeaked happily, helping him stand. "Friends!"

"I'll continue to feed misinformation to the hunters for as long as I can, but it's only a matter of time before they change communication channels."

"That will suffice." She nodded, stepping onto the ladder. "Remember, the Grand Inquisitor is a capable warrior, but he is not omniscient. Do not give into fear."

She left them, pushing into the open air. A crack of thunder greeted her and the roar of rain followed swiftly, soaking Trilla to the bone. She adjusted her veil, trying to protect her eyes. The decline in visibility brought a distinct advantage as well. Purge Troopers had to rely on their night-vision, and flares to see, which gave her plenty of space to maneuver around any potentially dangerous patrols.

Skulking across the rooftops, she headed toward the palace. It was a grandiose trapezoidal construction, set upon a rotund base that stood high above the rest of the city. The seat of power for centuries it was a testament to the unconquered spirit of Onderon. Along the skyramps, leading to its eternal halls, sat the homes of the upper class. Laying flat on her stomach, Trilla surveyed the numerous residences from the comfort of an awning. With time being a precious commodity, she decided to call on the Force, regardless of the risk to her physical being. Turning inward, Trilla surfed along the sinews of life that crossed throughout the district. The connections of millions of sentients availed themselves through points of great sorrow and great pleasure.

A libertine would leave memories of celebration. Hedonism was always easy to track. After several minutes, Trilla was drawn to a chalet built into the side of the rock face, supporting the palace. Near imperceptible at a glance, she saw a faint light flickering in the path was set. The climb was easy enough. Craggy rock made it a matter of watching her step and with no reason to fear a fall, Trilla made plenty of reckless leaps from one strut to another, until she reached a window.

Peering inside, she saw the bulbous blue head of Duros. Panicked, he clutched a hammer in his hand. With quick strikes, he broke several datapads on his desk. A collection of documents crackled as fire consumed them in a bucket on the floor behind him. That was not all. She saw he had torn the room's lights from their sockets. No doubt concerned about someone listening in. Using the pommel of her lightsaber, Trilla broke the windowpane. He spun around as she slid into his room.

"Who are you!?" He demanded, reaching for the blaster holstered at the center of his chest.

There was no time to draw. Trilla slammed him against the wall. "Where's Maul? I know you are the go between for Doonium shipments and the Crimson Dawn."

Her bloodshot, brassy eyes bled the hatred of the dark side. The Duros dug his nails into her wrist. "… Now I wonder what is eating you inside…"

She punched him in the side with the guard of her lightsaber. "If you don't want to find out. You'll talk." Trilla licked her lips. "Or I'll pull out what you know by force."

"Lord Maul has left for the Unknown regions." He stopped struggling, accepting he was trapped.

Trilla picked apart his words, searching for dishonesty. Finding none, she pressed. "Why?"

The Duros reached into his pocket and held up a holorecorder. Clicking it on, produced Maul's red face shrouded behind a black cowl. "I'm relinquishing control of our operations to Lady Qi'ra. There is something lurking in the unknown dark. An aberration in the Force, that makes no demands and leaves nothing in its wake."

She snatched the holorecorder, letting go of the Duros. "From where was this message sent?"

"The Ilum system. Lord Maul destroyed his equipment after that transmission. Imperial presence in the sector makes it difficult to conduct a more thorough search."

Puffing her cheeks, Trilla clicked her tongue with frustration. "Then that is where I will go." She left him, returning to the window.

The Duros watched as she prepared to drop. "It goes without saying. I didn't see anything."

"That's a good boy."

As a proud servant of the lower classes of Iziz, Doctor Silas was used to odd callers at any time of night. He was a large man, with little to fear from most of the addicts and wounded, who showed up at his door. Most were in dire need of his services, which he offered free of charge. However, when he opened his door to an irate Jawa and an armless Purge Trooper, even he was at a loss for words.

"Gentlemen surely thi—" "Collot's friend needs arms!" The Jawa raised his blaster, pointing back to the trooper. "Hurry, scary men hunting us!"

Befuddled, Doctor Silas did a doubletake. "Assuming I even have the required prosthetics needed to replace his arms…" He pushed up his glasses, staring at the cauterized shoulder stumps. "The procedure alone will take several hours. Not to mention the time needed to recover and the possibility he dies on the table from shock."

"Collot can help with the surgery!"

"Its worth the risk, doc." PT-709 pushed forward, unwilling to accept no for an answer. "If the lightsaber did not kill me, then I can handle whatever you gotta do."

Doctor Silas's shoulders slumped, but he relented, motioning for them to follow. He brought the pair into a backroom where his implements were kept. It was a crude, but effective setup. An operating table with restraints sat below an overhead light, next to a tray of surgical tools.

"Have you ever done a procedure like this little one?" He asked as PT-709 lay on the table.

"Collot has done it plenty of times on droids!"

"Entirely different, but I like your confidence." Doctor Silas put a mask over his mouth. "Let me see what options I have." He vanished into a supply closest. "Hey, Collot," PT-709 said; "If I don't make it. Watch the Second Sister's back. She was a damn fine inquisitor."

"Don't worry, buckethead is going to make it!" Collot cracked his knuckles. "Nothing gets you down, huh? Here, help me get this helmet off."

Collot complied, assisting the trooper. Keeping with his genetic source, PT-709 bore a strong resemblance to the bounty hunter who provided his material to the Kaminoans years ago. But the similarities ended where the march of time began. Accelerated aging meant PT-709's thick beard was speckled with spots of gray, and his eyebrows were already white as snow. Two distinctive shrapnel wounds pockmarked both sides of his face. Gifts from the Separatist armies.

"Collot will keep track of the Inquisitorius while Peetee is out." He tucked the helmet under his arm. "Ink is strong, but Collot will warn Ink if anything changes."

"It's not her I am worried about. Just make sure my brothers stay clear of this place."

Doctor Silas returned with a single cybernetic arm. It was a mechanical piece with numerous exposed wires and a simplistic system of locomotion. "I only have the one, I'm afraid. Not the most pretty either, but it should do its job." He placed it on a vacant tray. "You sure you want to do this?"

"Of course, doc. I've already sworn my service to another. Should I die, at least I know I did so for her."

"Alrighty, then. Very reasonable folks, you lot seem to be." Doctor Silas placed an oxygen mask over the trooper's face. "Count back from fifty."

A hiss filled the room and PT-709 slipped into the quiet of nothingness. The process was a complicated one, requiring the meticulous attachment of numerous wires and the transfusion of synthetic blood to supplement the body's adaption to the new appendage. Throughout Collot proved an adept assistant. His little hands made it easy to hook the prosthetic into the metal base sutured to PT-709's right shoulder.

As the procedure neared a close, Collot's communicator beeped, and he stepped away from the table. "Collot. What's the situation?" Trilla's voice was garbled, the weather disrupting their connection.

"Peetee's new arm attached fine! Did Ink find the Duros?" "Yes, I'll be…" Trilla trailed off, catching sight of a crooked figure stepping out from the shadows ahead of her. "Be delayed." She cut the line.

The Grand Inquisitor lit his lightsaber, illuminating his long form in its warm glow. "Tell me, sister. How did you kill her?"

Trilla snickered. Some things never changed. "I pushed this." She raised her lightsaber's handle. "Through that brutish skull of hers until she stopped wriggling."

"Marvelous."

"Should I tell you how I killed Sixth brother too?"

The Grand Inquisitor waved a hand dismissively. "No, spare me that primitive story. It should not reflect on what you have become." His lip curled. "Besides, unlike the Sixth Brother, the Ninth Sister was a … friend. Was she not?"

"There are no friends in the Inquisitorius." She kept her lightsaber ready for any sudden moves. "Just stepping stones to greater power."

He inhaled deeply. "Wonderful. I'm so blessed to have had such a receptive pupil." The Grand Inquisitor took a step closer. "Surely you feel it? The lightness. To be freed from duty and bound to no one. I envy you, Second Sister."

"Stop. Address me by my real name; the one you stole from me," Trilla bristled. She scraped the stone with her boot.

"Very well, Trilla." The Grand Inquisitor cracked a smile. "I'll take great care in etching your name upon my flesh. It is the least I can do."

"Good." She ignited her lightsaber. "I have had a lot of time to think, Grand Inquisitor. Do you want to know what I realized?"

"Enlighten me."

"You are no different from Cere. Both of you projected what you wanted me to be, and never once considered if it was what I really wanted." Trilla raised the lightsaber to her face, then pointed it in his direction.

Her words cracked the Grand Inquisitor's stoic mask. His gaunt features contorted with a mixture of rage and sadness. Whether a complex performance or not, it was unsettling to watch. "I made you exactly what you always wanted to be. Someone of purpose. Who stood on her own to feet without depending on another. That was my absolution."

Trilla fell silent, letting his words settle between the falling droplets of rain. She took a shaky breath, finding a sense of calm somewhere deep inside. "I know, and regardless of what occurs, know that I am grateful you did not abandon me, Grand Inquisitor." Her voice steadied as she called on both the Second Sister and the Padawan to uniting behind her. "But gratitude is not forgiveness. In time, I'll forget Cere. You, however, I'll save my hate for."

The Grand Inquisitor beamed with pride. "I'd ask for nothing less." He reached beneath his cloak, revealing the ringed hilt of the Ninth Sister's lightsaber. "Here, you left this behind."

He threw it between them. Trilla stared at it. "What good is that to me? My hands aren't that big."

"Proof of victory. More importantly, proof of life." The Grand Inquisitor once again found her spirit irrepressible. "Let it serve as a reminder that I celebrate your achievements."

The venom was there. Trilla knew the score. "Because they make me worth killing?"

"Precisely. Lord Vader considers only the remaining Jedi Masters to be worth his time," The Grand Inquisitor hunched forward with his arms outstretched. The lightsaber adding to his already incredible wingspan. "But I've found far more impressive strength in the beaten and broken. Those who weren't birthed with Midi-chlorian rich blood or privileged with great teachers. Sentients who, despite the odds, refused to go quietly into the darkness."