Hey, friend-o's! Do you know what's not advised? I will tell you! What's not advised is to work hard on your passion WHILE trying to focus on your mental health. You have to pick one or the other, deal with one and then go into the other.

So, of course, my dumbbass has been trying to do both!

...

I'm tired, I'm not going to lie. I wanted to end this Ialdabaoth business here, but when I actually wrote the ending, it felt too rushed, and I had to do it again. But that's writing, it comes with the territory. And besides, I wasn't going to let this fly by with another 8 months of no updates!

With that said, a lot happens in this chapter! Get ready to bounce from perspective to perspective and different points in time for this one, boys and girls, and anyone in between, as our intrepid heroes scramble to find some way off the ship of prisoners, a joker and a thief laugh together while they work through their issues in a hostile environment, and darkness ripples!

Reviews appreciated and encouraged! Please enjoy!

"There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief

~Bob Dylan, All Along The Watchtower(Jimi Hendrix's version is the best, but he didn't write the song)

When Shua woke up, he was in a dark room, pitch black, as if he had never learned to open his eyes. He didn't know where he was or if he was dreaming, but he knew he wasn't home. Not in a soft bed, not absent of bacta patches, and not alone. Each dark shadow popped out people from his life, primarily two: Sid, back when he hadn't lost most of his hair, and his father. Shua's dark-skinned parent flashed inconsistently before his eyes, enough for Shua to realize he was waking up. Shua pushed himself off the ground, realized he lay against a wall, and reached for something to hold.

He hurt all over.

Every throb flashed memories like landmines: the taidora, the great cat, slicing his belly, biting his thigh, shaking him like a ragdoll, and knocking him into Sid's form. Shua groaned, tears falling from his eyes, and wanted–no, needed his holobook. He needed Cromwell's wisdom! His hand, wrapped in bacta gauze, instinctively went for Unconscious Sovereignty. It was not there. Shua breathed out, his big eyes widening in the darkness–did he drop it?

"I never took you for a Macklemore man," said a smooth and musical voice.

Shua stiffened. His hand shook, and any strength he had in standing waned. His ears whispered where the voice had been heard; at first, Shua wondered if he was dead, in a limbo where the dead were yet to be taken. But the room felt smaller. Though his sight was stunted with stygian space and soundlessness, a single light barely speared the darkness. It was the familiar light of his holobook.

Diomeni's face flickered above it.

From Shua's perspective, the tall man was sitting not too far beside him, holding his holobook just beneath his chest. His face wasn't illuminated; the light hardly reached his face. All Shua could see were the locks of hair before his shoulders, pieces of his face surfacing like rocks in the sea, and the two chilly blue holes that poked through the darkness.

Shua breathed, "It's you…"

The voice said softly, "Yes. Me. And… who am I?"

"My, my apologies!" Shua hastened to say, trying to bow, "I meant, L-Lord Diomeni! I couldn't, I mean, What I–"

"Be silent." the voice said. Shua gulped. The sound was audible, eliciting a soft chuckle from Diomeni. "Do you know? Cromwell wrote this story, and only a few days after its publication, he became deaf. He was commissioned to write poems for an old Khil monarch on Boordii. This was decades before they made peace with Thustra and any neighboring planets, mind you, and the old crone said to poor Cromwell that he had used his ears unwisely. Thou hast heard the things you were never meant to hear, and now the galaxy sees me as a demon, and for that, you shall never use your ears again.

"This didn't stop Cromwell from making observations, however. True, tragedies take a toll, and the soul would suffer through his works as they would suffer through him. Unconscious Sovereignties was a controversial piece–his masterpiece– and he would never write anything like that again. One month later, the bitch," he slithered the word, "was overthrown, and before the Republic could imprison her, the last words she heard couldn't have been more poetic–the closing sentence to Sovereignties. Recite them, Shua."

He stood up, pushing his cloakless form off the floor, enunciating each word with such a painful slowness that it seemed to grip Shua's lungs tighter and tighter:

"What. Did. She. Hear…?"

Shua gulped again. Of course, he knew the last line, but never had someone asked him to recite it. Never had he read any of it out loud. Sid had asked once, but it was half-hearted, and he had evaded answering. But now, he found himself saying:

"Do you truly understand how much the ground shakes when a leaf falls from a tree, foolish imp?"

Diomeni's tall form, obscured by the black, couldn't be seen smiling. And yet, Shua somehow knew the man was smiling. He walked forward, submerging in the darkness. After he did, Shua saw a hand lying on the floor. A light-skinned hand with chewed-off nails–Sid's hands! Now, the darkness of the room grew blacker than before.

A soft hand pulled Shua's face upward. Diomeni's chilly blue eyes levitated towards him. Shua felt weightless, staring into Diomeni's deep pools of ice, as if his pain were a flaming rod sinking into the snow, with all remnants of heat extinguished. And indeed, he felt as a flame does when it's reduced to a small candle, tiny, snuffed out, overwhelmed. Only one question could ascend like a dying ember.

"I, I, I don't understand," he managed to say.

"Of course you don't." Diomeni said, his face seemingly surfacing from the surface of an inky well, smiling pityingly, "I'm sorry, Shua, but examples don't make themselves."

Diomeni slid his hand against Shua's head, a trickle of sweat sliding down, the word Anzati flashing through his mind, with a new and brutal way to die accompanying it. Diomeni, as if seeing these thoughts, shook his head.

"We all have a part to play, and I shall give you yours." He said, "I was informed you don't listen very well to your friend, Sid. Let's fix that: no sound escapes you."

All at once, Shua could hear a blaring in his ears. Then, a second blaring overlaid on the first and was delayed by a second. Then, a third. And a fourth. And another, and Shua put his hands over his ears, but a new blaring resounded and clanged and banged in his mind. Then Shua heard voices, thousands of them indiscernible and unceasing. Shua tried to scream to block them out, but he couldn't hear his own voice. He hit his head, forced his eyes open, searched for Diomeni, and found him staring down without remorse or pity, those blue, icy pools spreading goosebumps on Shua's skin. Shua reached out a hand and regretted it because the blare was louder than before. Shua felt or heard a rhythmic thumping rocking him to his core, his hands shaking, he bit his fingers until, finally, Shua screamed one last time.

Then, everything went black.

The B1s watching the fight from the high railing could now only see darkness.

"Hey," one said, "this isn't part of the entertainment."

The emergency lights intermittently flickered through the hangar area; their lightsabers still sliced through the darkness. The ship rumbled, and its occupants could feel it beginning to tilt. Some of the starfighters scraped and shook against the metallic floor, screeching. Diomeni could see everything play out like a holoprojection, switching between static lines and crystal clarity.

When the hangar area darkened, he saw a blue astromech droid shocking a B1; the distraction allowed the Clone to stand up and disarm the droid. This happened in a few seconds, and Diomeni's senses flared, but he moved too late to prevent the kick from hitting his head. Skywalker was on him, pushing him back. The room flickered. Diomeni effortlessly glided his blade around himself, keeping Skywalker's attacks at bay. Diomeni caught a glimpse behind the Jedi, the Clone throwing something into the air.

"Since when do repair droids have to deal with so much chaos?" another said from the railing.

Diomeni's eyes flared. He reached out a hand, then pulled it back before Skywalker could cut him. Skywalker swirls his blade with an aggressive elegance, the shaft becoming as quick as the blades of a fan, and every time Diomeni tries to break away, Skywalker pushes him back. When Diomeni finally caught sight of what the Clone had thrown, darkness enveloped the hangar again. Then, a new explosion flared, and the railing was blasted apart.

Now, Diomeni could see the railway, which technicians used to repair larger cruisers, Vulture droids, and starfighters, was split apart. The B1 droids that weren't destroyed by the blast hung precariously from the railing or the damaged platform. A B1 lost its grip on the railing and fell next to the dueling pair. Diomeni could hear blasters firing, loud E-5 blasters, and Diomeni knew he had to call off their attack on Skywalker's companions.

"Stop firing!" is what Diomeni meant to say, but Skywalker's elbow cut him off after "Stop!" Next, Diomeni was hurled backward by the Force's unseen push. Diomeni felt his body blasting through the frail bodies of B1s and the able bodies of his personal fighters before slamming painfully hard against the front of a Multi-Troop Transport. Diomeni picked himself out, feeling the indentations his form left behind, his head throbbing as if split open by a hammer. Good hit, Diomeni thought with a smile. Diomeni attempted to move his arm, but he noticed his shoulder was dislocated. The lights didn't flicker.

"My lord!" His tamers rushed to his aid, tentatively holding him up. Diomeni looked past them; he could see Skywalker's back, his lightsaber missing, his arms outstretched, and his two companions crossing the distance between the blast doors on the west side and their escape pod. He caught a blur of the astromech on the other side of the doors, appearing to wait for their prisoners. Skywalker had pushed them closer to the blast doors and hoped to escape!

"Never mind!" Diomeni waved them off with his good arm, realizing the lightsaber was still on. He pointed forward, "Get them! Don't let them forestall my judgment!"

His Nexu Tamer whistled loudly over the blaster noises heard by the Akul Tamer on the eastern side. The Stains, who at this point had been contained on the east side of the hangar, listened to these dual whistles and rushed forward. They ran past Diomeni, the tall, redheaded man following behind. When Diomeni's eyes focused, he saw Skywalker catching his lightsaber, then saluting Diomeni with a smirk. Diomeni blinked, looking around.

"Don't wait, Artoo! Shut the blast doors!" He heard Skywalker call out.

A loud metallic screech resounded, followed by a heavy snap. Diomeni's eyes widened, the Force screaming at him, and he leaped back. The entire high railing fell apart, crashing onto the floor and anyone unfortunate enough to be under it. The railing was four meters long and nearly two meters wide, made for several occupants. Diomeni watched as the Stains writhed underneath the railing, clawing their way out, while those who were spared kicked their faces in. Diomeni turned right, seeing the Vulture breaking down and falling from the impact.

More came tumbling down as Diomeni realized that Skywalker had disabled several of the platforms suspended above, cutting them with his lightsaber. Diomeni looked ahead, seeing red lasers hitting the blast door that Skywalker had disappeared into. The old man and the Clone Trooper were nowhere in sight. The lights flickered. Diomeni stood from afar, watching his troops and B1s trying to pry the blast doors open.

"Glide on, Skywalker," Diomeni smiled. His shoulder signaled his attention from the movement, and he snapped it back in place. "How satisfying!"

"Hey!" a B1 said, rising beside him, "I still function!"

Diomeni observed the droid: his arm was missing, but otherwise, by some stroke of fate, the droid hadn't deactivated under the abuse of these events. Diomeni smirked and said:

"So you do."

And stabbed it casually in its chest, falling to the floor.

Thara Meeya, his Akul Tamer, rushed up to him. "My lord, are you injured?"

"It's only pain, Thara. What of yourself? Are you prepared to earn more scars?" he asked.

"Always."

"Good," he said quietly, turning to her. "Take a squad and find out what caused that."

"Yes, sir. What of Skywalker?"

Diomeni walked away, "He is my issue."

"If you say so," she said, "Droids, with me!"

"Roger, Roger," they answered.

"Business before pleasure," he muttered as he neared the blast doors, the droids scrambling to open it, "Plans before happiness. Wars before peace. Punishment before wisdom."

Finally, Diomeni reaches down within his cloak for a wineskin, but his fingers brush against something that isn't there. Something that should be there. Diomeni's eyes slowly widen.

"My fire blade," He says to himself, to confirm his thoughts, to kill any doubts of this reality. His thoughts don't race, however. Dia didn't take it because he was focused on her—neither the Jedi Ithorian, her Padawan, nor anyone else.

"Could it have been you, Skywalker…" Diomeni said softly, still walking to the door after pausing, "Or could it be," he began to hiss, the Witness trembling within his cloak, "that who suggested I kill him?" Dioemni imagined the curly-headed boy using his fire blade to free the prisoners down below. Diomeni began to imagine so much more than the present.

Chilled blue ice pools covered his brown eyes like snow pellets overtaking the soil to a rich and vibrant world. He activated his comm. "Lieutenant Thara Meeya, spread the word. If you find that Padawan, contact me immediately."

"The two of you have nasty habits that must be broken. First, we must replace that stump."

Sid's arm shouldn't have hurt with the Anzati only taking his hand and chewing his nails off. Sid could not muster shock at having his hand be treated like a dish, nor be repulsed by the sight; was the sound of someone saying needs spice in his imagination? His arm swelled as though fire-wasps had stung him, and he could feel spasms, instigating images of his arm exploding from the heat.

"It's rather hilarious," Diomeni said, chewing on Sid's nails to make it even, "I knew that victory would have its taste muddled and perhaps even corrupted, but to have it be this…" Diomeni struggles to find the words, not helped by Sid's groans and whimpers, "Pick a word: bizarre! humiliating! unexpected! Or perhaps chaotic, uncontrollable…unacceptable…"

"My lord," Sid cries, feeling the blood trickle from the fingernail Diomeni chews and sheets of sweat from his forehead. He screams when Diomeni rips it off, but is silenced by Diomeni's hand covering his mouth.

"Estrallio vola ty'ronia." Now, Diomeni's accent has modulated, sounding unlike his typical core world dialect and more foreign: "You do not see the damage you cause yourself…" drawling the words, "I saw your heart when first you stepped forth, and I know you run from danger. Didst thou thinketh I would protect you out of the generosity of mine heart?"

"I, I–"

"–You are correct," Diomeni interrupted, "I would take you, raise you, change you. And now, I am reminded I must go further than ever before to hide you; and thus, it shall be that my blessing shall be bestowed upon you and your friend as I would curse you. Such is my existence to be gentle and wrathful, kind and terrible, so that now and henceforth, when thou lookest upon your own visage, you shall be reminded of my power.

"Thus saith," Diomeni growled, blood in his teeth, "Diomeni the Cleanser."

Sid screamed when his hand crumbled like dust, flaking and crumbling in soft, dry flakes, feeling every sensation of touch being activated, then shut off like light bulbs crackling, those flakes of skin still feeling the floor despite not touching it.

And then, it all went black.

"Good job, buddy," Anakin smiled, patting the dome-headed Artoo.

"I activated him just before they took us," Killian said, touching a bruise by his eye, "Though I'll admit, I wasn't expecting all that."

"Amazing," Appo said, fixing his helmet and checking his blaster, "how one little astromech can knock everything out of proportion."

"Oftentimes," Kilian said, "one is better than none, my friend."

Appo grunted in the briefest of thoughts but was clearly focused on their next objective. When he voiced this, the blast doors began to spark.

"Our first order of business is to put distance between them and us. Then, we have to find a terminal." Anakin said, "Let's move!"

Anakin ensured they all went ahead of him, only to speed ahead when droids, armored men or women, or those rabid, rubbery bipeds approached them. Anakin could feel confusion and pain emanating from them. Yet, he felt them smiling under their androgynous masks. After the first bouts, they became easy to deal with; these creatures attacked in numbers, similar to droids, but were quicker than the B1s. Just as single-minded, though. A tactic Anakin had perfected with Obi-Wan was to give droids an obvious target, leaving their rear unguarded, then strike from behind for a perfect ambush. While there was a call too close for Anakin's liking involving Kilian(the man had been adamant, arguing Anakin and Appo were the better fighters) and Artoo as bait, but they had defeated the multicolored bipeds all the same.

It also helped that whatever the explosion was had knocked various pieces of the ship's interior, scattering multiple pieces of metal where they tread. Anakin used what he knew of Niiman and weaponized these scraps against his enemies while sneaking various wires and conduits he might need later. Unfortunately, this also meant the first communication terminal they found was too damaged, and Anakin had been too preoccupied with droids to fix it. Strangely, however, he wasn't too bothered. Throughout the engagements, Anakin could feel his senses heightening with the action and beads of perspiration glistening thanks to the lights above. Despite this, the world around him seemed almost passive compared to the rush, like the ending echoes no one gets to hear. He could sense that blood was spilled often on this ship: suffering, animalistic glee, the need to assert strength in the air, all coagulating in an ineluctable musk. Anakin felt…at peace.

"General!" Appo said, grabbing his arm, "In here!"

Anakin blinked, looking down at the droids and creatures beneath him. He shook his head and followed Appo. Appo repeatedly tapped the buttons for a set of turbolifts.

"Set one for up," Anakin called out, rushing to them, "and the other for down! We're heading down!" Then, a surge of cold swept through him, and he spun on his feet to deflect a lightsaber.

"Brilliant idea!" Diomeni beamed with mania, pressing a new attack. Though Anakin had sensed the man, he never heard footsteps or saw him in these halls. But Anakin didn't pursue this line of thought, for when the turbolift touched their floor, Anakin sensed a familiar, welcome presence.

We'll push him together! a voice called through his mind. Diomeni looked past his opponent, seeing a new one rushing toward them, and Anakin turned off his lightsaber to Force-push Diomeni away with Obi-Wan. Anakin smiled brightly as the man went flying away; I'm always going to love that sight!

Obi-Wan grabbed Anakin and said, "Come on, Anakin!" and together they ran into the turbolift. Diomeni laughed behind them. Anakin turned as the turbolift door slid closed, a streak of red racing toward them. Anakin exhaled, grinning widely at seeing his Master looking only a little worse for wear. Anakin noticed his wrists had faded stains of blood on them. Kilian patted Obi-Wan's shoulder from behind, Artoo buzzed happily, and Appo nodded.

"They didn't hurt you too much?" Anakin asked.

"Nothing Zakriahs couldn't fix, thankfully," Obi-Wan responded. They clasped each other's hands tightly.

"Zak and Ahsoka!" Anakin exclaimed, "How are they?"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, but the Force flashed again in warning. Yet another long beam of crimson light burst through the ceiling, and Obi-Wan ducked before it struck him. The lights in the lift flickered, and Artoo squealed. The turbolift opened again, and the two Jedi nodded and pushed the rest out of the lift with the Force.

"You three head south!" Obi-Wan ordered, igniting his Jedi tool. "We'll handle this."

Appo hesitated, opening his mouth, though no one could see it through his helmet. Anakin sensed this discourse and gave the man a nod while shifting his eyes toward Obi-Wan. If he's out, there must be some kind of plan in play.

Appo nodded, "Come on, Admiral!" and the three took off to Anakin's left, with Artoo swiveling his head back at Anakin. He smiled at the little droid, then glared at the flickering turbolift.

There is a plan, right? Anakin said through their Force-bond.

Of course, Obi-Wan said, as they shall soon see. Until then, let's have our reunion with the former priest.

The lights continued to flicker, casting bright white light in a dark, confined space. On and off, on and off. White and black, white then green. A shimmer of sickly emerald blinked in the lights, followed by a slow mist, forming into a human shape. Then, suddenly, there was Diomeni, marching out of the turbolift with a smile on his face.

"Master Kenobi," Diomeni said, laughing, "You look…" then, frowning, "like our first meeting hath left you more ignorant than before."

"Your hospitality leaves much to be desired if you ever hope to teach us anything," Anakin said with restored confidence, leveling his lightsaber.

Obi-Wan nodded, "And you certainly have nothing worth learning. I hear you call yourself Diomeni these days. Was Nostratha ever your name?"

Diomeni laughed, eyes filled with nostalgia, "I remember when I took that name. I'm surprised you remember it. After all," Diomeni sneered, "what need would a Jedi have with their glorious battles and long-since defeated fiends like the Soup Priest of Barlow III?"

"Wisdom, of course," Obi-Wan stated, "We learn from our mistakes. Where you clearly haven't," Obi-Wan loosened his grip, relaxing it before tightening it, "since you now dub yourself after an ancient god from Vjun. Do you think you're invincible?"

Diomeni's face rippled softly like those found over a calm river, yet he maintained some parody of serenity.

"Names are a responsibility," Diomeni said softly, "and mine carries such a burden…"

"Oh, you poor baby," Obi-Wan said flatly.

"There's nothing poor about me," Diomeni said quickly, "My life has…perks." And he laughed a slow, singsong but honeyed laugh that made Anakin uncomfortable. He could sense what coated the laugh.

"If you're supposed to be divine," Anakin said with a hint of disgust, "then I'd rather be a blasphemer…"

"Then, come!" Diomeni said, his voice hitting an octave that blended with the hiss of his lightsaber, "I will teach your Master the price for such a rebellion and make you watch!"

"Anakin!"

In retrospect, Anakin knew he was better than charging ahead. His and Obi-Wan's fight with Count Dooku should have been proof of teamwork being more ideal than charging. But thankfully, Obi-Wan charged with him.

"Speaking of burdens," Diomeni had said in a sibilant sneer, "the mop-haired Padawan is yours, isn't he? He's stolen my knife!"

Diomeni locked chilled blue eyes with Obi-Wan.

"You've trained him well, Jedi."

Obi-Wan said nothing at first, but then he smirked.

"You give me too much credit, Mister Diomeni."

Diomeni's eyes flared. Obi-Wan continued, "I only started training him a few weeks ago."

Anakin smirked, "Perhaps you're the one who's clumsy and stupid?" Then charged.

Not everyone was willing to follow us in a desperate bid to cripple the ship, but thankfully, the rest were. We were sizable, notable, and unignorable. However, there was this annoying aspect of guards coming in or calling in to check on whatever, and we would either have to lie our way through it (Obi-Wan handled that) or beat the fool's face (I dealt with that). I considered adding those parts, but for the sake of drama, I'll skip to the good parts:

Master Neevilin spoke, "Master Kenobi, not that I would abandon my or any other Padawan to face danger alone, but perhaps I should go with you."

Obi-Wan shook his head, placing a set of Jedi robes we had found in the storage compartment. "Any window to opportunity is closing fast, and the survivors need to get off this ship. Master Neevilin, be ready for Rex's signal."

Master Neevilin hesitates, then nods.

"Zakriahs, Ahsoka," he continued, adjusting the headset on his right ear. "Stay close to Master Neevilin."

Ahsoka and I nodded, mimicking his action with our own headsets, opening a channel to Master Neevilin's communicator. Although we both knew the plan, hearing these commands seemed to resolve any doubts. Rex handed us six silver disks.

"Take these reverse-polarity pulse grenades," he said, "just in case."

"No communication until you arrive," Obi-Wan stressed.

"Yes, Master," I said. Ahsoka nodded.

"Rex," Obi-Wan said, "tell them we're ready." Then, to everyone, "May the Force be with us."

Of course, the noise started around after we had left. The Jedi Masters had led the first wave of our movement and beaten any stragglers that could have alerted the higher command, and we went on, cautiously prowling the different halls. We did encounter a few of those Stains, whatever they were. They were ferocious, but after defeating their handlers, they were unorganized. Ahsoka and I were able to trick a few into fighting each other("I better not gloat too much, lest I get them to return to us," I had said). Eventually, we received the signal that the prisoners were all halfway out of their cells, enacting Master Neevilin, and we, the Padawans, were to break away.

Ahsoka, Guilo, and I were small enough to fit through the droid access conduits easily, scaring a few mouse droids in the process. Master Neevilin had to crawl on her belly, and she was so clearly uncomfortable, but she trudged on, robes and all. I wish I could fight against my comfort zone. There was one thing I could change, however.

"How're you doing, Guilo?" I whispered. His whole face continued to contort between consternation and concentration, but he maintained the latter very well.

"I'm being trained for this type of exercise, Zakriahs," He said. "No room for complaint."

"Or Master Neevilin," I muttered.

"Hm?"

"Nothing," I said, looking at Ahsoka, crouching beside me. "When in doubt, do what a claw mouse does: scurry and bite anything that moves."

Ahsoka side-eyes me, "And when under stress, cool down with tibanna gas as a heliost does."

I scoffed, "I'm not stressed."

"Uh-huh," was all she uttered. I ignored her. At least until she let out a groan that was too loud for our tastes. I asked what the problem was now.

"Sorry," she said, lowering her voice, "it's weird, but I became so used to standing up straight. Master Skywalker and I were hiding under a box to get behind the shield back on Christophsis–"

"Yes, I remember you told–"

"–But what I didn't say," She said, irritated that I had interrupted her, then seemingly at herself, "is that I kept complaining to him that I needed to stand up…and we got attacked."

I thought on this. "Well, look on the bright side!"

"What bright side?" she asked.

"You got to embrace another part of yourself."

Ahsoka cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

I nearly stumbled, "Nothing. Never mind."

I decided to subtly open my mind to the Force, to see if I could feel Guilo's fear or Master Neevilin's dogged drive toward the goal. I sensed Ahsoka's curiosity, her questions drifting like dandelion-chips after the first bite, breezing around your face. I knew she wanted to keep talking, but we emerged from the droid conduits.

Master Neevilin accessed the ship's map. Though she understood the stakes, Master Neevilin needed one more assurance of my and Ahsoka's resolve. It was a silent one, and in the end, Guilo tugged on her sleeve to break the spell. Guilo nodded at us, and we nodded back. Then, Master Neevilin's stiffer nod came. Guilo gave me two bouncing thumbs up, which contrasted with his permanent frown. I smiled because it's precious. Ahsoka and I then broke off from the two, our robes flowing behind us.

So, of course, she spoke up while we ran:

"So, what did you mean?"

I frowned. "Can't I tell you later?"

Her voice was brusque, "Yeah, but that's later. I want to hear your nonsense now."

My frown deepened. "If it's nonsense, why do you wanna hear it?"

I'm sure she heard my tone because her reply was kinder:

"Master Yoda once told me that even the wisest need some nonsense in their lives."

"So you're the wisest? Presumptuous much?" is what I wanted to say at that moment because I wanted to help my Obi-Wan, every prisoner on this ship, and Anakin, and not live behind a cell and not be a nuisance. But stars above! how those words got me. She knew how dire the situation was—we both did—but then, am I a hypocrite for pretending I didn't want her smiling in the face of danger? So, we talked, side-by-side, in whispers, constantly checking every corner.

"You got to be like a Togruta," I said, "lithe and ferocious and prowling."

"Is that what I was doing?" She asked, dubiously flattered, checking the corner, "'Cause if I'm being honest, I think I was being a brat."

"Oh, you were," I said, and before we moved, she glared at me. "But it takes one to know one, doesn't it?"

She blinks but smiles and punches me lightly in the chest. She scans the hallway. Of the two of us, I think it's safe to say she has the more advanced eyesight. Then, she waggles her brow before flipping and somersaulting through them with catlike grace. I covered my mouth to wheeze softly, then tiptoed my way across, keeping pace with her. We shared stifled chuckles.

"...Sir."

"..."

"I found Empa."

"Then leave him."

Meeya dropped the drunken man on the ground. She was only careful enough to shift her foot by an eyelid's length, but she was sure Diomeni noticed even in the dark. Her weapons belt was discarded; her hand expected to find it in her clutched hand, but found nothing.

"Sir–"

"Get out, Thara Meeya."

She did.

Diomeni stood over the unconscious Empa. He held his lightsaber close to his ear.

"Don't be so critical…" He drawled softly, "I'm only doing what I must."

Using the Force to rouse him from a dreamless slumber, Diomeni conjured the perfect nightmare for the bleary Empa.

"There are worms in your eyes."

Empa's eyes shot open, bloodshot and wide. He began to claw at his face, as if to scratch an itch. Then, the scratching grew more intense. Then, blood trailed underneath his nails. The gnarled, mangled screams followed soon after. Diomeni held the lightsaber to his ear, glaring at it.

"Fine." He ignited his crimson blade and lunged. The screaming stopped. Diomeni's breathing was the only sibilant sound in the dark room. When he spoke, his smooth voice was textured with grit and annoyance:

"Take the fun out of it…"

Thara Meeya clutched her blaster within her weapons belt. A blast knocked the compartment holding the lightsaber she had claimed. And a spate of blasts attacked her squadron, who could barely retaliate.

"Prisoner escape!" she yelled into her comm.

"What?" said the bridge crewman. "How many?"

She tried to peer through, and the wall sparked from a blaster bolt.

"It looks like all of them!" she said, looking ahead to see her squad get blasted. She searched rapidly for an escape. And by Diomeni's mercy, she had hidden just behind a recess, and on the wall next to her was the grate to the maintenance halls.

She holstered her blaster and pulled on the grate. It took too long; she could hear them coming closer. One asked her to surrender. Thara pulled out the Padawan's lightsaber.

At its ignition, she heard agitated shouts from her enemies. She sliced through the grate's blades and slid through. Thara hissed when she felt one of the grate's blades against her thigh. She ignored the pain. Thara slid through the thin maintenance halls as a snake does through rocks. She ducked her head under a part of the ceiling, ignoring the pain across her thigh, and continued onward. She heard shouting from where she had been before. Thara ignored them.

"Bridge," Thara grunted, "contact the tamers and organize a counter to the revolt!"

"We can't," slurred her comm. "Communications are scrambling up here! We're trying to reestablish them!"

Thara moved through the maintenance halls, jumping through the gaps. Below her was a lower level, the halls seen through tiny holes.

"I'm just above the halls leading to the central communications relay," she said. "Could it have been damaged by the impact?"

"Possible," her comm hiccuped. "Do you wanna check it out?"

"Apparently, I do," Thara said, her eyelid twitching at his tone. "Out."

Thara prowled through the maintenance halls, her senses and reflexes ready to deliver a hunter's job, now enhanced by the suit Diomeni had gifted her. How often things seemed to go quickly with Diomeni, or at least, everything seemed so…fun. The bridge technicians proved that this mix of pleasure and business was contagious. Despite all of the brisk, curt professionalism, Thara knows not even she is immune. Her Togrutan fangs feel too dry when she ignores the feasts or fights, her stomach aches an aria of emptiness that picks away like a black hole, and it all coalesces into a lurid flash of pain like luminescent eel-rats in their death throes.

Diomeni tells her that she hath earned a chance to keep the hunt going and that there's no need for her to sing his praises as others do. And she remembers what happened that led her to this, or more specifically, her scar itches whenever her mind drifts to the day Diomeni had saved her. Yet, despite how she continues to live and continue the hunt, the memory is never pleasant. Even now, as Thara Meeya gazes across the yawning gap between the turbolifts, echoing with her hoarse breathing, she pauses. Thara's hands shake as they raise to the Akul jaw mask covering her appointed framework of bones. Her breathing hitched, and she laughed lightly, the sound carrying across the great vacancy for no one to hear. Then, her breathing evens out, and Thara Meeya's hands shake no longer.

She brings a grappling line from her belt and crosses from the top of one turbo lift's roof. As she swung between the gap, the turbolift creaked and groaned from her weight. Thara scrambled up quickly, the tool's cable pulling her up to the top of another turbolift just beneath their doors. The doors malfunction, struggling to stay closed. Before she mounted the floor, she heard two sets of rushed footsteps, followed by two youthful voices, one sounding very familiar to Thara Meeya's ears. She waits for them to pass. Through her montrals, Thara could sense a sound so hushed it could be considered microscopic compared to the blaring alarms and rumbling of the ship. It was the sound of boots shuffling closer to her, along with hurried whispers.

As she moves onto the turbolift's roof, Thara feels it groan, and the sounds of malfunctioning circuitry bounce through her montrals, urging her forward. Then, she's jolted as it slides down abruptly. Maintaining her balance, Thara adjusts the Akul jaw mask. Her hands grabbed the floor just in time as the turbolift dislodged, screeching downward like a comet. Thara hefts herself to the floor, ignores the small cloud of smoke coming from the controls, and pries the doors open.

"Master Neevilin," Ahsoka says, scanning the long, sterile hallway. "We might be a little delayed for the rendezvous."

"We won't be much longer, Padawan Tano," Master Neevilin said.

Ahsoka's face sets, "I can sense my lightsaber, Master. It's faint, but I think it's returning to me." She mustered a smirk, "Besides, I think we can handle it; I'm just relaying the message because Padawan 'Fuzzy' here wanted me to."

Zakriahs rolled his eyes. He brought his face to the mic next to her face.

"Padawan Fluffy here doesn't know the difference between curls and fuzz," He said, locking eyes with her, their faces close.

"Padawans," Neevilin broke in, "Don't do anything your Masters wouldn't."

"Yes, Master," Ahsoka said, pushing Zakriahs' face away.

"Okay, now I sense her." Zakriahs says.

"I heard her," Ahsoka said, feeling the hum in her stunted montrals, "before I sensed my lightsaber. Togrutas can hear better through our montrals; I could hear her scurrying down there, just as she can hear us talking."

Zakriahs asked, "Your senses are better than the Force?"

"No, I just said that since you seem to love the Togruta stereotype."

"...Gremlin."

"Troll."

And indeed, the dark-blue Togruta with scarred, splotched lekku and tall montrals arose from a smoking turbolift's doors, smoke streaming out as she pushed the doors open with her bare hands. The nuzzle of the akul's jaw poked out of the smoke, the rest of her face following it; the action nearly caused Ahsoka to bare her fangs. Then, she remembered herself, and took a breath.

The woman, Thara Meeya, Ahsoka remembers, sighs satisfactorily, straightening the cloak she wears. Ahsoka could see the top of her dark-blue face, her sunken eyes only adding to her tempestuous demeanor. The cloak looked dirty, and Ahsoka may have noticed a limp in her stride. The hall could fill with soldiers or droids at any second, and yet it felt as though they were reserved for the Togruta woman and the Padawans.

"Did you come to give back my lightsaber?" Ahsoka asked lightly.

Thara shook her head, "I don't know how you two have done this, but I only know too many ways to make you sorry for it."

Ahsoka smirked, tilting her head, "That was the wrong answer."

Zakriahs stepped beside her, never taking his hazel-green eyes off the woman. He took out a pistol.

"We can dodge these and block them," He said, condescendingly and forebodingly, boasting and warning her.

"But you can try blocking with your face," Ahsoka put her hands behind her back innocently, "if you're up to it."

Zakriahs side-eyed her for a moment in a blink. Ahsoka's hands were shaking, so she hid this by placing them behind her. He could see the trickle of perspiration down her forehead; the sight inspired him to steady his breathing. The Togruta girl and human boy sensed something change within the woman. Thara straightened her posture, and her hands went behind her head. The akul jaw mask sold off. Ahsoka and Zakriahs gasped.

If Thara Meeya could physically smirk in triumph, she would. But the parts where her lips could quirk had been seared off, so instead, she tilted her head mockingly as she showed her disfigured jaw– like someone had ripped off the skin surrounding her lips and left her gnarled, burnt flesh and muscle, pulling her mouth into a permanent snarl– to the stunned Padawans. They had given her their warning; now, Thara answered with her own.

Now, she bolted. Ahsoka and Zakriahs snapped out of their stupor and responded; Ahsoka rushed her, and Zakriahs fired his blaster. With Jedi reflexes, or the image having distracted the boy, the blasts flew overhead, barely scraping her stooped back. Both Togrutas ignited their borrowed lightsabers. The lightsabers shrieked ferociously at the impact, and when Thara glared into Ahsoka's eyes, the smaller Togruta swore she felt sparks hit her face. Yet Ahsoka's throat rumbled with a growl.

Ahsoka's kick connected with the woman's stomach, then with her head. Thara caught the kick a split second before Ahsoka drew it back and, through the pain, spun Ahsoka around and slammed her into the floor. Both shook their heads and glared, matching bellowing growls. Zakriahs came next to her, quickly side-eying her face for any possible wounds. He shook his head, then said:

"Hey, Ahsoka, you wanna know how to say 'regroup' in Olys Corellesi? It's really fascinating!"

Ahsoka heard the urgency in his voice and knew what he meant.

"No," she said, "we can do this. It's like you said: I'm ferocious and prowling."

Zakriahs had only heard her from a distance. Thara Meeya charged toward them, shouting words Zakriahs didn't hear, though he will wish he had. And the human Padawan's scatterbrained thoughts seemed to flow in rapids, all in different directions, before they slowly aligned themselves. All that flooded his mind were terms like 'skin tissue', 'pain tolerance', 'monster', monsters, the monster charges at us! I can do this! I can stop this! I have caused chaos to the monsters! They mean NOTHING!

Zakriahs' eyes were tightly shut, and his shaky breath exited his clenched teeth. His fists, yes, fists, slowly unfurled themselves, and he pried his eyelids upward. Thara Meeya was not directly in front of them. She lay crumpled against the left wall, groaning softly. He heard the sound of someone picking themselves up behind him when Ahsoka yanked his shoulder. Her teeth hated, and her eyes held an edge.

"Zak!" she began, "I had that! I could have taken her! We could have defeated her together!"

Zakriahs steadied his breathing.

"Why couldn't you let me have that?! We were doing so well, and you just spoiled the action!" Ahsoka slid her hands over her face.

"I'm sorry," Zakriahs said softly, "I just…"

Ahsoka's glare was never truly a glare. And now, she began to realize why. How meaningless it was. What am I saying? she thought. Why am I so…angry?

She looked to see Zakriahs, standing taller than her on weak knees. She couldn't see them shake, but she sensed the ripple that was all of his fear. Ahsoka's face relaxed with her breathing, remembering the exercises she learned from Yoda. Meditation was never her strong suit, yet she turned her mind inward, breathing in, then opened herself to the Force. Familiarity struck her then, towards Zakriahs' demeanor.

She opened her eyes. His locked with hers. Somewhere, Ahsoka's mind drifted back to his question on Coruscant: the bowls of soup he found so fascinating. I'll bet you anything they're there right now. It's fantastic, isn't it?

She said his name, then. "I…I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"I robbed you of a challenge." He said with a raspy voice, "I should apologize. How can our combat skills improve if we take the easy way?"

Ahsoka looked at him in shock. His face was just like it had been on Coruscant. She shook her head frantically and opened her mouth:

"I can answer that!"

That wasn't her voice.

"These people are idiots," Guilo Marr said as his Master dispatched the last of the bridge crew into an unconscious state.

"Now, now, Padawan Marr," Neevilin chided, knocking over a tower of wine bottles these people had created. The bridge was now littered with unconscious bodies. Before Master Neevilin and Guilo Marr had engaged in a sloppy hail fire, the bridge crew was scrambling like bloated insects at their stations when they arrived. Neevilin opened herself to the Force to feel how deeply the wine had taken them: to her surprise, the drinking had commenced to submerge their minds intensely, perhaps a few hours before they arrived. Not 'arrived' on the ship, but on the deck. What kind of arrogance permits a commander to intoxicate his crew at the peak of an operation?

However, Neevilin couldn't think too much on this, as one by one, shout after shout, pistol after pistol had landed their sights on her and her Padawan. It was here that Neevilin recalled why she admired Guilo so much: Throughout the engagement, she could feel no enjoyment in the action from her Padawan and only the slightest of fears, but mostly, she felt sadness. Before the war began, she trained herself and passed on to Guilo after he had come to know Shii-Cho and Soresu, both variants of Form V. They were both novices, she would admit, when compared to other jedi; yet, Neevilin agreed that the best defense was a swift offense. She would use her four Ithorian throats to blast away her more aggressive foes(though not on this bridge full of sensitive equipment), and that would be that.

To do this, Neevilin needed the passion behind Form V: that was Guilo Marr. But Neevilin cursed herself in her shortsightedness: how could she have expected Guilo to find his own form of passion during the defense at Kamino? She remembered how Zakriahs, the boy, and Barriss Offee, Luminara's Padawan, had healed him back in the Temple. The boy had put up a cool front, but she saw the burning concern in his blue eyes. So did Padawan Offee, if that shoulder pat was any indication. That girl was a strong one. Perhaps stronger than Neevilin. After Guilo had started walking, she spent time with him, relearning his love for astronomy. Somehow, their training sessions had connected to the study, comparing their movements with those of lightsabers to the patterns found in clusters of stars above. She never ignored that, but she had almost forgotten.

So, despite having chided her Padawan for this criticism against their enemies, she said:

"What have they done wrong?"

Guilo shakes his Givin head, standing ramrod, crossing the bridge with his Master, "One thing I can see wrong: who spends their time drinking in arguably the most sensitive position of the ship?"

Master Neevilin draped her arm behind his back, "This is why we don't drink and drive."

Guilo laughed, though his face never changed. Neevilin and Guilo both reached the same conclusion as they crossed the bridge: it was a similar layout to the Lucrehulk they had breached alongside Master Adi Gallia and her Padawan, only the viewport was a wall of black-tinted squares, and the command center's chair was not small and gray as she had once seen a Neimoidian Commander sink into it after storming the bridge.

It was a throne placed on an apex, not a chair, just three small steps down instead of being conjoined with the lower level. Black durasteel gleaming, gold engravings of stars and figures at the armrests, able to rotate, and when they did rotate it, they found in the back of the chair a small alcove with a deeply golden statue of a woman, her face in anguish and looking upward. Neevilin and Guilo drew back from this statue, with the Master glancing around at the unconscious souks around the bridge in the dimmed amber and violet lighting of this command center. It was all so dreamlike, surreal, unthought of. Master Neevilin had heard of the Dark Jedi Dooku possessed under his service, and recognized a few names. She had never heard of Diomeni. It was certainly possible that he could be a former Padawan, but with the few tales she had heard about the Sith Lords of yore and how they conducted themselves as warlords, she wondered.

"Who spends this much time on…this?" Guilo asked softly.

Master Neevilin drew him closer, "I think we're better off not knowing, Padawan." For now. And Guilo's delayed nod was all they needed to race to the controls. Once they reached the weapon controls, they began to channel their confidence through their movements. Master Neevilin received a message from Ahsoka Tano: the Padawan informed her of the new delay. From her voice, Neevilin could perceive the clipped tone and soft wit as fear. Master Neevilin and Guilo began to work faster, despite hearing her bluster and banter with Padawan Asher.

"Padawans," she said sternly, "Don't do anything your Masters wouldn't do."

"Yes, Master," Padawan Tano said and signed off. Master Neevilin walked from console to console, remembering some of the tips she learned with her Padawan (Neevilin knows her Padawan teaches her as much as she teaches him), and mid-type, she freezes. Her words play back in her head: Don't do anything Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi wouldn't do? But what wouldn't they do?

She eased this unreasonable and perhaps comically cynical fear away, at first. But then, she sensed something…cold. A pulse, like a cold wave giving her whiplash or a droning alarm thumping into her heart. She looked around, finding nothing within the room, but the pulse flared from behind. Opening herself to the Force, she followed what she knew to be the dark side, and to her dread, she sensed the Padawans close by.

"Guilo, we need to hurry!" she urged.

Blue irises. White glowing pupils. It felt like looking into pools of cold fire. Ahsoka and I felt it. We were rooted in place. The Anzati, Diomeni, was standing right in the center of the hallway. His face was blank, yet we felt such sadistic amusement hitting us like embers.

Diomeni pulled his long red hair behind his ears, displaying his regal, almost gaunt facial features, yet he looked handsome. It was disgusting.

Ahsoka broke the silence: "You must be Diomeni." She fixed her lightsaber toward him.

Diomeni bowed, a hand on his chest.

"You must be Asajj's hostage from Teth." Diomeni smirked, "She told me about how easy it could have been to flay and rend you apart, scattering your pieces as a present to your Master."

"She didn't." Ahsoka scowled.

"And don't you feel special?" Diomeni said, extending his arm.

"He's just a soup eater, Zak." She said contemptuously, "Let's take him down."

"Or," I said, my hand on my lightsaber, "we can run."

Not two words in, and she charged ahead. Fear gripped me, and I called out to her, trying to grab her. Then, two swipes later, she went flying toward me. I barely caught her, and when she stabilized herself, we looked at a thoroughly amused Diomeni casually twirling his lightsaber.

"Never mind, let's run!" She said, her bravado shriveling away.

I grabbed her arm, "Next time, listen to me!" and we turned away from Diomeni. But we stopped, our eyes widened. Diomeni was standing there.

"At your own risk, of course." He said, his voice hitting a dangerously low note. "After all, you, my boy, have made a grave mistake."

Thara Meeya is voiced by April Stewart. In Japanese, Romi Park.

In the next chapter, they'll finally be off this ship! Until then...