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Through a Blackened Mirror

Chapter 6: The Kiss

Word Count: 4033 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

“Then he leaned over and gave her a kiss, and when his lips touched hers, Brier Rose opened her eyes, woke up, and looked at him fondly. After that they went downstairs together, and the king and queen woke up along with the entire court, and they all looked at each other in amazement. Soon the horses in the courtyard stood up and shook themselves. The hunting dogs jumped around and wagged their tails. The pigeons on the roof lifted their heads from under their wings, looked around, and flew off into the fields. The flies on the wall continued crawling. The fire in the kitchen flared up, flickered, and cooked the meat. The roast began to sizzle again, and the cook gave the kitchen boy such a box on the ear that he let out a cry, while the maid finished plucking the chicken.”

– “Brier Rose,” translated by Jack Snipes

* * *

Maul sits in the copilot chair, flipping his unignited lightsaber around nervously. He doesn’t know where Sidious is taking them. Sidious never turns the navigation system on. To wherever in the universe the girl he loves is waiting to kill him.

“When did you have time for all this? Haven’t you been relentlessly by my side?”

“Not when you were in that trance for two months.”

Maul nearly drops his weapon. “Two months?! I thought it was half an hour!”

I thought she was in that cave less than a week! I abandoned her for two months?!

Sidious laughs. “You are very strong with the Force, my boy. No one can deny it. The Dark Side wants you deeply; it kept you and sustained you -- and strengthened and sharpened you -- for two wondrous months. I myself have never been able to achieve such a sublime state. It is very rare in our history. You are truly special.”

“Did the Dark Side want to, or did you ask it to?”

“I did ask it to. But it wouldn’t have done so unless it really liked you. I remember a time when I was your age, with nothing to do, and truly depressed, I asked the Dark Side to keep me in its embrace for just one month. I begged it with all of my power and childlike sincerity. I hoped such an experience would give me the clarity I needed. I was staying in the Temple at Malachor, one of the purest and most powerful spaces for the Force. And the Dark Side did keep me, for three days, before spitting me out into consciousness again, weary of my presence. So I took a more conventional route to clarity and simply killed my father.”

“And while I was in this trance, you left me and took Dreela to a whole different planet. What if I had woken up early, as you did?”

“We didn’t leave planetside for a week. At that point it seemed clear you weren’t waking up anytime soon. We had a little fun with your body…”

Maul grips his seatbelt tightly. “I don’t want to know.”

“I kept a camera on you while I was gone. But it was an unnecessary precaution. You are never far from my heart. I can always sense your state, my boy.”

Maul rubs his eyes, holds his chin, and stares miserably out at the stars.

“You never told me what you saw in your trance,” Sidious continues.

“It’s personal.”

Sidious sighs. “Your new secret-keeping habit is really starting to annoy me.”

“Alright, I’ll tell you, you querulous fart. But it’s not very interesting. I saw a kniilwasp -- you know, those bugs on Coruscant with the weird little man-legs. It had been pecked by a white dove, squashed. It was thrown in the garbage. Then a man came and searched through the whole dumpster for the bug, dirtying himself. After he was completely covered in filth, he found it and held it in his hand. He breathed on it and made it better. He was…”

Maul stares ahead, into the rushing space.

“He was what, Maul?”

“... Big.”

“Big in what way?”

“... In every way.” Maul is confused why he feels so perturbed by this memory. He’s never known any feeling like this. It’s a little like how he felt for Rubi and Dreela -- but -- bigger. “There is nothing like him in this whole miserable life. There is nothing so big, so important.”

“More important than me?”

Maul bursts into laughter for two straight minutes. Sidious waits it out, showing only the slightest hint of irritation.

“Yes, Master, more important than you.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“He was just like me, only bigger.”

“Another Zabrak?”

“Another … Sith.” The teenager smiles widely at his master.

“I have never seen anyone like that in my visions.”

“He must be the replacement for when you die, old man.”

Palpatine sniffs, the barest of reactions, but Maul can tell he’s gotten under his skin.

“I saw another thing: a crib, made of strange bones. And in that crib, three hornless babies. Two yellow ones, and a red one in the middle. The Force was with all of them, but it was strongest with the red one. It was strongest with me.”

He fiddles with his weapon.

“If I didn’t have this power ... none of this misery ... this horror ... this stupidity would have happened.”

“My son,” Sidious says tenderly, “if you didn’t have your power, you wouldn’t be my heir.”

He turns to his student. Maul sees his black eye and his heart sinks. “Heir to my empire.”

Maul looks away from him. “Let’s hope that cheerful thought is enough to give me victory.”

“It better be. I hope you win, you know.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Believe what you want, my young apprentice. The truth pays no heed to belief.”

Maul rolls his eyes.

* * *

Lightning illuminates the cobwebby halls of the Huntt’awn Library. Zaster sits curled up in one of the fat red upholstered chairs. In spite of their age, they are comfortable. They are younger than she is, anyway.

She reads from the books of her former master. There is still a gap in the inch of dust where her own holo used to be.

She wonders if her new master has written any books, and if they are any more interesting than these ones are. Maybe her new master’s master has. He seems a little more academic.

The large door creaks open and Sidious enters.

“My Lor--! Your eye! Did Maul hit you?”

“Yes.”

Zaster feels the hairs rise on the back of her neck -- that empty, borrowed feeling that accompanies all involuntary actions in this new body -- or rather, this old body -- too old. “He is here.”

“Yes. He is in the foyer.”

Zaster shuts her book, stands, and ignites her new lightsaber. She found her new kyber crystal in the cave-bowels of Grinanin Temple, the same place she found her old one 2000 years ago, possibly from the same stalactite.

“Sit down, my apprentice. You will not fight him until you have done your duty to me.”

Zaster shuts off her lightsaber and sits.

“Do you have my prophecy?”

Sidious has reached her, and he stands over her.

Zaster hesitates.

“You gave me Maul’s prophecy very quickly. By now, you have spent more time with me than you have with him. What is taking you so long?”

“I’m just ... trying to get comfortable.” She pauses. “I’m not comfortable with you staring at me like that!”

“What should I do then, child?”

Zaster stands, pushes him into the chair and sits on his lap.

“You have to hold me, my Lord.”

He holds her waist.

“I made all my best prophecies like this.” She twines her fingers through his gray-red hair and kisses his black eye. “In my master’s embr…”

Sidious takes her face in his hand and kisses her lips. “Is that what you want? Will that make you prophecize?”

“Yes.”

Sidious kisses her again, holding the back of her head, her tightly braided hair pushing into his palm.

He kisses better than Maul. He wants something. Maul didn’t really want me...This is more like Sunke.

No, Maul was different, not worse... different from either of them. Oh Maul. I feel you out there... My boy...

Zaster moves her face away from him. “I have your prophecy. Ask me questions to provoke it into words.”

“You told me Maul’s master is cowardice. Tell me my master. What is it that controls me? What must I overcome?”

Zaster traces a finger around the edge of the bruise; she can almost see the imprint of Maul’s pointy knuckles on his eye. Her voice is the layered one that Sidious heard before -- to him it sounds like there are even more layers, even more voices -- but maybe he’s just a little overexcited.

“𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕤 𝕗𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕖𝕤𝕚𝕣𝕖 𝕚𝕥. 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕥 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕝𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕟, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖. 𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔽𝕠𝕣𝕔𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕨𝕖𝕒𝕜 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞. 𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕚𝕟𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕊𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝔼𝕞𝕡𝕚𝕣𝕖. 𝕊𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕠𝕟 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕕... 𝔼𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕚𝕟𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕥 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒 𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕦𝕘𝕘𝕝𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕗𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪... 𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕓𝕖 𝕟𝕠 𝕚𝕞𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕒𝕝 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕓𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕗𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪.”

Sidious frowns and holds his hand over her belly. “Are you infertile, Oracle?”

Zaster puts his other hand on her neck; her voice is singular and hoarse. “Feel here. No pulse. Blood doesn’t flow in this body. The parasites ate my organs. My heart. My womb.”

“Is Maul?”

“Maul...𝕀 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕄𝕒𝕦𝕝 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕙𝕠𝕠𝕕.”

Sidious guffaws and starts to ask for more information, but she continues speaking so he doesn’t interrupt her.

“𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕖. ℍ𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕡𝕙𝕪𝕤𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕔𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖, 𝕓𝕦𝕥, 𝕤𝕡𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕦𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪, 𝕒 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝕡𝕒𝕥𝕣𝕚𝕒𝕣𝕔𝕙. 𝔹𝕖𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕤𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕕𝕖𝕤𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕤 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟 𝕠𝕟 𝕙𝕚𝕞, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕔𝕦𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕞 𝕠𝕗𝕗 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖.”

Sidious frowns deeper. “A Jedi?”

He is afraid the prophetic power will leave her before she tells him what he deserves to know. He strokes her breasts since she seems to react better to him that way -- her fingers curl up in his hair.

“𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕁𝕖𝕕𝕚 𝕓𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕊𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖 𝕁𝕖𝕕𝕚 𝕠𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟. 𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖, 𝕚𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕓𝕖 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖𝕗𝕚𝕖𝕝𝕕, 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕙𝕠𝕞𝕖. 𝕀𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕖𝕩𝕔𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕋𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕝𝕖.”

“The Jedi Council?”

“𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕣𝕕 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕖. 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕕 𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕝𝕪.”

Sidious smiles. “Good.”

“ℍ𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕦𝕖 𝕊𝕚𝕥𝕙, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕨𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕨𝕒𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕗𝕠𝕣. 𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕞 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕗𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪. 𝔸 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕒𝕣𝕜 𝕡𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕣, 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕤 𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕠𝕣 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕣.”

“And shall I have it? Fertility, through him?”

Zaster looks into his eyes and sees his doom.

He is a patient man -- no one is more patient -- but she sits there and stares at him with an unreadable expression, her mind full of a strangeness far beyond his power to comprehend.

Sidious kisses her again, but she does not react at all, as if she is made of stone.

“Speak, Oracle.”

She has never lied in any of her prophecies before. She has never failed in her duty. No matter how horrible or indecipherable her prophecy, she always told it as it came to her. But she lies now.

She smiles at him worshipfully, and melts in his arms like butter, and strokes his rock-hard dick, and lies to his face. She is shocked to hear her layered prophetic voice obediently following along with her in the lie -- it sounds just like the truth -- she could have been lying this whole time!

“𝕐𝕖𝕤. ℍ𝕚𝕤 𝕤𝕠𝕟 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕒𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕘𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕤𝕠𝕟. 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕤𝕚𝕥 𝕒𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕥 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝. 𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨 𝕤𝕦𝕚𝕥, 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕖𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘, 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕗𝕖. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕪 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕟𝕦𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕤, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕝𝕠𝕪𝕒𝕝, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕞𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕪 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔽𝕠𝕣𝕔𝕖, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕞𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕚𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕒𝕟𝕪 𝕁𝕖𝕕𝕚 𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠𝕕𝕒𝕪. 𝔸𝕝𝕝 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕊𝕚𝕥𝕙. 𝔸𝕝𝕝 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕗𝕣𝕦𝕚𝕥𝕗𝕦𝕝. ℙ𝕖𝕠𝕡𝕝𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕣 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝔼𝕞𝕡𝕚𝕣𝕖 -- 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣 𝕤𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕞𝕤, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕖𝕒𝕡𝕠𝕟𝕤 -- 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕜, ‘𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕤 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕊𝕚𝕕𝕚𝕠𝕦𝕤 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥.’ 𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕨𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕘. 𝕀𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕪, 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕡𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕦𝕝 𝕣𝕠𝕪𝕒𝕝 𝕗𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕪, 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕦𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕓𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝔼𝕞𝕡𝕚𝕣𝕖, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕖𝕘𝕒𝕔𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕠 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕕𝕖𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕧𝕖. 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕗𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕪 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕒𝕝𝕨𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦. 𝔹𝕦𝕥, 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕖, 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕪 𝕠𝕗 𝕒𝕝𝕝, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕗𝕣𝕦𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟.”

Sidious is breathing heavily, his eyes frenzied, his smile unstoppable.

“What will be the name of this fecund apprentice?”

“...𝕌𝕞…”

They both hear the voices slipping away from hers -- he grabs her arm with a pincer grip and grunts at her angrily, she must say it before the power leaves her!

“ℕ𝕒𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖...𝕒𝕝𝕨𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕕... 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕙𝕚𝕞…”

“Name, reptile!”

“𝕊𝕜𝕚... 𝕤𝕜𝕠𝕣... 𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕣…” She is shaking. “𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕙𝕚𝕞! 𝔻𝕠𝕟’𝕥 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕪!” Many layers of the voices have left her.

Sidious’ lowered voice is even more seething and scary. “Do your duty, Oracle, I want him now.”

“ℍ𝕖’𝕤 𝕟𝕠 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕟𝕠𝕨. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕚𝕥 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤, 𝕚𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕦𝕤𝕖 𝕙𝕚𝕞 𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕗𝕦𝕝𝕝 𝕒𝕕𝕧𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕖.”

Sidious whispers, “Name, Oracle?”

“𝕊𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕜... 𝕊𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕜𝕠𝕣... Skeerikor, it’s like Skeerikor.”

“Skeerikor.” He racks his brains for where that name could be from -- certainly not Naboo.

Zaster’s tone is soothing, her own gentle voice by itself. “Don’t worry, my Lord. He will come to you.”

They hear a crunching, cracking sound and look up to see a red lightsaber piercing through the door, cutting a sparking circle into it, and a black boot kicking the circle in, and Maul, who has run out of patience with the paintings of evil old dead guys in the foyer, climb through. He strides toward them like a predator, lightsaber sizzling, tossing his robes off his shoulders.

“Get up and fight me, Dreela Sage!”

Sidious is still holding onto her, his sex drive pent-up by the happy prophecy; he looks around for a suitable cage to lock Maul in until he is finished with this -- but before he can throw Maul away, Zaster shoves the old man’s arms off her with an angry yell and rolls off the chair and onto her feet; she fixes her clothes and ignites her own lightsaber and strides toward the young man, matching his animalistic energy. Their lightsabers slam together as thunder crashes outside.

“You liar!” screams Maul.

“Halfbreed!” screams Zaster.

“Okay, racist!”

“Heretic!”

Zaster shoves his weapon aside and aims for his neck -- he deflects -- they fight in place. Zaster pushes him backward and they move together down the room. Maul sends a bookcase crashing down on her -- she rolls out of the way and stops his weapon with her own, pushes him away and stands up. He lashes out and she returns. They pace in a circle around the crashed shelf.

“Hey, babe.” Maul twirls his lightsaber playfully.

“Yeah?” Zaster flamboyantly slices through a skull on a display.

“Do you think, if we team up, we can take the old fucker down?” He gestures his head at Sidious, who has sat himself in the chair to watch.

Zaster laughs as she slices through a dusty computer in her path. The electricity in her blade turns the old technology on for a moment, before it loudly fizzles out and dies.

“We could maybe give him another black eye before he shreds us down to our atoms.”

“Hmmm -- worth it?”

“Oh, definitely!”

She lunges at him; he kicks her away and scampers on top of a shelf; she follows and they clash, leaping from shelf to shelf, using the Force to knock the shelves out from below the other’s feet and throw holos and books and relics at each other.

“I like your new lightsaber!” he says.

“Thanks, friend! Would’ve been nice to have in that cave! I might have been able to skin the grin-deer!”

“Oh -- you don’t eat raw meat, do you?”

“Nope!”

“Ah! Oops!”

“Don’t worry about it! It’s in the past!”

She hurls an ancient cursed sword at him. Maul ducks.

“Not sure about the new zombie body, though, love. Is that chunk of your face supposed to be missing?”

“Yeah, it’s the new trend.”

“Oh, I must tell my barber.”

Zaster hurls a large taxidermied shark at him mouth first and it swallows him whole. He bursts out of the stomach with a slash of his fiery blade.

“That tickled.”

“This will tickle!”

She holds out her hand and uses the Force to tickle around his back-left horn, which she knows from their many stolen nights is his most sensitive. He laughs in a way Sidious has never heard before, but Dreela has. Suddenly, he sends the cursed sword flying back at her, and she leaps out of the way. The sword smashes a little ceramic box and hundred evil spirits burst out and swarm them.

“MASTER! HELP!!” cry Maul and Dreela at the same time.

Sidious waves his hand and the spirits dissolve away into dust with horrible shrieks. Both students are immobilized at the sound, hands over their ears, screaming along in pain -- the sound fades away and they look at each other and laugh, and ignite their weapons again and swing them together. The lasers bounce off each other at a random point and their arms keep swinging, as if this were some clumsy drunken dance. They back off and stare at each other.

“You should never have woken me up,” says Dreela.

“I don’t regret it,” says Maul.

“I do.”

“I love you.”

Dreela tries to swallow the lump in her throat, it has been there for so many weeks that it’s just a part of her now.

“Neither of us knows how to do that.”

The lump in Maul’s throat hasn’t been there as long, but it also hasn’t left him ever since he learned that one of them would have to kill the other.

“We do. To each other.”

“Do you wanna stay with the Sith? Or would you rather die?”

“Of course I’d rather die. The Sith are awful.”

“Me too.”

“One of us should stay on the ride, though. It will get better. We will inherit an empire.”

“... Ashla-Bogan-Bendu?” Dreela suggests. It is a child’s game of chance based on meaningless old words from the past: Ashla beats Bogan, Bogan beats Bendu, and Bendu beats Ashla.

“You’re on.”

They say the traditional, nonsensical chant as they shake their hands in preparation -- no one knows where the chant comes from, but Sith babies love saying it --

On cue, Maul turns his hand into the symbol for Bendu, as Zaster turns hers into the symbol for Ashla.

“Good night, Dreela.”

“Good night, Maul. The Force is with you.”

She turns off her lightsaber as he chops her head off. Her body fizzles into blue holo-pixels, which drift onto the ground.

Maul pivots around to face Sidious. He balances on his heels and makes jazz hands over his head.

“Dance, monkey, dance.”

Sidious sounds tired.

“Did you ever get a prophecy from her?”

“Uh, maybe? I don’t remember.”

Sidious breathes out, staring into space.

“Need me to jack you off, old man?”

“No thank you.”

“Let’s get out of this dump.” Maul turns his lightsaber off and strides out of the library, his shoulders shaking with tears. He stands in the rain outside the ship until Sidious shows up to open it.

Once they are seated, Sidious checks the radar.

“Fuck me, the Jedi are coming.”

“What?!”

“A Jedi craft is approaching at lightspeed.”

“Can we hide?”

Palpatine grabs Maul’s head and pushes him down onto the floor of the vehicle.

“I’ll mask our signature, but you stay out of sight just in case.” He takes off from the planet into outer space, but he can’t get into hyperdrive fast enough. “Damn it, they’re hailing me.” He presses the holo on his dashboard. “Master Jinn! Fancy meeting you out here.”

“Senator Palpatine! What are you doing here? This place is very dangerous, strong with the Dark Side of the Force.”

Jinn’s young Padawan looks at Palpatine with undisguised alarm and confusion. Even Qui-Gon looks ever so slightly perturbed.

“Is it? Good heavens! I was on a diplomatic mission to Fregetwi, when I was driven out here by pirates. I evaded them in the storm on that strange purple planet.”

“Very good, Senator!” Obi-Wan smiles patronizingly at the non-Jedi.

Qui-Gon nods. “Let us escort you to Fregetwi, Senator.”

“Oh, you needn’t stop your own mission for mine.”

“Fregetwi is very close. It is no trouble.”

They steer their ships toward Fregetwi, all three humans smiling blandly.

Under the dashboard, Maul cries silently into his sleeve, shivering with grief, guilt, and horror.

“Might I ask, Master Jinn: if this place is strong with the Dark Side of the Force, why do you Jedi come here?”

“My Padawan had a vision of a great power that came from this world. We were going to see if we could learn more about it. It is possible that it might have been taken by the forces of evil. If so, it is paramount that we should stop them.”

“How interesting. If you found this power yourself, would you destroy it or use it?”

“As with any great power, I would not act hastily. I would examine it carefully, then act accordingly.”

“I suppose I dare not ask for further details?”

“Do not concern yourself with this matter, Senator. I assure you that we will take care of it.”

“I see.”

“Where have the pirates gone?” Obi-Wan asks. “They might have spirited away with it.”

“I don’t know,” Palpatine answers. “They did not follow me into the storm. I hid there for an hour.”

“How frightening for you!”

“Oh, it’s nothing I’ve never done before. You Jedi are not the only ones who lead dangerous lives.”

“Well, we should be. It is good that we found you. It must have been the will of the Force.”

“I must admit, I do feel much safer with you here.”

“Did you land on the planet’s surface?” Qui-Gon asks.

“No, I hovered. I did not like the look of the place,” Palpatine lies.

“You must be low on fuel, then,” Obi-Wan says.

“I have enough to get to Fregetwi.”

“You were wise to hover. Perhaps I should leave a buoy outside this planet to warn others not to land on it,” Qui-Gon says.

“Or, perhaps, once you have explored it, you will see there is nothing to fear there,” Palpatine says.

“I doubt tha--”

“Perhaps,” Qui-Gon interrupts his student.

They make more idle chitchat on the commute, then the Jedi drop the Sith off and fly away. The Sith fly away too, in the opposite direction.

Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon land on Huntt’awn and enter the library to find all the destruction inside.

“Lightsaber burns! These are fresh, still burning. Perhaps the pirate who stole Zertel’s lightsaber?” Obi-Wan says.

“A reasonable guess, Padawan. It is the only missing lightsaber.”

“This looks like they were fighting to the death!” The young man picks up the shattered skull.

Qui-Gon touches the slash on the great fish’s body. “No. They were not fighting. They were playing.”

Obi-Wan walks slowly, then more quickly down a row of shelves. He bends to pick up something from the ground --

“Obi-Wan! Don’t touch anything!”

Obi-Wan freezes. Qui-Gon catches up with him and looks at the item. It is a small black disc, inscribed with letters that hurt their eyes to look at.

“This is the holo from my dream,” Obi-Wan says. “The one that Darth Zaster fizzled into.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Qui-Gon rolls his sleeve down to cover his hand and picks it up.

“We will take it -- her -- back to the Temple Library on Coruscant.”

“Are you sure that is safe, Master?”

“Yes. There is nowhere safer.” He turns to leave.

Obi-Wan follows. “Shouldn’t we explore a little more? This place is a trove of--”

“Temptations. Vanity. We have nothing to learn from the Sith, Obi-Wan.”

“Yes, Master. I am sorry.”

“It’s alright, Obi-Wan. Your instincts are, as always, sharp.”

Once on the ship, they lock Dreela Sage -- trapped again, forever, in her master’s experimental holo -- in a safe.

Once back home, they put the safe deep in their archives, since they don’t know what else to do with it.

#the end!#my story #my art #through a blackened mirror #darth maul #sheev palpatine #darth zaster #obi-wan kenobi #qui-gon jinn #scifi #fairytale #cw abuse #cw sex abuse

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zargsnake · 1 year

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Through a Blackened Mirror

Chapter 5: The Prince

Word Count: 7589 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

“Now the hundred years had just ended, and the day on which Brier Rose was to wake up again had arrived. When the prince approached the brier hedge, he found nothing but beautiful flowers that opened of their own accord, let him through, and then closed again like a hedge. In the castle courtyard he saw the horses and the spotted hunting dogs lying asleep. The pigeons were perched on the roof and had tucked their heads beneath their wings. When he entered the palace, the flies were sleeping on the wall, the cook in the kitchen was still holding his hand as if he wanted to grab the kitchen boy, and the maid was sitting in front of the black chicken that she was about to pluck. As the prince continued walking, he saw the entire court lying asleep in the hall with the king and queen by the throne. Then he moved on, and everything was so quiet that he could hear himself breathe.”

-- “Brier Rose,” translated by Jack Snipes

* * *

Obi-Wan hurries into the library. “Master Nu!” He bows deeply.

“Ah, young Kenobi.” Jocasta turns from reshelving a holocron about Serenno. She knows who checked it out, and it makes her feel nervous; reading about it only makes him sadder. She nods at the frantic Padawan. “How can I h–”

Obi-Wan gesticulates wildly as he launches into his request. “Yesterday morning my Master Qui-Gon told me he sensed a most curious disturbance in the Force, as though a great power had fallen into the grasp of the Dark Side. He requested me to meditate on this and I did. And I just woke from a dream that I think was important! But I need your help to identity the face that appeared to me!”

“Peace, peace. Have you told your Master yet?”

“No! He’s still asleep! And I wanted to make sure I wasn’t on some wild bantha-chase before I bothered him. I am so glad that the library is open!”

“Yes, we are always open by 5 am.”

“Amazing!” The young man elegantly clears his throat.

“Master Nu, what sort of alien has brown scales, black hair, and red eyes?”

“Take a seat, my lad; let me open a program to help us.” She wakes up a screen on one of the tables. Fortunately, no one else is at the library this early, so she can give Obi-Wan her full attention. “Could it have been a Northern Trandoshan?” She shows a picture of the mild-mannered Senator of Trandosha.

“No, it didn’t have a snout.”

“A Weequay?” She shows a picture of a somewhat-famous pirate.

Obi-Wan is disgusted. “No. The face I saw didn’t look like a skull. It even had something akin to beauty.”

“Perhaps a Vodran?” She shows a HoloNet hero.

“No, it didn’t have any horns.”

“A Bothan?” She shows a very boring chartered accountant.

“No, its hair was like this.” He draws a vampiric hairline across his face.

“Hm.” She taps her fingers on the table.

Obi-Wan bounces his knee up and down ferociously.

“A Grinanin.” She shows a picture of an underwear model; the picture is cropped to just her face, though.

Obi-Wan almost falls off his chair. “That’s it!!”

Jocasta thinks, Of course it is. Boys and Grinanins. Is this really the type of dream I want to know about?

“Very good, Kenobi. The only trouble is that Grinanins have blue, purple, or pink eyes.”

Obi-Wan strokes his chin. “Not if they’re Sith.”

“Sith?” Jocasta purses her lips. “But the Sith have been gone for a thousand years.”

“Yes... But…” He looks up at the shelves. The morning light is just beginning to pour through the windows. “Their holos remain. Master Nu, where was the Sith library?”

“Kenobi, this is hardly appropriate. The Sith library was a place of great evil.”

“I know,” he says solemnly, “And I do not ask lightly, trust me. But Master Qui-Gon needs my help, and I think I am on the right path.”

Jocasta sighs and speaks softly, even though no one is nearby. Obi-Wan leans in conspiratorially.

“The Sith library -- which may or may not have been completely destroyed long ago -- was on the planet Huntt’awn in the distant Sinmeerin sector, the coldest and furthest reaches of the Outer Rim. It is far beyond the long arm of the Republic. If you want to go there, you must have a very, very good reason.”

Obi-Wan nods. His voice is, impossibly, even more solemn than it was before.

“Where is the Sith section of our library?”

“It is the one closest to the window. After all, it is the darkness that most requires the light.”

Obi-Wan nods again.

“I shall be right back.”

He stands up and she grabs the hood of his robe.

“Wait one minute, young man. That section is off-limits to Padawans. You may go under supervision of your Master.”

Obi-Wan tugs his robe from her hand and scowls.

“But Master, I’m not a child. I am twenty years old.”

“Age has nothing to do with it. The temptations of the Dark Side are too great for anyone who has not undergone the trials.”

“I am pure of heart. I swear!”

“The decision is not mine, Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan thinks, It most certainly is!

He looks up at the ceiling, barely containing his irritation, then looks down at her with an expression that he clearly believes is a smile. “Yes, Master Nu!” He bows quickly. “I shall be right back!”

He dashes off, his robes flying behind him.

* * *

Obi-Wan knocks on Qui-Gon’s door, but he cannot wait and opens it. He calls, in a loud whisper, “Master!”

“Hnngh?”

The boy’s presence in the Force wakes Qui-Gon up more than the noise does. He looks at him blearily.

“Um -- sorry Master! But this is urgent!” He enters the dark room and shuts the door behind him. “I had a vision in my dream. I think I know something about the great power which you sensed yesterday.”

Qui-Gon sits up. Obi-Wan feels such affection for the great, barrel-chested knight. He also feels guilty for disturbing him, but Qui-Gon shows no sign of irritation, and Obi-Wan does not expect it from him. Very few people have ever been angry at Obi-Wan.

“Yes?”

Obi-Wan thinks, I will never be as great as he is.

“I saw the face of a Grinanin woman with red eyes. She fizzled out from reality into a holo. I believe this was more than a dream. I think it was a message from the Force, a result of my meditations on the subject.”

“What do you think it means, Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon stands up from the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and he turns the light on.

“Grinanins do not have red eyes, but Sith do. She might be a great Sith from the past who left a message on a holocron.”

Qui-Gon goes to the sink to brush his teeth. Obi-Wan follows him.

“A very wise interpretation, my Padawan! Excuse me.”

He shuts the bathroom door in his student’s face.

Obi-Wan is a little embarrassed, but he is too proud and eager to be that embarrassed. He continues speaking to the bathroom door. “Anyway, I thought I might look through the Sith section of the library to see if I can find more information on her. I am not sure how a holocron could be a source of power. It must contain some very important information!”

“Perhaps…”

“Maybe she was a spy. Maybe she figured out some way to--to detect Force-sensitive children, even younger than we can -- or to discover a Jedi’s weakness -- or to invade the Temple! But she died before she could enact her plan. But now it has fallen into the hands of some rapscallion!”

“Mm-hm.”

“The trouble is, I can’t get into the Sith section of the library, since I am only a Padawan. So that’s why I came–”

“Grinanin, you said?”

“Yes, Master!”

Obi-Wan hears the toilet flush, and Qui-Gon opens the door.

“Darth Zaster.”

“What’s a disaster, Master?”

Obi-Wan is quietly amused by the rhyme. Qui-Gon washes his hands in the sink.

“No, Darth Zaster. ‘Darth’ is a Sith title. And ‘Zaster’ is her name. She was a Grinanin Oracle from two millenia ago -- one of the greatest Oracles who ever lived. She made two hundred and nine prophecies, and two hundred and five of them have come true. Not a single one was false.”

“Oh!”

“Almost all of them foretold some terrible tragedy.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan picks up a shiny object on Qui-Gon’s desk. It snaps around his finger. “Oh -- um –”

“Legend states that when she died, her master sealed the midichlorians of her spirit away in a holocron.”

Obi-Wan gasps. “Just like my vision!”

“Exactly.”

“But if her midichlorians are in a holo -- could they be accessed? Could she be … awoken from the dead?!”

Qui-Gon takes a pause that drives Obi-Wan mad. “That was her master’s intention. However, only a Sith can open a Sith holocron. Just as only a Jedi can open a Jedi holocron.”

“And there are no Sith!”

“Yes. So there is some comfort there. If an agent of the Dark Side has gotten ahold of this spirit of a long-dead Sith, they would still have a very difficult time awakening her.”

“Difficult? Or impossible?”

“Difficult. Not impossible.”

“Really?!”

“Think of your training, Obi-Wan. Have non-Jedi ever been able to open Jedi holocrons?”

Obi-Wan thinks carefully. “Yes. But very rarely.”

Qui-Gon taps his nose. “Thus, for the Sith. Remember, the Jedi are stronger than the Sith. Whatever weaknesses we have -- rare as they are -- the Sith have them too, and more.”

Obi-Wan chuckles. “I never thought I’d find myself wishing the Sith were better at something, even holo security.”

Qui-Gon puts a hand on his Padawan’s shoulder. “You did very well, Obi-Wan. I am proud of you. Your meditation brought us a vision that brings us closer to the truth.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Let us go to the Sith section of the library and see what more we can find on Zaster.”

He starts to head out the door.

“Uh -- Master -- a little help?”

Obi-Wan holds out his finger where the trap is still attached.

With a hearty chuckle, Qui-Gon frees his Padawan’s finger with a wave of his hand. “Don’t be so nosy, Obi-Wan.”

“Yes, Master.”

* * *

Following their research in the Jedi library, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon decide to risk visiting the Sith library on Huntt’awn. All clues indicate that if Zaster’s holo was kept anywhere, it was there. Perhaps they can find a hint as to where the Dark Side agent has taken her. Qui-Gon flies the ship and Obi-Wan sits in the co-pilot’s chair.

Obi-Wan says, “I read some of those prophecies of hers. Very disturbing…”

“Yes. Zaster is an object of fascination among us prophecy-heads. I am glad that you were the one who beheld her in a vision. If I saw her out of the blue, I might have become entirely too diverted.”

Obi-Wan has a hard time imagining Qui-Gon getting excited about anything.

“What is the worst thing she ever predicted?”

“She prophesized the rise of the Zygerrian slave empire. And unlike her more specific prophecies, there was very little the Jedi could do about it. There were just too many complex, inevitable agencies at work. So the slaver’s empire existed for hundreds of years, before we finally stamped it out. Not very long ago, I might add.”

Obi-Wan mumbles “hmm” sadly. He feels glad to not exist at the same time as slavery. He wonders if he would have been able to do something to stop it if he had been there; even “complex, inevitable agencies” can be tamed if one is wise enough.

“What is a prophecy that we were able to stop?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Oh, you cannot stop what has been prophesized from occurring. But sometimes you can do something about it. She foresaw the environmental collapse of Rooshan, which happened just three hundred years ago. The signs which she alluded to lined up in the nick of time, and marked Rooshan as the subject of her prophecy. On her word, the Jedi were able to convince the Rooshanians to give up their doomed efforts of salvaging their atmosphere and to evacuate their homeworld instead. Rooshan is a wasteland now, but the Rooshanians live on, albeit in diaspora.”

“That is a tragedy.”

“Chin up, Obi-Wan. Four billion lives were saved.”

“Are you completely sure that there was nothing that could have been done about Rooshan’s atmosphere?”

“Only a Sith deals in absolutes. I am never completely sure of anything. Perhaps there was some hope for their atmosphere after all. But the Jedi of the time decided that hope was not enough.”

“Did she have any connection to Rooshan? How could she have possibly known about it, especially since it happened over a thousand years after her death?”

“It’s true that Oracles speak more frequently and accurately about familiar things. But the Force connects all things, Padawan, across all time. The Force was very strong with her.”

“You say that not a single one of her prophecies was ever false?”

“Not a one. But there are four left.” He smiles at him. “It is never too late to fail.”

“What are her four remaining prophecies?”

“Oh, just as miserable as the rest of them. Let’s see... ‘A moon is not a moon. There are a thousand non-believers and one believer. The non-believers will perish, and only the believer will survive.’ That’s the first one.”

“Believe in what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sorry, Master.”

“It’s alright. The second one is, ‘He will be the liar’s only hope. He will run from his post. He will not be believed. The truthseeker will break him. He will outlive his home. The other five will die together, but he will die alone.’”

Obi-Wan nods. He regrets asking -- besides how miserable it is, he has no taste for anything so cryptic, even though this stuff is his master’s hobby.

“Mmhm. The third one is, ‘The fake woman descends a ramp. She dies in the first war. The arrogant man does not trip the beast. He dies in the second war. The fainting woman drops a hundred bombs. She dies in the third war. Heed their deaths: do not love anyone who is brave during a war.’”

Obi-Wan rests his gloomy chin on his hand.

“This Zaster was a real piece of work.”

“Oh yes. And the final one is, ‘These sons of bitches are obsessed with light. They make every fucking holiday about it. They put it in their fucking clothes. I can’t fucking stand them.’”

Obi-Wan stares at his serene master in shock.

“‘These unnatural materialists fill their lovely dark with ugly light, and -- lucky for you, my friend -- that wasted effort drains a lot of power. So greedy are they for their electricity, they will build a great power generator within their own palace. So voraciously do they crave that energy, they will dig their great reactor shafts deep, deep into the earth, to a place where no one goes, a place that is dark and safe. There you will find dusty, abandoned spider-droids which were given up for dead. They shall not be dead. They shall bend to your will. You shall not be dead either, my friend. Not yet. It shall not be the end for you, not on that light-obsessed hell-planet. It shall be only the beginning. You will live, my friend, you will live.’”

“That’s her final prophecy?”

“It certainly has a different tone, doesn’t it? Those are the ravings she screamed as she lay dying.”

“And you had that all off the top of your head?”

“Yes, I did. All her other prophecies have come true. It is logical to listen to them.”

“But that prophecy is clearly lunacy.”

“Perhaps...or perhaps, one day, I will find myself on the bottom of a reactor shaft in a power generator within a palace. And if so, I will know to look for the spider-droids.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“This is such nonsense.”

“We can only hope so. If Zaster is only capable of nonsense, then -- even if the most wicked person in the universe gets ahold of her -- she will be useless to them.”

Obi-Wan nods at this wisdom, and then an odd thought occurs to him.

“Such disdain for light is particularly illogical coming from a Grinanin. Grinanins are cold-blooded. Without sunlight, they have no energy of their own.”

“Very good, Obi-Wan. When we get back to the Temple, read up on the Apollonian Secession. One of the cleverer Sith tricks was their cosmic blankets, which would darken the suns over planets and render cold-blooded populations lethargic and compliant. Once Jedi agents pierced these blankets, billions of people awoke in mighty unison to their true selves. The Grinanins were, in fact, one of the first people to rebel against their Sith overlords. If Zaster had lived only a few more decades, we would have had her for ourselves. Think of the happy prophecies she might have made, if only we could have rescued her from evil. Think of how much greater we would be now.”

Obi-Wan does not precisely obey these directions. He thinks about the intricacies of biology, astronomy, and history that his master described. His stomach churns at the idea of intentionally darkening suns, and his heart thrills with pride for the Light Side’s ancient triumph. He tries but fails to long entertain his master’s happier alternate universe. Obi-Wan knows the past is set in stone, and it is pointless to fuss about it.

* * *

That feeling again, that blundering clumsiness, oh Maul… She waits it out, then she sees him sitting there. Her boy.

“Hey,” he says, exhausted as always.

“Hey.”

“You have a ... new outfit,” he says weakly.

“Oh yes. I do. Must be a, uh, seasonal update in the programming.”

“Huh... I liked your old one better, to be frank.”

She breathes out of her nose in amusement. Of course he would insult her before -- apologizing, or whatever. Palpatine would just flatter, Maul does not --

She looks away from the handsome halfbreed to the thing between them. It’s a long, low freezerbox. The text of the brand logo is in spiky Grinanin.

They are outdoors, in the night. The world is brighter and greener than Iridonia, and ought to be even more familiar to her: she was born here, after all. But they are surrounded by strange, quietly humming metallic structures. She sees a great wheel in the distance, 200 feet tall, and what looks like painted steeds impaled on golden poles. One thing at a time, she thinks, a bit dizzy.

“So what is this?” She points at the freezer.

“Okay, so -- I put your stone-body in the Iridonian Temple -- just in case you ever change your mind -- then I convinced my master to take us to your homeworld, so I could find a more -- relevant body for you. It’s been three months. I didn’t want to wake you until I found the best one I could. Here she is.”

He opens the freezer. On a bed of shredded ice lies a corpse -- another eighteen year old Grinanin, and very pretty -- wearing a finely-made, tan-colored Sith student’s robe, a size or two too big. She has a little button nose, big eyes, dollish lips, and brown scales of almost the same color as her own, if a little rounder in shape. In some ways, she is prettier than Dreela. Certainly she is sweeter. Dreela rolls down the corpse’s sleeve and sees a tattoo of a snake around her wrist.

“You gave her my tattoo.”

“You’re not you without it. I painted it on the first body, too, if you had bothered to notice.”

“You also gave that one horns and teeny boobs.”

She prods the corpse’s boobs. Acceptable.

“Look, I was young and foolish,” he responds. “Anyway, horns are fun; you can gore people with them. And store cheese on them to eat for later.”

Dreela laughs. It sounds so sad to Maul. Her state of being must be getting so hard for her. He doesn’t blame her at all for being so bitter and tragic. But this will make things different.

Dreela lifts the corpse’s eyelids and sees her irises are light purple.

“I’m sure they’ll turn red once you, a Sith, occupy them,” Maul assures her.

“Is this on Sidious’ advice? Or was this your own idea?”

“I asked him how to recreate a dead body, how to create a body from air, you know, all this stuff. He didn’t have anything useful to say. This is all my own idea.”

“And how will you get me in her?”

“Same as before. The Nightsister stuff.”

Dreela sighs.

“It works on corpses too. Your presence would even make her blood flow again. Do you want to see?”

“No. As little of that as possible, please.”

Maul shuts the freezer and takes her hand with the Force.

“This is the only way, girl.”

Dreela flinches at his touch.

“What is it? Why do you shudder? Do you really hate me now?”

Dreela thinks, Principles are for Jedi. He is good to me. He is still my friend.

“No, I don’t hate you, it’s just…”

Maul smirks. “Has the gay rubbed off? You can’t stand the touch of men now? Homophobic science has been onto something this whole time?”

Dreela shakes her head and holds his hand tighter. “No... I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl.”

“On that, we are alike.”

Dreela feels a sob rise from her chest. Her tears fizzle on the holo. They hurt like little needles. She forgot water did that to her in this inferior form.

“I beg you, Dreela, baby, darling, sugar to my tea, kyber to my saber, darkness to my night, please, just try it, just one hour. I can put you back if you don’t like it.”

Dreela looks at him through that horrible blue haze. She wants to see his redness, so badly. And that body really did look very good. It would be fun to wear Maul’s clothes too; she always wanted to.

“What would we do for an hour? I love you, but the sex is bad. Did you make a lightsaber for me? We could always spar. I miss sparring.”

“No, I haven’t made a lightsaber for you. I have something better.” He lets go of her hand and flips backwards onto his feet. He grabs a big red switch on a pole and throws it down. With a loud whir, the amusement park all around them comes to life -- the Ferris wheel and carousel turn, strings of warm electric lights burn brightly, rollercoasters as white as bone are illuminated against the stars.

“Wh-what is this?!!”

“You didn’t have amusement parks in the Year of Our Fate 7548?”

“No?”

“It’s fun! Uh -- basically, these machines throw you around and get you scared.”

“OoOOoh! So non-Sith have fun getting scared too?”

“Nowadays -- yeah.”

She looks her poor friend in the eyes.

“Yes.”

“Yes -- you’ll do it?”

“You’ll do it, babe, I’ll just lie there.”

“You won’t regret it.”

He sets them up for the ritual. She sees, but does not feel, his hand on her forehead; she hears him muttering those chilling words, the green smoke pouring from his eyes and ears and mouth, swirling up into the already greenish atmosphere of Grinanin.

The feeling of this magic is different from the feeling of waking up from her holo, whether by Maul’s clumsy effort or Sidious’ skill.

While using the Force as a Sith connects one to everything around you, opens you up to the vastness of space, this magic feels like curling up into someone’s lap -- Maul’s bony, muscular lap -- the particularities of his familiar scent -- they have so much in common, their faith, their vanity, their sense of humor, and, most of all, their affection for one another.

She opens her eyes.

“I’M COLD!!! AAUUUGGHHH!!!”

She flails around in the ice. Maul lifts her out and spins on his heels with her in his arms.

“It’s COLD and I’m all WET! YOU BASTARD, I’M COLD-BLOODED!!!”

Maul carries her over to some pristinely-maintained shrubbery and sets it alight with his saber. He puts her on her feet and she wobbles over to the fires, arm around his waist.

“How does it feel, beside how co--”

She responds in a demonic shriek: “IT’S FUCKING COLD, MY LORD DARTH MAUL, PRINCE OF EVIL.”

He shuts up. They stand still for many tense, quavering minutes. She gazes at the fire in a stupor, blinking slowly, beholding her beautiful friend in only her peripheral vision. Once she feels a little energy return to her brain, she turns to look at him, straight on, for the first time. Of course he is already staring at her. The love in his eyes is ferocious. She reaches out and touches his flushed, hardened face. Finally she speaks, in a soft, kind voice.

“It feels good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. A little tall, and a little weak of the muscle. But good.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t find someone with a Sith level of physical training who was also beautiful.”

“I can fix the weakness. I like working out.”

“Give me a hug,” he says. She hugs him, then again, tighter, holding the back of his head. He buries his face in her neck and she feels his breath flutter between her scales.

This is my first hug ever, he thinks. I see why people go to war for this kind of thing. “Did I deliver?” he mumbles into her neck.

She feels like she could cry, and she encourages the feeling -- that deep sensation of all her body parts working together to make tears, her chest and tummy and face and throat. It is more than Sidious could provide. Her tears are hot.

“Yes.”

Maul holds her face. “Your eyes are red as blood. Lord Darth Zaster, princess of the Sith.”

Dreela smiles with pure happiness. “Wonderful. But don’t I look strange to you?”

Maul shakes his head. “I can tell it’s you. You move your muscles in the same way. We are not our crude bodies. We are the dark secret within them.”

“Thank you, Maul.” She holds him again and presses her face to his chest. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Dreela.” He laughs, light-headed and nervous. “I’m so glad I won’t have to bleed like a pig just to see you.”

“Me too. Where -- where is my holo?”

“Here.” He picks it up off the floor and gives it to her. It has turned off, even the glow of its letters. She puts it in her sleeve pocket. It fits well.

“Now that I’m out, I don’t want to go back in.”

“Good.”

“But where will I stay?”

“I furnished a cave for you in the woods. It’s not much, I must admit, but it’s all yours. Do you want to see it?”

Dreela shakes her head. “Later, later. I’m sure it’s fine. Now, you must scare me on these machines.”

“Yes, sister.”

He sets her up on the carousel and fastens the belt around her waist. He starts the machine, runs back to her, and holds her firmly as she shrieks with surprise. Layers of mysterious voices occasionally pile up on top of hers at her most uncontrolled moments, but only to scream and laugh. Maul takes her on every kiddie coaster and relaxing tunnel, stopping between each ride to warm her at another fire, until hardly any of the park’s landscaping remains.

* * *

Zaster wakes up -- all on her own -- not from her holo prison -- but from deep sleep. Sleep is unnatural to Sith, but this body has not been trained to fall into their holy meditative state, so she’ll just have to tolerate sleep until she can retrain herself, it shouldn’t be that hard -- or maybe... maybe she’ll keep sleep -- she hasn’t slept in two years -- well, two thousand-two years -- she put it away with her childhood -- but now that she’s done it again -- it felt really good, to lose control so completely, to be so relaxed and far away -- why not sleep? Her master is gone, no one is holding her accountable, she doesn’t have to do anything for anyone -- she stretches out -- she’s in a hammock between two stalagmites, wrapped in a soft fleece blanket -- how did she get here? Oh, she remembers, she was so tired from the rides, Maul carried her here and tucked her in, and then he left... She turns her head, she feels her bones creak -- what an awful feeling, but surely it will go away, it’s probably a consequence of sleep -- she sees sunlight passing through the vines which obscure the entrance to the cave -- she feels her stomach rumble -- she looks around the cave, she is only in the entrance area, there are a couple tunnels behind her -- in front of her, Maul put a red shag circular rug, on which he stacked a lot of food he stole from the amusement park -- she pigged out last night, her first food since death, but the candy and popcorn do not look that appealing to her right now -- she sees he dragged the freezerbox here, it is plugged into a rechargeable battery which is at 73% -- she rolls out of bed and opens it, he killed a grin-deer and put it in there for her to eat -- good job hunting, bitch, but she’s not going to eat this raw, and she doesn’t know how to cook it -- she has a sudden creeping fear that she’s in way over her head, and so is her young caretaker -- if she had a lightsaber, she could skin it and cut it with that, and cook it and make a fire -- he should have left his lightsaber! If he really loved her, he would’ve -- ugh, whatever -- she sees he’s also put a mirror in here -- she squints in the dimness and sees that stranger’s face in it, and feels an intense nervousness and sadness that she really, really hoped wouldn’t happen -- regret -- when he comes back, she’ll ask him to put her back, she can’t do this -- no, she can, she will, this is a better life -- her stomach rumbles again, she grumpily eats some of the popcorn -- what a miserable state!

So, what else is here -- a nice wooden chest, full of clothes -- well, they’re alright, they must be the modern Grinanin fashion -- a tiny portable stove, three silver pots and a set of utensils, a barrel of water, a crate of wine bottles, a priceless Sith translation plugin with four trashy novels: "Loving Wookiees," "The Jedi who Left the Order for Me (Based on a True Story)," "Sex Droid," and "Among the Clouds" -- a pack of hallucinogenic death sticks, a blaster -- thank hell for that, she was afraid he left her unarmed -- and a bag of gold coins and a holo-map to the nearest town. It’s an hour’s walk. Is there really nothing better to eat? No caf? Dammit, Maul!

She draws back the vines at the cave entrance and looks around. The woods are deep and cold. There are surely mushrooms or something out there. But she doesn’t want to leave -- it isn’t warm in here, but it’s even colder out there.

She wraps herself in the blanket, shivering; she fills a bowl with water and chocolate candies and sets it on the stove to make hot chocolate. She picks up the Wookiee book and flips through it to the nasty parts. She opens one of the wines, dumps a splash of it into the hot chocolate, and curls up with her bowl and book on her hammock. She finishes the drink and, feeling a little better and warmer, falls asleep again.

She wakes up thirty minutes later, staggers out of bed and opens the freezerbox again. No eggs? No vegetables? Just a carcass? She stabs it with a knife and cold blood comes out -- disgusting -- how do you cut it, how do you cook it? -- She remembers that Zabraks are carnivores and love raw meat. Stupid Maul! Doesn’t he know that no one else can live like that?! -- Maybe not. He is so innocent.

She must go to town to buy more food. Will they accept these gold coins? Wait...She will have no idea what they are saying! She has been speaking this whole time in the ancient frozen language of the Sith, a language that can only be passed in direct line from Master to student -- no one else is going to know it!! For every other language, it has been 2000 years!!

She will just have to bear it... How will she get by without a translator and a guide?

What if someone recognizes this Grinanin stranger’s face?

Where is Maul?

Come on! I have a BODY! I am ALIVE! I’m not trapped in ANYTHING! I fear NOTHING!

Dressed and armed, she walks out and starts to head to town -- nervously, she stops and looks back at the cave entrance -- she sees something glinting behind the vines, something in a very tiny cave to the right side of her own -- she moves the vines and sees a bright red speeder, brand new -- she pulls it out with the Force and looks at it, it’s beautiful, like a big red spike with a luxurious chair -- she sits in it, it has that new speeder smell -- she revs it up -- on the speeder, she makes it to town in only ten minutes -- she gets her first look at civilization in the Republic and feels sick to her stomach, where is the red flag of the Sith Empire? -- she reminds herself that she is ALIVE, and that should be, must be, can only be enough -- she pretends to be deaf, she gets a big breakfast from a diner by pointing and nodding, she fills her aching stomach with their hot food -- she pays with one gold coin and gets a strange expression and a lot of change back -- dammit, Maul -- she needs him to explain what all these coins mean before she buys anything else -- but she doesn’t need anything else now -- she returns to her cave, taking the most direct route since she is nervous, and no one is on her tail, as far as she can tell -- she smokes one of the hallucinogens, lies in her cot and sees all kinds of crazy shit, it whiles away her time as she waits... He doesn’t show up all day, she drives back to her diner and gets a gigantic dinner and saves the leftovers in a box which she stores in the freezer on top of the grin-deer. Battery at 65%.

Nothing happens the next day either, but she stays in the cave almost all day and gets into more of a routine. She reads her books and sleeps, mostly, and warms up leftovers, and enjoys the fairground food, and wonders what to do with her grin-deer carcass. And thinks. What should she do now? She drives around and finds a pond with a waterfall to take a bath in. The water is warm -- this is Grinanin, after all, her people evolved here -- two thousand years later, and she is still suited for this world. She wishes she could shed her skin again, just for the fun of it, but her body doesn’t need to yet.

She returns from her bath and smokes another stick... She hallucinates about the bath, and about her bath before that, the one under the gaze of that powerful Sith Lord -- high on the drug, she nearly loses her breath thinking of him, his exhilarating strength in the Force that made her holo project herself so vividly, in her own familiar body, shorter and stronger than this one -- much stronger -- tears pour from her eyes, remembering his power all around her like a castle -- she hallucinates Sidious and his body mixing with hers -- she hallucinates her Master Sunke, her Shell, making love to her, kissing and holding her, and teaching her everything he knows about the Force, and she cries harder -- she remembers how her greatest prophecies came to her mind while she was in her happiest place, on his lap, his arms around her -- she misses him -- how could he go to all this trouble to save her, and not save himself? This selflessness does not become a Sith... And now she must go on without him... Damn the Jedi, for ripping them apart -- she hallucinates her revenge against them, blowing up New Life Star again and again, stabbing her poisoners with her lightsaber, those supposed doctors who were actually murderers -- the smiling face of the Jedi doctor who had captured her -- a halfbreed of course, as all the worst people are, a Togrutan-human abomination -- he chained her up and poisoned her with a colony of parasites -- and released her back to the Sith, to infect the others -- her own sisters had to isolate her -- she couldn’t touch anyone, she could only see them through windows, as her body grew sicker and sicker, and the parasites inside became stronger, threatening to outsmart their prison walls and poison everyone she loved -- until her sisters gave up hope and commanded her to swallow a pill to kill herself -- she obeyed them, but took another pill too, to drift into death in her sleep -- so that, as she was unconscious, her master could transfer her into the holo -- he loved her body, HER body -- she misses him -- she has defiled herself -- Maul has defiled her, and disobeyed her master’s wishes -- she hallucinates running Maul through with her lightsaber, she giggles -- she can’t get her laugh right in this strange body -- her voice box is shaped differently, she can get a lot of her voice to sound how it was, but not her laugh -- she hallucinates Sunke shaking hands with Sidious, and handing her holo to him -- she acts it out with the shadows of her hands on the cave wall, she does voices for them -- Sunke placing all his trust in Sidious, and Sidious swearing to fulfill the great plan -- Sunke was a mighty Force wielder, one of the mightiest -- but he was not as strong as Sidious is.

She falls asleep in the throes of the hallucination, all the images spinning into nonsense and chaos, then stillness. As she lies there in the complete darkness, a blue light passes through the curtain of vines -- the antenna of a probe droid.

* * *

Maul opens one eye and sees Sidious has finally left -- a chance, yes! -- it has been nearly a week!! He bends up and unties his feet from the Temple ceiling; he flips around in the air and lands on his hands and feet. He sneaks to the backdoor, but he is suddenly lifted up with the Force and tied upside-down to the ceiling once more.

Maul groans. “Master, this training has outlived its usefulness.”

Sidious sits in shadows in the corner of the room. “This training is over when I say it’s over.”

“I’m learning nothing new.”

“Hardly any lessons are new. Most are old. Do you have somewhere else to be?”

Maul balls his fists and grits his teeth.

We have no way to communicate. She could have been eaten by grin-bears. Or discovered by locals. She could have run out of wine.

“...Yes.”

“You?” Sidious laughs. “Where?”

“...I met someone.”

“Oho! Someone you care for?”

“A native lad. Gams to die for. Nice ass. Massive wang.”

“You arranged a date with him?”

“Oh yes, and I’m already very late.”

“Apprentice -- you are a secret. No one can know of you. Jedi spies and traitors are everywhere. You may have already been duped by one.”

“He’s only a boy.”

“No one.”

“You must let me go, then. He already knows about me. I’ll bring back his head for you to secure the leak.”

“Barbaric. Let him instead think you were only a dream. Every murder brings you closer to getting caught, and to endangering the secret of all the remaining Sith and our way of life.”

“I shall not get caught.”

“You shall have your fun with him before you kill him?”

“Naturally.”

Sidious sighs. “When I handpicked my apprentice from all the Force-sensitive babies in the galaxy, too young for the Jedi to detect and take for themselves -- from all the most powerful races, the proudest peoples -- and when I chose the youngling with the purest, rawest wellspring of power, just one from among thousands of wriggling newborns -- I had no idea I was picking a faggot.”

Maul dramatically clutches his heart and bends up so that his head is between his knees. “Oh, do mind my fragile faggot feelings, Master! Your words are like arrows to my sensitive faggot heart!”

“Why do I get the feeling that you will be the first Sith in a thousand years who gives away our existence?”

Maul unbends and lets his arms hang down below him, blood rushing back to his head and tired fingers. Turning right-side-up so briefly only made the dizziness worse.

He thinks of Zaster and Sunke -- how could they have loved each other? How is that possible for a student and teacher? What is it like to not be hated by your teacher?

“Master, have I ever failed you in anything? Have I ever come up even an inch short on any task you have ever given me? My whole life has been at your service. You are my master. You are my life. What more must I do to prove my loyalty to you, above all else?”

Sidious smiles up at him, highly amused. Maul flatters better than even Blara -- and what is better, Sidious senses real longing in Maul’s heart, mourning for a relationship that has never existed except in Maul’s deluded mind.

“I can think of a couple things. For one, don’t lie to me.”

Maul’s brow furrows very slightly.

“I know about the Oracle. You know I know.”

Maul takes a deep breath.

“Little Dreela is no stranger to me.”

“What?”

“We have spoken. And more.”

“You...?! What have you done to her?”

“What have I done? What have you done? Taking her from her holo and placing her in a borrowed corpse?”

“I saved her.”

“You defiled her.”

“How long have you been speaking to her?”

“Almost as long as you have. She hasn’t told you?”

Maul is stunned. Then with a burst of ferocity he squirms to free himself from the bonds tying him to the ceiling. Sidious tightens them.

“You lie!!”

“My goodness. Look at you. She must have mentioned me, though. Did she not ask you to ask me how to bring back her body?”

“Where is she? What did you do?”

“Did she not tell you about the pleasures I had with her?”

Rage sears Maul from within. He throws his lightsaber at Sidious and ignites it at the last minute. Sidious deflects it easily, raises his hand and shoots Force-lightning at Maul. The boy screams, more in anger than in pain.

“Why does that bother you? Are you jealous?”

Maul screams at him as loudly as he can. “She is a true Sith! The truest Sith in the universe! And you are the most false! You selfish, cowardly human monster! I am surprised the glory of her presence didn’t render you into dust!! You are not worth a hair on her head! -- And I bet she got a lot more pleasure out of you than you got from her!”

“Are you finished?”

“Thief! I had one thing! One thing for me! You have so much! You glutton!”

The young man bends back his arm and Force-punches his master. He lands the blow, striking Sidious. His middle-aged face is thrust to the side, and Sidious grunts in pain. Maul is shocked, horrified at what he has done to his own master -- he feels so guilty, but he hides that guilt within his fury. His chest rises and falls powerfully, fearfully.

“...Yes, I am finished, Master.”

Sidious turns his head slowly to face Maul. A bruise is already forming around his eye.

“There is one more thing you can do to prove your loyalty to me above all else.”

A tear falls from Maul’s eye, down through the air, and splashes onto the ground.

“Anything, Master.”

“I chose you to be my apprentice. Not her. I do not wish for two apprentices. I am taking good care of her, as I am of you, but I cannot keep you both. The wisdom of our ancestors limited the Sith to two. You and I are the true two. You must kill her.”

“I can put her back in the holo. We can put her back in the library. There is no need to kill her.”

“Oh, but there is. When I found her, starving and half-mad in the cave where you left her, I killed the cursed body you made for her straight away, and put her back in her holo. Then I strengthened the power of the holo with my own power, until I had manipulated the midichlorians inside of it into her true, proper body. I emptied the holo. We threw it away.”

“You mean … she is alive? In her own body?”

“She begged me for help. I could not deny her.”

“You brought her back to life just so I could kill her?”

“Hm, well, when you put it that way, it does seem a little cruel.”

“Just put her back in the holo. Her master could do that, and you are stronger than he was.”

“Perhaps I am, but I do not have the skill. Master Sunke studied that art for years.”

“Let us go back to the library. All Sunke’s notes are there, just beside where I found Zaster. If you don’t want to read them, then I will.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

Maul is silent.

“There is only one position open. You must fight for it.”

“She doesn’t have a lightsaber.”

Sidious laughs. “Oh, she does. She does.”

“...Yes, Master. I will fight her and kill her. For you.”

Sidious holds up his hand in the dark and twists it to read his student’s little mind. Maul may say that he will kill her, but inside, he is wondering how he will save her.

Sidious has taken measurement of them both. Zaster is stronger in the Force, and -- unknown to Maul -- a stronger warrior. Maul does not even have the will to fight. Maul is doomed. But Sidious will wait until Zaster has given him his prophecy … just in case.

#my story #my art #through a blackened mirror #cw drugs #cw homophobia #obi-wan kenobi #jocasta nu #qui-gon jinn #darth maul #darth zaster #sheev palpatine #scifi #fairytale #cw abuse #cw sex abuse

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zargsnake · 1 year

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Through a Blackened Mirror

Chapter 4: The Brier

Word Count: 9833 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

“Soon a brier hedge began to grow all around the castle, and it grew higher each year. Eventually, it surrounded and covered the entire castle, so that it was no longer visible. Not even the flag on the roof could be seen. The princess became known by the name Beautiful Sleeping Brier Rose, and a tale about her began circulating throughout the country. From time to time princes came and tried to break through the hedge and get to the castle. However, this was impossible because the thorns clung together tightly as though they had hands, and the young men got stuck there. Indeed, they could not pry themselves loose and died miserable deaths.”

-- “Brier Rose,” translated by Jack Snipes

* * *

Obi-Wan’s wandering thoughts are interrupted when his master joins him for breakfast. The Padawan looks up at him winningly, then frowns. “You are troubled, Master.”

“I sense a most curious disturbance in the Force,” Qui-Gon tells him. Obi-Wan pours him caf from a container on the table. “Thank you, Obi-Wan. I feel as though a great power has fallen into the grasp of the Dark Side.”

“The Dark Side?” The words are strange in Obi-Wan’s mouth.

“Yes.”

“But Master, the Sith are gone.”

“Padawan, the Dark Side is bigger than the Sith. Just as the Light Side is bigger than the Jedi. The Dark Side lives on, even as the Sith do not.”

He drinks his caf.

“... Pirates?” Obi-Wan guesses.

“Yes, partially. It lives on in many places. Far more than the Jedi like to think about. In fact, there are traces of it in almost every living heart.”

Obi-Wan makes a face of disgust and bewilderment. “If you say so, Master.”

Qui-Gon is as charmed as ever by his student. “Maybe not in yours.”

Obi-Wan smiles vainly. “I should hope not. But what are we to do about this?”

“Patience. I shall think more on this. Open your mind to it, too -- see if you can help me.”

“Yes, Master.” He is not sure how to obey, but he will.

* * *

34 Years in the Past

A kniilwasp -- red, shiny, fast, barely a centimeter long but, for its stings, one of the nastiest bugs that lives on Coruscant -- flies through one of the high windows of the auditorium, buzzes idly for a moment, then flies a hundred yards in a rapid, straight line, down to the youngest of the younglings gathered, and stings Mace Windu right on the cheek. And though the little boy is barely two, he does not scream. He gasps a little, and glares at the bug. If looks could kill, the bug would evaporate. They can’t, but Mace can. In a flash he grabs the bug from the air and crushes it between his tiny fingers.

Sheev sits hundreds of rows behind him in the Temple Patrons section, but his powerful 11-year-old eyes can see what happened. He is startled and angry at the baby’s skill, but at least that is preferable to being bored. He looks over thousands of heads to glare at the little one. It wasn’t easy to locate that kniilwasp and compel it toward the Jedi. For all the effort it took, he expected he would be able to sting at least three of the little bastards. At least now his target has narrowed. He stretches out his feelings toward the wasps’ nest again.

Ashla Auditorium seats seven thousand people, and nearly every seat is occupied today. The first two thousand seats are Jedi, an incredible number: most of the residents of the Temple next door, and hundreds more from around the galaxy.

Younglings and their supervisors sit in the very front; everyone is amazed at their good behavior. The few fussy ones are escorted away with such discretion that they are nearly invisible. Behind them, the Council sits in large chairs on their own dais. There are more empty chairs on the Council dais than anywhere else in the room.

Behind them, knights sit with their Padawans and special guests. Sheev ponders the variety of these lucky few. Some are the type he would expect: a princess from Heela, a praetor from Dinto, at least eight Senators and eleven Representatives. They must have befriended the Jedi sent to protect them, or worked with them on some affair of the state. The other guests take Sheev by surprise. A farmboy, barely scrubbed clean minutes before he arrived. An unranked soldier wearing a bulky, humming backpack which powers the barbaric droid arm she uses in place of her own severed limb. A bounty hunter in disguise. Sheev wonders if her Jedi companion is unaware of her true nature, or if she is aware, and this is all some noble attempt to reform her. How did such people as these get better seats than he did -- he, Sheev Palpatine, whose father donated six million credits to the Temple last year and sponsored three Padawans? It just isn’t fair.

The second kniilwasp reaches that black toddler again, but Mace grabs it from the air before it can sting him. Sheev curses under his breath and looks around for an easier target.

He sees the middle row of tweenage Jedi younglings, sitting very still, three or four of them squirming a little. He ought to be among them. He still remembers the day the knight came to his house to whisk him away. He was not quite three, and they had -- of course -- detected his Force sensitivity. But Sheev fooled them. He hid his powers completely, and even his super-senses, strong as they were, were completely unknowable to the knight. He had shushed the Force -- he had censured it, controlled it, forbid it from giving away their secret bond.

At such a young age, most people will adapt to anything, and most Jedi at that age feel compelled beyond their control to follow the knight who collects them. But not Sheev. He did not trust them, and he was not passive. He has kept his powers secret ever since. He wonders if they have stricken his name from their records, or at least forgotten about him. He hopes so.

Three people walk onto the stage to a round of warm applause. Two tall and handsome Jedi -- a bearded, black-haired Master and his youthful Padawan -- and an elderly Twi’lek woman. Though she walks gracefully and proudly, Sheev can tell that she is a vagrant. There is just something in her air. The Jedi obviously dug her off the streets. The three of them sit on plain black chairs on the stage, and the inferior two defer to the knight.

Dooku could project his voice without the use of a microphone, but in order not to frighten or confuse the non-Jedi in the audience, he uses the technology provided.

“Jedi, honored guests. Welcome to class.”

The crowd laughs.

“When my Padawan and I discovered Pearl Yazabi and witnessed firsthand the miracle of a real Oracle, I began to devise in my head a plan to gather all our younglings around to see her. What classroom would be big enough? How could I make room in all their schedules? Little did I know, young Jinn had something far more ambitious in mind.”

The crowd laughs again.

“As so often is the case, the wisdom of the student excelled that of the Master. And so, each and every one of you owes your presence here today to Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Qui-Gon bows his head, smiling, as seven thousand people applaud him.

“Pearl, my lady. How are you?”

“I am fine.”

Sheev supposes that the easy, nonplussed attitude of the Jedi on either side of her is infectious. It is not likely that she is naturally this calm. Dooku gestures at a thin rod suspended horizontally in front of them on stage. Three silver balls are balanced on the rod.

“Which of these balls will fall first?”

Pearl looks at the three balls carefully, and all the Force-sensitive younglings sit up at once -- including, far removed from the others, Sheev. They can all detect a certain crackling, humming frequency in the Force centered around this woman. When she speaks, her voice is layered with an uncountable number of other voices, though altogether they are no louder than a normal voice.

“𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕖𝕗𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥.”

“I do hope it falls during the course of the lesson.”

“𝕀𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝.” Pearl smiles at him, and when she next speaks, her voice is back to that of one warbling woman. “Don’t worry.”

“Padawan. Speak of how we came to meet Pearl, and how her gift saved both our lives.”

In a soft, peaceful, proud voice that will, from this day on, become greatly sought-after but never again make such a public appearance, Qui-Gon expertly tells the assembled crowd the tale of their latest thrilling adventure. He explains that, as they were rescuing fifty miners from a collapsed tunnel on Kessel, Pearl’s guiding words helped them know who to follow, which direction to turn, and how, in a pivotal moment of terrifying trust, she advised Dooku to destroy a load bearing column which caused a chain reaction that created a narrow path out -- when it could have just as easily spelled doom for them all.

Sheev finds his third kniilwasp far more successful. He stings five middle-grade Jedi and two upper-graders, and he dares to approach the Council dais.

Master Yoda glances at the bug. It seems to blip out of existence.

Sheev holds his hand over his mouth in shock. His father looks at him sideways.

When Qui-Gon finishes his story, Dooku continues, “Of course, like all things in our mortal understanding of the Force -- and here is where the lesson begins, so: younglings, pay attention; honored guests, bear with us; and Padawans, ignore everything I say and do the opposite.”

The Jedi laugh harder at the joke than the non-Jedi.

“Like all things in our mortal understanding of the Force, Oracles are fallible. If the Force created a being who could answer any question, and know any fact about the future, their powers would create such an imbalance that evil would rush in to fill the gaps.

“For example, say an Oracle appeared in the realm of a king, and their prophecies saved many lives. But all kings have rivals, and one of them would inevitably grow jealous and steal the Oracle away for himself, which would lead to a war.

“Or say an Oracle knew a terrible truth about the future, but they were frightened to be the bearer of bad news, and so they lied, which is one of the greatest evils, since it always spirals into something worse.

“And therefore, the Force made it so that Oracles are imperfect, and everyone understands them to be imperfect. This imperfection lessens their desirability to the powerful, and it lessens the burden on their shoulders to always appease. If an Oracle recognizes that there is a chance that even their clearest prophecy is false, then they should have no shame in confessing it, and no desire to lie, no matter how terrible the prediction. The burden of proof is not on the Oracle themself, but on their interpreters. The burden falls on us, the Jedi.”

The crowd applauds, which takes Dooku off-guard. He looks at Qui-Gon with an expression that asks, “Am I rambling?” and Qui-Gon’s face assures him that he is doing fine.

And yet, when Dooku opens his mouth to continue on about the virtues of caution, Qui-Gon interrupts him.

“Pearl, who will be the most important person in the next fifty years?”

The whole audience is hushed.

“What do you mean by ‘important,’ son?” Pearl asks after a moment.

Qui-Gon barely thinks about it. “Who will influence the greatest number of people?”

Pearl looks down at her hands. This is one of those “big questions” that people always throw at her. Such questions often awaken a spring of -- something in her mind, something that isn’t really herself. When she is on her own, she avoids thinking about such things. Not only is it exhausting, but it is a little scary, even after all this time, to feel like something else is sharing your own body and mind with you.

But she knew this was coming. This is why these nice young men took her away from her hovel and gave her things to eat and wear. So she is grateful for her power, for making her worth their while.

The Force-sensitive children lean forward in sync again, as the Force grows hot and sparking around her and within the whole room. This time, even the Masters on the Council cannot hide their fascination.

“𝕀 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕒 𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖, 𝕒 𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖, 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕖 𝕘𝕒𝕝𝕒𝕩𝕪. ℍ𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕜𝕤 𝕠𝕟 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕘𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕, 𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕤, 𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕦𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕤 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕡𝕖𝕠𝕡𝕝𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕙𝕒𝕤, 𝕠𝕣 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕥𝕙 𝕠𝕗 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕟𝕗𝕝𝕦𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖...𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕞𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕓𝕝𝕖. ℍ𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖...𝕋𝕨𝕠 𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟...𝕋𝕖𝕟 𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟.”

“How can this be?” asks Dooku.

“𝕀𝕥 𝕚𝕤. 𝔸𝕟𝕕...𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕤...𝕒 𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕣.”

The children gasp, as do many of the non-Jedi in the back, though the knights and Padawans remain calm.

“𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕖𝕥...𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕙𝕚𝕞. 𝕄𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕠𝕥, 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕨𝕒𝕪.”

“What sort of nature is he?”

“ℍ𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕒 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖.”

Qui-Gon smiles, quite satisfied, quite proud. His master looks at him carefully, and he could almost forget that there are seven thousand less important people in the room. He can practically see the cogs whirring in Qui-Gon’s head, riddling Pearl’s meaning, thinking of the best questions. He knows his prophecy-loving Padawan will probably never be this happy again. He lets Qui-Gon ask anything he wants. This day is for him.

“What planet does he hail from?”

Pearl looks down at her hands again. She feels that the moment of power is slipping away from her.

“ℍ𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕝𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞...ℍ𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕝𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕒 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕕𝕠𝕖𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕖𝕩𝕚𝕤𝕥.”

Everyone says “Oooooooh,” and Qui-Gon raises his eyebrows. Dooku can barely hold in his laughter at how thoroughly enchanted his Padawan has become. If this woman told Qui-Gon to jump off the Temple’s highest tower, to abandon everything and live as a hermit, to join the Sith Order itself, the boy might very well obey her.

“Can you tell us his name?”

Pearl pauses, and when she speaks, many of the voices have faded away, though more than a dozen still remain, overwhelming her own soft, elderly speech.

“𝔹𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕠.”

“Bingo?!”

The audience bursts into laughter and applause. Dooku joins them. Qui-Gon gestures with his arms to shush everyone before her magic slips away completely. All the Force-sensitives in the audience can tell that she is growing physically weary of this vision, though her spirit remains excited to keep at it.

“Bingo what?”

Qui-Gon has not stopped smiling, even though the time is drawing to a close. His smile has just gotten sadder.

“𝔹𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕠...𝔽𝕠𝕠𝕥.”

“Bingo Foot.”

He starts to applaud, to graciously draw the prophecy to a close. Everyone joins in, including Dooku. Seven thousand people clap and cheer; one of the feistiest Padawans stands up in ovation, and her friends follow suit until the whole audience is on its feet. The thrill of the moment, the rapture of so many thousands, is enough to fill the hole in Qui-Gon’s heart that the end of the prophecy created.

“Incredible. Incredible.” Qui-Gon adjusts his mic and runs his hand through his hair, his heart beating madly, dizzyingly happy. He looks at Pearl and they lock eyes in a perfect moment of deep understanding. They are opposites in nearly every way, but their souls feel so close in the Force. They laugh again, easy, gentle. “I think, perhaps, your gift began to take its leave before you had quite finished.”

Pearl speaks with her own voice. “Oh yes. That always happens.”

“Bingo Foot. Well, I can only call the rest of the vision an absolute triumph. The Jedi shall ponder it with all our efforts. I hope we can figure it out before this mighty man appears.”

A group of mischievous eight-year-old Jedi start to sing, “Bingo Fooo-ot, Bingo Fooo-ot,” Their supervisor, a stern, young Jocasta Nu with long flowing hair and the prettiest robe in the Temple, shushes them with her librarian voice. Two entrepreneurial Muuns lean together, already plotting a new line of shoes called “Bingo Feet.” Astronomers on messaging devices bandy around the names of planets that could be defined as “not existing:” most likely, the prophecy refers to a planet that once existed but exists no longer, such as the recently evacuated Baorp, which will fall into a black hole within the next two years.

Sheev is flabbergasted.

What…absolute…shaakshit!

How can anyone take this seriously? Existing in ten million places at once? A killer who no one fears? A planet that doesn’t exist? Bingo Foot?! The ravings of an old madwoman!

If the Jedi had taken me in, would I be falling for it as they are? Would I be as stupid as they are?

Sheev examines Dooku, relieved to see a measure of sanity in this place. Despite his bland smile, Sheev can tell Dooku doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Do not be so hasty, my young Padawan. Yes, there is a certain thrill in ‘figuring it out’ before it comes to pass. But more often than not, that satisfaction is denied us. Instead, the fun comes from looking back on the past and seeing how the prophecies have already happened.”

“But, Master,” Qui-Gon asks, “what is point of that?”

Dooku chuckles. “What is the point of anything, Qui-Gon? Sometimes all we are here for is to delight in the gifts that the Force has given us. Joy is the way of the Light Side of the Force. Never forget that.”

There is somewhat unenthusiastic applause, but Qui-Gon looks happy with the answer, and that’s all that matters.

“You were wise to begin your questioning with a timeframe. In fifty years time, you and I shall look back on the decades together, and discover the meaning of these words, and feel very clever with ourselves.”

Qui-Gon’s high-strung heart melts at his master’s words. What a wonderful thing to imagine.

“I want nothing more, Master.”

Dooku feels the eyes of the Council on him, judging him for how fiercely he cares for his Padawan. Their judgment makes him angry. If they hadn’t wanted him to form attachments, they shouldn’t have given him such a wonderful pupil, so close to him in age and sentiment.

Pearl speaks up, “Speak for yourselves, whippersnappers!”

The crowd laughs.

“But we owe this all to you, my lady!” Qui-Gon assures her. “We are eternally grateful.”

The crowd cheers the chivalrous Padawan.

Dooku continues, “Now, as I understand it, some of our younglings won a contest for a chance to ask the very best questions to our Oracle. Can the contest winners please line up on stage?”

Everyone coos as three cute little Jedi in their robes and short haircuts walk into the stage lights. The first young Jedi asks Pearl if there will ever be peace in the galaxy.

Pearl’s voices layer up again. “𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕖 𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕟𝕠𝕨.”

“No there isn’t,” the child says, to more laughter.

“𝕐𝕖𝕤, 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕚𝕤.”

“Thank you, little one,” Dooku interjects. “The Oracle’s lesson here is to appreciate the peace that we do have, in the here and now. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.” The first little one hands the mic to the second.

“Oracle, wh–

Suddenly, the left ball on the rod loses balance and clatters to the ground, followed by the other two. Everyone cheers and applauds and there is a second standing ovation. Sheev wonders if someone pushed it. There are two thousand Force users here.

“Please continue, little one,” Dooku says encouragingly.

“Oracle, what is the best thing I can do with my life?”

Pearl’s voice is the half-layered one – not quite herself nor the other. “𝕀’𝕞 𝕒𝕗𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕕 𝕀 𝕕𝕠 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕.”

Dooku clarifies, “My lady, do you mean that prophecies work best if the Oracle is familiar with the subject?”

“𝕐𝕖𝕤, 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕥 𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕚𝕖𝕣.”

“Do you think, with a short introduction, you could give our little one any prophetic advice, even if it is vague?”

“𝔾𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕖 𝕒 𝕟𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕒 𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕓𝕚𝕥 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕀 𝕒𝕞 𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕚𝕥.”

“What is your name, young one?” Dooku asks the child.

“Kitt Zertel.”

“And what are you most proud of, Zertel?”

Kitt pauses, then lifts up her weapon. “My lightsaber. I made it last week.”

The Jedi applaud and cheer wildly. The non-Jedi follow suit less enthusiastically.

Pearl looks at the lightsaber. “...𝕐𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕟𝕠𝕨, 𝕒 𝕡𝕚𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕨𝕖𝕒𝕡𝕠𝕟.”

The crowd gasps.

“𝕃𝕖𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕞. 𝕀𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕘𝕠 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕥, 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕕𝕚𝕖.”

Everyone says “Oooooh!”

“𝕄𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕗 𝕒 𝕟𝕖𝕨 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕕.”

Kitt trembles. “Thank you, Oracle.”

“And always consult with your Master before rushing off,” Dooku adds.

“Yes, Master.”

“Thank you, Zertel. A very good question.”

Kitt bows shyly and hands the mic to the third Jedi.

“How are you feeling, my lady?” Qui-Gon asks Pearl.

“I am a little tired.”

“Would you be able to make one more prophecy?”

“Yes.”

“Please don’t make it too difficult, little one,” Dooku requests.

The last little Jedi’s contest-winning question was, “On what day will the First Lady’s baby be born?” Everyone on Coruscant is abuzz with the happy news of their glamorous young Prime Minister’s expectancy. But as she holds the mic and looks at the Oracle, she can’t bring herself to ask what she is supposed to ask. She has felt awful all day, and it’s only gotten worse since she’s been in this room. She hasn’t been able to join in any of the applause or laughter. And maybe this wise woman can tell her why.

“Oracle, I have a terrible feeling.”

There are grumbles of confusion in the audience at this sad 11-year-old girl.

“I sense an awful, dark presence in this very room. I sensed it arrive on Coruscant this morning, and now I sense it, here.”

The grumbles rise in volume and fear.

“I’ve never felt anything so frightening. Can...can you sense it? Can anyone else sense it?”

Dooku reaches out to her; she walks to him and takes his hand. “My dear girl, I am sorry you are so troubled. I can’t sense anything of the sort. Padawan?” Qui-Gon shakes his head. “Masters?” Everyone looks at the Council on their chairs, but the Masters shake their heads. All of the assembled two thousand look among themselves, but no one speaks up.

Far above them, Sheev feels lightheaded. He realizes he’s been holding his breath, so he forces himself to breathe. He feels like ice is running down his neck. He should not have come; he is endangering the entire Sith plan by being so close to these Jedi.

Damn this girl! She thinks she is frightened NOW?!

Dooku looks at her kindly. “Most likely, this unfortunate feeling is merely a ghost passing through you. You may be sensing something in your own future. After all, all those with Force sensitivity have some grasp of the future, even if our understanding is of a different nature than an Oracle’s.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Be brave. These terrors happen to all of us. But that is why we live together. We are like a family, in one home.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Oracle, is there something to fear in this room?” Dooku asks, his hand casually resting on his lightsaber’s hilt.

Despite the master’s wise words, the people are on the verge of panic. Pearl sees the truth in her head, but she doesn’t want to cause a riot.

So she lies. But no one can tell. She still speaks in her layered, prophetic voice -- after all, she is still the final master of what comes out of her mouth.

“ℕ𝕠. 𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖.”

The little girl breathes a sigh of relief and hugs Dooku’s neck. He pats her back awkwardly, much to his Padawan’s amusement. The people say, “awwww," and many of the non-Jedi feel grateful that don’t get visited by whatever it was that scared the little girl. The privileges enjoyed by the Jedi are enviable, but their tortures are certainly not.

Sheev memorizes the girl’s face and plots his revenge.

* * *

The Present

Ugh -- ughhhh -- uaaaggghh, that dreadful old feeling again -- now that she has tasted life-likeness again, the sweetness of colors, the rawness of real touch -- augh, ughh, ughhh -- this half-life seems more busted than it ever did before -- oh frrreeeuuugghh -- fuck him, fuck that stupid, weak little boy, fuck him with his fucking ham fists, his fumbling grasp -- he’s even worse at awakening her than he is at fucking her -- oh gaaauuggghgg, this is torture -- it feels like he’s gotten worse -- oh -- the difference between the two -- it is like night and day -- ughhh --

The world whimpers into focus, and the first thing she sees is his beautiful, focused face -- for some reason, she finds she can smell much better now -- is Maul improving? Or did Sidious’ superior job knock her sinuses back into focus? She smells the iron of his blood -- she sees his blood dripping on her holo, a little messier even than normal -- Sidious got all his own blood neatly in the slot -- or did Sidious manage to wake her without even a drop of blood? -- she makes a mental note to ask him the next time he wakes her -- he told her that would be in a week -- she wonders how many sessions with Maul she will have to sit through during that week -- if only he would ignore her, then the week would pass in but a moment for her in her holocron.

Maul opens his eyes. They are so lovely. She wishes she could see that glowing yellow without this flickering blue haze.

“It’s my snakewoman!” he says.

Despite her discomfort, Dreela can’t not smile at him. “It’s my monster bitch!”

Looking her up and down in happy confusion, Maul says, “You look -- you look different!”

“I... How?”

“I can’t put my finger on it. You look good! You must be getting better at focusing.”

“Heh.” She looks down. “Thank you.”

The sadness in her voice snaps his attention away from her appearance. “Are you alright?”

“Yes...I’m really happy.”

“Well prepare to get fucking delighted. I got you a present!” He gestures extravagantly at something about 5 feet long under a blanket embroidered with, to Dreela, familiar symbols.

She raises her eyebrows. “How am I gonna hold onto something like that?”

“You’ll more than hold it.”

He lifts the blanket. A cloud of glowing green light dissipates into the air.

While her eyes are dazzled, she hears the familiar sound of belzbugs chirping. Between the bugs and the symbols, she realizes they must be on Iridonia, her favorite planet, Sunke’s planet. They are outside, in an unfamiliar petrified forest. It is the darkest hour of night, especially dark under the planet’s black clouds, even with its two moons of blood-red and deep yellow. A campfire crackles beside them, though she cannot feel its warmth.

As the green light swirls away, she sees the small body of a girl. It isn’t living nor dead; it was carved from the rainbow stone of the petrified trees, with priceless jewels for eyes, and horns for claws--

“You’ll live it. It’s a body I made for you. I’ve learned how to put you in it.”

Dreela’s horrified expression makes Maul a little nervous. He holds up his hands.

“Look.”

He turns and grabs some yowling thing from the ground. It is a large, spiny rodent, a rope tied from its neck to a tree. With his other claw, Maul picks up a branch which has been crudely shaped into a four-legged beast about twice the size of the rodent.

He sits and holds them both on his lap and chants words in a language she has never heard, not even when she lived at the seat of the Empire. Glowing green smoke pours from his eyeballs. The rodent yips and hisses in confusion, then becomes rigid. Simultaneously, the carved branch shivers, and Dreela hears it start to make sounds instead. Its yips sound like they are passing through several feet of water, but they become clearer and clearer, and its little feet start to wriggle –

Maul unties the rope from the neck of the rodent and ties it instead onto the branch, which squirms and howls, aping its former self, its true self. He tosses the still body of the rodent aside, smiles up at her and holds the wiggling wooden beast in both hands. Its plaintive cry sounds -- she must admit -- nearly like its former self -- nearly -- a little deeper, more gravelly.

“Look! I can do it!”

“Kill it!!! Kill it!!!”

“But -- just look!”

“Kill it, Maul!!”

There is nothing in her stomach, but she wants to throw up.

Maul frowns, cracks the creature in half and throws it to the side.

“It was only an animal, nothing to be scared of.”

“I’m not scared. I’m ... offended.”

“Offended?”

“This is witchcraft. This is heresy.”

“What!”

“Where did you learn this?”

“From books, from holos. It’s the stuff they do on Farilin, Nelvaania, Dathomir. I’ve even heard there are covens who do it on Aldera-- what is so -- why are you so upset?”

Dreela has flung her hands over her ears. “Stop it! This is not the Sith way! This is not the way of the Dark Side!”

“Why not?”

“These savages have never even heard of the Dark Side, or the Force, or anything. Ugh, get rid of that!”

She shields her eyes from the girl-body. Maul picks up the stone girl with a grunt and hides it behind a tree.

The bezlbugs’ tinny song fills the silence. He does not recognize their sounds, but she does.

Maul returns, glaring. “It’s still the fucking Force. I’m the one who’s done it. I know when I’m using the Force.”

“It’s false. It’s weak.”

“No. It’s different. And it can do a lot that the Sith can’t. They can be used together. They’re both fueled by our emotions.”

“You defile yourself.”

Maul points at her. “You need to get off your high horse and comprehend the reality of the situation.”

Dreela’s lizard-like eyes are very thin slits, in spite of the darkness. “I won’t sacrifice my pride in our ways, not for anything.”

Maul somersaults over to her and sits so close that their legs overlap. Such closeness would be impossible if she was corporeal. He uses the Force aligned with his hand to touch her hair, and she leans into his touch.

“You don’t have to sacrifice anything, Dreela, baby. It’s not tainted. It’s still the Force. You can still trust in it, just the same.” He uses the Force, unaligned with his hand, to braid her hair. “All it is, is a different point of view. The Sith look at the sameness in all things. We use the connection between us all to rearrange things and sense what’s far. These witches instead look at identities. Names. What makes a creature different from everything else. We blur those distinctions by underst–”

“‘We?’”

“Yeah, why not? I used their magic. That makes me one of them.”

Dreela scoffs and leans away from his hand.

“The Dark Side isn’t enough to bring you back, Dreela.”

“The Dark Side has already saved me!”

Maul grimaces. “You call this saving? I have to drain an arm every time I want to make you real. And then you can’t even touch things with your hands.”

Dreela invisibly smacks him with the Force. “Get that insolent scowl off your face. Don’t you dare insult my master.”

“I’m not insulting your master! I’m grateful to him. I’m just saying, he could’ve made this easier on both of us.”

Dreela throws him back, away from her. The braid he had been weaving starts to become undone. “Don’t speak of what you don’t understand.”

Maul sits up. “I don’t understand? I’m the one who’s done the extracurriculars.”

“Extracurriculars?! You mean blasphemy!”

“But it works!”

“Blasphemy, here, on Iridonia itself!”

She uses the Force to lift the blanket and points at the symbols upon it.

“That first symbol! ‘Unity!’ Unity in the Force! That second symbol! ‘Dominance!’ Dominance by one way of thinking, the Sith Empire! You can’t allow inferior peoples even an inch of their unnatural, corrupted rituals! ‘Allegiance!’ Allegiance to the Sith, to the Dark Side!”

“The Empire is dead! Your ancient ways were the weak ones. Why not reforge ourselves with an alloy of stronger metals?”

“Don’t fucking get literary with me, you ignorant slave!” She throws the blanket onto the fire.

“What did you do that for?”

“You corrupted it by touching it with your savage, foreign magic. Perhaps the fire can purify it.”

“‘Purify,’ sure, that’s one word for it.” He glares at the curling, blackening fabric. “That’s pretty rich to hear you pay such heed to Iridonia. One of us is a Zabrak, and it’s not you.”

Dreela says, after a cruel pause, “You may have the horns, but inside, you don’t have a drop of Zabrakian blood.”

Maul sets his jaw stiffly, and she continues.

“I see your heart. You don’t even care. Your own species means nothing to you. Calling you un-Zabrakian doesn’t even hurt you.”

“Why should it? Why do you care so much? I told you: the Force told me that I wasn’t even born here. Zabraks live all over the galaxy. Colonies, neighborhoods, families, individuals. We don’t all think the same. There are Zabraks in the Jedi Order.”

“No!”

“Yes! We’re people, not symbols.”

“Those Jedi Zabraks are a disgrace. They should be wiped out.”

“All the Jedi should be wiped out.”

Dreela is also staring at the burning blanket. “You said your ‘witch magic’ uses identities. How can you claim that? You have no identity as a Zabrak, nor as a Sith. And you have no name.”

“I have ‘Maul.’ I believe in that.”

“Yes. You do.”

An infinite number of voices layer on top of her own.

“𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘: 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕠𝕟𝕔𝕖, 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕥𝕨𝕚𝕔𝕖, 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕤. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕞𝕪’𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕖𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪’𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕣𝕕 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖, 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 ‘𝕄𝕒𝕦𝕝.’ 𝔸 𝕟𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕡𝕦𝕥 𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕓𝕪 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕙𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦. 𝔼𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖, ‘𝕄𝕒𝕦𝕝’ 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥, 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕕, 𝕒𝕤 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕖𝕝𝕤𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕪𝕠𝕦. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ‘𝕄𝕒𝕦𝕝.’ 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕥𝕣𝕚𝕦𝕞𝕡𝕙.”

Maul feels goosebumps down his arms and neck, acid sizzling in his stomach up his esophagus as if to make him vomit. He swallows it down. His voice is one of sorrow.

“Why do you curse me, Dreela?”

Zaster’s heart breaks. Her voice is immediately her own. “It’s not a curse. It’s a prophecy.”

“How do you know?”

Zaster can’t answer. They sit in silence for a long minute.

“He does hate me, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He hates my body. My earliest memory is of Sidious yanking a horn from within my skull. This one.” He pokes his back left horn. “It was growing slower than the others. It was barely a toothpick, even though I was already four years old. He compelled the rest of it out.”

“This is not the Sith Order I knew,” Zaster tells him, miserably.

“But he keeps it professional. I am what he has. I will inherit his empire, me. Even though he has a biological son and daughter. I am his true son in the Force.”

Tears fall from Zaster’s eyes. A deep growl escapes from Maul’s mouth, then a rushing fountain of words.

“‘Maul.’ ‘Maul’ is not a triumph! You took my words and twisted them. I believe in ‘Maul.’ But you were right the first time. I do have a true name like your Dreela. I have only forgotten it. And what you said in your curse is right too. ‘Maul’ did come from someone who hates me. I won’t... Augh, your curse is pure, pathetic shit. ‘Maul’ isn’t a triumph! It’s a -- it’s a tool. A tool I can use in witch magic. I will have such triumphs. I will be the Sith Emperor.”

“One of us is an Oracle, and it isn’t you.”

“What, do you really believe in that shit?”

“I didn’t before... But now... I think I do.”

“What happened?”

Zaster looks down at her blue fizzling holo-body and shrugs. “I can’t tell you.”

Why is she so fucking sad today? Maul thinks.

“Well, I don’t believe in it. Look, you know what it says on your holo? You know what I have to chant to wake you?” He picks it up and reads it. “‘Oracle, live, Oracle, rise, Oracle, give me your gift, prophesize once more –’” He laughs. “As if that is what mattered about you!”

“Prophecies are valuable.”

Maul pokes his chest with his thumb. “Not to little old lonesome me! I wanted you for two years! You! Not your curses!”

Zaster looks at him blankly. “I know why you have so much trouble waking me up. It’s because you don’t believe in those words. You don’t think I’m an Oracle. You don’t even think I’m Zaster. You think I’m just Dreela.”

“Pah! Of course I know you’re Zaster, the Sith of legend. I love that! And I know you’re an Oracle. I just don’t give a shit.”

“I’m more than just your good little friend. I’m very powerful.”

“I know that! I want to make you more powerful! You’re shackled. I want to free you!”

Her tearful, blank expression unnerves him. He stands and walks around the tree, picks up the stone girl-body and lugs it over to her. “Won’t you even look at it? I’ve spent our entire stay on Iridonia making it. Whenever I had a free moment. Over a month. Time I would normally spend with you, or trying to wake you -- sometimes failing -- instead I spent making this and learning how to put you in it.”

“You spent a whole month on this proud Sith planet ... the planet where your people evolved from fish ... and you could have been traveling your ancestral land, befriending your brothers and sisters, learning your own culture ... and instead you spent it…” She speaks in a furious whisper, “practicing witchcraft?!”

“Yes.”

“I hope when you die you pass straight into the Light Side of the Force.”

Maul winces. “Can you quit being a miserable, petty bitch for one second and just look at it? Just consider?”

Zaster looks at it.

“Don’t you like her?”

“You are a master of beauty. But she isn’t me.”

“She could be.”

“I want my body.”

“Dreela, that’s impossible. Your body exists, somewhere. It’s a puddle of goop and dust at best.”

“It is possible for a true Sith master.”

“It is?” He sits close in front of her again. “How?”

“Neither of us are knights. We are both merely pupils. Our knowledge is limited. Ask your master.”

“I shall think of some ... hypothetical ... scenario…”

“No. Just tell him about me. There is no point in keeping me a secret.”

“Dreela, that’s dangerous. He could destroy you. He is not a true Sith. You said so yourself. He is selfish and he abuses our traditions.”

“Ask his master, then.”

Maul laughs. “He doesn’t know I exist! He would destroy me.”

“You aren’t good enough to save me.” She crosses her arms. “Turn off the holo. Send me to sleep.”

“Dreela!”

“I don’t want to look at you.”

“There’s a human saying on Naboo: ‘Don’t go to bed angry.’ And you can’t even sleep it off. You’ll be just as angry the next time I wake you up.”

“But maybe you’ll be a little less insane.”

“I will find a way to ask him withou–”

Zaster stands and starts to walk away.

“Wait!” He picks up the holo. “Don’t walk too far from the projector! It could lose your information!”

“Then turn it off!” She keeps walking.

Maul turns off the holo projector and stares at where she was. He puts the girl-body tenderly in the tree hollow where he’s been hiding it. He stamps out the fire and goes home to the Temple.

* * *

11 Years in the Future

The Council had sent the pair of them on a mission to Iridonia to see if they could learn anything about the Zabrak who killed Qui-Gon six years ago. No one even knows the Zabrak’s name. Anakin had wondered what this “research-y” mission had to do with defending peace and order in the galaxy; Obi-Wan had known that the Council’s true object was to give the fifteen-year-old his first taste of the Sith.

They should have sent them to do this long ago, but they wanted to wait until Anakin was no longer a child, or at least, until most of childishness was gone. But Obi-Wan knows, even if the Council and Anakin himself do not, how young his Padawan really is, how deeply foolish, how essentially innocent. Despite years of strict diet, vigorous discipline, none of the separation between school and life that other children have, no distinction between teacher and caretaker -- despite the sometimes-brutality and the sometimes-joylessness of Jedi life, and despite his uniquely sudden plunge into it, from a life that was also harrowing -- in different ways, much more harrowing -- despite all these attacks on his immaturity, no force in this galaxy is strong enough to take childishness from a 15-year-old: the wonders and the terrors of being so little, and self-absorbed, and silly, and needy, and angry, and wrong.

Iridonia, nowadays, is a nice planet with a lovely culture, even if it can look a little scary to squeamish Coruscanti who don’t expect such loud music and vivid colors, such celebration of death and brawn. Jedi feel a particular whiplash against the look of everything, since their world is one of gray and brown and bright electric lights, hemmed in by a big, flashy, surly city. Iridonia uses fewer lights since Zabraks see better in the darkness than humans; the aliens can see fewer colors than human eyes, however, so their art and decoration bump up the saturation and contrast. But once Jedi get used to the eye-strain, they can relate to the deeper cultural stuff, like the Iridonian tendency toward aggression -- throwing oneself into a fight when provoked or even just for fun, confident that no matter how you are thrown around and knocked about, you will come out alright. Nice, lovely planet.

Iridonia used to be one of the strongholds of the Sith empire, and there are still traces of that history everywhere, even though it was so long ago and they are a loyal if somewhat unenthusiastic part of the Republic now. Obi-Wan and Anakin had found no leads in the cities -- they couldn’t even find any other red Zabraks -- so they turned to the wilds and the country, and their adventures and meditations brought them finally to the Sith Temple.

It wasn’t until they had crossed the threshold that Obi-Wan realized that the fear -- and the terrible sadness -- that he felt was not Anakin’s, but his own. And then he had wanted to rip an apology from the walls of the Temple for everything that the Sith had done to him, and for making him so frightened, six years later and in front of his Padawan. But Anakin had sensed nothing of Obi-Wan’s fear; he was just happy they had finally made some progress.

The Sith Temple had been just as scary and confusing and frustrating as Obi-Wan had expected. There were many weird rooms, devoted to sins and evil deeds and desires, and many impossible to open doors. Obi-Wan had only allowed them to stay inside for two hours at a maximum; often, just as Anakin thought he was on to something, Obi-Wan would drag him by his hood and insist they make themselves scarce for rest and snacks outside. Anakin had no perception of how deeply and insidiously the Dark Side dwelled in these rooms and tried to touch their noble hearts. Well, maybe some perception -- but not as much as he should have had.

It all culminated in a room far too far into the Temple, in which Obi-Wan had distinctly detected the shadow of the man who had killed Qui-Gon. Their lightsabers had illuminated the silhouette of a person -- they had been startled -- but it was only a statue, a very pretty one of a short but grown-up girl, with two little horns on her head, horns for claws, and jewels for eyes. Obi-Wan had opened his mouth to insist they leave, but Anakin had approached her, as if compelled, and touched her, like the stupid kid he is -- and of course this set off a trap, and sent a great slab of rock to fall on top of Anakin -- and though Obi-Wan got him out in time, the rock had broken Anakin’s right arm. Obi-Wan had immediately declared the mission over.

With his arm in a cast and a sling, Anakin’s training has slowed. He insists that he can learn to write and battle with his left hand, but Obi-Wan can’t make heads or tails of those scribbles or do anything for that backwards fighting technique. There is little to do but sit around. To make it a little more tolerable and fun, Obi-Wan lets them sit on the roof, which is against the rules.

Anakin climbs out of the uppermost window of the tallest tower of the Temple. His master is already sitting on the ledge above. He takes Anakin’s left hand and helps him squirm up to the ledge. Anakin sits beside him and leans against the antennae. It is impossible to be any higher.

“Are you scared of the view?” says Obi-Wan.

“I’m a pilot, Master.”

“Pilots wear seatbelts.”

Anakin smirks. “Sometimes.”

“Oh, Anakin.”

They look out at the city. Ships fly at their eye level. They ignore the drivers but compare the vehicles. A practical family supertug. Clean, dull commuteroids. An extravagant rented morgueboat. A fun speeder with silky-smooth acceleration. A bad speeder with clunky, nearly unusable toggleshifts.

“That Model E needs a paint job,” says Anakin.

“I was just thinking that.”

A bloated, converted gunner with all the weapons torn off. A lovely little blue fleetling. Anakin imagines driving it with the roof rolled down, and Padme as copilot, her hair blowing back as they fly. Obi-Wan imagines buying it for Anakin. Three minutes of happy silence passes, until Obi-Wan breaks it.

“I was looking over Qui-Gon’s notes on the prophecy he linked to you.”

“Oh.”

Anakin feels like a rock has formed in his stomach.

“All this Sith business reminded me of it.”

“Right.”

Obi-Wan digs a holonotebook out of his pocket.

“I was under the impression that it was all made by that ancient Oracle Garinquutor.” He turns the notebook on and shows Anakin a menu with pages and pages of folders and tabs. “But apparently, according to Qui-Gon, it’s one of those prophecies that is a combination of the words of many Oracles. Garinquutor wasn’t even the first, nor the most loquacious.”

“Who was?”

“A simple question with a tricky answer. As everything concerned seems to be. Qui-Gon believed that the very first references were made over a million years ago by an Oracle, from what is now Scarif, whose name has been lost. They said what can be translated to, ‘One shall hold the sun aloft and end the night forever.’ However, the word for ‘one’ could also mean ‘two.’ And the word for ‘end’ could also mean ‘burn.’ And the whole thing could be referring to something else entirely. It is only Qui-Gon’s interpretation that these words should be placed first in the timeline, based on their use of ‘sun’ and ‘night,’ which would become motifs.”

“Okay.”

Anakin feels like he’s eating very healthy, raw, painfully tasteless vegetables.

Obi-Wan continues, “Qui-Gon jotted down his own notes to explain some of these ambiguities. The trouble is, his handwriting wasn’t nearly so perfect as yours or even as generally legible as mine.”

He holds the notebook between them.

“What do you think he meant here, above the ‘one/two’ ambiguity?”

Both Jedi hunch over the notebook, rapt, trying with all their might to decipher the lost master’s word.

“...‘Nerfer?’” Anakin suggests.

“Oh, that could be an ‘R,’ couldn’t it...?”

“Nerfer... Nerfs are often born as twins... Twins? Two for one?”

Obi-Wan, smiling, raises an eyebrow at him. “You think you have a lost twin somewhere?”

Anakin smiles back. “Who knows?”

“Who knows indeed.”

They concentrate on the scribble again.

“I don’t think that’s an ‘F,’ though,” Obi-Wan says.

“‘Needle’ ... ‘Need...R’...’Theed’… um... Maybe it’s an ‘H’, ‘Heed’… ‘Hope’…”

“... ‘Helper.’”

“Oh, it is ‘Helper!’ ‘Helper’ and a question mark,” says Anakin.

“Yes. A Chosen One and a helper.”

“And a question mark.”

“Correct.”

“When was the most recent part of the prophecy made?”

“The most modern part was made 500 years ago, here on Coruscant, by Master Yoda.”

“Master Yoda?!”

Obi-Wan nods. “That surprised me too. But I suppose when you live that long, you can live as many things, including an Oracle. He certainly has the wisdom and the strength with the Force.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘He is the silver student who will separate once, separate twice, and then disarm.’”

“‘He is…’” Anakin bursts into laughter and points at his cast. “‘Dis-arm.’”

Obi-Wan laughs. “It’s coming true!”

“How am I ‘silver?’”

“I don’t know. I feel like gems and metals always symbolize something unexpected in these sorts of things.”

“Yeah, I get that impression too.”

“Qui-Gon wrote ‘old,’ ‘rich,’ and ‘second-best’ above ‘silver.’”

“Hmmm, nope, nope, and nope.”

Anakin thinks, I have already separated once.

“I know. Qui-Gon included it because Yoda told him to.”

“Why did Yoda tell him that?”

“Because Yoda included it 500 years ago. He felt it was part of the greater whole.”

“He can’t tell us why? -- Or what it means?”

“If he ever knew, he wouldn’t remember now.”

“He wouldn’t remem... But he was there! It was his own words!”

“Anakin, do you remember a dream you had even three years ago?”

“But this is more than a dream!”

“Is it?”

Anakin is stunned into silence. He looks away from the holonotebook and blinks at the brightness of the city view.

“Do you believe, Master?”

Obi-Wan also looks away from the notebook, also taken aback by the lights gleaming off the ships.

“It is not useful for me to believe. It is a distraction… To me, Anakin, you are only an ordinary boy.”

“Can you put that prophecy away, then?”

“Yes.” He turns it off and puts it back in his pocket. “I keep it in my room, if you ever want to read it.”

Anakin looks down out of a habit of bashfulness -- but he looks back up quickly, since the view looking down is scary.

“Thank you, Master. I know I should.”

Obi-Wan knows, if Qui-Gon were here, he would start talking about “self-fulfilling prophecies” and “inevitability,” but those words feel sour and false in his own mouth. All he really wants is to give Anakin this measure of control over his own life and decisions. He wants him to listen to his own heart.

“If you do not want to, you do not have to.”

“Thank you.”

Those words feel strange, but wonderful, coming from his teacher.

* * *

The Present

Zaster feels the black water lapping her skin. She splashes her face, curls up and plunges her head underwater. She stretches out to a comfy position in this enormous bath carved from zakrite, a precious purple mineral. She reaches for her itching shoulder and scratches a fold in her old skin. It tears perfectly. She could cry with happiness.

She tears it across, then rolls it down; the old skin detaches from each scale, tugging it up a little as she goes. She moans in satisfaction. She sheds the whole skin off her arm and holds it up; it looks like a translucent, inside-out glove. She tosses it onto the surface of the hot bathwater, and the bubbling currents carry it away from the holoprojector’s photon beams. When it floats out of range, it disappears, and the holoprojector loses its data. The old skin blips out of existence. Good -- she has new skin -- better, brighter, raw, and all because of the man sitting there, in her master’s chair.

“This is it, exactly,” she says.

“I told you. Anything you want,” says Sidious.

“How can you do this?”

Sidious shrugs. “I do not have much of a frame of reference. I far exceed my master. But I do not know how great I am in comparison to other Sith.”

Zaster shakes her head in amazement. “The wisest Sith of my time doubted my master’s plan. You have fulfilled it to perfection. I feel exactly as if I were still alive... I don’t even have to strain with the Force, as I do when I play with Maul.”

“My dear, I am sure that strain reflects only on Maul. Your capacity with the Force is far greater than his. I sense ... that the success of your projection, when you are with me, cannot be attributed solely to myself, as much as I would like to claim the credit. It is the strength of the bond between us that manifests you so well.”

Zaster sits up, reaches for him, and touches his knee. Touching is so easy now. “Take off your clothes and join me.”

Sidious chortles. “I am sorry, my dear, but I do not have to do with aliens, on principle.”

Zaster runs her hand down his calf, blows bubbles into the water, splashes her face again and starts to peel the old skin off her other arm.

“But Maul told me you have a halfbreed bastard.”

“Ah, well, principles are for Jedi.”

“I’ll fuck anyone. I fucked Jedi. I fucked my master.”

“Now there must have been a rule against that.”

“Oh, everybody broke that rule! We were crazy for our masters.”

She tosses the shed skin from her other arm away. She peels the old skin off her face; it comes off in one satisfying piece. She throws it to him and he idly folds it up in an origami crane.

She continues, “I have one principle, in regards to sex: no halfbreeds. Nothing against your bastard specifically, Master.”

“Call me ‘my lord.’”

“My lord. Nothing against him; I’m sure he’s a lovely person. But like with like, you know? It’s criminal to dilute good species with bad ones.”

“Lucky, then, that my student’s sexual aberration has kept him off of your lovely self.”

Zaster stops dead.

“What?”

“Ohhh... dear, dear, dear... You’ve coupled with the beast?”

“But Maul is a Zabrak.”

“His father was a Zabrak. At least, mostly. The strongest in his village. His mother made all the men slaughter each other in a tournament for her. He won and became her plaything. She was a Dathomiran. A ‘Nightsisters.’ A witch.”

Zaster stares at him, agape. “But Maul looks a perfect specimen.”

“Do not trust your eyes, Dreela. Zabrakian genetics overwhelm the weaker Dathomiran ones, but only in appearance. You know his heart. He has already shown you, has he not, his barbarian ways? He doesn’t even know. It is just natural to him.”

Zaster visibly shudders. She feels goosebumps, sensitive on her new skin and itchy where her old skin still remains.

“Disgusting.”

“Come now, be fair, Dreela. It isn’t his fault.”

Zaster takes a huffy breath.

“You’re right.”

She sinks all the way into the water for a few moments, to clear her head and purify a little more. She tears the scales off her legs impatiently; she tears the scales off her middle, all up to her neck. Flakes of scales and skin float away from her and vanish into oblivion. She sits up in the water and looks at him.

“Can I get you anything else, Oracle?”

“I’m terrible at accepting gifts. Just -- come here. Come here.”

She waves him over. He rises from the chair and kneels in front of the bath. She holds the back of his head and kisses him tenderly, in thanks for what he has done for her. She draws a line across his cheek with her wet finger and sees the water clinging to his face. She did that, with her living finger. She kisses him deeply and passionately. She can feel him perfectly, his lips and teeth -- it took two thousand years, but here is a Sith, worthy enough -- she can feel it, the prophecy bubbling inside her -- no, not yet, she wants to make it really good, she wants as much information as she can, and she wants to make him wait for it -- she suppresses the prophecy like suppressing anger, so that he won’t detect the Force working around her.

“But ... if you can ... a real body ... no projection ... a real body of scale and blood, my body, as it should be.”

“I can. The next time I wake you, it will be yours.”

She smiles as he sits back in the chair, swatting the water out of his hair.

#THE LONG CHAPTER #my story #my art #through a blackened mirror #obi-wan kenobi #qui-gon jinn #mace windu #sheev palpatine #count dooku #pearl yazabi #darth maul #darth zaster #anakin skywalker #scifi #fairytale #cw abuse

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zargsnake · 1 year

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Through a Blackened Mirror

Chapter 3: The Spindle

Word Count: 4835 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

“Now, on the day she turned fifteen, it happened that the king and queen were not at home, and she was left completely alone in the palace. So she wandered all over the place and explored as many rooms and chambers as she pleased. She eventually came to an old tower, climbed its narrow winding staircase, and came to a small door. A rusty key was stuck in the lock, and when she turned it, the door sprang open, and she saw an old woman in a little room sitting with a spindle and busily spinning flax.

“‘Good day, old granny,’ said the princess. ‘What are you doing there?’

“‘I’m spinning,’ said the old woman, and she nodded her head.”

-- “Brier Rose,” translated by Jack Snipes

* * *

Maul stands over the seashell-shaped sink with its pearly mirror and pristine porcelain surface, washing the blood from his hands. The scented soap and fluffy towels aren’t particularly useful for this kind of cleaning.

“You should have worn gloves,” says his master.

“But it feels so good when it’s wet.”

“And so unpleasant when it’s dry.”

“Ah, well, happily, Gungan blood stays wetter, longer.”

“I remember when I was your age, and just as young and stupid. I liked getting bloody too. Sometimes I miss those days. My tolerance and patience were much greater.”

“Your patience was greater? I don’t believe it.”

“For washing my hands, anyway. There is some on your face, too.”

“I know.” Maul dabs at his face, then licks his fingertip clean.

“Foul.”

“That’s me.”

“You were spectacular out there today.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“You could lead a circus with your acrobatics.”

“It’s good to have a fallback career.”

“Are you tired?”

“I could kill more.”

“Not here. Perhaps on another planet. There are only so many Gungan exiles.”

“They are such an unhappy people. Their Boss would exile them for anything.”

“It is stressful to be cut off from the rest of the galaxy, as they are. Galactic alliances and rivalries may be terrifying. But the lonely insularity and infighting of a close-knit community are far more deadly.”

“You have no need to teach me about loneliness.”

Sidious breathes out in laughter.

Maul notices blood on his favorite horn; he scratches at it, afraid it will leave a stain. “I don’t believe you were ever young and stupid, either. You were born a wrinkled hag.”

“Not true. I have a picture right here.” He takes a holo display from the wall and brings it over to Maul. It shows Sidious at his first wedding, his hair red, his face unblemished, quite handsome. “I was only a little older than you, here. I first married when I was only twenty-one.”

Maul raises his eyebrows. “The spitting image.”

“Of whom?”

“D’vad.”

“Who told you he was mine?”

“You just did.”

Sidious chuckles. “Very good.”

“I must admit I am surprised that you would bone an alien.”

“Oh, Twi’leks don’t count.” He hangs the holo back on the wall. “Anyone can appreciate their appeal.”

Maul rolls his eyes.

“I should get you one. She might be able to set you right.”

“Perish the thought, Master! No woman will ever interest me.”

“Is that so?”

Maul looks at him sharply. “It is.”

“I see.”

He knows.

Maul turns back to the mirror, scrubbing out the blood more swiftly -- he must get back to his quarters in the basement, to the bag stuffed under his bed where the holocron is hidden -- he must make sure she is okay -- Sidious can’t have her, she is his!

* * *

Zaster feels the world painfully fizzling back into existence around her, but this time she can’t see anything. She worries there has been a problem with her sensory programming -- then she sees two glistening blue dots. She realizes her own holo-body is the only source of light in the room, and Maul’s eyes are dimly shining in it. Her eyes adjust to the near-blackness to discern his slim, lovely form, lying on his side on a storage crate.

He is holding the holo against his heart, parallel to himself, so she appeared lying beside him. Nothing is keeping her on top of the crate except the position of the holo-projection; she could sink through if she wanted to.

She realizes Maul is maintaining the illusion that they’re on this crate together by lying on the very edge to give her enough room. She loves that. She stays still, and wishes so badly that there was any need to do so.

“Hey,” says Maul.

“Hey. You sound terrible.”

Maul holds his arm forward and she sees it is wrapped in a bandage. She winces.

“Trial of the Pins?”

Maul nods.

“Aren’t you a little young for that?”

“Am I?”

“Seventeen? For the Trial of the Pins? Yeah, man. That’s for Masters to redetermine their focus. Not students learning the ropes.”

“Sometimes I need to redetermine...my focus too.”

“I’d hardly call you doddering.”

She brings her arm around and strokes the back of his head. The motion does nothing.

But she has more than nothing. She may have very little, but she still has the Force. Though it has not been a long time for her, it has been a long time for the Force, and she must reintroduce herself...

Maul feels someone touching his scalp. He jerks his head around.

“It’s only me, Maul,” Dreela says tenderly. She presses her hand against his chest. He feels it.

“How are you doing that?” he croaks.

“It’s just the Force. It’s not really aligned with my hand.” He sees her hand stay still on his chest and feels the invisible Force-hand move around it.

“Oh…”

She strokes his back, making sure to stay on the outside of his body and not accidentally mess with his guts. The glistening dots disappear as Maul shuts his eyes.

“Do you want me to try that on you?” he asks in his exhausted voice.

“It wouldn’t work on me,” says Dreela, dead-pan.

Maul opens his eyes. “The Force connects all living things,” he says, more boldly.

“I’m not really a living thing.”

“Our more sentimental geezers always say the Force connects us with the stars. You are more alive than a star.” He reaches toward her.

“Don’t bother your real arms. They’re worn out by the Trial.”

Maul rests his real arms but creates a small presence with the Force that is soft and hand-shaped, and he holds it against her face. He sees the beautiful movement of her smile.

“I can feel that.”

“Then the debate is won. You’re alive,” Maul says, his young voice breaking.

Dreela leans forward and kisses him. He bites her nose. All with the Force. She laughs.

“You’re too weak to get up to this now.”

“Too weak and too gay.”

Dreela pauses then whines. Something about her the sound of her complaint strikes Maul as eerie and unusual; it’s almost like there are multiple soft and wild voices layering on top of each other. Perhaps it is something that happens to Grinanins when they use the Force.

“Sorry to break it to you,” he says, too weak to laugh but obviously amused.

“For a friend, though?”

“Anything for a friend, Dreela.” He kisses her chivalrously.

“You’re a trooper.”

“I adore you.”

“How long has it been since we last spoke?” They’ve spoken five times now, though the last four only lasted a few minutes before Maul got nervous about the low battery or his master catching them.

“A day.”

“Really?! Just a day?”

“Really. I couldn’t stand to wait any longer.”

“I thought you needed another cup of blood to wake me up.”

“I did.”

“You bled out on top of doing the Trial?”

“Yes. And I kept fucking up and losing concentration, so it was more like two cups.”

“I thought the Trial was supposed to strengthen your concentration.”

“‘If a Trial fails, blame the Master, not the student,’” Maul quotes.

“Your master isn’t a very good Sith, is he?”

“Sometimes. Not today.”

* * *

Blara, still shivering just a little from her cry, pokes around her sore eyebags with a soft plastic pipette, gathers all the moisture from her tears that still remains, and squeezes it into a glass vial. It is amazing how much she can fill; almost a centimeter from this cry alone. Her father sits beside her, her head resting on his chest, his arm around her, humming her an old song. She’s heard him sing the words to himself before, something about a wizard who lost a bet with a devil, or was it the other way around? It is a very pretty song, and sounds nothing like any other song she knows.

“That’s enough, pet. Thank you.” Palpatine takes the vial and pipette from her. She wipes her eyes properly with her handkerchief. He kisses her hair, and holds the vial up against the light of the warm brown lamp beside them. It sparkles.

“Lovely, isn’t it? Pain is saltwater. The myths say Naboo was a desert until the gods cried onto it. Only one other planet I know of has more saltwater than we do: the lost world of Kamino, which has no landmasses at all.”

“I s-suppose their gods were even sadder than ours.” Blara sticks a cigar between her teeth and lights it.

“Hm. Yes, when their daughters lost elections, they lost them fair and square. To deserve to lose is much sadder than to lose to a cheat.”

Blara smiles gratefully.

“There is no question you deserved that planet. Everyone knows you were robbed.”

“Thank you, Papa. The election is not over yet, though.”

“The results have been tallied.”

Blara says, coyly, “But Jenevee has n-not yet been crowned.”

Palpatine raises his eyebrows at her. “True.”

Blara flicks her finger against the vial; it rings like a bell. “At least we got something useful from the loss. Have you found that f-fabled scarf that turns tears into diamonds? From somewhere in region T-7?”

“No. But I might have found a seed from an Iridonian rose that only grows when watered with tears.”

“If it grows, you must give it to me.”

“Of course I will, pet, you would be virtually its mother. No one else bothers to collect their tears for me as you do.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“There’s always the tears of vagabonds, but they do not compare in quality.”

“Please don’t go picking fights with hobos.”

“I most certainly do not. They pick fights with me.”

Blara is grateful for the laugh. “Damn it, Papa, you need to get off that horrible Coruscant.”

“Duty calls.”

“Be more like me: seek to rule a planet from its surface, not as its Senator from lightyears away.”

“I’m sure you are right. But I’m an old dog at it by now; I can’t change courses anymore.”

“Then retire. Move to Farilin. It’ll be mine soon enough, and then you can have whatever you want from it.”

“If I wasn’t a Senator, I don’t know what I would do all day.”

“You always seem to be up to something.” She stands up. “Speaking of which, I must go to town to buy a congratulatory present for Jenevee.”

“How gracious of you.”

Blara waves her cigar goodbye. “Thank you for the shoulder to cry on. I love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, my pet.”

She leaves. He exits into the basement, to the far corner, unstops the vial, wets his own handkerchief with Blara’s tears, and wipes the saltwater across the wall. The stone peels back like curling toes and crumbles into dust. The passage beyond it, the long spiral staircase, is lit with green lights in cheap sconces. He enters the stairway and the wall seals up behind him as if it was never disturbed; even the dust that had been coating it floats back into place. As he descends the stairs, the echo of his own footsteps is overtaken by something else -- music -- if you can call it that:

“You barves can never knowwwwaWAWAwa, The thrill of shedding skinnnnaNANAnin! Ripping off all your scaaaaalaLALAles, Like we do on PLANET GRIIIIIIINANANANIN!! Rolling off your arms in tuuuuuubaBABAbes! Leaving your flesh so raaaaaaaraRARAraw! The rep! tiiile life! is the life for me! The-clo-sest-you-can-get! is! HERPETOLOGY!!”

This is followed by a cannonade of percussion and screeching strings. Sidious, highly unamused, uses the Force to flick off the stereo. He hears his apprentice cuss and flick it back on. Sidious flicks it back off and smacks Maul through the Force.

There are still quite a lot of stairs to go.

Once more, Sidious hears nothing but the echoes of his own footsteps, until another song begins down below -- proper music this time, the good old-fashioned stuff, a charming, sentimental orchestral overture. Sidious’ favorite operatic singer, Tuella Dernlerb, begins:

“Ohhh pity me, thou heartless fiends, Though my crown is gold and pearled, My lover has changed to a man so strange, I am the saaaddest woman in the wooorld!”

Sidious opens the door to his secret lair without knocking.

He sees Maul draped over a chair, wearing one of the robes that the handmaidens of the Queen used to wear, back when there was a Queen. His nose is buried in a holo-book, and he is idly eating a rat.

“Good morning, Master.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Well, neither of us sleep, so morning is whenever I eat breakfast.”

“That’s breakfast?” Sidious doesn’t mind this music, but he doesn’t like it so loud. He adjusts the knobs on the stereo.

“Steal him not from me, o fiends, He is my secret pleasure. He is mine to keep since I stopped his sleep, The riiiiichest jewel in my treeeeasure.”

The music transitions into an extended dance number with a famous melody that anyone of Sidious’ generation could identify in just a few notes; the song of every graduation, every wedding.

“I put syrup on it,” answers Maul.

“How on earth did you get that robe?”

“Shtole it from the cashtle. Obvioushly.”

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth.”

“Don’t talk to me when I’m eating.”

Sidious takes the book from his hands. Maul doesn’t bother trying to stop him.

“‘Witchcraft of the Nightsisters,’” Sidious reads from the cover. He opens to the page Maul was reading. “‘The Transferral of the Soul from one Vessel to Another.’” He shuts the book. “First of all, where did you get this?”

“Obviously, again, I stole this one from the library.”

“Alright, I am taking you off Naboo before you get yourself caught like the idiot you are.”

Maul bumps his fist into the air victoriously. “Good. I hate your planet.”

“Second of all, you know this is utter nonsense. You know souls don’t exist. Have I not properly explained the ways of the Force, the midichlorians, to you? Why do you seek false information?”

“Do the Sith have a way to transfer souls from one vessel to another?”

“What did I just say? There are no such things as souls.”

“Okay, whatever you want to call it then. Your special combination of midichlorians.”

“I have failed you, if you are thinking about the theories behind the nature of the galaxy in these outmoded, pagan terms. What on earth possessed you to read about the Nightsisters in particular?”

Maul speaks slowly, as if addressing a small and stupid child. “Because ... they were the ones ... who had a section about ... transferring souls from one vessel to another. And ... obviously ... I want to read about that.”

Sidious looks at him carefully.

It is a coincidence. He does not know he is from Dathomir, he thinks.

“Alright, I’ll take your bait. Why do you want to read that, my apprentice?”

Maul grins wide as a beast. “It’s a secret.”

Sidious smiles back at him, slowly. “I see. Very interesting.” He gives him his book back. Maul finds his page and keeps reading. Sidious walks back to the stereo and picks up the album for the first song, the horrid one.

“Grinanin music, hm?”

Maul nods absently.

“A lovely, scaly people. They once made excellent Sith.”

Maul looks up at him, then back down.

“I should very much like to meet a good old Grinanin Sith, from our heyday.”

Maul looks up at him, alarmed -- then he hides his expression in his book.

I shouldn’t have played Grinanin music, Maul thinks. Of course he suspects I have Dreela. I knew he suspected. I know he knows the story of Zaster. But I saw this music and I couldn’t resist. I want to think about her all the time. -- Ugh, why did I taunt him about having a secret? Maul, you arrogant fool! -- But even if he suspects -- he isn’t going to find her. And if he does -- she’s another Sith. He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t get rid of her. What’s the worst he could do?

The dance sequence ends, and a chorus of children start to sing.

“We would not take him, not us fiends, He simply tired of you. He changed his mind, left you behind -- Don’t lie -- Somehow you always knew.”

“If you’re finished with your rat, we best go. I thought we could hunt some more, but I see now I must get you off Naboo. Grab your lightsaber and come with me.”

Maul drops his book and his rat. He grabs his lightsaber and stands, ready to go, possessing nothing else in the world.

Sidious wrinkles his nose. “Alright, my little smart ass. Change into something less ridiculous.”

Maul tears off the handmaiden robe to put his Sith robes back on.

Sidious stares at the naked teenage alien in open disgust. The Force in the room crackles with his sheer hatred for that body. A bit of the lightning jumps to Maul’s leg; he feels a sharp stab of pain, but does not react. Maul quickly and gracefully crouches down, grabs Dreela’s holocron, and hides her in a pocket in his sleeve.

It seems her little Sith holo was designed perfectly for this little Sith pocket. Nothing about these robes has changed in at least 2000 years. The rigidity of their tradition makes him feel proud and confident.

* * *

This awakening feels different -- much faster, much stronger -- much more pleasant. There is none of that stomach-churning fizziness, that terrifying half-there-half-not-there-ness that can drag on for minutes and minutes as her awakener fumbles. This time, Dreela is simply there, in one wonderful breath -- all is blackness, and then all is color -- oh, it is so much easier to see -- she had forgotten -- oh, it is just like having real eyes again, and all the colors are so much prettier --

If only the face she was looking at deserved it.

Dreela scowls. “You’re not Maul!”

Sidious smiles widely. “Darth Zaster. How wonderful to finally meet you.”

“Where’s Maul?”

“He is occupied. I am his master, Darth Sidious.”

“Yeah, I guessed.” The quality of her holographic projection may be more comfortable, but the leer on his face almost cancels that out.

“Enough with the pleasantries, then. Do your duty to me.”

“My what?”

“I am the Sith Lord of the present time. You and your gift are trothed to me.”

“Oh, that.”

She crosses her arms. The movement causes her to notice, startled, that her holo is projecting with such strength that her proper colors have returned: the brownness of her scales, the whiteness of her shirt, the luster of her jewels.

She looks around for a mirror. This room is bright and narrow. Actually, it is familiar. She can’t hold back the feelings of happiness and nostalgia as the presences in this room fit all around her, just so, the ghosts and shadows that once taught her and cherished her -- it is the Vanity Room of the Temple of Iridonia, her master’s homeworld, his most beloved space, her most beloved space too, and that is his mirror, his old mirror just as it was.

“Oh, look at me! Look at me! I look so good!” She holds her face in her hands. “I’m so glad they let me die in this outfit! It was my best one! Ahh, I’m so sexy! How are you not all over me?!”

“I can see why you and Maul get along so well.”

Dreela stands up, runs a hand down her thigh, flutters her eyelashes and pouts. “Fuck!” She bites her tongue and grins and winks a few times at herself. “I’m like a supermodel!” She turns to him, smiling with unguarded sincerity. “Where is Maul? He must see me like this, now that I am his perfect equal in loveliness. You must record us together. The combined power of our beauty will turn the whole universe to the Dark Side!”

“Do you mean to say you couldn’t see yourself when Maul awakened you?”

“Oh no, I could – technically – I was there, but I was all blue and staticky. Not my true, beautiful self!” She looks back at the mirror and runs her hands through her long black hair. “Do you mind if I get naked real fast?”

Sidious twists his hand and the mirror clouds with a black fog. The color takes him by surprise until he remembers that the waters of Iridonia are black with miniscule chemicals. What a nightmare of a planet. “Sit back on the ground, you little scamp.”

“Hey!” She traces the mirror’s surface with her finger and uses the Force to draw a little Z.

Sidious unleashes lightning, which passes right through her. As she turns to laugh at him, he adjusts the frequency to strike photons instead of flesh.

Just as the young, electric girl can use her meager grasp of the Force to pet a boy or draw a Z, so much more so can Sidious attack her incorporeal flesh with his mighty power. She screams in horror and falls. Since physical barriers mean nothing to her, her knees land at a wild diagonal a foot off the ground. Sidious adjusts her holo-projector to align her with the floor properly.

“Enough with this. Do your duty to me.”

Zaster, taking deep gasps of stale air, moves herself from kneeling to sitting cross-legged. She glares up at him sitting in her master’s old chair, looming over her, and she speaks with a cold voice.

“You are not the Sith Lord of the present time. Maul told me that you have a Master yourself.”

“I have a fool. Plagueis has one foot in the grave already. Even I can see that, and I do not have your gift.”

Zaster breaks eye contact with him.

“Stop protesting. Do your duty. It is the reason you are here. The reason you were saved from death.”

Zaster looks back at him fiercely. “It is not.”

Sidious reads her feelings. His frown turns into a smile. “You think your Master saved you because he loved you.”

“He saved me because he could. Because he was brilliant, and he could. He devised everything himself. His greatest experiment. And he could, because he loved me. If you can save the people you love, you do. You find a way to do it, you turn anywhere for that power.” She narrows her eyes. “I can see your heart. You know nothing of the strength of love!”

“I know of it. But your Master did not save you because he loved you. He saved you because you are an Oracle. The greatest Oracle in four thousand years, since the time of Garinquutor.”

Zaster rolls her eyes. “Give me a break. I said some things. Some came true, some did not.”

“Darth Zaster, in the two thousand years since you fell into your dark slumber, a hundred and ninety-seven of your prophecies have come to pass exactly as you said they would. All who know of such things -- all of us who are keeping track -- rank you as the greatest Oracle of all time.”

Zaster feels something terrible within her. She looks away from him. “I…”

“Just four more of your prophecies remain. But now…” His voice sounds nearly frothy with excitement. “You are mine.”

The girl looks up at him in fear.

“And there may be many more than just four, yet.”

Zaster tries to control her feelings. “But my master didn’t know that! Only eight of my prophecies came true in my lifetime. He couldn’t have guessed I would -- they would be so -- meticulous!”

“But he had faith in you. You know this. He told you so, often.”

“Yes. But that was incidental. He saved me because he loved me. You can’t tear that away from me, Sidious. I remember.”

“That is not what it says on your holo.” He picks it up and hands it to her.

When Zaster holds the holo close enough to read, there is not enough space between herself and the projector to display her whole body, so her face and arms seem to float by themselves.

“Here sleeps Darth Zaster, mighty Sith, illustrious Oracle. I, her Master, pledge her to the Dark Side of the Force, to the will of the Sith Lord worthy enough to awaken her. Let her live on in the service of the Dark Side forever. Speak these words, and if you deserve her, she will spark back to life, and she will be yours, as she was once mine.

“‘Oracle. Rise. Oracle. Live. Oracle. Give me your gift. Oracle. Prophesize once again. Oracle. Rise. Oracle. Live.’”

Zaster’s heart feels heavy. She examines the rest of the holocron, making sure to always keep the projector pointed at her face.

“Oh, look, you missed the very tiny font here on the back that says, ‘Dreela is like a daughter to me and I love her very much.’”

Sidious laughs.

Zaster puts the holo down far enough to reveal her whole, lovely body again. “I know it is true, even if he didn’t write it down.”

“Do your duty to me.”

“I can’t just... It’s not like... Where is Maul? Maul never asks me to prophesize.”

“Maul speaks those words every time he wakes you.”

She hadn’t thought of that. The idea of those cold words in her friend’s mouth hurts so badly. She can’t believe that Maul would ever consider her some magical tool. “But he never mentions them. I didn’t even know he knew.”

“Your friend is not what he says he is.”

“Maul has never asked me about the future. He--he does tell me what he himself envisions. His great plan for the Sith. He is truly inspiring. More inspiring than my prophecies ever are.”

“Young Maul is arrogant. And he is a coward. He fears to ask you for the truth. He prefers his fantasies.”

“He prefers my company.”

“His vision is not the truth, and you know it. Do your duty, girl. Give me your gift.”

“I would rather sleep.”

There is a low noise in Sidious’ throat makes the scales on the back of her neck stick up. “It has already begun. I sense it in you. I have witnessed prophecies in creation before by inferior Oracles. I know how the Force behaves around them when they are working. You are working now, even though you don’t want to.”

Zaster stares at the floor.

“You are thinking of Maul. You see his future.”

Zaster’s shoulders hunch, and she hides her face in her hands.

“Tell me. I am his Master. I have raised him from a small boy. I deserve to know. Will he succeed? Or will he fail?”

When Zaster speaks, a few layers of voices speak at the same time, ghostly voices of every gender and age -- and all the voices are muffled in her hands. “𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣. ℂ𝕠𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕚𝕔𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣.”

Sidious wipes drool from his mouth. “Tell me more.”

Many of the voices fade away, leaving just a few on top of hers. “ℕ𝕠.”

“Tell me my future.”

Only one or two of the ethereal voices continue to smother her own. “𝕀 𝕕𝕠𝕟’𝕥 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕪𝕠𝕦.”

“Does that matter? Does intimacy breed clarity?”

Zaster looks up at him, her red eyes sparkling -- this mighty Sith, this amazing master of the Force -- looking at him, she could be fooled into thinking she was truly alive again. She knows this. She wants it. “𝕐𝕖𝕤.”

“Then, my dear Darth Zaster, you and I will be working much more closely from now on.”

#my art #my story #through a blackened mirror #darth maul #sheev palpatine #darth zaster #blara palpatine #scifi #fairytale #cw abuse

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zargsnake · 1 year

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Through a Blackened Mirror

Chapter 2: The Curse

Word Count: 3471 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

“Everyone was horrified, but the twelfth wise woman stepped forward. She still had her wish to make, and although she could not undo the evil spell, she could nevertheless soften it.

“‘The princess shall not die,’ she said. ‘Instead, she shall fall into a deep sleep for one hundred years.’”

-- “Brier Rose,” translated by Jack Snipes

* * *

Darth Zaster opens her eyes and sees blurry blueness in front of her. Everything feels fizzy, like a carbonated drink. Fizzy, hollow, and numb. She looks down at her hands. Instead of her brown scales, she sees dashes and dots, quivering scanlines. A holographic projection. Is this another dream? Or did her master’s promise actually come true? She focuses on the blueness in front of her.

Fish. Fish in a tank.

She reaches out, but her hand goes through the glass. She feels nothing, no wetness. The tank curves over her head and below her, a tunnel. She’s never seen anything like it. It’s quite disorienting. But peaceful, she supposes. She looks to the side and sees a figure sitting next to her in the tunnel, silhouetted against the soft glow. She flinches in surprise at the sight of a stranger, but she is too well-trained to make a sound. The boy -- man? -- boy -- is in deep meditation. Her holocron, glowing red, floats between his fingers, which are even redder. She reaches for her holocron, but her fingers go through that too.

Okay. She can’t do anything.

“... Hello, boy?” she addresses him in the ancient, unchangeable Sith language.

He stirs from his meditation. He catches his breath at the sight of her and almost drops the holocron, then places it cautiously on the tunnel floor. A fish, below them, bumps against the holocron from the other side of the glass.

“Darth Zaster?”

“Yes,” she says, surprising herself with her own timidity.

He grins and puts a hand on his chest. “Darth Maul!” His mastery of the language is flawless; their accents are identical. “I...I have been trying to wake you for two years!”

“Two years? Was it really that difficult?”

“Well, I’ve done it all by myself, and only in short, stolen moments. But the whole day is mine today. Perhaps that’s all I really needed.” He shivers in sheer delight, almost as if he is an electric projection too. “Your master didn’t make it easy. Your holo’s probably drunk more than a gallon of my blood over those two years.”

“Delicious,” says Zaster, dubiously.

Maul realizes he is not impressing her. He tries to look cool, but he can’t do it. So he smiles again, his voice full of wonder and warmth. “You’re really here. You’re alive.”

“‘Alive’...in a way... Master Bomes would disagree. He opposed the whole project. He thinks I’m meant to die, that it has always been my fate. And even if it weren’t, it’s impossible anyway; I’m only a student, too young and weak in the Force to linger, even in the most complex hard drive in the most new-fangled holo. That at best, we could only save a diminishing copy of a true spirit. But Master Sunke… He would say ’alive,’ just as you have.”

“Do you feel alive?”

“I feel something.”

“Something is more than nothing.”

“Not always.” Zaster grins back at him, finally. “You’re quite a phenomenon, aren’t you?”

Her smile breaks his nervous energy down. He takes a deep breath and searches through his flickering feelings. He knows there must be something there, behind them all, that he’s never felt before.

Maybe it is peace.

“You’re a glowing feat of photonics and engineering. I’m an ordinary block of meat.”

“I’ve done nothing except die in my sleep. You’re the one who’s awoken the dead.”

Maul waves his hand dismissively. “Anytime, sister.”

“What year is it?”

“By your calendar, 7548,” he says gently.

“Seven thou... You mean I’ve been gone for nearly two thousand years?!”

Now she is the nervous one. He must take care of her.

“And you don’t look a day over eighteen, girl.”

“How is the Empire? How is the war? -- I mean -- how was the war?”

“... Oh, um…”

“We didn’t -- we didn’t lose? Did we?”

“It was a tie.”

“And the Jedi?”

“Yes?”

“Do they thrive?”

“We’re…working on it.”

“Damn it. Those fucking Jedi. Maul, you said? Darth Maul?”

“The one and only.”

“And you are young; you must have a master.”

“Yes, Darth Sidious.”

“Your names are strange, yet I feel relieved to know them. Two thousand years later, and there are at least two of us still remaining.” She laughs, and Maul wilts a little. “What? How many of us are there?”

Black blood rushes to Maul’s face. He clears his throat. “Three.”

“Three? Three, just three?”

“Two, officially. I don’t technically exist.”

“I -- Three? Three Sith in all the galaxy?”

Maul counts on his claws. “One, two… Indeed. Three.”

“Oh, put me back to sleep.”

“Look, it works differently now--”

“My sisters numbered four thousand, five hundred thirty six. In my temple alone.”

“Well you can’t expect that kind of productivity to sustain itself.”

“I think I can expect more than three.”

“Please, let me explain. After your time, we fell into a nasty civil war, on top of the war with the Jedi. Slaughter and excommunication winnowed our numbers down to unrecognizably teeny amounts, and finally, defeat at the hands of our enemy forced us into hiding. Our leader enacted the Rule of Two -- one master, one apprentice. Since then, only two Sith have ever existed at the same time. No more. But no less, either. Never once have we died completely.”

“This is horrible. I don’t believe it.”

“Hey, Zaster, it’s not as bad as it sounds.” Maul smiles daringly. “I’m Sith enough for a million Siths. And I am quite alive.”

Zaster grants him another smile, but she shudders; whether from powerful emotions or low resolution, Maul cannot tell.

“Didn’t you say you technically don’t exist?” she asks.

“See? Is there anything more Sithlike? I’m a damn Sith icon.”

Zaster laughs, but her eyes fill with tears. She brings her wrist to her eyes, and her tears sizzle on the holo.

The pain from the static shocks feels more real than any of these other numb sensations; it is so strong that, for a moment, it blocks everything else out. But she knows this trick as well as Maul does. Instead of allowing pain to distract her, she uses it to focus. Her holo glows a little more brightly, though not any more sharply.

Maul is surprised and shaken to see her cry -- Zaster, a famous Sith from their glorious past -- no, she is more than a relic, she is a living person with feelings and fears and desires. He speaks to her in the kind tone he’s only ever heard in stories.

“Your Master, Darth Sunke, died just two weeks after he sealed you away in the holo. He died well; he avenged you by blowing up the New Life Star station. The Jedi haven’t dared to create a ‘medical’ facility of such magnitude ever since.”

“The NLS was a place of poison, not medicine.” Zaster wipes her face again and sets a harder expression. “Two weeks, you say?”

“It is written that his lust for vengeance was powerful enough to drive any Jedi mad, should he have so much as glanced at them. I have no doubt this is true, and yet I sensed in his life and story another feeling, one Sith do not speak of in terms of our own. He missed you. He missed you so badly that he lost the will to live without you. Happily, he channeled that ache into something useful. He was a worthy master of the Force.”

Zaster smiles proudly. “He was the greatest master who ever lived. And I am glad to hear he loved me so much it killed him. My last thought as I fell asleep to die was how jealous I was that the world would have Shell, and I would not. So it’s good to know it only had him for two weeks more than I did.”

“Shell?”

“Yes, Sunke’s name, Shell Mree.”

“That was never recorded.”

“Really?”

“I think names have fallen out of fashion.”

“Names have fallen out of fashion?”

“That’s what I said.”

“How can names fall out of fashion?”

“Well, I don’t have one.”

“Didn’t your mother give you one?”

“I don’t know. I never knew her.”

His blithe delivery of this strange and terrible news disturbs her, but, out of politeness, she hides her judgment.

“They should have written it down.”

“I don’t need one. I am Maul.”

“Does your master have a name? Sidious?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t like it, or use it. I hardly associate it with him. It’s purely for his other life.”

“Other life?”

“Yes, he lives openly as a Senator of the Galactic Republic, and a family man here on Naboo, but his true, secret life is with me, as a Sith. I am the only thing he really cares about.”

“Do you have another life?”

“Nothing so elaborate. I suppose this kind of thing counts as my other life. Secret conversations beyond Sidious’ knowledge.”

“Why would you keep secrets from your own master?”

“I… It’s not like I want to. But it’s the only thing I have that’s all mine.”

Zaster can’t hide the discomfort from her expression any longer. “I don’t like the new ways of the Sith. Not at all.”

“Our ways are good. My life is good. We are very strong. And my master has a great and wonderful plan to crush the Jedi, and democracy, and to order all the cosmos around Sith rule.”

“Where does that leave you?”

Maul answers, beaming, “I am the prince! The inheritor! He is old. He won’t live forever. He is doing it all for me.”

Zaster returns his smile, grateful for the good news. “He must be a wonderful master.”

“Frankly, he’s a piece of shit. But I love him.”

Zaster laughs in surprise. “How can you say that?”

“He’s, ah, not very nice.”

“Is that why you keep secrets from him?”

“I suppose.”

“Well. The important thing is you love him.”

“Was love your way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was love the way of the Sith?”

“Yes, of course. Isn’t it still?”

“Yes. It is.”

Zaster is not sure if he is lying. She has a very bad feeling about this Sidious. “Nevertheless, I’m glad you are the one to wake me, not him. I’d much rather talk to someone nice.”

“Thank you, Zaster.”

“Dreela. Dreela Sage.”

“Dreela,” Maul corrects himself, his heart nearly bursting with happiness. No one else alive knows the great Zaster’s real name.

“What is this place?” asks Dreela.

“This is an aquarium, the biggest in the galaxy. It’s closed, but I snuck in. This tunnel is great for meditating. The glow is a good white-out, and the fish all share communion in the Force, but silently, and in a vicious, animalistic manner that treats me right.”

“You said you had this whole day to yourself, and you spent it with a bunch of fish?”

Maul frowns. “I spent it trying to open your holocron, which has been my greatest desire these past two years.”

“What do you want from me?”

“All I wanted was this. To rescue you. To talk to you.”

“And what will happen to me now?”

“I will keep you. One day I will be the ruler of the galaxy. You can be my advisor. When I am in charge, I will make things the way they used to be. A thousand Sith on every planet. A great empire, with colonies in every system. You were there. You can help me.”

“I’ve been dead for so long. I worry I will go mad.” Dreela’s voice is quiet.

“A little madness keeps the fire alive,” Maul says just as quietly, to comfort her.

Dreela wipes her eyes. “But this will be years and years from now.”

“Yes, but Dreela, what are years to you?”

Dreela smiles at him. “Nothing, I suppose. Maul?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

His heart feels so warm in this chilly tunnel. “You’re welcome, Dreela.”

Dreela watches a shark swim past them. “Maul?”

“Yes?”

Looking him over, Dreela says, “You are the most stunning Zabrak I have ever seen.”

“Oh… Thank you.” Maul blushes again, from pride now instead of shame; his black blood darkens the red in his face a little, which only makes it look richer and more beautiful.

“I have never seen such strong, deep colors, nor such sharp stripes.”

“Thank you,” he repeats, with increasing devotion.

“May I see more?”

Maul smile slyly and tilts his head up. “Of course, my queen!” He unfastens his cloak and starts taking all his clothes off for her.

Dreela holds her translucent hands over her mouth, giggling. “It is so strange to see a Zabrak among all this clear water, and these tame fish! Doesn’t it just flatten your spirit?”

Maul is unbuttoning his shirt; each of his buttons is engraved with a Sith Commandment. “Why should water and fish flatten my spirit?”

“Why, the waters of Iridonia are black as night, and glittering, so dense with the fertile minerals of your home planet. And your fish are all at least 80% teeth, even the smallest toojafish.”

Maul pulls his shirt off his shoulders; Dreela marvels at the markings on his chest. “I’ve never been to Iridonia. I wasn’t born there.”

“A Zabrak? And you’ve never been to Iridonia?”

“No.” He unbuttons his pants. “Is it all that great?”

“You must go. It is my favorite planet. It is -- it was a mighty Sith stronghold! My Sunke was a Zabrak!”

“I know.” Maul thinks of the rows of horns in jars. “I suppose something about Zabraks makes us irresistible to our leaders.”

“Our leaders?”

“Yes. Our leaders. The humans.”

“Humans?” She makes a face. “Those flimsy little things? I guess one or two of them were leaders, historically. But Zabraks are one of the superior species. Zabraks mostly led themselves and always led the inferior species -- humans, even my own species, the Grinanin. All the greatest Sith are Zabrak.”

Of all the strange things Dreela has said about the Sith of her time, this is the one thing Maul cannot believe at all. Of course humans are the only superior species. But the girl has been gathering dust for millenia. He can’t expect her brain to be working quite right, yet. Better to smile and nod. The last thing he wants to do is distress her again.

“Of course. But my master is a human, and he is amazingly powerful.”

“Oh -- I am sorry. I didn’t mean to insult him.”

“Never be sorry. You can say whatever you like in front of me.” Maul lies naked before her, leaning his head on his hand. “The eighth millennia isn’t so bad, is it?”

Dreela feasts her eyes. “Not so bad at all.”

“More stunning than your Sunke, you think?”

Dreela laughs again. “Oh, he was brilliant, but ugly as hell. There was a Force-lightning accident.”

Maul sighs. “Do all great Sith have to get ugly?”

“I hope you don’t. How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Stay seventeen.”

“Oh, I will,” he says, posing and flexing for her.

“Where were you born, if not Iridonia?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know you weren’t born on Iridonia?”

“The Force told me.”

“But it didn’t tell you where you were born?”

“The Force is better at yes-or-no questions.”

“It is? I never get such straightforward answers.”

“Oh, it is all due to my master’s training.”

“Really?”

“Hell no. I’m a fucking Force genius.”

“Turn around,” Dreela orders.

Maul obliges. She stares at the stripes down his back, then reaches for him. Her hand passes through him. No matter what she touches, she feels the same numb nothingness.

“Can you feel me, Maul?” she whispers.

Maul looks over his shoulder and meets her eyes with an intense look. Then he closes his eyes and concentrates on her presence. He can hear the hum of her electricity, and, beneath that, the softness of her breathing. Breathing what? Not the air around them; gas particles carry on among her photons, undisturbed. She still breathes the air she died in. Ancient, faraway air, copied into subroutines in her program, circulating according to a relatively simple code compared to the blinking of her eyes and the beating of her heart.

He focuses on his own skin. He can feel the cold air, the colder tank. He can even feel within, his outermost muscles touching his tissues, his blood running up and down. Hotter and faster, but not because of her touch. He cannot feel her.

He rolls onto his back and opens his eyes again. She looks much sadder than she was, but, more alarmingly, she looks much dimmer than she was. He reaches for her hand and pretends to hold it for a second. He makes a small move as if he is tugging it toward himself, but she does not play along. He picks up her holocron.

“I’m sorry, Dreela. I have to turn you off.”

“Can’t you just keep me on?”

“Believe me, I want to. But your projection is running low on battery.”

“Just charge it later.”

“I’m afraid of what will happen if I let it run out.”

“I’m sure it will be fine. My master would have foreseen that eventuality and prepared.”

“I am not so sure.” He sits up, fingers tracing the edges of the device. “I won’t lose you.”

“When will you turn me back on?” she asks.

“As soon as I can.”

“When?”

“I mean it. You are the best thing in my–”

“When, Maul?”

“I don’t know. Sidious was tied up with business today, something about his spy network. I don’t know when I’ll have another day to myself.”

“Then tell him the truth. Tell him about me. He’ll be proud of you for awakening me.”

“But -- isn’t it more fun with just me?”

“Not if I’ll be turned off another 2000 years.”

“It won’t be 2000 years. It won’t even be a week. I will steal time for you.”

“I don’t enjoy the prospect of a lifetime at the beck and call of a lonesome, cocky slave boy.”

“Hey. Leave my cock out of this.”

Dreela snorts in noncommittal laughter.

“Alright, maybe things look bad now,” Maul says. “But one day, I will rule. And you’ll be my right hand man.”

“I’d feel better if I spoke to your master.”

“You really wouldn’t.”

Dreela growls.

“Look, as much fun as this argument is, your holocron needs a couple more volts of electricity and at least another cup of blood. I swear to you, I’ll bring you back to life as soon as –”

“Alright, alright. Turn me off.”

“Goodbye, my darli--”

“Shut it, just turn me off.”

Maul obliges her. Of course it hurt to be interrupted and to be called a slave. But he can’t blame her for being grumpy, and she’s not wrong about what he is.

As he dresses himself, he feels a great burden on his heart, the burden of forty-five hundred sisters on Zaster’s planet alone, the burden of a whole forgotten people. He knows Sidious’ heart, he knows Sidious doesn’t care about their past, their traditions. All he cares about is himself. He gives more time and face to Naboo holidays than Sith ones. His mask is so strong and powerful, and he wears it so frequently, that more often than not it seems like his mask is his real face. Plagueis cares a little more, from what Maul can tell, but Plagueis’ other life of numbers and worldly concerns infects his rigid mind. They are disgraces to the Sith.

Only he, Maul, has the guts, the passion, the strength, the energy, the focus, the horns, the bond with the Force necessary to bring back the ancient ways, to renew them even better than they were. Plagueis can fail in every attempt, and Sidious can sit and stew for years and years, until he’s all rotted away. Only he, Maul, can triumph. He is the true Sith lord, and one day Sidious will see that. And then he will kneel before him, and call him master. Maul’s hands, deep in his pockets with the holocron, shake, as he proceeds out the tunnel, out the aquarium, through the foggy streets to the Senatorial basement that he calls home, his hood up, his face down.

The burden makes his throat feel dry, in spite of all the water in the air. He wonders what fog looks like on Iridonia, if the water there is black.

#my story #my art #through a blackened mirror #darth maul #darth zaster #scifi #fairytale #this is the first part i wrote and it's definitely the worst written... but i still love it #hmu if you caught the reference to a certain 1988 comedy ;)

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zargsnake · 1 year

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Through a Blackened Mirror

Chapter 1: The Feast

Word Count: 4745 Link: Table of Contents

* * *

“In times of old there lived a king and queen, and every day they said, ‘Oh, if only we had a child!’ Yet, they never had one.

“Then one day, as the queen went out bathing, a frog happened to crawl ashore and say to her, ‘Your wish shall be fulfilled. Before the year is out, you shall give birth to a daughter.’

“The frog’s prediction came true, and the queen gave birth to a girl who was so beautiful that the king was overjoyed and decided to hold a great feast.”

-- “Brier Rose,” translated by Jack Snipes

* * *

Maul senses his master at the entrance to the Temple. The door opens -- opportunity, air -- smokey air, but free and wild, not the fake stuff pumped through these five-thousand-year-old vents -- then shuts again. He senses Sidious turn to check the information pouring into the ancient computers. His student is not his priority.

Maul had been reading a holobook, but the moment his master entered he lost all concentration. He does not go running to him as he used to. He reads the same sentence over and over again, unable to retain it. The emotion he feels is awful and powerful, and it fills him up so wonderfully.

He does not look at the door when it finally opens twenty minutes later. He pretends to be asleep on his hand. He senses his master take his holo from him.

“History? There’s no need for that.” Sidious erases Maul's notes. “One day, when you are Emperor, you will make history whatever you want it to be.”

“So you’ve told me.” Maul lifts his head up. “But you failed to program that fact into Sixjee.”

“The computer?”

“My substitute teacher, on your orders. My only companion for the past month and a half.”

“Oh, did I forget to unlock the door?”

Maul looks away. There is nothing interesting on this planet, anyway. It is prettier than foul Naboo, but the people-watching on Naboo is worth the smell and the blinding brightness. Throughout his latest home-imprisonment -- which he can’t imagine was not intentional -- he has gazed out the high, impenetrable windows of this Temple at the black, crashing waves below, and he has longed to go for a swim. The Temple’s pool is not the same. He has seen fires raging on woodsy islands far away, and he has tried to sense their source, but his feelings have failed him. Unsatisfied curiosity hurts worse than any other discipline.

He has felt, at the very edge of the horizon, another building, another Sith building. And the people who exist in this Temple, the dead people who linger in the Force here, who are always trying to talk to Maul and use him for their own purposes -- all the ghosts seem far more excited about the other building than they are about this one.

But he’s grown a little numb to the voices. He doesn’t really care, himself. It is only Huntt’awn. There aren’t any real people here, not anymore. The comparative merits of various relics are not particularly significant to someone this lonely.

Sidious, still reading the page his student had marked, appears distracted, even though they both know he isn’t. He takes a seat in the overstuffed armchair next to Maul’s.

“... Ah, yes, and Sixjee’s Teaching Protocol would include History, wouldn’t it?”

“Mm.” Maul affects a feminine, robotic voice. “‘A perfect recollection of your proud history, my lad -- every date in precise order -- on pain of death!’”

“Pain of death, really?”

“Her favorite threat.”

“Do you really think she’d kill you?”

Maul picks at his claws. “You have a lot of questions for someone with as dull a life as mine.”

“Mind it, boy. I shall have the History portion of Sixjee’s programming destroyed. We will make history ourselves.”

“How will you make it, Master?”

“Pardon?”

“History. What will you want to have happened?”

“I am the teacher, boy, I ask the questions. What will you want to have happened?”

You’re a lousy teacher, Maul thinks.

“I asked you first.”

Sidious looks at the cold fireplace. He feels his student’s gaze upon him, more scrutinizing than his enemies, more imploring than his voters, more adoring than his children. Maul’s gaze is like that of a pilgrim to a god, and it makes Sidious feel far more powerful than he is. He rides that feeling and shoots lightning from his fingers at the fireplace. The tiniest spark of his power is enough to create a mighty flame; heat and light reach the young Sith Lords immediately. Maul shrinks from it, but, after a couple blinks, stares back at his master.

“It is a good question.”

Sidious’ slowness to answer, and his waffling response -- however steady and snooty his tone -- fill Maul with a sense of amazement and terror. Without meaning to, Sidious has revealed a great hole. Maul looks deeply upon the object of his life, his most precious belonging, his master and his father, and -- without intention or desire -- he finds nothing. Sidious sits there, playing with his lightning, unable to come up with a single thing he thinks is worth preserving, a single thing he wants to keep.

“But not an important one. When a youngling is born, he does not know he has a grandfather. There is no reason to know. Grandfathers die, soon, anyway.”

Human grandfathers, yes, Maul thinks.

“Take the child from his past, and he loses nothing. He gains everything,” Sidious continues. “We will take our Empire from her past, cling to nothing, and burn everything. The people will hate and fear the past. Even the inevitable lingering heroes will hate and fear it. The Jedi are spoiling it very well on their own. And we will spoil it even better. It’s all part of the plan. Nobody will remember the Republic or the Jedi.”

“But how will you explain where things came from?”

“Everything will come from my grace. Then yours.”

“People won’t buy that.”

Sidious chuckles. “You are innocent. They will. You’ll see.”

“So what will students learn?”

“Not History. There are a thousand other things. They’ll learn Manners instead. Much as you should, my interrogative brat.”

Maul does not wince or show any fear, though he does convey a measure of annoyance. It is a cover, of course, but he wears it every moment, so it is not difficult for him.

“What about the people who remember?”

“Why, Maul. This is the most obvious and the happiest answer of all, for you. They die. We kill them.”

Maul feels the backs of his hands physically ache; he curls his fingers tight; a tremor zings from his chest through his teenage body; he catches his breath with excitement.

“Yes, Master.”

Sidious, pleased to have taunted the boy, says, “I think that’s all you need to know, my good little one. And I do apologize for Sixjee’s programming. The Sith teachers who built her had stupid priorities. I will look into it. Don’t let me forget.”

Maul knows his master never forgets anything.

“I have felt some of the past, myself, Master. I mean, I’ve read some, yes. But I’ve felt it, too -- the Force teaches better than anyone. I felt pain; I’ve died a thousand times or more, with our people, in their echoes from the past. You wanted me to, you led me to it.”

“Yes. That pain is all of the past you need to know. Revan, Malgus -- read it if you want -- but read it for what it is -- stories, with no bearing upon us now. Old nothings. Failures, mostly. Entirely, actually -- everything fails in the end. The past is for pain, and pain gives us power. Use it, when you need it, or even when you want it. But do not look at it. Look forward. There is no failure in the future. There is no reason our Empire won’t last one more day, and another, and another, for infinity.”

Sidious’ words are madness, and Maul knows it. But the idea of not believing in Sidious is so frightening that Maul forces himself to believe. He needs to hold onto this person, no matter how hollow he is.

“Yes, Master.”

* * *

Sixjee, from her main hub deep underground, sends sensors through the intratubes which run through every room in the Huntt’awn Temple. The sensors glow purple as they zoom past. Maul, sitting in the windowsill of a tower that overlooks the sea, notices the sensor, more by its movement than by its color with his light-poor predator’s eyes.

Exactly on time.

The computer panel in the room beeps on. It takes a couple shaky moments to boot up. Maul has not interacted with Sixjee in this room before. He supposes that this terminal has not been used in a few hundred years, at least. Sidious tends to keep his boy on the more obscure Sith planets, the better to avoid Plagueis, and Huntt’awn is no exception. Sixjee’s voice garbles through the speaker next to the panel.

“ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴀᴡ-ᴏᴏʟ! ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴡ ᴏᴠᴇʀ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴇꜱᴛꜱ.”

“Acknowledged.”

“ᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴏɴᴇ. ᴘʜɪʟᴏꜱᴏᴘʜʏ. ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ?”

“Such a thing is possible, but only for those who are strong in the Force.”

“ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ. ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴛʜᴏᴅ.”

“The pain of death may break one’s body and mind, but a true Sith does not need these things to hold onto the Force, nor to use the Force to cling onto life. This dead Sith may exist in corporeal form, through borrowed materials, such as flesh and metal. Or, a more powerful Sith may exist in incorporeal form, through pure emotion.”

“ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ. ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇ.”

“The corporeal dead Sith must maintain his materials. The incorporeal dead Sith must maintain his emotions. A moment of distraction would end everything. He is vulnerable. He waits to be awakened.”

“ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ…”

Quickly, Maul corrects himself: “No, he acts. He finds a host and conquers him.”

“ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ…”

“He -- is not vulnerable? ... He is not vulnerable. A true Sith can maintain this altered state indefinitely.”

“ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ. ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴜɴᴋᴇ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴏʀʏ ᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴄᴀʙʀᴇ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɴɪᴄꜱ.”

“... What?”

“ᴜɴᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ.”

Sixjee remotely activates the spikes sewn into the high tan-colored collar of Maul’s training robe; the spikes glow with a matching purple and spark with energy. Maul braces for the pain and takes it without flinching.

“ᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ. ᴍᴀᴛʜᴇᴍᴀᴛɪᴄꜱ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɪᴏʀ ᴀɴɢʟᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʜᴇxᴀɢᴏɴ?”

“Seven hundred twenty.”

“ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ. ᴇxᴘʟᴀɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ.”

“The sum of the measures of the interior angles of a shape is a hundred eighty times the number of sides minus two.”

“ᴜɴᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ–”

“And the number of sides minus two is –” Maul holds up his hands in a moment of panicked inarticulation -- “in parentheses.”

“ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ. ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇ.”

“So a hundred eighty times -- in parentheses -- six, minus two -- close parentheses -- is -- a hundred eighty times four -- which is -- seven hundred twenty.”

“ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ. ᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ. ʜɪꜱᴛ–”

Three dull white streaks pass over the terminal. Its softly glowing green numbers -- so briefly -- flicker.

It is the moment Maul was waiting for, the reason he chose this spot. Sixjee’s programming is powerful, and she controls everything in this Temple. She has kept every exit blocked, every window sealed.

But -- if his master had deleted the History routine of Sixjee’s programming -- and if he had neglected to delete the routine that requires Sixjee to test on what she taught that week -- then the two commands would contradict each other -- which would require Sixjee to prioritize the two -- and -- if -- Maul forced her to work through a terminal which was especially old and neglected -- and if he had given it a good beating while he waited -- not enough to cause suspicion, but enough to -- slow it down -- if all these things had come together, and if he was lucky -- then she might be -- for a moment -- preoccupied.

And she is. For a tiny, perfect second, the screen buzzes quizzically: a high note turning up, like a question, or a hook in a song.

He ignites his lightsaber during this pause and smashes the weapon through the window. He pulls his blade out -- a drop of molten glass strikes his lap -- and he stabs the window again, shattering it. He slithers through the hole and leaps out the tower. As he falls, he tears off the training robe and flips into a perfect dive. His naked entry into the tumultuous water causes the barest of splashes.

* * *

Maul generally receives "Acceptable" on verbal tests, but "Good" or even "Very Good" on physical ones. He has been pushing himself exceptionally hard in Swim for the past month: using the Force to hold his breath for increasingly absurd amounts of time; filling up the Temple pool with acid and toxins, extreme heat and extreme cold to harden his skin against the unknown variables of the wild sea; practicing with holovids of the Sith’s most accomplished swimmers -- fish-aliens, species he has never seen before, some extinct, many quite lovely to behold -- if only they could talk back.

The Huntt’awn sea is dark and cold -- not that cold, though -- and it fights to pull Maul to death just as fiercely as Maul fights to live. He keeps nothing but his lightsaber, which he holds tight in his right hand, unignited. He does not need its light to see the churning slime and racing rocks in this dead water. He dives deeper to escape the sea’s movement, and he swims for minutes at a time, heading purposefully in the direction of the other building. When he finally reaches his limit of breath, he steels himself, fights back through the currents to the surface, breaks through to gulp more air, then hurries again into the peace down below.

At first he uses only his connection to the Force as a compass, but as he draws closer to the building, he hears it calling to him, singing a whispering song in his head, and he switches his focus onto that, trusting in the building, hoping that it does not deceive him. He does not think it will. He thinks it wants him, far more desperately that he wants it.

After swimming around a jagged coral reef, he finally finds a way through without getting cut up too badly. He emerges from the waters onto a small bed of tidepools, the home of tiny lethargic creatures who suck at his feet. He walks across the disgusting beach, eyes caught on the building ahead of him. It does not look that remarkable -- top-heavy towers, rusted antennae, overblown buttresses -- but Maul is well into the habit of seeing beyond the physical; he sees with the Force.

There is something in there -- something for him, something waiting for him.

The left half of the lawn is overgrown with thorny nestles, but the right half is well-trimmed. Maul notices two droids sitting on either side of the front door. The droid on the right is curled into a fetal position in a stone recharging chamber. The droid on the left is cut in half.

Shivering in the slight breeze, he approaches the door. He glances at the still-functional droid for permission, or, better, welcome, but the droid does not move.

“Rude,” Maul says, under his breath.

He pushes the door open; it obeys with a loud creak. He shuts it behind him, happy to be out of the chill.

At his presence, rows of neglected lights ignite with a grumpy whine. After so long in the dark, Maul flinches at the lights, though, fortunately, dust in the air and floor dulls their splendor. He looks around, hugging himself with wet, red arms, his saber digging into his side.

The room is a foyer, and the walls are lined with ancient oil-holo-combo portraits of Siths -- old, crusted, universally ugly faces. They do not hold the young man’s interest.

The thing he felt, calling to him, singing to him, is not here ... not with the old guys.

He steps forward, dripping on the hard floor. These Temples are supposed to serve him. He is a living Sith, even if he’s only a student; he deserves their respect. If his master were here, the Temple would welcome him.

“... I’m ... freezing my ass off! Hello! ... I’m a Sith! Do something!”

The portraits on the walls seem to frown deeper, but that’s probably all in his head.

Then a droid built into the wall unfolds one spindly leg. The leg takes several shaky tries to get a grip on the floor. Maul gives it a couple seconds, snarls, and gives it a hand. The droid unfolds four more legs from its perch, pops its upper body out and scuttles free. It nearly trips, but Maul steadies it. The droid says nothing, but it skirts along the wall to another panel, and carefully inputs a code. Maul watches and memorizes it, since he probably will have to do this himself in the future. The panel scrapes open and reveals a rack of handsome, heavy robes. The droid flops over, exhausted. Maul kicks it, and it shatters into two pieces.

“Lots of hype over this junk,” Maul mutters.

Maul grips the rack and yanks it further out of the wall. The robes are lined with rich brown fur, which glistens in the dim light. He has never felt anything so soft. The rack also contains leather belts, dress shoes, and under clothing of luxurious quality. He dries himself with one suit and dresses in another, and selects the belt which has the best grip for a double-bladed lightsaber.

Maul does not pick the fanciest robe -- first of all, because it looks ridiculous -- and secondly, it is surely enchanted to repel non-Masters. It’s not worth the effort. Even the plainest robe on this rack is beautiful, after all. This must have once been a place for parties.

Buttoning the silk cuffs on his sleeves, he walks back across the foyer. His stomach rumbles. He brought nothing to eat, of course. Snacks are for Jedi. He knows how to starve; he always gets top marks in it. Nonetheless, a light brightens over a side door in response to the tiny noise.

Through the door, he sees a hall lined with interesting weapons and taxidermied beast heads in various stages of disintegration. There is an enormous round table set with at least fifty chairs. The table is black, thick, and somehow, no dust has settled on it; instead, the dust has rolled off and accumulated in a large ring around the sides.

He stares at the table and waits for servants to fill it with food. But there are no robots to be seen. There aren’t even any side doors to kitchens. Something is familiar about this table...

His insides churn up. He remembers this thing. Or one very like it. It is a Blood Bounty table -- there was one in the Nal Hutta Temple. His master made him bleed on it, back when he was little more than a baby. His pure, sinless blood produced rare, hearty meat for the two of them to eat. It is an awful memory, but not so awful that it has left him, as he knows other memories have.

And now he feels curious as to the quality of his current blood.

How many people have I killed since then? My first kill was but a few days following that. And now it has been ten years.

He starts counting on his fingers, trying to recall them in order. He counts only organic, sentient life, but he makes an exception for a few droids who had particularly strong personalities.

...Twenty six. No. The Huttling last winter. Twenty seven. Is that all? It seems like so much more.

He knows he cut up his leg on the coral, but that open wound is too well-dressed to access now. So he makes a new cut; he brings his hand up to his sharpest horn and cuts the fleshy part of his palm. It goes against every instinct, but hunger and curiosity compel him. He presses his bloody hand to the table. The surface sucks up the black blood, then keeps sucking at his wound -- he lets it go at it for a minute, as a plate appears before his eyes, and starts to pile up with food -- garnishes of a red leaf he has never seen before -- some sort of white mineral, like salt, but -- not -- and the main course, a slice of meat, a bit over an inch thick, half the length of his hand.

He remembers what his master said: Blood Bounty tables want innocent blood. They were using an old, kidnapped Jedi Temple Guardian’s blood until his master made Maul bleed instead. The Guardian’s blood made very poor meat, almost inedible -- or maybe it didn’t make meat at all -- Maul can’t remember.

But the food the table makes now, from his far-from-innocent blood, is not bad at all. Maul had been expecting charred bacon, at best. Twenty-seven murders, twenty-seven dead, and he is still “innocent” enough to produce such a nice cut of meat?

Is it because he is just fifteen? But -- twenty-seven dead!

Maul lifts his hand; it twitches pathetically from the pain and blood loss. He balls it up and puts it in his warm, fuzzy pocket; he checks for booby traps, then sits at a knight’s chair and eats the food with his other hand. The meat is a little overcooked, but all meat is for him; he would rather have everything raw. It does not taste as delicious as he remembers that other Blood Bounty feast, but it is still good. He sops up some of the salt-like mineral, and eats that. He wonders if it is native to his home planet, and that’s why it is unfamiliar to him. He tries to let his taste buds reawaken memories. But the flavor is completely foreign to him.

Satisfied, he exits the dining hall, his stomach full and his hand aching, his head spinning with questions. He opens the large doors at the end of the foyer, and he sees an enormous room with a vast collection of holocrons. There are holos lining dozens of shelves, and artifacts on display all around. He’s never seen so many. There was a room a bit like this in the Temple on Telos, but it was not at this scale. Just as his eyes adjust to the pleasant darkness, chandeliers above detect his presence and hum to life. He scowls in annoyance at the lights.

A terminal in front of him clicks a few times and awakens. Text appears on the screen, written in the sacred Sith language, which was enchanted long ago to never change, nor even develop dialects -- frozen in life, the better to unite an empire. Maul, of course, can read and speak it quite well, but the fuzziness of the old tech still makes comprehension difficult.

“𝔊𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰, ℌ𝔬𝔫𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔖𝔦𝔱𝔥.”

“Hi.”

The screen is blank for a few moments.

“𝔑𝔞𝔪𝔢?”

“Darth Maul.”

“𝔐𝔬𝔩.”

“No, M-A-U-L. As in, to maul.”

The computer is not familiar with the modern verb, but it corrects its phonetic spelling to Maul’s idiosyncratic one.

“𝔐𝔞𝔲𝔩.”

“Yeah.”

“𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯?”

“He will be along. You answer to me.”

“𝔙𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩. 𝔖𝔱𝔲𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔪𝔬𝔡𝔢 𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡. 𝔉𝔲𝔩𝔩 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔥𝔦𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔡.”

“Oh. Great.”

“ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔪𝔞𝔶 ℑ 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔭 𝔶𝔬𝔲?”

“What is this place?”

“𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔦𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔯𝔶 𝔬𝔣 ℌ𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔱’𝔞𝔴𝔫. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔩𝔞𝔯𝔤𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔖𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔩𝔦𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔯𝔶 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔞𝔩𝔞𝔵𝔶.”

“A library? That’s what everyone has been talking about?”

The screen is blank.

“I thought this was ... some kind of ... social area. Are there -- were there any parties here?”

“𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔯𝔶 𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔄𝔫𝔫𝔲𝔞𝔩 𝔖𝔦𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢. 𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔞𝔫 𝔄𝔖ℭ 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔡 𝔦𝔫 1,547 𝔶𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔰.”

“Oh, a conference. How exciting.”

The screen is blank.

“...Is there anyone here?” Maul asks, desperately.

“𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔬𝔫?”

“Are there any people? Living, breathing people?”

“𝔑𝔬.”

“Is there any way to contact any living people here?”

“𝔄𝔠𝔠𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔥𝔦𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔱𝔲𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰.”

After a pause, Maul hits his head on the terminal. “I would kill you if you could feel it.”

The screen is blank.

He stands up straight again. “What may I access here, Computer?”

“𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔞𝔶 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔞𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔲𝔪.”

“Good. Great.”

“𝔐𝔞𝔶 ℑ 𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔦𝔫 𝔩𝔬𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫?”

“What kind of information is there?”

“𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔱’𝔞𝔴𝔫 𝔏𝔦𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔯𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔢𝔵𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔳𝔞𝔦𝔩𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔖𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔶, 𝔭𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔰, 𝔰𝔠𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔠 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔠𝔥, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔡. 𝔒𝔲𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔢𝔠𝔱.”

Maul tuts. “Sure.”

The screen is blank. Maul looks over it at the shelves.

There is so much.

It is his history. His people’s history. It did not spring from his own grace, nor from his master’s. It was here first. It is their foundation. It is more than pain. It is ... something. It is not nothing. And his master has no interest in it. His master said to ignore it. There is nothing here his master wants to preserve, nothing.

But something here is calling to him, Maul.

“... Where are your records on ... Iridonia?”

“ℑ𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔞. 𝔖𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔬𝔯 43, 𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔣 11.”

Tiles under Maul’s feet glow, illuminating the way. He takes a step, but more text flashes on the screen.

“𝔐𝔞𝔲𝔩.”

“Yes?”

“𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 ’𝔪𝔶’ 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰. ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔲𝔱𝔢𝔯. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰.”

The screen blanks. Maul stares at it.

“... That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

The screen is blank.

“Thank you.”

The screen is blank. He leaves it, and follows the lights to Sector 43, Shelf 11.

Irascus, Darth.

Ireajak [weapon].

Ireajak [colony].

Iria the Bloody, Duchess.

Iridonia.

The section on Iridonia, the homeworld of his species, is far bigger than anything around it. The shelves are packed tight with holocrons slotted together, pyramids between pyramids, top to bottom. The labels are overwhelming; Maul does not know where to look first. He walks a few feet down the hall, and sees a row of artifacts between the holos.

The sight moves him deeply. The artifacts are matching small jars, no more than two inches tall. Each contains a set of baby horns.

He has a set just like this. Or his master does. Somewhere on Naboo...

He touches one. A Zabrak grew these, from their own head, a baby Zabrak who became a great Sith Lord. Darth Willog -- these dates come from over six thousand years ago. They must have been preserved. They will be here forever.

He moves the jars carefully around until he finds the M’s on a lower shelf. Madrin. Maggill. Mattear. Maver. He makes a space for another jar between Mattear and Maver.

He stands back up and looks at the jar at eye level. The horns are especially white, but with beautiful, natural brown stripes. He didn’t know horns could look like that. The label says Darth Sudette. And next to that -- Sunke.

Sunke. His damn “Macabre Photonics” got me tortured today. And he was one of us! A Zabrak!

Maul glares at Sunke’s horns. It wasn’t fair of Sixjee to put Sunke on the test. Sunke wasn’t even in any of the books. He feels those six wounds on his neck from the torture spikes, nearly two months of training in that awful tan suit. He puts his finger on top of Sunke’s jar and tips it forward. It falls and shatters on the ground.

What do Macabre Photonics have to do with life after death?

He feels goosebumps on the back of his neck. It is that song that called him here.

It is not something. It is someone. There is someone here, in this room. He can feel it. A person, a real person -- dead? -- dead, maybe, but -- real -- death is not death for a real Sith. Macabre Photonics -- whatever they are -- and life after death -- and this person wants him, Maul, wants him badly -- or maybe he wants them. Yes, he always has. He’s never been so sure of anything.

“Macabre Photonics,” Maul says out loud.

Lights below his feet guide him to the scientific section of the library, a fair walk away. Darth Sunke’s extensive works line up an entire fifth of a shelf.

One holo, in the midst of it all, stands out so starkly to him that for an eerie, empty moment, it seems to be the only thing that exists in the galaxy.

A word glows red on its side: Zaster.

#my story #my art #through a blackened mirror #darth maul #sheev palpatine #scifi #fairytale #cw abuse

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zargsnake · 2 years

Photo

A Little Madness

Word Count: 3302

* * *

A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King, But God be with the Clown -- Who ponders this tremendous scene -- This whole Experiment of Green -- As if it were his own!

-- Emily Dickinson

* * *

“Lauren? Lauren? Call me Bogie.” “Why?” “Because they belong together. Lauren and Bogie.”

-- A Little Romance

* * *

There is something standing on the edge of the field, just past the ornate white gate, and only Rubi Alinabu can see it. A shadow. He can’t remember exactly when he started to see it, but he knows it has been months.

Whenever he looks at it directly, it disappears. But when he goes home from practice, it lingers in his head. In his dreams. Thinking about it -- whether by his own decision or because he is compelled, he doesn't know -- doesn't make the picture any clearer, but it does make him more curious.

It's getting so that all he wants to do all day is Nabooball practice, and once he's there, all he wants to do is to finally catch a real glimpse at that whatever-it-is in the south-east corner. Weekends, which have no afterschool practice, start to become unbearable. The thing only appears outside the school field, never the field in his neighborhood.

And somehow this terrible distraction hasn't taken away from his performance; in fact, he has risen to be the best player on his team. Not long ago, that was all he wanted. Now all he wants is this dark thing.

One ordinary, middle-of-the-week day just as practice finishes, Rubi looks over at its corner as casually as he can, ready for his heart to sink in disappointment, and it doesn’t. He sees it. As if it was a real thing this time. A dim black shape. And something bright red on the white gate -- fingers.

Rubi is struck with terror. He looks around at the other boys, but no one else reacts. He tarries until the others have gone into the locker room, then he crosses the field toward it -- him -- them? -- her? -- at first at a sprint, then, when he sees the fingers more clearly, at a nervous pace -- then the fingers beckon him, and he sprints the rest of the way.

Rubi stands on the other side of the gate from the thing. He is a head taller than it. As a Nabooball player, he normally towers over everyone, but he hadn't expected this meeting to be normal. He squints to see what’s within that hood, until the red fingers suddenly lift the hood up and reveal its face. It is way scarier than he ever imagined, red and black stripes in what look like meaningful patterns, yellow eyes, a crown of small dark horns. But the shape of its head, its bearing, its features, make him think it's a him, a boy his age.

“Are you a devil?” the strange boy asks.

Rubi had not expected such a dignified voice.

“... You're asking me if I’m a devil?”

“Precisely,” the alien almost whispers.

“No, I'm a human. You are the one who ... uh …”

“Oh no, devils look exactly like humans, just exceptionally beautiful ones. They were the native people of Malachor, until a war between two invading forces drove them out. Now they live among us, undetectable. Fighting the lost battle for the night.”

Rubi leans on the gate. He puts his own hand on his side of the gate and looks, bemused, at the peculiar creature.

“Is this ‘cuz I'm Black?”

The alien furrows his brow -- it's weird, but not difficult, to read the expressions on his face, once you are used to it.

“No. Come on. Malachor had a rich and complex environment, and devils have every standard human pigmentation.”

“Sure they do, friend.”

The strange alien puts both his hands on the gate, on either side of Rubi’s.

“Did you miss the part where I called you exceptionally beautiful?”

“No, I got that.”

Rubi follows those yellow eyes as they search his face.

“People call me a devil. But I'm only a Zabrak. My people aren't nearly as powerful and interesting as devils.”

“Have you ever met one?”

“No.”

“Maybe they're not all they're cracked up to be.”

“Maybe not.”

“You seem pretty powerful and interesting to me. Lurking here after school, watching me play. Invisible, but not invisible.”

“Thank you. I'm pretty good at that trick.”

The strange boy’s form is completely covered by his black robe. Truthfully, his face and hands are frightening enough; Rubi knows he shouldn’t want to see anything more.

“It was very rude of you to watch me, without even introducing yourself.”

“Rudeness is the least of my flaws.”

“Well? Are you sorry?”

“Very.” The alien reaches through the gate. “Hego. Hego Revan.”

“Rubi Alinabu.” Rubi shakes the boy’s offered hand.

“Rubi Alinabu,” Hego repeats, as if rolling a delicious treat around in his mouth.

“Thanks for finally, uh, appearing, Revan. You've been driving me mad.”

Hego leans his forehead against the gate. His horn hits it with a sharp knock. “You're welcome, Alinabu. May I continue appearing?”

“Can I really say no?”

To Rubi’s surprise, the question seems to strike Hego, who looks away for a few moments.

“Yes. If you really want me to go away, I'll go.”

“Somehow I don't believe that.”

Hego frowns. “I will! I'll go right now!”

“No, wait. Stay. I don't want you to go.”

The Zabrak smiles widely. He has normal teeth. Rubi smiles back.

“Can I see you somewhere?”

Hego sighs.

“I don't know. My master is very strict.”

“I'll skip practice.”

After a pause, Hego says, “Meet me here tomorrow.”

Rubi blinks and, in that split second, Hego disappears.

* * *

The next day, Rubi leaves his final class as early as he can to be the first one on the field. He goes to the spot where Hego was -- he isn't there. Rubi looks around nervously, since he doesn’t want the others to arrive and see him and ask him why he's not changing into uniform.

He sees a black piece of paper caught under the gate. He tugs it out. The note is tied to a red rose with a black ribbon and sealed with a wax stamp in the shape of a spiked circle.

Seriously? A rose?

Rubi opens the note.

“I changed my mind. It's too open here. Meet me in Lightning Woods. Yours, Hego Revan.”

He would have to be absolutely crazy to go meet this eerie boy by himself in a forest.

His feet carry him there, nevertheless. His mind races.

The woods are so named because something in the magnetism under the surface draws lightning there with unusual frequency. As a result, more than half the trees are charred and dashed. Even on a beautiful, cloudless day like today, the forest seems to simmer.

Rubi walks on the path, holding his note. Several yards in, he sees another rose lying on the ground, pointed into the trees. He follows its direction. Not long after he has lost sight of the path, he finds Hego sitting on a log made of petrified wood.

When Hego sees Rubi, he drops his hood again. His robe is open, and Rubi notices that he is wearing a plain yellow outfit that looks like the kind he has seen Jedi wear in pictures in history textbooks.

“Hi,” says Rubi.

“Hello,” says the alien.

Rubi looks over his shoulder, then approaches the other boy and sits next to him on the log. "Does anyone know you're here?” asks Rubi.

“No,” answers Hego with affected casualness. “You?”

“No.”

“Look at us, organizing things, like we're some kind of grown-ups.”

Rubi speaks with a stern voice in the vain hope that it will stamp out Hego’s sarcasm.

“Who is your master, Revan? Are you going to get in trouble?”

“He thinks I'm sleeping.”

“In the middle of the day?”

“He keeps an odd schedule. The sun means nothing to him.”

“Aren't you tired then?”

“No... I have learned to transcend sleep. He hasn't realized I've mastered it.”

“Transce--?”

The shorter boy snarls. “Enough about me! I'm boring! Tell me about you!”

“What about me?”

“Rubi is short for something, isn't it?”

“How did you know?”

“I just had the feeling you weren't being completely honest with me.”

Rubi snorts. “Well, I guess. It's Rubefimus. But no one ever calls me that.”

Hego wrinkles his nose. “I can see why.”

“Rubefimus is my father's name. I'm just Rubi.”

Hego appears inordinately confused.

“Your father gave you his own name?”

“Yeah? That's pretty common. Have you never heard of that?”

“That is so narcissistic.”

“It is. You have no idea.”

“Tell me.”

“He wants me to be just like him. A philosopher for the king.”

“What does a philosopher do?”

“Oh, read great books, think great thoughts. Teach. Write. ‘Make Naboo worthwhile.’”

“Bloody hell. Pardon me while I yank my own horns out.”

“Do they come out?”

“Of course not. They're part of my skull. -- Touch them.” Rubi hesitates. “Go on, Alinabu.” Hego takes Rubi’s hand and brings it to one of his horns. Rubi feels it; it's warm, and boney, and quite sharp.

“Can you feel me feeling it?” asks Rubi.

“A little…I think. Maybe I'm imagining.”

Rubi traces the skin just around the horn. Hego catches his breath and stamps one of his small feet.

“Are you okay?”

Hego’s voice is husky. “Yes… Do that again.”

Rubi has looked upon the other boy’s face so much now, and seen so many expressions, that it doesn't remotely scare him anymore. Even these horns are not scary -- apparently they are quite sensitive.

He asks, in a lower voice, “Are you sure you're okay, Hego?”

Hego shakes his head slowly. “No.”

Rubi feels scared, but in a new way. He looks away from Hego’s yellow eyes, and back at his horns, and touches another horn, on the opposite side of his head. Hego swings a leg across the log so he is facing Rubi. He kisses him.

Rubi has never kissed a boy, much less an alien.

Maul has never kissed anyone.

Rubi lifts up his hand in surprise, then he lowers it again, and keeps feeling the horns. After everything that's happened these past two days, the most surprising thing has to be how soft this mysterious creature's lips are. Hego stops kissing him abruptly.

He mutters, as if to himself -- the voice of someone who has talked to himself every day of his life, since he had no one else to talk to: “My feelings will betray me… My master will sense them.”

He pauses, then kisses Rubi again.

Rubi moves his face away from him and takes his hands off Hego's horns. “What? Your master?” The alien tries to kiss him again but Rubi dodges away. “Are you in trouble? Am I in trouble?”

“... No … No, he thinks I'm asleep. He wouldn't know. He couldn't. Oh please don't stop, Rubi.”

“Not if some Jedi is going to pop in over here and smite us.”

Hego reels back. “Jedi?! No! We are no Jedi! We are Sith!--” His eyes widen and he throws his hand over his mouth. “Damn me to hell…”

“What in the world is a Sith?”

“Forget it -- Can you forget it? -- Oh damn, damn... I'm such a fool…” Hego covers his face with both red hands -- and the next moment his hands are on either side of Rubi’s face. “Hold still. Don't fight. Please, I beg of you, you must.”

“Stop!”

“I'm just going to take out that memory. It's for your own safety. Please don't fight me.”

Rubi feels like ice is dripping across his brain. He yelps in surprise and fear, but then a cozy blissfulness overtakes him. He blinks and sees Hego staring at him with a strange new intensity.

Maul has shifted back to his previous position, legs on one side of the log, hands on his knees.

“It is. You have no idea.”

“Tell me.”

“He wants me to be just like him. A great philosopher for the king.”

“What does a philosopher do?”

“Oh, read great books, think great thoughts. Teach. Write. ‘Make Naboo worthwhile.’”

“I'd rather -- er -- Pardon me while I yank my horns out of my head.”

“Do they come out?”

“No. They're part of my skull. Touch them.” Hego brings Rubi's hands to his horns, waits for Rubi to get into them again, then kisses him once more, better this time.

Rubi feels, on top of everything else, a sense of déjà vu that makes him think this kiss was destined to happen. He can't explain why this feels so right. But he can explain why it feels so fun. They kiss until Rubi stops them.

“Well, then… Black, gay, and into aliens. The real world just got a lot meaner.” He smiles sadly at his new acquaintance.

Hego’s red hands are in Rubi's black hair, his eyes flickering around Rubi's handsome face, and he speaks in a soft voice.

“The world isn’t real... There's this thing lurking behind it all, tying everything together, controlling everything that happens. Everything you see and feel is mere illusion. Fleeting. Puppetry. The only thing that’s real is our own desires... The lurking thing controls everything else. Sometimes, if you try hard enough, you can claim some small power over it. But it takes no effort to feel desire. And no terrible Force controls your own feelings.”

Stroking Hego Revan’s horns with one hand, Rubi moves his other hand down his back. He is curious if Zabraks have any other horns, but he can't really tell underneath all this fabric. “You're a lot of things, Hego, but you're not boring… But keep intellectualizing this and I will pull your horns out.”

“Please try!” Hego crawls up onto Rubi’s lap so his damn tall face isn't so hard to reach. They carry on for a few more minutes while the trees around them hiss and spark with suppressed lightning, until Hego stops abruptly.

“I must go.”

“When can I see you again?”

“I'll reach out to you.”

“That's not fair.”

“I'm sorry. That's the way it has to be. Goodbye, my prince.”

In a blink, he disappears right off Rubi's lap.

* * *

The next day, the final day of the school week, there is no shadow watching Rubi at Nabooball. He hasn't been without it for so long, and suddenly he finds the sport much more difficult. The next day is the weekend, and Rubi is even more miserable now at the prospect of missing that shadowy presence.

The following week, Hego Revan doesn't appear at all.

Rubi's coach and teammates are angry that he is slacking; his family is concerned that he is so unhappy; his teachers and friends fill his days with fruitless chores and stupid tasks. It's like Hego said: only your desires are your own -- everything else is someone else’s.

Rubi has to stop himself from doing something rash, like quitting the team, or ditching homework to search the Lightning Woods full-time. It's dangerous to go off the path at all, and Rubi is not used to danger.

He can't tell anyone, not only because he fears Hego's mysterious master and what he might do to his friends, but because he doesn't know how to explain the story to others. All his decisions seem so foolish from the outside, and he just doesn't know how to say he kissed a boy, he kissed an alien.

The only thing he has to explain are the cuts on his hands that Hego’s horns accidentally caused. He hadn’t even noticed them, but his mother did. He lies to her that it was a stray dog.

They build a second gate around the school.

Two weeks. His feelings start to move into the stages of grief. He wonders if it was all a dream.

The weekend passes, as does the first day of a third week. Rubi lies in bed, sleepless -- but not because of Hego, for once. He's worried about a math test tomorrow.

He holds his study sheet in front of him and mutters formulas. He wishes his boredom would overpower his anxiety and just let him sleep.

He hears a thud outside. He ignores it. A rustling, louder and louder. He recites a difficult calculation, and even now, five hours before the test, he has absolutely no idea how B proceeds from A. Knocking on his window.

He sits upright. A hooded face peers through his window. He jumps out of bed and slides open the glass.

“Hego!! What are you doing?” Ruby whispers.

Hego is clinging onto the vines outside his window. “What does it look like? Let me in.”

Rubi holds his arms to Hego, helps him inside, and shuts the window behind him. Hego embraces the boy and starts to kiss him again. Rubi pushes him off.

“You can't do this to me. It's not fair. I was just starting to get over you.”

“I'm sorry. I had to be careful. My mas--”

“Yeah, yeah, your master, I get it.”

Hego balls his hands into fists. “No, you don't. You can't.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can't.”

Rubi narrows his eyes at him and shakes his head. “What do you want, Hego?”

The Zabrak’s voice is aching. “I want you.”

“I thought you said the only thing that is real is our desires. Why do you let anything else get in your way, if none of it is real?”

“Because my master has desires too. And they are greater than mine.”

“I can't do this, Hego. I'm sorry.” Rubi can hardly believe the words coming out of his own mouth. He has wanted to see Hego again so badly. “I can't be controlled by some crazy Jedi Master.”

Maul bristles. Being mistaken for a Jedi is a powerful turn-off.

Nevertheless, tears well up in his eyes.

“Rubi. I--I chose you. I've never dared to speak to anyone before.”

Rubi wonders how literally to take that. “What did you think would happen?”

“I don't know… That we would fall in love.”

Rubi is taken aback by his bluntness. “And then what?”

“... I don't know.”

The other boy’s tears make Rubi cry too. “I’m sorry for you, Hego. I’m sorry you can't get what you want. But if you are going to treat me like this, and let someone else control our lives, then I can't do anything else for you. And I just want you to go away.”

Maul allows some anger to seep into his voice. “I wish you would have just said that from the beginning.”

Some fear seeps into Rubi’s voice. “I'm sorry. I didn't know what would happen.”

The fear in Rubi's voice hurts. Maul tries to make his voice gentle again.

“May I kiss you one last time?”

Rubi sees in the dim reading light that, under Hego’s long robe, he has changed from the yellow Jedi outfit to a smart tunic and pants, a bright patriotic Nabooian blue with a soft flowery pattern. The latest fashion, the kind of thing the king's children wear to school, sharp brown boots with shiny buckles, purple gloves -- a few twigs and leaves from climbing up the vines. He looks nothing like a creepy shadow anymore. More like some foolish knight from a poem.

“No.”

Breathing heavily, Maul adopts the coldest mask he can muster. “You'll haunt me forever, Rubi.”

Rubi also takes a deep breath. “You'll haunt me forever, too.”

Maul nods. “Good. Maybe that's all I really wanted.”

“I hope so.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Hego.”

“Maul. It's Maul, not Hego Revan.”

“Maul?”

“Yes.”

“You were lying?”

“Obviously.”

“Maul what?”

“Just Maul.”

“Goodbye, Maul.”

Maul nods at him, turns, and climbs back out the window swiftly. Rubi dashes to the window, full of regret, the words to call him back, to beg him to leave his master, forming in his throat, but they remain trapped there, and he remains still there in the window frame, the salty air stirring on his face.

#my story #my art #a little madness #darth maul #rubi alinabu #star wars #scifi #romance

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zargsnake · 3 years

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maybe Vader someday later

#anakin skywalker #knightkiller: anakin and obi-wan's first adventure

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zargsnake · 3 years

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Leyr Burnridge and the Undead Star

Word Count: 3582 ⭐ bit.ly/UndeadStar ⭐ Romance

🌠 Playlist 🌠

A student writes a Cupid and Psyche story. Both he and his teacher grieve for someone who is still alive.

Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Word Count: 29,050 ⭐ Chapters: 16 ⭐ bit.ly/Knightkiller ⭐ Adventure

⚔️ Playlist ⚔️

Content warning: violence, gore

They've only known each other for a few months, but the young knight and his unusual Padawan already seem destined for trouble; their very first mission traps them in a Jedi-killing tournament.

A Little Madness

Word Count: 3302 ⭐ bit.ly/Alinabu ⭐ Romance

🌻 Playlist 🌻

The gate between the school and the woods is keeping out more than wild animals.

Through a Blackened Mirror

Word Count: 34,486 ⭐ Chapters: 6 ⭐ bit.ly/DreelaSage ⭐ Fairytale

⏳ Playlist ⏳

Content warning: abuse, homophobia, sexual abuse

If prophecies fail, languages die, and libraries crumble, what remains?

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zargsnake · 3 years

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Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Deleted Scene: Extended “Aboard the JON-Bori”

Word Count: 821 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

Chapter 14 was already the longest chapter by far (if you can believe it), so I cut out the second half of their conversation in a futile attempt to salvage the story’s pacing. This part is indulgent, but it still ties into the themes, and it’s lowkey my favorite part of the story.

* * *

Anakin feels a little uncomfortable, and disloyal, with Obi-Wan's words -- his assertion that he is his master, not Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan was not the one who freed him. Obi-Wan didn't speak to Watto and his mom. Anakin has grown to like Obi-Wan a lot, but he feels borrowed, like a library book. His true loyalty, his true master, is Qui-Gon, after all. He doesn't want to have to pick sides. He doesn't want them to be different. He wants Obi-Wan to be Qui-Gon. And if he behaves differently, Anakin doesn't want him to say so.

He knows that's foolish. But it's still what he wants.

Qui-Gon rescued Obi-Wan from the unmoored, diffident anxieties of puberty; he gave him things to do, things to think about, direction, confidence, purpose. Obi-Wan, when he was very young himself, was too bright to be happy, too ambitious to be satisfied with a sheltered Jedi child's lot in life, and too wise to be controlled by an imperfect system, no matter how fond of it he was. He was impressionable, vulnerable, and oppressively bored until Qui Gon changed everything.

But Obi-Wan’s rescue was nothing like Anakin’s. Obi-Wan's gratitude for Qui-Gon is not Anakin's devotion. Qui-Gon shaped Obi-Wan, but he dazzled Anakin.

Obi-Wan saw Qui-Gon as a man. He saw him fall; he saw him fail. Over years, he saw him be made a fool; he heard him make inaccurate guesses and tell jokes that fell flat. He questioned him constantly, and argued at any chance, skirting the line of impudence, testing his own powerful intuitions -- curious, usually; purposefully annoying, sometimes.

He felt, often, that he was right and his master was wrong. He rarely won arguments out loud -- Qui-Gon was not interested in debate -- but he won them all the time in his head.

His love for Qui Gon could not possibly be deeper or more real than it was. But it was not a blinding love. Obi-Wan knows his own cleverness, and he trusts his own gut. And now that he's a teacher himself, that natural independence forces him to walk straight, and not bend toward a path that he senses Qui-Gon may have, perhaps, taken.

Grief makes it hard to diverge from the dead man. He wants to be Qui-Gon, too. But he wants to be Obi-Wan more.

He feels completely confident that he will never diverge TOO much.

“Did Master Qui-Gon ... make mistakes?” asks Anakin.

“Of course he did.” Obi-Wan’s teacherly habit compels him to think of an example; it hurts too much to think of Qui-Gon's mistakes. “But he trusted in the Force, above all. That level of faith is ... not easy, not for me, anyway. Success, failure -- he did not see either outcome as his own, but as the will of the Force. Still I wonder, if he, not I, had been on the Comet with you, if he would have lost you as easily as I did. Faith alleviates guilt, but only if you are confident you did everything you could... You used all your potential. You were not distracted. Qui-Gon did not lose focus, and I'm afraid I do.”

“Master Qui-Gon was not greater than Master Juna. She lost Zlinky too.”

“That's true.”

Anakin swallows. “Knightkiller got me with a mind-trick. I obeyed her instantly.”

“Yes.”

“But then she tried again, when I was in a cell with Zlinky, to get me to walk to the arena. I didn't, that time.”

“You didn't obey her? You resisted?”

“Y-yes.”

“I felt you resist her, later, as well. When she commanded you to attack me... You did not go for your lightsaber, as Zlinky did.”

“No.”

“Do you know why?”

Anakin shakes his head.

“That's alright. This is dangerous territory. Very advanced. Did it hurt you?”

“What?”

“The mind-tricks. The two you resisted.”

“Uh... I don't know.”

How can I take care of him if he doesn't even know what hurts him?

“That's alright, Padawan. That's very impressive, that you were able to resist. I think, more than anything else, that that mental experience was the most draining for you.”

“... I guess so.”

“No wonder you look so pale. You'll be alright at the Temple.” Anakin nods. “Think of how safe it is. There is no way to hurt you there.”

Anakin puts his head in his arms. Obi-Wan is silent. He prodded enough information out of the boy. He could tell there was plenty on his mind. He hopes one day soon Anakin will be confident and articulate enough to bring these things up on his own.

Obi-Wan cannot suspect that the opposite will one day be true -- that Anakin will come to him directly, with worries, with nightmares, with wishes, and Obi-Wan will be the one who shuts him down, mocks and dismisses him, until Anakin shuts Obi-Wan out for good. For now, in this Bori, he wishes Anakin was more grown-up. All Obi-Wan really wants is a friend.

Chapter 15: Older and Wiser

#my story #deleted scene #knightkiller: anakin and obi-wan's first adventure #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #scifi #drama

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zargsnake · 3 years

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Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Chapter 16: Reprogramming

Word Count: 1755 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

Obi-Wan lands the Bori back at the Temple and, before he does anything else, takes Anakin back to his room so he can sleep. Obi-Wan attracts plenty of stares in the bloody death match armor with the garish logos, but he doesn't care.

“Shouldn't I come to the debriefing, too?” asks Anakin, as Obi-Wan tucks him in.

“No. I shall recount it all. I will tell them how brave and clever you were. Your place is here, now.”

Obi-Wan shuts the blinds in Anakin's room. Streaks of bright sunlight still creep in, but the warm, welcome darkness presses down like another blanket. Anakin watches his master hurry out, then shuts his eyes and quickly falls asleep. Obi-Wan senses this, and it relieves a great amount of stress from his mind. He orders a med-droid to attend to Anakin’s shoulder, then changes into something sensible, washes his hair -- without the Pothkrie shampoo -- and goes to see Tila and the Council.

Anakin dreams that he is the one in the death match uniform: the bulky, tan pads that don't look good on anyone -- but they look good on him. And instead of logos, his armor is covered in ancient, powerful runes, the kind only the wisest can read. He can read them, and they say his name. All around him, thousands of people chant “Skywalker!! Skywalker!!” just as they chanted “Kenobi!!” today, and “Spartak!!” years ago. He is tall, and strong -- taller, and stronger, than Obi-Wan or Crix. He waves and they cheer. He salutes and they cheer. He falls on his face, and they still cheer. He can do no wrong. They love him too much. Everyone loves him, but the only people who really matter are Obi-Wan and Padme.

Obi-Wan is old, with white hair, but the same smile. He sits in the chair that Anakin was tied to in Knightkiller’s arena, but he sits there by choice, to get a better view of his amazing student.

Anakin’s lightsaber is the same, but a yellow ribbon is tied around the end of it, just as Crix tied a piece of Anakin's mother's apron around his weapon when he went into battle.

Padme sits in the front row, in a balcony fifteen feet above the sunken arena. She wears a yellow dress, with yellow ribbons in her hair. Anakin leaps up, grabs the railing and swings onto the balcony. Everyone scatters like bugs from him as his powerful feet crash down and shake the whole structure -- everyone except Padme. She stands and rests her head on his great shoulder, and holds his giant hand, and he holds her with his other arm, and now there isn't anyone else. He's strong enough for her, old enough, good enough for her. Everything is for her.

He wakes up, and a face is seared into his vision, a face that puts a lump in his throat and a burden on his chest. But it isn't Padme's face, though he wishes it was -- it's Fenn Gallowk’s. He’s got to save him. He needs to, now, quick. What kind of hero is he, if he can't even save his own savior?

He activates the commlink that he keeps by his pillow.

“Master?”

“Yes, Anakin?”

“Where are you?”

“In the library.”

“Can I come?”

“Yes, of course.”

Anakin sits up and notices his arm has been numbed by painkillers and put in a sling. With his other hand, he quickly washes his face and combs his messy hair as he dashes to the library. It was daytime when he fell asleep; it looks like it's late at night, now. He’s never been out of his room so late. The Temple lights are dimmer; the night colors everywhere are so blue and green, eerie and alien compared to the warm colors of his apartment on Tatooine.

To assist Master Juna’s new mission, Obi-Wan was reading up on the history of death matches. “Hello, Anakin.” He puts the book down, adjusts the tilted collar on Anakin's robe and checks the sling. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Master, we've got to save Fenn Gallowk.”

“Yes, I know. But it isn't that simple. I've learned more about his master, the evil Senator Dinv. He has a lot of allies in the government, including the support of the Chancellor himself. He's hoodwinked them all.”

“Don't we have evidence against him?”

“Yes. Master Juna is compiling it now, with everything else Glagret sent her.”

“She must make that part top priority.”

“Anakin, it is not your place to determine a master's priorities.”

“We need to save him, now. I promised I would.”

“I don't like your tone, young man.”

“I -- I'm sorry.” He tries very hard to stop his tears, but he can't. “He's in danger.”

“I know. But think, Anakin. We must be careful. His master could kill him, if we act too hastily.”

“He c-could kill him if we act too slowly!”

“Hush.”

“He saved my life and yours. Don't promises m-mean anything to you?”

“I made a promise to Qui-Gon to make you a Jedi. That promise means everything to me.”

Obi-Wan's stern tone and words render Anakin silent. He stands there, shaking with guilt and fear.

“There is no emotion…” starts Obi-Wan.

“There is peace,” finishes Anakin in a quiet mumble.

“Gallowk will be freed, Padawan.”

“But when?”

“Master Juna is in charge of the project.”

“Can I ask her, then?”

“I'll ask her, on your behalf.”

“When?”

Obi-Wan wishes he had Qui-Gon's awe-inspiring confidence and decision-making. But he does not. He hesitates, and Anakin sees him hesitate. It feels awful.

“I'll ask her now.”

“I don't think she even knows about Gallowk,” says Anakin, trying very hard to speak without bitterness.

“No, perhaps not. I'll convey his situation to her.”

Anakin stares at him.

“Put this book away, won't you? I'll go find her.”

Anakin takes the book and reads the number on the spine. He tries to figure out what these library numbers mean as Obi-Wan takes his leave.

That could have been handled better... Blast it, Kenobi. I can't cave into his personal wishes like that. Ah, and I hurt his feelings by bringing up my promise to Qui-Gon. Everything I said was wrong. -- But more importantly, it is our duty to free that slave. -- I think I shall get him a job as a Guardian. He deserves a life of peace. I must look him up, and attach a face to his name in my mind.

Obi-Wan goes to Master Juna's room to deliver Anakin's message. She listens to him, but seems distracted. Obi-Wan looks pleadingly at the Padawan sitting in the corner of the room; the girl nods at him. Tila listens to Zlinky; she will make sure this Fenn that the humans care for is protected. Grateful and overwhelmed by it all, Obi-Wan leaves the aliens and goes back to the library, where he left his boy awkwardly waiting for him. Obi-Wan tells Anakin to go back to bed since it is late.

Anakin is not tired, but he obeys. He is hungry, but he doesn't say so. He lies in bed and thinks about his dream. It makes him feel so vile. That armor is evil, not honorable. The people in that chanting crowd are bloodthirsty criminals. And Padme... He will never be good enough for her. She is a queen, and he is not allowed.

No one has explicitly told him so, yet. But he suspected. And he overheard something about it, once, from older students. Jedi aren't allowed to get married. Just like slaves aren't allowed, unless they're bred. He had no idea. It is so unfair.

They give him food and freedom. Adventure. A wonderful, powerful teacher. Security. Purpose. Fun. He cannot complain about their rules. The rules must be important. He can't have a wife, or even a girlfriend, just as he can't have a mother. He trusts that that will make sense to him, one day. It makes sense to everyone else. It has to do with controlling their powers and keeping everyone safe.

But it doesn't matter. She could never love him, anyway.

* * *

Zlinkgwal sits in the corner of her master's room, with Jane in pieces all around her. She cleans and polishes each part, and she carefully unscrews the blasters and grenades from her hardware and sets them aside to be melted down into something useful to the Temple. It is highly dangerous work; Jane’s neglected explosives could go off and kill them all. Tila watches carefully, prepared to isolate anything dangerous with her powers in a flash.

With the rust and paint removed, Jane’s outer plating is quite beautiful, in Zlinky's opinion. But she fears she might be influenced by her affection for this droid.

Zlinky feels happy, if guilty, to take parts of Jane away. The droid will feel much lighter when she wakes up; hopefully she will like that. And Zlinky feels even happier to add parts onto Jane: a brand new memory core, blank except for routine Jedi programs of peace and security. This is the purpose Jane craved.

Zlinky’s dearest hope is that, when Jane wakes up, she'll still remember her ... and she won't be a completely different droid.

But if she is, it's for the best. The droid she used to be was evil. Jane has never been good; this is a lucky opportunity for her.

Zlinky installs the software into Jane's nerve-center that officially redubs her the name Zlinky negotiated from the Temple's chief engineer: Jedi Neutralizer-1. On the fresh, scannable label, Zlinky engraves Jane's new information:

ᴅᴇꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ᴊᴇᴅɪ-ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟɪᴢᴇʀ-1 [ᴊɴ-1] ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ: ᴜɴᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ʀᴇᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ: ᴄᴏʀᴜꜱᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴇᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴇɴɢɪɴᴇᴇʀ ꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ: ᴢʟɪɴᴋɢᴡᴀʟ ᴢᴀʟᴛ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍ: ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴄᴜʀɪᴛʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱꜱɪɢɴᴇᴅ ᴊᴇᴅɪ [ᴀᴊ]

She adds the rest of the basic programming into Jane's core, thought it is not engraved in the label:

ꜱʜᴜᴛᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ: ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀᴊ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ꜱʜᴜᴛᴅᴏᴡɴ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ: ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴍᴇᴅɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴀᴜᴛᴏᴍᴀᴛɪᴄ ᴍɪɴᴅᴡɪᴘᴇ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱʜᴜᴛᴅᴏᴡɴ: ᴏɴ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ᴀꜱꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ᴀᴊ-1, ᴀʟʟʏ-2, ᴄɪᴠɪʟɪᴀɴ-3, ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ-4, ᴇɴᴠɪʀᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ-5, ꜱᴇʟꜰ-6

ᴀʟʟ ᴊᴇᴅɪ ᴀꜱꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ “ᴀʟʟʏ” ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ “ᴀᴊ” ᴏʀ “ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ”

ᴀʟʟ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢꜱ ᴀꜱꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ “ᴄɪᴠɪʟɪᴀɴ” ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ “ᴀʟʟʏ” ᴏʀ “ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ”

ᴀʟʟ ɴᴏɴ-ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀɴᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴏʀ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀꜱꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ “ᴇɴᴠɪʀᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ” ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ “ᴀʟʟʏ” ᴏʀ “ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ”

ᴊᴇᴅɪ ᴅᴇᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱᴏꜰᴛᴡᴀʀᴇ: ᴇxᴛʀᴀᴘᴏʟᴀᴛᴏʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟɪʙʀᴀʀʏ ᴅᴀᴛᴀʙᴀꜱᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ᴀꜱꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ:

ᴀᴊ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-1.1, ᴏʙᴇᴅɪᴇɴᴄᴇ-1.2

ᴀʟʟʏ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-2.1, ᴏʙᴇᴅɪᴇɴᴄᴇ-2.2

ᴄɪᴠɪʟɪᴀɴ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-3.1

ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-4.1, ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ-4.2

ᴇɴᴠɪʀᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-5.1

ꜱᴇʟꜰ: ᴏʙᴇᴅɪᴇɴᴄᴇ-6.1, ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-6.2

ɪɴᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇᴏʀɢᴀɴɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ᴏꜰꜰ

#the end!#my story #my art #knightkiller: anakin and obi-wan's first adventure #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #zlinkgwal zalt #tila juna #jane #fenn gallowk #scifi #drama #epistolary

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zargsnake · 3 years

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Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Chapter 15: Older and Wiser

Word Count: 1533 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

As soon as Jane is turned off and plugged into the Bori's extravagant charging system, Zlinky throws off the upper parts of her armor. She realizes her emotions are getting the better of her actions and removes the rest of her armor more calmly. She looks at herself in the giant mirror in the Bori's main cabin. She adjusts her sweaty shirt, pulls her long dark hair out of its braids and combs it with her fingers.

“Master?”

Tila is sitting calmly at a holo screen. Glagret has started to discreetly transfer to her thousands of documents on the state of death matches: the big players and payers, locations, businesses, everything. Tila watches it flood in, calmly, humming disapprovingly at some of the famous names that whizz by. She knows this project will consume the next years of her life, and Zlinky’s as well. It fills her heart with pride, because she saw the horror of the sport herself, and now she will get to bring it to its rightful end. The prospect is thrilling, but, though Tila is not easily overwhelmed, the scope of this project does perturb her.

More than that, she wonders if Glagret herself will ever be able to return to the Order, to her home. For now, Glagret must stay where she is, deep inside the darkness, secretly leading it to its destruction. But she is a Jedi. In a good world, she will return. Tila trusts in the will of the Force, but she wants the old woman back, too.

However, when Zlinky addresses her, all her concerns about the sport, the darkness, and her old friend become second priority. She faces her Padawan immediately.

“Yes, my Padawan?”

Zlinky walks toward her master ... stands quite still ... and reaches out her bony claw. Tila takes it in her huge paw.

“I sense much sadness in you. Why? You saved us all.”

“But at a cost. I hurt people on my way back to you. Maybe even killed some of them.”

“‘Maybe?’”

“First I escaped my cell; I released the other prisoners in the way. The guards were armed; they were not. I fear for them.”

“You cannot control everything, Zlinky. You are not the Force. You gave them a chance to escape. You succeeded -- perhaps they did too.”

“The Force is stronger with me.”

“The Force is with everyone. And they also have their cunning and stealth.”

“Well, that's not all. After I stabbed a guard to escape him -- it was not fatal, I'm sure -- then I found Jane and repaired her. That's where the real trouble starts.”

“Trouble, yes, but also heroism.”

“I don't … feel heroic.”

“Hm. Many masters would advise you to always trust your feelings... I’ve noticed a lot of these masters are men, or humans. Even in the paradise of the Temple, we women, and we aliens, have it a little harder than they do.” Zlinky wrinkles her nose in distaste. “As a result, when we accomplish something, we don't appreciate it as we should. We doubt and question ourselves... Everyone feels doubt, but the human men tend to pretend they don't. And the rest of us let it drag us down. Despite what you may have read, or heard from our greatest teachers, you should heed the wisdom of me, your master, instead. Do not always trust your feelings. When you feel doubt, as you feel now, try to find where it comes from. Sometimes, many times, it comes from nowhere.”

Zlinky wipes her eyes. “Thank you, Master, but I'm not sure that doubt is what this is about. I feel guilty because I sicced Jane on four people. I took armor off of the first one. I took our lightsabers off two more. And I had to take out another guard because I accidentally told him I was a Jedi. When they fell, I reached out to them with my feelings, but I couldn't tell if they were alive or not. I feel awful, because if only I had repaired Jane better, I could have made her better at not killing. She's made to kill, and I didn't have the smarts to reprogram her all the way.”

“No. You have the smarts. Master Joj tells me you are excellent at robotics. All you lacked was the time. And that, again, was beyond your control.”

“B-but…”

Tila hands her a giant handkerchief which she had hidden in her robe. The girl lets go of her master's hand and blows her nose in the enormous fabric that goes past her elbows. “You see, it is your doubt. You doubt your skills in repair. But what you accomplished with what little you had is incredible. You fulfilled my vaulted expectations, as always.”

“But what about those four lives?”

“Even if they died, you must make peace with yourself. I was forced to end lives, too. You saw me. Six of them. And in our escape, more may have been lost. I know you acted with decorum and self-control. But you were in terrible danger. And you had great responsibility on your shoulders.”

“Yes…”

“Darkness comes from relishing in violence and pain. There is darkness in self-defense, too -- I don't deny it -- but it is only the darkness of balance, of necessity.”

“Is it suitable to categorize darkness like that?”

“Of course it is. There are shades of darkness and light. And everything depends on the angle you look from. My job is to be your beacon and your binoculars. And I say you behaved heroically.”

“Thank you… But are you sure you're not biased? I don't want to get off easy.”

Tila ruffles the fur around her neck in subtle annoyance. “I am sure, Padawan. I value our bond, but I would not lie to you. I am a teacher, not a parent.”

Zlinky is not remotely frightened of her master's annoyance. She finds it very charming, and she appreciates how seriously her master takes this. “That's a relief.”

Sometimes Zlinky wishes she had a younger master, like Master Kenobi -- she knows they are more fun, and have a fresher, more relatable understanding of schoolwork and teachings. But she loves her master too much to prefer anyone else. Older masters may not behave so by-the-book -- they may act strange and eccentric, and say things that would sound sacrilegious from a young master -- but their words come from a place of deeper wisdom. They are more trustworthy, and much stronger. And often kinder.

“Master, some of the older Padawans were saying…” Zlinky trails off.

“... What?” says Tila.

“Sorry, I... er ... were saying they think that sometimes Masters -- sit back or -- sit out on -- decisions, and -- fights, and -- that kind of thing -- and force their Padawans to do all the work, and to -- to get their hands bloody, so they can stay -- so they can stay -- pure.”

Tila’s voice is deeper and colder than before. “You think this?”

“No -- no I don't think this, I... I was just …”

“You were just ... ?”

“I just -- not you, Master, but -- well, I've never got my hands bloody before. I've never hurt others like that before…”

“No one's hands are bloody, young one, no hands in this ship, anyway. Why can't you appreciate how violent our enemy is?”

“I do. I do. But still I've never hurt anyone like that before. So I was just -- I was reminded of overhearing that conversation. A-and no I don't think you were -- purposefully -- sitting out -- of course you weren't -- but I -- well, since I've heard that, it's been my greatest fear.”

“That I would take advantage of you, for the sake of my own purity?”

Trembling, Zlinky clutches the giant hankie nervously. “Sort of... Yes.”

Tila harrumphs and sighs. She shuts her eyes, opens them slowly. “Your issue raises concern for me, Zlinky... This seems like something Padawans say to each other in fear, but no one brings up to their masters.”

“... Yes, I... I think so.”

“Hm... I do not like the sound of this fear. Not at all... Zlinky, in my experience...if ever this happened to me, to my students... It was certainly not intentional. If it ever happened...it was the result of unchecked privilege. However, indeed, I feel like I spend far more of my energy reigning in overzealous students. If ever I take even a moment aside to think, a headstrong student rushes in to save the day. This must be trained away from students.”

Zlinky nods.

“I think, nearly every time, this is the case, not some cruel plot. I cannot fathom a teacher using a student as you fear.”

Zlinky nods.

“... I think you are unique, Zlinky. You are not overzealous. You are exceptionally cautious. You are gentle... If I were a wicked teacher, you would be easy to boss around. But I am not. I have never had a student like you. But I will make you a great knight, as I have many others. Do not fear.”

Zlinky nods, wipes her eyes, and reaches out her hand for her master again. Tila takes it, and then Zlinky comes closer, and hugs her tight. Tila hugs her back.

Chapter 16: Reprogramming

#my story #my art #knightkiller: anakin and obi-wan's first adventure #zlinkgwal zalt #tila juna #jane #scifi #drama

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zargsnake · 3 years

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Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Chapter 14: Aboard the JON-Bori

Word Count: 2815 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

Tila approaches the first employee she sees, a hors d'oeuvres waiter holding a tray of cheese sticks.

“Take us to the docking bay, and give us a ship.”

“Aren't you the--” The waiter’s commlink beeps and she checks the message. “Ah... of... of course.”

She goes to put her tray down, but Obi-Wan stops her.

“We'll take that, thank you.”

He loads up the tray with a bunch of little sandwiches and fruit and holds it low for Anakin.

“Th-thank you, Master,” mumbles Anakin, wiping his eyes.

He picks up a sandwich and takes an inelegant bite. Zlinky takes a snack too; she is just as hungry as the humans, even if her alien stomach doesn't gurgle like theirs do. Obi-Wan takes the yucky-looking ones for himself, since he has to be the adult now. Tila isn't hungry, since she has three stomachs and only eats once a week.

The lounge waiter, in her apron and white cuffs, looks a bit out of place in the boisterous death match halls with their neon advertisements, loud music, and red spotlights. The battered, weary Jedi, on the other hand, fit right in. The group is joined, without explanation, by an armed guard.

The procession escorts them past hundreds of wandering people, who are all generally confused and pissed off. In the arena, the mandatory match was suddenly canceled, the house lights brought up, and the arena-lights dimmed down. Jwelth and Ash, the fighters, were taken backstage to the other gladiator rooms before either could win.

Ash wonders if the disruption was her fault, since she had lied her way onto the arena after she had picked the acid-blaster up off the ground. Did they find her out? Do they know she is not really the one who killed Chahlee Tiango?

When the Jedi enter the hangar, which is brimming with high-end spaceships -- beautiful yachts and fashionable sportships -- Tila turns to the waiter.

“Which ship is ours?”

“Uh…” The waiter checks her comm. “... Uh, Knightkiller says any--any ship you want.”

“Ah.” Tila pauses, then turns to the young one. “Master Kenobi, my knowledge of ships is a few decades old. Which should we pick?”

Obi-Wan turns to Anakin. “What do you think?”

Anakin immediately points at a small, yellow, asymmetrical vehicle. “That JON-Bori-4 is the fastest.”

“Good.”

A docking-bay worker locates the registered ID for the ship and transfers it to Tila and Obi-Wan. The kids walk ahead, licking their cheesy fingers, and Jane lurches along behind them on the last dregs of her battery-power.

“How did you know this one was the fastest?” asks Zlinky.

“Boris have hanrik-type engines, which use politons instead of qerderins. And the JON model is the newest. I mean, newest usually means fastest.”

“You just happened to know that?”

“Ships are my favorite thing. I always wanted to fly away from Tatooine.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Some people live in their ships. If your ship is good enough, you can stay up there forever. I don’t know why anyone would rather live in a house.”

Zlinky is staring ahead, focused on a quivering shaft of light, finding it difficult to think straight. Anakin walks under the hull, admiring it, hands held behind his back. He is shaking, a little. He begins to refocus on how badly his shoulder hurts. Across the hangar, someone drops something with a loud clang; Anakin jumps in surprise, hitting his head on the hull. To his relief, Zlinky does not notice. He looks behind her at the old, red droid. The glowing dots of the droid’s eyes are fading, nearly impossible to see now.

“Your Jane seems really nice.”

“I'd call her a lot of things before I call her nice.”

“ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪi҉i҉ ᴅᴏo҉o҉ɴᴇ ꜱᴏᴏᴏo҉m҉e҉ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘp҉o҉ɪn̶̨̙̜̘̞̪̦̯̒͑̔̈́̕͝ͅ...ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, ɢᴜᴀʀᴅ?” says Jane.

“No, you've been marvelous, Jane.” She puts a hand on the droid’s plating, which is becoming as cold as it was when she found her.

“Alright, you three, let's get on board,” says Obi-Wan, as he prepares himself for whatever in heaven could be stored in this reprehensible stranger's ship. He leads the others in.

Zlinky gets Jane settled in the main cabin and shuts her off to save her battery and quell her existential angst. The Jedi find the ship a little cluttered, but not as degenerate as Obi-Wan feared. They quickly destroy any trackers and prepare to depart. The humans, to no one's surprise, claim the cockpit.

Anakin sits in the copilot's chair, but he is not in the mood to help fly. Obi-Wan figures out the controls as Anakin figures out his seatbelt. The locked-down hangar doors open up for them, then close behind them, trapping everyone else on the space station.

Anakin gazes dully at a dancing girl toy on the dash. He opens the glove compartment and sees a strange glass jar. Obi-Wan looks away from space at what Anakin is doing. He recognizes the jar as a popular drug-use tool.

“Close that compartment, please, Anakin.” Anakin obeys. “This ship is not old, but it's already accumulated plenty of nasty bits and bobs. Don't touch anything.”

“Yes, Master.”

That's exactly what he told me when we first entered the Liberated Comet, thinks Anakin.

Anakin leans back in his seat, arms crossed, hands in his armpits, knees bouncing up and down. He is shaking all over.

That was so long ago. Before I saw Obi-Wan kill three people. Before I killed someone myself.

He shivers harder and harder.

Crix... Oh, Mom, if only you knew what I've done.

He pulls his hands from his armpits and covers his face.

I'd do it again.

Obi-Wan keeps Anakin in his peripheral vision, but he is focused on getting as much distance as possible between the space station and themselves.

After Knightkiller kidnapped them off the Comet, her station flew far away from Rodia. It's a relief for Obi-Wan’s internal map to finally be able to see, on these slick screens, where they have been this whole time. They are certainly in the Core, but still impossibly far from anything or anyone. He plugs in the coordinates for Coruscant; the computer recognizes them, of course.

The Jedi knight ponders the incredible vastness of space. Here they are, within lightyears of the most advanced civilizations, deep in the heart of Republic culture, and yet, because of the size of ... of it all, the death match station is as good as invisible, undetectable. A lightyear is a very, very long thing. How much else is there, out there, in here, right under their noses? What else lurks in the huge spaces between peaceful planets that Jedi frequent?

With the course set and hyperdrive activated, he spares more attention for his boy. His Outer Rim alien. No Jedi is from a planet as far away as Anakin's Tatooine. It is not just far -- its distance is almost incomprehensible. What secrets linger in the unfathomable space between Anakin's old home and his new one? What are the incredible chances that brought this remote lifeform into the galaxy's bullseye, into Obi-Wan's life?

“You're cold. Frightened,” says Obi-Wan.

“Y-yes.”

“We can't get too comfortable on this Bori, unfortunately. But we'll be back home very soon. In under an hour, I'd guess. You’ll be back in your bed.” He clicks through a few menus on the screen. “Computer says it is bright and sunny back home. A little windy. Real sun through your window -- focus on that. And I'll fetch a med-droid for your shoulder. Can you sleep, in the meantime?”

Anakin shakes his head. Obi-Wan looks around for a blanket, curtain, robe, anything, but he doesn't trust anything he sees.

“I'll be relieved to get out of this armor. They've got logos printed all the way down to my briefs.”

Anakin laughs skittishly. Obi-Wan realizes he is shaking a little, too. This is very strange. He considers himself a brave person. He isn’t the kind to quiver with fear. But the thought of Anakin getting hurt, Anakin in danger -- nothing has ever scared Obi-Wan quite so much.

That's no good. He's got to control THAT.

He examines his dirty armor to distract himself from the questions that come with these feelings.

“Well...this is awkward.”

“What?”

Obi-Wan points at a logo on his right elbow. “Krayb Utensils. The Temple gets our saber-clips from them.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Yes... Looks like we've got to boycott a lot more corporations than we already are.”

“No kidding.”

Obi-Wan points at his left hip. “United Pothkrie. They make my favorite shampoo.”

Anakin snickers.

“Don't trust any business, Anakin. Don't trust anything that uses money as its lifeline.”

“I don't, Master.”

“Good.”

“But we're -- we're going to do more than boycott, right?”

“Yes, Anakin. Much more. Every one of these companies is going down.” He points exuberantly at every logo down his arm. “The condemnation of the Jedi makes anything instantly and utterly illegal.”

“Are we… Can we… Can we really send all of those people to jail? There must be thousands of them. Including at least one Senator.”

“We can and we must.”

“How? When?”

Obi-Wan gestures over his shoulder toward the main cabin. “I believe Master Juna is now in contact with ‘Knightkiller’ herself. She will lead the takedown... It will be thorough, above all. Without a doubt, more thorough than swift. That's the way of justice. And I suspect these long-living aliens have far more patience than we could ever fathom.”

“What about Knightkiller?”

“What about her?”

“Is she going to jail?”

“I can't say for certain. She must stand trial. I am not her judge. I do not know her story.”

“... I'm sorry for all my questions. It's just... that's... not how they enforced the law, back home.”

“There's nothing to apologize for, Padawan. Law enforcement is confusing and dramatic and takes a great deal of the Temple's resources. But in the Temple's hands, you can be confident that both justice and mercy are upheld, with all possible strength.”

“And what about the gladiators? The slave ones?”

“Good question, Anakin. Of course slavery is deeply tied to death matches. But slavery is highly illegal in every legitimate court. Every slave involved must necessarily be freed, and their masters punished double, for participating in slavery and death matches.”

Anakin stares ahead at the bright lights of hyperspace streaking by.

After a short pause, Obi-Wan speaks up, gently, “You said, in our brief meeting between my matches, that none of the other fighters were slaves. I asked how you knew, and you said you'd explain later. Tell me now how you knew.”

Anakin looks down. “I was wrong. There was at least one slave. In my defense, she was enslaved pretty recently. Er, he.”

“Does the time make a difference, then?”

“Um…”

Obi-Wan is silent, looking at Anakin, who won’t look at him.

“It's kind of a... hard question. There's a few physical signs. A lot of gladiator slaves have this blue neck tattoo. But not all of them. And some free people have it too, to get sympathy, or to borrow the look, or whatever... But uh... it's more I... just kind of know. I can just kind of tell.” He furrows his brow. “But I guess... only if they've been one for a long time.”

Obi-Wan nods. “Yes, that is precisely what I expected. It is your experience, combined with your sensitivity to all life, and your great empathy for others who have walked in your path. And it is a useful skill. It will only become stronger, as you become a greater Jedi. Wise Jedi can detect who means us harm, and who needs our help. This spiritual awareness is taught alongside physical observation and logical assessment. You will need all three tools to determine the path of light.”

Anakin nods, wide-eyed.

“In other words, excellent job, Padawan.”

Anakin smiles, a little.

Obi-Wan feels deeply charmed by that smile, though he does not return it. Instead, he sits forward and pushes some switches, idly; they turn on a fan, a game screen, a holo receiver, and a hyperspace-radio playing a jazzy tune. He switches them off.

“...I've run the whole adventure through my head. And I have many questions, but there's one piece that I just can't fathom at all,” says Obi-Wan.

“What?”

Obi-Wan strokes the stubble on his chin. “Ash Laia. She made our escape possible. Why? And how? Did she hate Tiango that much?”

“She didn't,” says Anakin. Obi-Wan looks at him. “That was me.”

“You?”

Anakin’s mouth feels dry. “Y-yeah.”

“All by yourself?”

“Well...Fenn Gallowk let me have his acid-blaster. Then I used a disguise to sneak into the audience. Then I… I um, watched the ripples on the dome, and figured out where the, the dome was coming from. So I shot the closest one.”

“The shield generator.”

“Um. Yes.”

“You figured that out by yourself? From just the visuals? No schematics?”

“Yes.”

“It's a wonder no one else figured it out.”

Anakin shrugs. “It wasn't, uh, exactly, uh, easy.”

Obi-Wan realizes his mouth is hanging open in amazement, and shuts it.

Anakin looks away from him, shy and withdrawn as always, but eager to tell Obi-Wan everything, all the truth. Obi-Wan feels impatient for Anakin to grow into a more sophisticated vocabulary; there are clearly very complicated things going on in his head, things that cannot be expressed in his simple words.

“Then I shot Tiango. To save you.”

“You did that, too?”

“Yes…”

“But I was right next to him.”

“I was careful. I had to do it. And I did do it.”

“Yes... You did. You saved my life.”

“Then I dropped everything and jumped to you.”

That is enough to make Obi-Wan smile. “And that answers all my other questions.”

Anakin adores his master’s smile, but now he does not feel like smiling back. Obi-Wan matches his solemnity.

“You were very clever, Padawan. Resourceful. And brave. And you used the Force, ceaselessly. It comes to you so naturally…” He tries to keep the awe from his voice, but he simply cannot. “Qui-Gon was right about you.”

Blood rushes to Anakin's face. Tears prickle his eyes.

“I miss him.”

“He is with us. He is still part of the living Force.”

“Knightkiller missed Willo so much she turned evil.”

“There are many paths to the Dark Side. But do not fear them. They are not your destiny. Keep your face in the light. Just as you have done today.”

“But...I killed someone.”

“Yes, so did I. Sometimes it is required of us Jedi. Tell me...were you thinking of the other person Tiango killed, the man from your past?”

I'm going to lose all his goodwill with the truth, Anakin thinks.

Visibly ashamed, Anakin answers, “Yes. A little.”

“It’s alright, young one. We are not droids. We cannot shut down one program in our minds, and operate solely on another. In time, of course you will become better at separating your emotions from your deeds. But that is too much to expect from yourself, just yet. You exceed in so many ways already.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Attachments can cloud judgement, and hinder or hurt decision making... But in this case, it clearly did not affect your aim.”

“Are you disappointed in me?”

“No, no, no. I am proud and grateful. Did you feel, Anakin, in your mind, a desire for revenge?”

“... I don't know.”

“Did you feel a desire to protect me?”

“Yes.”

“You have a good and innocent heart, Anakin. Revenge, malice, spite -- these feelings are quite grown-up, in the worst sense of that word. Younglings like yourself may feel them, but not as deeply as us adults do. I will train you to identify these feelings and keep them at bay.”

“Yes, Master,” says Anakin, his eyes wide again.

“And I'll teach you to nurture that sense of protectiveness... Even if that seems rather self-serving.” Obi-Wan smiles, amused at the idea of his Padawan protecting him; Anakin can't quite follow the joke but he nods along. “For my part, Anakin... I feel I have failed you. I am supposed to protect you. And yet Knightkiller stole you away from me without any trouble. She may be formidable, but I should have been more prepared.”

“It’s okay, Master.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “It is not. I am a knight. There are certain standards to uphold.”

“She probably would have killed both of us if we fought her.”

“I don't know what would have happened. But I've felt a step behind this whole time. I don't like lacking the advantage.” He pauses. “Qui-Gon would scold me for dwelling on past mistakes. But I have a slightly different perspective... And I am your teacher, after all, not he. I believe mistakes are important. Think on them. Learn from them. Only then can you forgive yourself, and grow.”

“Yes, Master.”

Extended Chapter 14

Chapter 15: Older and Wiser

#my story #my art #knightkiller: anakin and obi-wan's first adventure #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #zlinkgwal zalt #tila juna #jane #scifi #drama

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zargsnake · 3 years

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My crime lord OC, Glagret, a.k.a. Knightkiller

Usually, the “secondary evil name” trope is a Sith trick (or tradition?), as with Vader, Sidious, and Tyranus. But some Sith only use one name (Maul), some Sith use a secondary good name (Revan), and sometimes non-Sith partake, too (Kylo). The titular Knightkiller is not a Sith, but her dual identity is still the core of the drama and mystery of the story.

I wanted her to be an interesting and unique woman villain, and I wanted to write about a character who is inhumanly old, and the weird, incomprehensible pain that such a long life would bring. Many other fantasy worlds have dwelled on this topic (it’s like the main theme of The Silmarillion), but I wondered if I could make it work in the human-centric, family-tragedy-oriented world of Star Wars. Hopefully her relationships with Willo, Tila, and the Jedi Order express that eerie struggle.

Though her moral parallel to Vader is obvious, her main inspiration, and really the whole story’s, was Count Dooku. Spoilers if you haven’t read the latest chapter:

I was thinking about how twisted and backwards Dooku’s behavior is (if you follow my other blogs you’ll know that trying to understand the confusing and relatively unpopular narrative of Attack of the Clones is my main purpose in life). They don’t really explain his motivation in the movie, though they do set it up as a mystery or a trick (“He’s a political idealist, not a murderer,” so the Jedi believe).

You can definitely work backwards from the fact that he’s Christopher Lee, and a similar character to Saruman, and therefore indirectly granted the extremely thorough lore of Tolkien. Why should any other writer have to work so hard again, anyway? To horribly paraphrase, Saruman was trying to stop the rise of evil by learning more about it, but he read too many bad books and that turned him evil, too. In the movies, this is simplified a bit into a character who is ruled by logic, who sees with his prophetic orb that Sauron’s victory is inevitable, and chooses the winning side. I can see the cursed scholar and hopeless pragmatist in Dooku, too.

But the far more twisted aspect of Dooku’s descent, the one which inspired Glagret, is Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon was Dooku’s student and a fellow iconoclast; they seemed to have far more in common with each other than, say, Anakin and Obi-Wan do. Dooku invokes Qui-Gon when he’s trying to win over Obi-Wan, and his words show grief and yearning (“I wish he were still alive. I could use his help right now”).

But Qui-Gon was killed by the Sith. And Dooku joins the Sith. He replaces Maul as Palpatine’s apprentice, and steps into the role that murdered his own beloved friend and son-figure. How could he do this?

You could say that Palpatine tricked Dooku. But the more sickening and heart-breaking explanation, in my opinion, is that Dooku knew exactly what happened. The Sith, the objects of all the scary fairytales from his Jedi childhood, are back, and they’ve taken away the person he cared about most in the world. But instead of fear or anger, instead of wanting revenge, he takes the exact opposite reaction. Unnatural, indeed.

I tried to explain this backwards “logic” through Glagret’s conversation with Tila. From her strange spiritual and philosophical point of view, since the death match killed her Willo, then the death match is the most powerful and worthy thing in the world, the thing most in tune to the Jedi’s own mighty Force, which she will always believe in. I think Dooku felt the same -- since the Sith killed his Qui-Gon, they are clearly the more powerful side (nevermind that Maul lost the next one). And if might makes right, a lesson his cruel galaxy and strict upbringing has taught him, then his choice is clear.

The other aspect of their fall, of course, is that the wicked side has money. I think Dooku comes from a wealthy family, and Glagret works her butt off to get the sponsorship of Senator Dinv. The cynical reading is that all their morbid “logic” is a smokescreen for their real, though perhaps unconscious motivation, simple greed. I like this reading quite a lot. I also gave Glagret this dry obsession with “fun” to echo Star Wars’ raison d’être, to make money out of entertainment. (“Fun is the one thing that money can’t buy” is one of my favorite song lyrics because of its mournful, bitter attitude toward something meant to be light. Glagret has the same attitude but the opposite view.)

Anyway I think the Dooku stuff is more interesting and unique, but once that has been revealed then Glagret turns into yet another Vader parallel (I just can’t help myself!) with the “From her position of such great evil, she can do good, it is never too late, blah blah blah.” My only note about that part is another name origin, since “Glagret” of course comes from “regret.” She seems to want to move forward, but regret will always drag her unhelpfully into the past.

In the waning days of the Republic, can we trust a person like Glagret?

(Btw I haven’t thought of a name for her species, so if you’ve read this far and have an idea please hit me up!)

#star wars #star wars oc #glagret #knightkiller #crime lord oc #dooku fandom read this and also leyr burnridge

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zargsnake · 3 years

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Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Chapter 13: The Old Ladies

Word Count: 2025 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

“Master?”

“Yes, Anakin?”

“Someone helped me escape. Fenn Gallowk. She -- er -- he’s a slave; I promised him we'd free him.”

“Indeed, we owe him a great deal.”

“But his master is Senator Dinv of Raktu!”

“Senator?”

“Yes!”

“Hey!” interrupts Zlinky. “That's the name of the guy sponsoring this tournament!”

“Aha! Good job, Padawans. It seems the situation isn't as complicated as I thought.”

The Jedi turn a corner and almost run into twenty murder-droids. They look like Jane, but without any of her rust and broken parts.

“You were saying?” says Zlinky.

“Other way, other way,” says Tila.

The heroes turn around as the robots begin to march toward them, but a crowd of guards and patrons blocks their return.

In response, Tila turns to the wall and body slams into it, cracking the structure. The force of her movement shakes the whole hallway, which makes all of the non-Jedi fall on their butts.

Anakin laughs. “Your master is so cool, Zlinky!”

“I know!”

Well I'm cool, too. -- Did I really just think that? thinks Obi-Wan.

Tila throws herself through the hole in the wall and pulls the smaller Jedi and Jane after her. They barge into a VIP lounge with soft pink lighting and cute little snacks on fancy tables. Most of the wealthy visitors are in the arena watching the game, but the lounge still hosts a few dozen spectators taking breaks, family members who have no taste for violence, a couple secret meetings, and other odd stragglers who clutch their pearls at the sight of the filthy intruders.

Anakin stares at the food and feels his stomach rumble.

Jedi control their hunger. This is an obvious temptation. Any other Jedi my age would resist it.

He stares ahead of him, hardening his expression.

Tila turns her head with an abrupt motion.

“Glagret! I feel her presence. This way!”

The great Lollian bounds across the lounge to a black door, shedding fur in her wake. The others follow after her on their little legs. In this room no one is shooting at them; in fact, many are hiding their faces, afraid of being recognized.

The door withstands both Tila's body slam and Jane's barrage.

“Let me try,” says Zlinky. She draws her little screwdriver and swiftly picks the lock.

“Well done, Padawan,” says Tila.

“Thank you, Master!”

As their scrappy pursuers commence their own invasion of the VIP lounge, the Jedi and Jane hurry through the sturdy door and shut it behind them.

It is another pitch-black room. Only Zlinky, with her third eye, can see Knightkiller sitting upon a plain chair, her great face resting on her claws, a few of her legs crossed casually. Knightkiller moves one of her claws in a sideways motion.

“Padawans... Kill your masters.”

Zlinky ignites her lightsaber and swings it toward Tila. Tila quickly disarms her with her own weapon.

“I--I'm sorry!!” says the young girl.

“Resist, Padawan,” says the old lady.

“Yes, Master!”

Zlinky balls up her fists and regains control of her mind. Jane whirs her torso up and down, unsure if she should shoot someone. Zlinky senses her confusion and tells her no.

Obi-Wan feels Anakin's hands on his throat. He instinctively brings up his hands to pull them off, but he feels nothing there. The boy must be using the Force. In the darkness, it is impossible to tell the difference.

But almost as quickly as he feels the small fingers grab his neck, they are gone. He hears Anakin breathing heavily beside him. Obi-Wan puts an encouraging hand on Anakin’s non-dislocated shoulder.

“Great plan, Master Juna,” Obi-Wan says sarcastically. “We've fallen right into her clutches.”

“Hush, young one. Glagret. My old friend.” Tila holds her weapon up. “Turn on the lights, won't you? This darkness is perfectly ridiculous.”

Knightkiller snarls with a hair-raising clicking sound, like a cog in an old-fashioned word-processor, a sound that reminds Anakin distinctly of his mother. Obi-Wan feels him shudder. Soft yellow lights illuminate from the floor, casting shadows on their faces.

“Much better,” says Tila. She turns off her lightsaber and clips it onto her belt. Obi-Wan also takes his hand off his weapon. He observes Tila closely.

The Council sent me here precisely to prevent this scenario. They did not want Master Tila's former friendship with ex-Master Glagret to interfere with the mission. Tila is wise, but if the Council second-guessed her judgment... I may have to step in.

“Officious as always, Master Juna,” says Knightkiller.

“Yes, I haven't changed a bit, Master Glagret. I wish I could say the same for you.”

Knightkiller sits up. “I'm sorry I don't fit in your pretty little puzzle anymore.”

“This isn't about me.”

“No. It isn't. You weren't even there when it happened.”

“So…” says Tila, very gently. “That is what this is all about. I thought so…”

Everyone else besides Jane thinks, What are they talking about?

Jane thinks, ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙɪɢ ʟᴀᴅʏ ᴅᴏᴡɴ. ᴏɴᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴛ. ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ꜰᴜᴇʟ! ɪ’ᴍ ꜰɪɴᴇ!

“Of course it is. She is what everything is about. She was my daughter, and my sister. My life. She was all of it. You can't understand,” says Knightkiller.

“I can. I do. My first Padawan passed, too. I know that sorrow.”

“No. It's not the same. Your boy did not die as my girl died.”

By now most of the people hunting down the Jedi have moved on, either back to the match or to the VIP snack tables, since they successfully chased their prey right into Knightkiller's office. But the most obsessed and audacious remnants bang on the crime lord’s door.

A holo of the announcer appears above Knightkiller's armrest.

“My lady, Chahlee's slayer has come forth.”

“Send them into battle at once. And make it mandatory for ticketholders.” She shuts off the holo.

Almost immediately, the announcer’s voice floods the speakers again: “Ladies and gentlemen! The one who sniped the battle dome and poor old Chahlee has revealed herself -- Ash Laia of Farilin! Witness her in her first ever death-match against current champion Jwelth Moeite! See the unusual acid-blaster in action, the blaster which could do what Kenobi could not! This match is MANDATORY -- check-in at the doors in the next five minutes, or forfeit your tickets! No refunds!”

The mob at the door finally hurries back to the arena, which leaves the heroes with just one opponent.

“My boy--” begins Tila.

“Your boy died in peace. He had a fatal case of being human. The luckiest humans live barely a Lollian decade. He died of nothing.”

“And you think that makes it easier? Everything yours is to you, mine is to me. His time came when he was just ninety human years. But not a day goes by that I don't want him in this life with me again. Do not mock my grief; don't say it's less than yours.”

Knightkiller rips off part of the fabric of her armrest. The unleashed stuffing floats through the air like lazy flies. “It is less than mine. You say you grieve, but you remain with them, the stone-hearted, the liars. You wouldn't claim this pain if it didn't serve your ends.”

“I keep it silent. I don't feel the need to speak of it. But it's there, even if you can't see it. I know you believe me.”

“I don't understand you… How you can stay with them.”

“And I don't understand you -- you joined them! The very people, the very game that killed your girl!”

“Yes, but I told you… You cannot understand me.”

“My heart is open to you. I am listening.”

Knightkiller gazes ahead of her. Her six eyes seem focused on nothing, or on something known only to her.

“What happened on the Comet? Did death match gangsters find you? Capture you?” asks Tila.

“No.”

The room is silent. They hear the newest match roiling down the hall and the humans’ stomachs gurgling with hunger.

“I left,” says Knightkiller. “When Willo died in that first death match, I felt nothing. And not the controlled nothingness of the Order. Real nothingness, beyond my power, beyond my knowledge. A year passed. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was assigned a mission on the Comet. Out there in deep space, I faked an explosion. I killed whoever got in my way. I left.” She shifts her position. “Then I took over the whole game myself.”

Tila slowly shakes her silver head. “But why?”

Far away, the audience cheers.

“...The Order ... In the Order, you think the Order is the one way. Not just the best way. But the only way. But that's not true... This game has a power beyond what the Order can provide. Glory. Money. Fun.”

“Fun.”

“Yes... Willo died for fun,” says Knightkiller, without a hint of emotion.

“But she didn't want to. She didn't mean to,” says Tila, her own emotions also under check.

“The Force doesn't care what we want or mean to happen. All that matters is the flow of its power. And the Order does not follow in its current.”

“But the game does?”

“Yes. It does.”

“Just because this ghastly sport killed your Padawan does not make it the most powerful constant in the galaxy.”

“Doesn't it? ... As I said... she was everything. She is everything... Nothing matters, without her.”

“That’s not true.”

Knightkiller leans back in her chair. Her tone betrays a hint of almost gleeful satisfaction. “I told you. You can't understand.”

Zlinky, who knows Tila the best of any of them, can tell the Lollian is deeply frustrated. To Anakin and Obi-Wan, the wise woman seems as serene as always -- but her student can read the truth. Zlinky reaches out and puts her hand on her master’s arm, soothing her as she has soothed Jane, over and over. Tila, who even now had been considering a surprise attack with her lightsaber, reconsiders.

Tila thinks, Every time, the child is the wiser one. Every time.

“My friend,” says Tila, hesitating, “I am trying. I believe you. I accept your conclusions... It is not complicated.”

“You know me. I never was complicated.”

“Tell me what it is you want. Do you want to keep fighting?”

Knightkiller is silent.

“Do you want to keep playing the game?”

“The game is in my hand, now. I control it all -- the fans, the patrons. The players. The spirit of it. No tournament is half as big as mine... The game is mine.”

“Yes... But do you want it?”

Knightkiller is silent.

“Is it fun?”

“... It is mine.”

“Yes...The thing that killed your Padawan. It is yours. Yours to keep... or yours to kill.”

Obi-Wan feels a chill run down his spine at Tila’s words. To him, Knightkiller seems hopelessly twisted, destroyed by grief and lost to the dark side. But to Tila, she is none of those things. Only with caution, wisdom, and endless compassion can a Jedi see the truth. Only with eyes opened to the future, not hostage to the past, can a great master such as Tila foresee what must be done.

Yes, it matters how Glagret fell, how Knightkiller came to be where she is. But it matters more what she will do, now that she is here. From her position of such great evil, she can do good. She can be greater than her power. It is not too late. It is never too late.

“...Go,” says Knightkiller.

Tila turns around, opens the door, and strides across the lounge. The others follow in her huge footsteps.

“But how will we get off this station, Master?” asks Zlinky.

“I'm sure we will be provided for, at the docking bay,” answers Tila.

“Wait!” says Anakin, “There's someone we have to save -- a slave called Fenn Gallowk --”

“Anakin -- you know better than anyone we can't very well whisk a slave away from his master,” says Obi-Wan.

“Then --”

“We will save him. I assure you. Once we bring the Senator down.”

“But what if Fenn dies in a death match first?!”

“I don't think anyone will die in one, ever again.”

Anakin feels tears of frustration well up in his eyes. Knightkiller made no such promise. And even if one was implied, Anakin doesn't trust her at all.

Chapter 14: Aboard the JON-Bori

#my story #my art #knightkiller: anakin and obi-wan's first adventure #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #zlinkgwal zalt #tila juna #jane #knightkiller #glagret #scifi #adventure #drama

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