'Pierce, Quinn, what should the plan of attack be?'

We all stare at the thing that was once a toilet, but now seems a biohazard from back on Quesh or Taris. The droid is broken after repainting my quarters against specific orders to the contrary. It left me no choice. And the Talz really needs its own toilet...

'I suggest a roster rotation, with a different crew member to perform the duty every two - three days until the droid can be fixed when we land in Imperial space in another three weeks,' Quinn says with total gravity and confidence. I like the look that Quinn gives the toilet: the evaluation of a General to a particularly fierce and resilient opponent. And I note the slightly scrunched nose and disgust in his eyes. A plan forms in my mind.

Pierce sighs and turns in the small space to face me, the Captain uncomfortably between. 'I agree with the Captain, mi'lord. Fairest way to go about it,' he says with reluctance.

I study the toilet and pretend to consider the options. 'How long will such a routine attack take for each crew member, Captain?'

'It depends, my Lord. The droid took exactly 21 minutes to complete the task once and did it every ten hours. However, varying degrees of competence and effort will make this take longer or shorter time.'

I nod along. I do some quick calculations in my mind and things should work out approximately how I want them to. I think I would do this even if they didn't. Which I actually am.

'And what about you, Quinn? How long would you take?' I ask seductively. The colour slightly drains from his face. I wink at Pierce behind Quinn's back but Pierce isn't willing to show his grin until he knows it won't be him on duty.

'Approximately 25 minutes, my Lord.' Never fails to amuse how he dodges my advances. 'Vette would take around 30 - 40 minutes, Pierce - 22 minutes, Broonmark would not be able to accomplish it and neither would Jaesa. Broonmark would destroy the toilet in 7 minutes if able to even begin the task at all,' he reports thoroughly, in a low monotone. But that doesn't hide how much he hates standing here.

'I see. What prevents Jaesa?' I ask curiously.

'Vomiting, undoubtedly my lord. She would vomit compulsively once being within approximately 20 centimetres and not stop until taken out of sight, if not smell range, where she would eventually faint,' the Captain says with absolute certainty and indifference.

'I see,' I reply and pretend to be in deep contemplation of the disgusting thing before us. 'What about me, Captain?' I ask after a pause.

'You would also be unable to complete the task,' he says with hesitation. 'Nor do I think you should.'

'Explain both statements, Captain,' I promptly demand.

'To the first, you would grow tired of the task after one minute and leave it for the next person at which point there would be no one to enforce that you complete it since you are the one that would be enforcing the completion of the duty.' I note how he doesn't pause for breath and wonder how he has accomplished the task of giving long sentence without an intake or exhale for breathes.

'However,' he continues without a pause, 'an alternate scenario exists where you will grow angry and frustrated at the uselessness of the task or having to degrade yourself to do this and consequently violently assault the toilet at which point you will undoubtedly win as the toilet defences clearly don't work against you and subsequently lead us into a worse scenario.'

'Continue, Captain.' I watch him steadily but smile. I need to factor his knowledge and understanding of my character into future situations as he has my reaction down completely. He sees and understands more than I thought. He might actually provide a challenge before this is over. I quickly quench the giddiness that creeps up on me and concentrate on the Captain's explanation.

'To the second part, I merely meant that you are a Sith Lord and should not be forced to complete such a demeaning task,' he says smoothly. Pierce opens his mouth to protest but hold up my finger.

'Very good, Captain. I will see you are given a treat later.' He restrains a grimace that tugs the corners of his lips and I grin at him with all the pleasantness I can muster.

We stand in silence which makes Quinn and Pierce feel uncomfortable as our bodies all touch someone else's in places they'd rather not. Which for those two, is just about anywhere. Quinn and Pierce radiate dread as they feel an oncoming attack, neither sure who it will hit.

I clap my hands and announce my decision. 'Well, Quinn, I think we just found what you can be doing for approximately 90 of those 190 minutes we discussed earlier. However, the remaining 100 minutes must be left to the dedication of fulfilment of protocol 1B/34M/4. Unless you have begun your report regarding the issue?'

I look at him seductively and invitingly. I mean to only tease him and throw him off balance. I never meant to hope he'd actually say yes. I wonder how many days it will take until he comes crawling to me for a change of position. Pierce shifts uncomfortably, aware of the tension in the cramped, foul room.

'No, my Lord.'

I stand shocked for a moment and then glare deep into the Captain's eyes. 'Pierce, fetch the Captain the cleaning equipment,' I order.

Quinn turns his eyes to toilet, plotting a plan of attack. But I see a self satisfied smile at the edge of his lips. I stalk from the room and know that he won't ask for reassignment. He has won this time and I hate it. My pride won't stand the attack and I spend the rest of the day force choking a pillow with a photo of his face stuck to it.

This isn't over, Captain.

The place must have been shined up recently but the stench hadn't been given the same treatment. Spilled drinks, wisps of cheap Zeltron knockoff aroma, vomit, tarnished credits... the main room of the Dealer's Den smelled the way a cantina should and usually did. Mirrigan could think of only one exception on Coruscant- the hole-in-the-wall bar near the Senate Tower that she'd visited once with Kira. As much as the Senators liked to boast about mingling with the little folk she doubted that they'd ever set foot in the Dealer's Den unless it was to be rushed into one of the VIP suites.

If Arch was on a binge he was too smart to drink himself silly in The Silent Sun, even with Rusk playing bodyguard, and the Senate Plaza cantina was too obvious. He'd come here. They'd come here a few times. Her eyes picked out a particular booth and saw it inhabited by a party of burly troopers clinking their shotglasses together. She glanced at the center of the room and admonished herself for being nostalgic about 'their' booth; right there in plain sight Rusk was leaning stiffly against the bar, a full tumbler of what looked to be nerf milk at his elbow. It was like the man never unwound. She wasn't even sure if he slept.

"There's the sarge," she muttered, nudging Scourge.

"There's your husband," he nudged back and pointed. "I wouldn't let Rusk hear you call him 'sarge' if I were..."

The rest of his admonition was muted by a rush of blood to her face that thrummed painfully in her eardrums. Dancers dancing, that she didn't care about, that's what they did. But a stunning mauve-complexioned Twi'lek with her bare feet on Arch's lap while he kneaded her soles? That was something else. She went on automatic pilot, straight to Rusk. He spied her immediately. His expression spoke volumes.

"Believe me or not but," he nodded at the dim back booth and its table littered with glasses, "I did try. He's soused. Lum-soaked." Rusk shook his head. "Never seen anyone toss it down like that. I'd be impressed if I hadn't been playing nanny until about an hour ago- that's when he forgot my name and kept asking me if he knew me 'from somewhere'. My advice is to not be too hard with him until he sobers up."

"Good advice. That will be my job, Sergeant, the crackdown on our sole medic's antics." Scourge gesticulated at the barkeep and mumbled an aside to Mirrigan: "I will cram the Emperor's rancid entrails into his own rotten maw as he labors to gasp his last...but I'm not going over there with you." His voice rucked up several notches when the bartender arrived. "Corellian whiskey. Three fingers. My fingers, not yours. Don't give me grief about importation restrictions and cost. Just bring it out."

"You're delusional if you think that pun was witty." She shook her head in disgust, swore under her breath and glided away from the bar. There were several ways to handle this mess. Without backup the casual approach might work best. If she was careful she could convince Arch to let Rusk and Scourge drag him back to the ship. She slipped into the booth, gave the dancer her very best fake smile. Arch seemed oblivious to her proximity so she inched closer and bumped his thigh with hers.

"Hey there, Doc." Keep it calm. "Whatcha doing, big man?" Don't look at her. Don't look at her feet. Keep smiling.

His head whipped around. "Son of a...sshweetheart! I...er...thish lady hash the worsht cayshe of Twi'lek Toe Putrefasshion I've ever sheen!" He tore his hands away from the Twi'lek and clutched at the table. "Medic! No...wait, I'm a-"

"I have what!" The dancer's heels jerked up-down-up, hammering Arch's crotch before she retracted her legs. Mirrigan flinched. That had to have hurt. He'd feel that once the numbness wore off. "What is that? Is it fatal?!" The woman was practically hysterical, shrieking and drawing the attention of the other patrons and the bouncers. A middle-aged couple in the far corner was being discreet about their staring but staring they were...the man's eyes resembled black holes, spooky-familiar...but the lighting in this dive...

Quick. She moved seamlessly into that placid place she'd failed to find via meditation. "You're going to calm down. He's making it up. There is no such thing." Her gaze snared violet eyes. "You want to go ask the Chagrian at the bar if he'd like some company." Have to pay the nanny somehow. She probably wasn't doing Rusk a favor at all but she was curious to see how he'd react.

"Excuse me. I'm going to ask that Chagrian at the bar if he'd like some company." The Twi'lek slithered to her well-massaged feet and sauntered seductively towards Rusk.

She gusted out a sigh of relief and ventured a glance at Scourge. He raised his glass to her. Mirrigan nodded and slid an arm around her husband, brushed a lock of hair behind his ear as he slumped against her sideways. "Arch." She kissed his forehead, a soft peck. "I'm not angry. I'm just concerned about you."

"Consherned?" A long acerbic chuckle. He made a clumsy swipe at his eyes. "A Jedi comedian, ish too kriffin' funny. Whatsh your mashter think of your act?"

"What?" This was new. She didn't know of lum causing hallucinations. Not even vast quantities of it. "Master Orgus? He's gone." Not to her- but this was no time to bring that up. "Let's get you to a bed. Our bed-"

"No!" His fists curled and punched air. "Becaush of you Orgush ish twishting in hish grave! I mean him," index finger shaking but unmistakably aimed at Scourge, "that bashtard over there beshide that guy I know from shumwhere. You come back, blood, bleeding all over my medbay, push me away," and he did just that to her, planted his palms on her shoulders and pushed, "an' you come in here an' get huffy becaush I'm talking to a girl with hair-"

"Lekku classify as 'hair'?" She couldn't help herself. The laugh boiled out, cruel in timbre and cutting in volume. "Get a grip." It wasn't the calm place. It was the frothy crimson ocean. "You're going back to the ship so you can sleep and burn off the alcohol. The floor in front of the cargo hold is very comfortable. I wasn't here tonight and neither was Lord Scourge. And I'll see you when you're sane again."

"Can I go back to the ship? Wanna shleep. I'll shee you when I'm not inshane. Think I'm gonna be shick." Arch reeled and teetered until his forehead met the tabletop with a resonant thud.

"Not here, you're not. Not on me, either, if you value what's left of your miserable life." Scourge was looming over them. She hadn't even noticed him approaching. "Splendid work, well done. I can haul Kimble back by myself. The Sergeant appears to be having some trouble." He shifted to give her the full view of Rusk peeling the Twi'lek dancer off of himself. "From the way he's behaving I have to wonder if he's even aware that flesh can do more than march in step and shoot things. You continually astonish me, Jedi." Arch was neatly extricated from the booth, as neatly as possible, the process peppered with half-conscious protestations. Scourge stared at her intently from over the crown of her husband's head and gifted her with an all-out grin.

It felt like a million suns burning out, bleak yet magnificent, heated past comprehension.

She followed their slow progress to the cantina's exit, tuning out Scourge's voice beyond his inquiring "Cargo hold, is it? Very well" in response to some babble of Arch's. Whatever else he had to say to Arch...she didn't want to hear it. When they turned around the corner out of sight she rushed inside to divest Rusk of his 'trouble'. He was backing away from the dancer, the woman making sinuous beckoning motions with her fingers. Mirrigan tamped down a giggle.

"Get. Her. Away. From me," Rusk muttered, "and don't tell the rest of the crew about this. Please." He sidled behind her with such haste that a whole swarm of questions buzzed in her skull.

She laid the false smile on the dancer. Again. Dived into the red sea. Again. "I need to have a word with my friend. Those troopers in the corner look bored. Some wriggling around could bring in big tips."

"Those troopers look bored. They could use a dance. I could use the tips." The Twi'lek slunk away to new prey.

Rusk exhaled audibly. "Thank you."

"No thanks needed." She patted his back. "All I want know is where Kira and Tee-seven are and then we can take a cab back to the spaceport."

He cast a wary eye at the dancer who'd begun to undulate for the troopers. "She's at one of those female places. Left a com number with me. Said she'd be done tomorrow, something about freckles," he stared longingly at his still-full tumbler of probably-nerf-milk, "guess they work on droids too. I don't know why freckles would be a liability in a combat situation."

The stare wasn't lost on her. "People are strange, Sergeant. Tell you what. You finish whatever that is, I'll order up a glass of the swill that passes for spiced wine in this place, we'll give Kira a checkup call. And then we'll compare battle scars for a while before we head to the hangar." She needed innocuous talk. Badly.

"Sounds like a plan, master Jedi." He grasped the tumbler and took a long pull, sighed with satisfaction.

"Don't call me that. Bartender? Over here?"

“Go, go, all of you,” Valho said, ushering the beginning one-daan class down the rear stairs. He stopped his assistant, his daughter, “Stay with them, Vashtarl, keep them safe,” he said. She nodded and followed the class out into the garden behind the salle. The students, all ages from children to adults, milled about near the garden’s far wall.

Valho took a deep breath and headed back into the salle. He heard raised voices from the vestibule, one of them his father’s. Then a blaster discharge and a low thump. He broke into a run and rounded the corner.

An Imperial Military officer was in the vestibule, flanked by two full squads of armored troops. The Salle de Umrahiel’s secretary and the rest of the clerical staff crowded behind the office window. His father’s advanced class stood arrayed along the broad open entrance to the salle’s main sparring hall, their training vibroswords filling the air with an ominous hum.

His father, Varrel Umrahiel, lay dead on the floor, a blaster-burned hole in his chest.

The officer fixed him with a glare, “Are you in charge here?” he demanded.

Valho stared at the corpse. He couldn’t be dead. They’d shared tea only a few hours before. Discussed what the change in Imperial relations might mean. Valho heard himself reply “Yes.”

His eyes snapped up, drawn to a pair of figures entering the salle behind the officer. They were thin and bent, shrouded in robes of black and purple. Thin, coarse material, meters of it, a burial cloth wrapped around still-living bodies. A shiver ran up his spine. His mind equated them with Sorrahi, though they had none of the bogeyman’s trappings.

“Then let’s hope you have more sense than the old man,” the officer said.

Whatever their demands, his father disagreed. He didn’t need to know what his father’s reasons were; didn’t need to know what the Imperial’s demands were. Papa had stood against them, and Papa was an honorable man.

Valho’s eyes flicked to the advanced students. There was shock there, but hints of something else. Something resolute. Valho turned his attention back to the officer, “ I don’t. And I am proud to be so foolish.” He stepped forward in the opening move of kata seven: ‘The Defender Engulfed.’

Varrel left Vette and Quinn behind, knowing somehow that whatever happened here was for his eyes alone. He sensed the gathering of power before it manifested. A figure coalesced, humanoid, bluish, a holoimage approaching across the still water of the grotto. As it neared, Varrel recognized its features as his own.

Belésh. Fetch. He Who Guides.

It halted just beyond the shore, its feet still in the world of the dead. “You know what I am,” it said. The voice was his, hollow and echoing along with drops of water falling from above.

“A warning. A premonition,” Varrel replied.

“I am what you have forgotten,” it said.

Varrel shifted his weight. He often remembered too well. “I doubt that very much.”

“You have forgotten your honor, Varrel Umrahiel, son of Valeri Umrahiel, father of Valho Umrahiel. You have forgotten the very precepts upon which your line was founded.”

Varrel bristled. Whatever its function, this ghost had no idea the situation in which he found himself. The old principles did not apply. Could not apply. “What would you know of that?” he asked, “You wear my shape, but you are not me.”

“I am you as you could be,” the fetch said, “as you should be.” Its form shifted. Varrel recognized his father, his grandfather, a whole series of his ancestors all the way back to Veljann Umrahiel, founder of the Salle de Umrahiel, whom he’d seen only as woodcut prints. But this was not a woodcut. This was Veljann as he might have been alive, in the armor of his time, the symbol of the house he served flying high from the flag on his back. “I am who you chose to emulate, whose path you have lost.”

Varrel bristled further. He’d devoted his life to the art of the sword. Experience honed him into a weapon, and the fact he still lived where so many others died was testament to his skill. He could feel the Force calling, singing its siren’s song, speeding his heart, his perceptions. “My technique is flawless—“

“The hand mirrors the heart,” Belésh-as-Valjann said, his voice the sound of stones grinding in a waterfall, “your heart is shadow, your hand is dark. With a soul so twisted your technique is nothing. This is not the way. Was never the way,” he intoned.

Varrel approached the apparition. Within arm’s length, his feet in the water, he slashed through the image with one hand, “You do not understand these Sith. You served the emperors of old, not this Empire, not these lords.”

Belésh-as-Valjann’s flag changed. Grgure. Odak. Ulenn-Tek. Several others Varrel didn’t recognize. “My world was that of the Warring States. The Fractured Time. I served many factions, many powers.” Belésh-as-Valjann’s image grew dark, grew tall, grew menacing, “You presume that because my weapons were simple swords, that my people had not yet reached the stars, that I do not understand intrigue? That I am ignorant of subterfuge? What were the courts of the old kings but battlefields where words were as spears? Where manners were as swords? The true battlefields as bloody as any in your Empire. I kept my heart.” Belésh returned to Valjann’s shape.

Varrel stood frozen. Valjann’s teachings were more than mere technique. The hand mirrors the heart was his most basic premise. A clear heart sees true, sees through the lies, know how to strike, knows when to strike, directs the hand without thought. Mind and body and weapon are one. Was this not the same as what the Sith taught? The Force directs?

“It is not the same, Varrel Umrahiel,” Belésh-as-Valjann said, answering Varrel’s thoughts, “You know it is not. The heart is your center. It is who you are. This—“ Belésh reached forward one spectral hand toward Varrel’s chest. His fingers drew out dark tendrils like poisonous shadows, “is not your center. It is weakness, it is pollution, and it does not belong.”

Varrel clutched at his heart, “It is Sith power. I cannot fight without it,” he protested.

“It is pollution,” Belésh insisted, “You had power and grace without this before, when the Sith sought you out and corrupted you. You do not need it, Varrel Umrahiel, my son-many-times-descended.” The tendrils writhed on Belésh’s palm, a ball of ash snakes. Belésh shifted his form again, back to a reflection of Varrel’s own, “Serve your master and serve your heart. Leave this filth for lesser men.”

Varrel stared at the twining shadows, “But there is so much darkness,” he whispered.

“Be a light in that darkness, Varrel, and you will find that light attracts light,” Belésh said. “I taught those who would listen. I slew those who would not. If you wish to reclaim this foreign plague, you will have to fight me for it.”

Varrel stared at the shadows. He knew the proper answer. The Sith answer. But for the first time in a long time he could see a different path. A brighter path. A path where he need not sacrifice his soul for survival. Belésh was right. He was strong with the Force before absorbing a word of Sith doctrine. As for what he’d learned at their feet, he would find a way without the darkness. Even as the thought occurred, the writhing, twining snakes in Belésh’s palm faded to nothingness.

Belésh-as-Varrel smiled, “Take my strength,” he said, stepping forward. His image merged with Varrel’s, became part of him, the bright memory of his revered ancestor, “and remember your heart.”

Belésh’s last words echoed as drops of water falling from the ceiling. Varrel was alone in the grotto. He stood in water up to his ankles, ripples spreading out over the pool’s surface. Hidden water on a dry planet. Hidden knowledge in a dark world.

He turned, heading back through the winding cavern to where he’d left Quinn, Vette, and his guide. He would still serve Baras. Perform his duties as assigned. But he would perform them his way.

It was at the Slippery Slope cantina that they saw what they thought was the woman they'd been searching for, her rescue the main point of their mission. Miriah was downing Hutt tequila, her drink of choice when working, since she could consume way more than was healthy without the consequences that would befall most other people. She was facing the table with the woman, less threatening that way, when she saw the surreptitious movement under the robe that indicated the woman was breastfeeding. Miriah gazed lovingly at Corso, leaning close to him. “She has the child with her now, feeding him under the robe. I’ll create a distraction, you get her out of here and back to the ship.” He nodded, at once excited to have found her, and worried about what kind of distraction Miriah would start. He didn’t have long to worry, though. Miriah stood and climbed on top of their table. She looked positively delicious in her black leathers, and he’d noticed several of the men in the cantina looking her over already.

“I challenge anyone in this fine establishment to attempt to outdrink me. If you can, you win five thousand credits. If you lose, you get to pay my tab. Any takers?” At that, she grinned and put one hand on her hip, striking a sexy pose. Corso almost got trampled by the rush to their table, and he edged out and over to the robed woman, who was trying to gather her bag and the hidden child and escape.

Corso managed to hold onto the woman’s elbow long enough to whisper to her, “We know who you are and we've been hired to get you and the child to safety.” That one statement stopped her cold, and she decided to trust the dreadlocked human with the kind eyes. He was leaving with her when he heard Miriah call for another round, and shook his head. He’d be back for her as soon as he could.

Corso got the woman, who said her name was Nuala, to the ship, where Maura and Sarai took over, helping her to her own quarters, cooing over the baby, who had been very well cared for. They fed her and helped her get the baby settled so she could sleep. Nuala had no idea who these people were, but she knew the older woman was a Jedi, and she felt safe with them.

Corso hurried back to the cantina, hoping to get Miriah out without having to shoot anybody. When he arrived, there was only one man left drinking, and he was going under fast. Miriah appeared as sober as usual, and smiled up at him with a wink. “Hello, sugar. I’m just gonna beat this one guy, then we can go. Now,” she said as she picked her opponent’s head up by his hair, “one more? Or are you done?” The man roused enough to do one more shot with her, which she downed with a smile, and then he passed out. Miriah raised her arms in victory, and stood, swaying, to follow Corso out. She stopped at the bartender, handing him a cred stick. “Don’t make him pay for my fun, I’ve got it.” She took Corso’s hand, wanting to get out of the cantina before that last shot made her unable to walk, which it did, halfway to the taxi stop. Corso just swung her up over his shoulder, at least she wasn’t drinking champagne, he thought. She giggled and sang all the way back to the ship, and he had to laugh. She was rarely as relaxed as she was when she was drunk. He came through the airlock with her on his shoulder, both of them laughing. Aric and Maura were there, and expressed concern as Corso gently put her on her feet, then caught her under her arms as she almost fell.

“Izz okay, jus’ need water and a whole lotta painkillers,” she giggled, slipping to the floor. “I love you guys, do I ever tell you that? I love you so much.” She brushed her now loose hair out of her face to take the water Aric handed her.

“How much did she drink?” he asked Corso, looking at his sister in law slumped over under the table, humming.

“I counted twelve shots on the table, but she’d had at least five others while we looked,” he replied with a sigh. “She might feel it tomorrow, but she has an incredible tolerance for tequila. Not the first time I’ve seen her run that distraction, but it always scares the hell outta me.” He shook his head, picked up his very drunk wife from the floor, and carried her to their quarters. She was out, he noticed, and gently undressed her, tucking her in with a kiss before he went to the bridge to get them out into space where the woman and child would be harder to find.

My son was injured, but his body is intact and he will recover in time. I'm grateful and thank you all for your wonderful support and prayers while he's been deployed. He's coming home, nothing else really matters right now.

Temple Area field hospital, Coruscant. 0 ATC.

Captain Breslin walked Maneera from their cab to front doors of the repurposed office building. “You sure you don’t want me to tag along?”

“Not really,” Maneera confessed, her lips twitching up into a wry grin. “But I think I need to do this on my own, and I know I’ve kept you away from your ship way longer than I should.” Before he could reply, she added, “Besides, bedside vigil for a total stranger can’t be high up on anyone’s to-do list. Go on. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” The Captain nodded dubiously. “Call me if anything comes up. I’ve got the ship’s frequency forwarded to the handheld, so don’t worry about me being away from the terminal. You call.”

“Thanks, Captain.” Maneera reached out and took one of his hands in both of hers, squeezing tight. “Thank you so much.” The Captain smiled as he wrapped his free arm around her shoulders in a loose hug. Maneera pulled away quickly, darting into the makeshift hospital before she could talk herself out of it.

Inside, a young man slumped half-asleep behind a ridiculously opulent receptionist’s desk. His head snapped up sharply at Maneera’s approach, revealing the same ragged exhaustion that marked the security officer back at the spaceport. “Can I help you?” he asked, the words thick and muddy. Maneera wondered if anyone on Coruscant had managed to get in a decent night’s sleep since the attacks.

“I got a call from Doctor Ohlmak. He said one of your patients might be my mom.”

“Oh... oh!” A bright, eager grin spread over the man’s tired face as he called up records on the terminal beside him. “One of the blanks... you’re Miss Sindri? Uhmm... Maneera?”

“That’s me.”

“Wonderful.” A Mirialan woman rounded the corner to stand beside Maneera. “Doctor Ohlmak’s in surgery right now, so Doctor Seerdon will take you up to see the patient.”

“This way, please.” The doctor led the way to a waiting lift and keyed in their destination. Silence settled between them as the lift climbed — Maneera had no idea what to say, and the doctor seemed content enough to forego idle chatter. With a soft chime, the lift doors opened onto a shallow atrium. Holoportraits of business-suited men in poses of exaggerated dignity lined the walls. Doctor Seerdon was off again, leading the way at a quick walk down a short length of hall and into a large room which had been partitioned off into smaller spaces. A kolto tank stood in each section, peeking up over the shoulder-high walls. Overwhelmed, Maneera followed the doctor through the maze of cubicles until finally the doctor stopped in front of a tank and asked, her voice held carefully level, “Do you recognize this woman?”

Maneera took a step forward, pressing her hand against the glass of the tube as she peered at the woman within. She looked older now — there were grey strands threaded through the pale brown hair, and lines folded into her forehead and at the corners of her mouth — but there was no mistaking the delicate frame or the stark, angular lines of a face that was pretty when smiling and striking otherwise. “That’s my mom.”

Doctor Seerdon pulled a datapad from the side of the tank. “We’ll need her name for the records.”

“Irialle Sindri. I-r-i-a-l-l-e, S-i-n-d-r-i.”

“And sign here,” the doctor said, handing the pad and a stylus to Maneera.

Maneera scrawled out her name and returned the pad and stylus. “Is it okay if I stick around till she wakes up? I’ll keep out of the way, I just —”

“It’s alright,” Doctor Seerdon replied, her stern expression easing into something like a smile. “I’ll let the duty nurse know you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

The doctor replaced Irialle’s chart and was on her way. Maneera hitched herself up onto the edge of a cart loaded down with monitoring equipment — At least, that’s what she assumed all the graphs and charts and spiky lines meant. Hennigan hadn’t had anything even remotely like any of this. — and watched as her mother floated, still and quiet.

“I never wanted it to turn out like this,” she said at last, breaking the silence. “I really didn't. It’s just... you gave them away. First Zeezee and then Alen, you gave them away like extra kittens, and if you could get rid of them just like that... How was I supposed to stick around, knowing that’s all family meant to you?

“Sorry. I’m doing this wrong.” She sighed, leaning forward as she propped her elbows onto her knees. “When I heard about what happened here, and I saw the footage of the Temple in ruins... I knew I had to get back here, and I hoped, I had to make myself hope you were all still alive. I want to try and make things right between us. I don’t know how to start, or even if that’s really a thing we can make happen, but I have to try.”

Silence stretched out again, underscored by the steady hum of electronics and the gurgle of kolto circulating through the tank. Time stretched, too. Minutes and hours didn’t so much pass as ooze out into an unrecognizable blur. Maneera let her thoughts drift, sliding between memories of the past and worry over the present and faint hope for an unseen future.

“Maneera?”

Time focused as Maneera was startled back into the here and now. She scrambled to her feet, turning to the sound of her father’s voice. Words died in her throat as she realized how she must look to him — a scarecrow-gaunt stranger perched beside his wife like a grotesquely eager carrion bird, a sick parody of the girl he had known. “I... I’m sorry,” she murmured down at her toes. “I can explain.”

Arms wrapped around her, drawing her in close. “Seven years,” Jerec whispered. “Ashla be thanked.” After a long moment, he stepped back to look her over. His hands stayed at Maneera’s shoulders, as if afraid she’d vanish again if he broke contact. Maneera kept staring downward, feeling gawky and sixteen and heartbroken all over again. The joyous relief in Jerec’s face faded, replaced by fierce concern. “You’ve been hurt.”

“It’s just a few scars,” she replied with a carefully indifferent shrug. Bravado came easier than truth. “I think they make me look distinguished.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He tucked a hand under her chin, lifting her head gently. “Was it the man I spoke with? Breslin?”

“What? No.” Maneera shook her head. “Dad, the Captain’s been nothing but decent to me. It’s just... I did some really dumb things, after I left, but that’s all over with now. Captain Breslin’s been trying to help me get my head back on straight.” She paused, her face twisting into a bitter smirk. “Poor guy didn’t know what he was signing on for.”

Jerec’s expression gentled, but the concern was still there. “Tell me how I can help.”

“Why? Why did you send them away?” The question was out before Maneera realized it, and once started, she couldn’t stop the flow of words. “They’re yours, your very own flesh and blood, and you let the Robes take them and turn them into just a couple more hollow puppets when they should be home with family who care about them.”

“Maneera.” She hadn’t understood it seven years ago, but now she recognized the grief in her father’s voice, on her father’s face. “Your sister and brother have been granted Ashla’s gift. No matter how much we may wish it otherwise, nothing can change that.” He drew in a breath, forcing the tremor from his voice. “Part of the burden of that gift is in setting aside other ties, to wholly devote oneself to listening for the call of the Light.” At Maneera’s dubious glare, he continued, “It was hard for you, for all of us, to see Zhara and Alendar leave. But think how much worse it would have been, not just for us but for them, if they’d been old enough to grow attached, to understand what was happening to them.”

Realization sank in. “Who did they take from you?”

“Kallei. My sister. Five minutes older and so convinced I needed her to look after me.” A smile spread slowly, sorrow tempered by remembered fondness. “She didn’t manifest a full affinity for the Force till we were thirteen. Ran away three times after she was taken to the Temple. The first two times, she came back home. Mother and Father would contact her Master, let her know that Kallei was safe and sound; Master Celindra would be there within the hour to take Kallei back.”

“And the third time?”

“She didn’t come home. I... we never heard from her.”

Maneera stepped in to close the gap between herself and her father. As her head dipped to rest at his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her again. “I’m sorry, dad.”

“Shhh.” A hand patted lightly at the back of her head. “You’re home.”

- Organic chemistry is destroying my life because I'm awful at it and I also hate it. Finally I changed my major to math/actuarial science. But I'm still in danger of failing the course, which it's too late to drop even if I no longer need it. Good news is, I'm in fairly good shape for the first actuarial exam and I'm really looking forward to taking it!

- I've been seriously broke all semester. I did get a job which starts in two weeks, so that's a huge relief. But it's been a huge source of stress not having any money.

- My mean neighbor called the city on my husband and me for having five cats and the city says we can only have 3. The solution to that problem is the main stessor of all...

- I'm splitting up with my husband. It's been 4 years of us basically being just friends and I simply cannot do it anymore. I've been very, very unhappy and I am ready to move on. That being said, a divorce is NEVER fun no matter how amiable it is and I keep having spates of depression about it. It's really hard watching most of my friends have babies this year and knowing I'm 26 and about to start completely over.

The worlds that suffer seasons tend to believe they should start with the spring, reasoning that the cycle of life begins with birth. They would be wrong, the first season is winter. Every change casts aside the shell of what was to make room for what will be. Most often this means death, for me it was the death of my heart.

I saw her face and I knew there was hope but like the false spring it was merely a sign. The winter must still be weathered and I fought to survive. The season was long, stretching on like a blanket of ice an existence of numbing cold devoid even of color. I hid myself, plotting, planning, and waiting, hoping I would survive to see the spring.

Then at last, the first signs of change, I saw her face, however briefly. Spring was a delicate time and passed swiftly, all my plans were set in motion as I nurtured my fragile hope. I thought only of preparation and survival. I sought only to make her strong enough to survive the storms that change inevitably wrought. I had not known my heart still lived, and that it only lay dormant waiting.

The summer was brilliant and life roared around us, but heat can bring death as easily as the cold. Her face became a constant, her eyes shone with a light meant only for me. We fought through war and chaos, madness and the return of the plague. Her destiny fulfilled, the future secured, and like a gift she woke my heart from its long slumber and made me whole.

Autumn has been a kind season. No longer in a time of war and death, we choose our battles carefully and quietly prepare for colder days. Her eyes remain the same but her power fades and I see the signs of weariness behind her smile.

A steaming cup settled next to his hand, Scourge looked up to see Remi holding a similar mug standing beside him. Her thick heavy robes swallowed her tiny form. She sipped from her cup shivering.

He reached out to touch her arm with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” she smiled contentedly, “just cold.”

He said nothing, the Force was usually enough to keep the chill at bay, but she was always cold these days. He took the mug from her, setting it aside, and pulled her into his arms.

“Is that a journal?” she asked curiously but did not try to look at the words on its surface.

Her hair tickled his chin, he looked down at the top of her head still spying a few red strands among the white. “A man needs a place for his secrets.”

“We all have secrets,” she looked up at him smiling mischievously.

“Are you saying you have a journal?” He was amused that they could still learn things about each other after so many years. “Should I be worried?”

She snickered. “Maybe the early parts, as I pined away for a Sith pureblood who didn’t want me.”

“He was a fool.” He chuckled.

“I want you to read it someday.” She said softly and they both knew when she meant. They sat silently neither one wanting to continue the conversation. Finally she changed the subject by yawning, “I’m a little tired, I’m off to bed.”

She started to get up but he held her back. He captured her lips with his, slowly savoring the kiss until she relaxed in his arms. “I’m just finishing up here,” He murmured resting his forehead against hers. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I might fall asleep.” She grinned and moved to get up again, this time he let her go.

“I’ll wake you.” He bared his teeth and she giggled like a girl wandering off to their bedroom.

I feel the first chill. Winter approaches swiftly and I wonder how long I will survive without the hope of spring.

"Esma? Are you here? Padawan Jorius said he saw you come this way..."

Esma's eyes popped wide open in horror at the sound of Bengel Morr's voice echoing through the ancient Tythonian ruins. Above her, Scourge's eyes blazed as passion turned directly into fury.

"Let me up," she whispered, pushing at his bare chest. She could hear the nautolan's voice getting closer, very quickly. Scourge looked down at her and his jaw tightened. He moved against her, making her gasp one last time, and then lifted himself, getting to his feet just as the Jedi came into sight around a crumbling wall.

"Esma? Are you all right? I thought I heard someone..." Bengel Morr's eyes went wide as he took in her, on the ground, scrambling for clothes, and Scourge, standing above her, completely nude and visibly seething. Morr light his lightsabers with a flourish, "Back, you monster!"

Scourge laughed darkly. He did not wait for Morr to charge, smashing into the smaller Jedi, casually decimating Morr's defenses. Esma grabbed Scourge's lightsaber to toss to him, but it was unnecessary. The Sith had disarmed his opponent and had him pinned to a stone with one huge hand, his feet dangling off the ground.

Esma hurridly pulled Scourge's cape around her and ran to his side, pulling at his arm. "Scourge, let him down!"

"I do not appreciate being interrupted," Scourge growled, but he marginally loosened his grip, easing up on Morr's throat.

"You foul beast! You have corrupted my Esma!" the Jedi choked out.

"Your Esma?" Scourge growled, dripping with menace.

"Scourge..." Esma said with warning in her voice, "the man's obviously delusional, let him down."

"Do not fear, Esma! I will free you from his dark influence!"

"Oh would you give it a rest already? I'm quite happy in his dark influence, not that he's had much luck on that front."

"I am a patient man," Scourge said to her with an amused curl to his lip which turned into a teeth-baring snarl when he looked back at the Jedi choking in his fist, "Usually."

"Please let him down," she said, looking up at her lover. He frowned down at her and then let the Jedi drop to the ground in an ungainly pile. Morr scrambled to his feet and started to run.

"Bengel!"

"The Council must be informed," he yelled back at her, "For your own good, this evil must be destroyed!" He stumbled down a bank and continued running back towards the Temple.

"I could kill him," Scourge said calmly, watching him go.

Esma shook her head, "It's time."

***

Esma paused in front of the Jedi Council's chamber. She could hear Bengel Morr shouting, although the door blocked most of the sounds. She looked up at Scourge, "So much for a quiet afternoon in the ruins." He raised an eyebrow with a slight smirk. She took a breath and opened the door.

Morr was pacing in the middle of the Council's circle of chairs, his audience rapt. His ranting was well into unbalanced territory, spittle flying. "...have fouled our sacred trust with their animal passions!"

Esma blinked a little at the snarl that twisted his wide mouth as she walked through the door. Even in the grips of the Dark side, Morr had been calm, this was...disturbing.

"Master Kaarde," Satele Shan called across the room, "we have heard some surprising news."

"I wasn't surprised," one of the other masters muttered, glaring at her and Scourge. A couple others nodded their heads.

"She's been clearly falling to the Dark side for some time!"

"The Sith corrupted her."

"Emperor's puppet..."

"I am no one's puppet," she snapped, her words carrying across the room, silencing the Jedi masters who gathered there. Esma felt their revulsion sweep over her. Scourge's hand came to rest on the small of her back, and she gained strength from his unspoken support. "You question whether I have fallen to the Dark side. Test me. You!" she said, pointing at the quiet miralukan in green on the far side of the circle, "Look and see."

The Council was quiet, their attention turning to the miralukan who swallowed and stood. He took a breath, examining her with his Force sight, "There is no Dark in her."

"Are these accusations true? Have you and Lord Scourge become...invovled?" Satele Shan asked, her frown forming a deep crease between her eyes.

Esma looked up at Scourge who was carefully watching the group of Jedi. "Yes, it's true."

"This cannot continue," Satele Shan said firmly, "the risk is too great. You must give him up. In fact, it would be best for all if Lord Scourge left Republic space altogether."

"I keep what is mine, Jedi," Scourge snarled at the Grandmaster.

"It is not your decision to make, Sith." The disdain her tone was biting. Esma's heart fell. So it had come to this.

Esma stood up straight, meeting the aquamarine eyes across the room. "Then hear my decision. I would rather leave the Jedi Order than give up the love I have found with Lord Scourge. I have served the Jedi, have fought and bled, and have remained true. However, if you have lost faith in me, then I will leave." The room burst into murmers, shocked gasps.

"Esma," Satele's tone was sad, "don't do this."

"You cannot let her go!" Bengel Morr exploded, "This monster has corrupted her! She doesn't know what she's saying! The Hero of Tython cannot leave the Jedi Order! You must strike him down and free her!"

"Quiet." Satele glared at the frothing Jedi. Esma felt a moment of pity for her. Morr was not well. "Your mind is made up?" she asked Esma.

"It is."

Satele Shan sat back in her chair, a hand across her forehead. She finally looked up. "If you could excuse us, Master Kaarde, we need to discuss the situation." Esma left, Scourge behind her.

"Fools. Chained by fear of the Dark side, yet they fear the political fallout of losing a beloved hero." The disdain in his voice was palpable. "Why do you bother with this Order? You are much more than they'd let you be."

She smiled softly, hugging him tight and glad to be able to do so in public finally, "I will be who I am. Regardless."

"Stubborn fool," he said with affection as he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead.

She grinned and then settled in to wait. It seemed like hours before they were called back into the Council room. No one looked happy. Bengel Morr was no where to be seen.

The Grandmaster stood. "The Council has decided that given the extremely unusual situation, Master Kaarde will be granted dispensation to remain in the Jedi Order, despite her....association...with Lord Scourge, provided she remains true to the Light side of the Force."

"Thank you, Master Shan," Esma said.

"The Council is dismissed."

Esma stood, Scourge's large hands heavy and comforting on her shoulders, as the Jedi masters filed out. She waited until they were gone before she spoke.

"Master Shan," Esma said to the lone figure at the huge table. Satele didn't look up, her gaze on her hands folded in her lap. She looked...tired.

"Satele," Esma said gently. The Grandmaster of the Jedi Order looked up at her. "Satele, I have always followed my instincts, followed the Force. That has put us at odds in the past and probably will in the future as well, but I want you to know you can trust me to put the safety of the galaxy first."

"And you, Lord Scourge?" Satele Shan said to the dark figure standing behind Esma.

"I will do what is needed, as always."

Satele nodded, the lines on her face deepened. "This compromise is...unsettling, and I fear the example set for our young Jedi could threaten their stability. Your steadfastness in the face of constant exposure to the Dark..." she raised an eyebrow at Scourge "...is highly unusual. However, nothing about your life so far as been typical. I must meditate on today's events."

***

Scourge stepped into the dark hanger to prep the ship while Esma spoke to her few allies on the Council and, immediately, the rage swept over him. It was chaotic, twisted, unformed, uncontrolled. The rage of a man who had fallen into insanity.

"Come out, come out," he taunted.

"Beast!" the whisper echoed through the space.

"Coward," Scourge hissed, lighting his saber, searching for his opponent in the shadows.

"You took her from me!" The cry was anguished.

Scourge felt his own rage rising. "Kill me, then, if you dare," he growled, low and menacing.

From above, Bengel Morr leapt, his cry incoherent and harsh. Scourge shifted, caught Morr's lightsabers with his own in a smoothly practiced move, blasting him with dark, choking energy.

"Failed Sith. Failed Jedi. You are weak!" His blows were heavy, knocking Morr back step by step.

"She will be mine," the Jedi gasped, barely holding his own.

Scourge snarled and reversed his hold, bringing his saber switfly up and through the torso of his opponent. "Fool."

"Scourge?" He turned to see Esma run in, her eyes wide. "I felt him, his anger. Master O'lan did as well. Are you okay?"

He sheathed his lightsaber. "Do not insult me."

A smile briefly lifted the corners of her mouth and then dropped away as she looked at the corpse. "Bengel. That poor man."

"He chose his fate."

"Still, I can't help but think..."

Scourge walked to her and picked her up, holding her tight against him. "He chose his fate the moment he tried to keep me from you. You are mine."

She looked deep into his red eyes, seeing the fierce passion there, the powerful intellect, the implacable determination, and most of all the love. She nodded. "I'm yours. Always."

One of the reasons it has taken me so long to post this (it's sat in my files for literally months) is because I kept going back and forth on whether Scourge and Esma would have children, and this was going to be where her pregnancy was revealed. However, I've largely decided that they will not have kids. At least not in the near future (although the idea of their daughter ending up as a slave in the Empire and becoming a SI has enough potential awesomeness that maybe someday....maybe )

Lord Xathras lounged on a couch in the private entertainment area he’d engaged in the Stardust Lounge. Lord Umrahiel strode into the opulent space like a meteor storm. Xathras snorted once and sipped a crystal glass of wine, “You look like hell,” he said with what might have been a lascivious grin. On the Pureblood’s face, it was hard to tell. “I told you Jaesa was to much for a man your age. You ought to have let me have her.”

With a wave of his hand Varrel sent the bottle flying across the room. It crashed against the wall and exploded in a spray of glass and fragrant green liquid. “I’m in no mood for your quips, Xathras,” he growled. He circled the furniture slowly, warily, like a restless cat.

Lord Xathras merely blinked, “And you owe me a bottle of Tarul wine. Quesh not go so well, I presume?” Xathras leaned forward, “Baras finally take a stab at you?” Varrel shot a brief baleful glance at his companion and continued his slow, deliberate pacing. Xathras seemed not to notice, “It’s Nar Shaddaa now. Have some fun for a change.” His blood red eyes narrowed to slits and the questionable grin reappeared, “I’ve booked the Wet Leatheris Company for tonight,” he said.

Varrel stopped at last and sighed, “I neither want nor need prostitutes,” he said wearily.

“Technically, they’re a Zeltron interpretive dance troupe. Though I did contract an ‘intimate performance’. You’re such a prude,” said Xathras. He reclined again on the smooth upholstery, “Frankly I’m amazed sometimes that you made it through the academy.” Varrel’s only reply was an irritated snort. Xathras continued, “You know, you really ought to consider striking out on your own. Most Sith with your martial bent have neither your patience nor discipline. If you’d just shed your obsession with this silly ‘honor’ concept you’d go far.”

Varrel sighed again, “You may have a point,” he said.

Xathras jumped to his feet, “Darth Baras did take a swipe at you!” he gloated, “I knew it! It’s about time. Harkun tried to kill me my first day on Korriban. Well, you survived, so that’s reason enough to celebrate.”

“Darth Baras still lives,” Varrel said, “He would not face me.”

Lord Xathras drained his wine, “That’s hardly a surprise,” he said, “you paved his way to the Dark Council with the blood of his enemies. What makes you think he’d change now and get his own hands dirty?”

“It would be out of character,” Varrel agreed. He finally took a seat on the plush couch, but his mind was far away.

“It would,” Xathras reiterated. “Now buy us a replacement bottle of wine. Have your pick of the dancers, as many as you think you can handle,” he said as he regained his seat. Leaning in toward Varrel, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “The star is a contortionist. You’d be amazed what she can do.”

Varrel’s gaze fixed on the wine dripping down the wall where he’d thrown the bottle earlier, “I don’t need to buy my…pleasures,” he growled.

Xathras reclined again, “You’re not. My treat.” Varrel’s eyes did not change focus. “Fine then,” complained Xathras, “have Jaesa take notes.”

Varrel drew in a breath to upbraid his friend, then stopped. Jaesa. Baras had him pursue her, eliminating everything dear to her. When he finally confronted her, she was frightened and vulnerable. Stealing Baras’ support—systematically amputating his cat’s paws—would likewise unhinge him. Lord Umrahiel slowly released his breath and leaned back on the couch, finally feeling at ease. Lack of purpose tied him up in knots. And there was a delicious sense of irony in what he wanted to do. He had a proposal to discuss with the Hand.

Lord Xathras cocked his head at Varrel’s change in attitude, “You’ve something brewing. I can tell,” he said.

Lord Umrahiel’s lips turned in a grim smile, “Maybe,” he said.

“You still owe me a bottle of wine,” said Xathras.

“Make it two,” he replied.

“Oh, this is interesting,” Rixik said.

Mako glanced over his shoulder at the terminal, “What is? You know her?” she asked, pointing at the image of the Twi’lek woman in the display.

“Oh yeah,” Rixik replied.

Mako squinted, “Kirya Bilali, huh? She’s pretty. Girlfriend?”

“Something like that,” he replied.

Mako put her hands on her hips, “Something like that? Uh-huh. Come on, give,” she said.

Rixik leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head, “Pretty face, great body, a regular pulse cannon in bed—“

“Ugh, forget I asked,” Mako interrupted with a grimace, “What happened?”

“She ditched me when she found out my business,” said Rixik.

“Which was?”

“Poaching.”

Mako blinked. “Huh. Doesn’t sound so bad. She must have been a real goody-goody,” she said.

“She was,” agreed Rixik, leaning forward again in the seat to examine the listing, “which is why I’m surprised Rogun the Butcher’s got a bounty out on her.”

“Rogun’s got a short temper. Maybe she made him angry.” Mako suggested.

“Well, yeah,” said Rixik, “that’s usually why people get bounties. But Rogun wouldn’t pay this kind of money just for the hell of it. She must have caused him trouble. Personally caused him trouble. Cost him money. Cost him business. And she’s not the kind to do business with him,” Rixik turned his head to look up at her, “Or sleep with him, before you ask.”

“Sooo,” Mako began, “you want to go after her?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Rixik shrugged, “If the opportunity presented itself I sure wouldn’t mind collecting.”

Mako grinned, “I could look into it, you know. If you asked nicely.”

Rixik wrapped an arm around her slender waist and pulled her close, “I always ask nicely,” he said.

She cuffed his shoulder, “No you don’t. You’re worse than Gault sometimes.”

Rixik chuckled, “Mesh’la-Mesh’la, would you look into this bounty listing please.”

Mako cuffed him again, “Now you’re making fun of me.”

“I am not,” he said. He pointed at the terminal, “But seriously. Dig into this one a little. I’m definitely interested.”