Broan sat in his studio, his new protocol droid gleaming in one corner. All his easels had been neatly arranged; his studies were tidied onto shelves and the paints had been potted. He detested it. He drummed his fingers on the desk, the noise irritating him further as he scowled at the city skyline. This was not so much 'tortured artist' as it was perturbed scholar. He considered the droid and how best to put it to use - or, rather, how best to put it out of use.

"Ah-eight, please recite Imperial marriage law as it pertains to non-human, non-Pureblood Sith and human Imperial citizens." He sighed and shifted his chin onto his free hand. Rain started to beat against the window.

"At once, master. Accessing relevant files... broadening search..." The rain slowly started to turn to hail, the droid giving off a low hum and occasional beep. "Located: laws pertaining to alien and human marriages, laws pertaining to Sith Lord and Imperial Citizen marriages."

"Tell me about the first one."

"In the event that an Imperial Citizen should, for some reason, choose to marry an alien, said Imperial Citizen shall be responsible for all of their alien's movements within Imperial Space. Said alien will be educated in Imperial culture and society and properly taught their place. In the event that the Imperial Citizen should die, their alien will not receive any property and will become property of the Imperial State. In the event that-"

"Stop." Broan could feel the nausea rising in his stomach. Imperial society and Imperial law by logic reflected each other, this was something he had anticipated, something he had known, but to hear it articulated in such a fashion...

Broan dismissed the protocol droid and it powered down completely. He watched as the hail assaulted the city. He wondered if the Force could affect nature. He wondered if emotions were reflected in the Force. He wondered if he would still be denied aspects of his personhood as a Sith and what those would be.

He wondered what Rochester thought of all this and what he would say.

The cacophony of voices on her ship were beginning to grate on her nerves. Minalde knew how important this alliance was but soothing the different personalities and addressing the petty concerns, which had been particularly trying today had used up all the nice she had to spare today.

She went to Zenith and let him know she was going to her room and was not to be disturbed under any circumstance. He seemed to understand and took up a post in the corner of the main conference room to keep an eye on the “guests”

Slipping into her room, she dug out an old robe, ratty material but soft and warm, and a vid that was tucked in with it. Her door chimed. She was sure it was her ship droid with the cup of spiced tea and cookies she requested.

“Come in” she called. Turning she saw Felix with her snack and a shy smile on his face.

“Is this a private party? Or can I join you?”

She sighed. “I just needed some downtime. I am beyond being polite to anyone anymore today”

“I'm tough. I can take it. If you need someone to grip to, you have my ear.”

“Thanks for the offer. I already unloaded a bit on Zenith. He really seemed to understand. He is keeping an eye on the crowd, I know he will keep them in line.”

He set two cups of tea and a small plate of cookies on the table next to the bed. He politely sat in the chair next to the table.

Minalde slipped into the refresher, changed her clothes, threw some water on her face and then looked at her reflection. Did she want him to go or stay? She sensed he was falling in love with her and she didn't know what to make of it.

Heck, it didn’t matter, she was going to get into that bed and enjoy her self, relax and have a little downtime. Opening the door she ran across the room and jumped into the bed, then turned down the lights.

“You can stay if you like, but I want to indulge myself without any interruptions”

She leaned back on her pillows as the vid came to life. A lilting song filled the room. Minalde smiled at the look of astonishment on Felix's face.

“Its a children's vid I have always loved. A tale of two sisters, who meet wondrous forest spirits after moving out into the country. Its simple, its warm and it always makes me happy”

He nodded and a glimmer of an idea formed in his mind. He leaned back to enjoy the vid and learn more about this fascinating woman he had joined with.

****

In another ship in the far part of the galaxy, a vid flared to life within a black room. The same lilting song filled this dark and sterile environment. The light cast by the vid reflected off the face of a darkhaired man. Randall didn't know what prompted him to watch this vid right now, but the opening strains of the music caused him to relax muscles that he didn't even realized were still tensed for battle.

It brought back memories of his Academy days on Tython, when Min first introduced him to her guilty pleasure, her love for certain children's shows that she shared with him. He smiled for the first time in months.

And My Neighbor Totoro is a fantastic movie, whatever your age.

Jedi Temple, Tython

"Master D'Anshir?" a small voice asked.

Rhysven D'Anshir turned around and found himself face to face with a small Zabrak girl. She was dressed in the standard Jedi trainee outfit, her hands behind her back, staring up at him with huge amber eyes.

"Master D'Anshir," the girl said again, "can I...can I have your autograph?"

"First of all, I'm a Knight, not a Master," Rhysven told her gently. "Second of all...what?"

"Can I have your autograph, Master?" she asked, smiling sweetly.

Behind him, Kira made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed chortle.

"I, ah," Rhysven said slowly, unsure of how one handled this kind of situation, "why would—I mean, I'm fairly certain that violates the rule about having possessions—"

"Oh, it's not just for me, Master," she assured him. "It's for all of us."

"All of...who, exactly?"

"My friends and me."

Rhysven blinked. "Um...why?"

"Because," the girl said as though it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy. "Everyone knows how you saved us all from the Sith." Her eyes became round and worshipful. "You're a hero."

"That doesn't mean that I..." He glanced over his shoulder at Kira and whispered, "Help?"

"You're on your own, boss," she said softly, grinning. "Besides, the girl has a point. You practically have 'Hero of Tython' floating above your head in giant blue letters."

"I'm not a celebrity!"

"Oh, just give the poor girl an autograph," Kira chuckled. "It'll probably make her day."

Rhysven rolled his eyes and turned back to the Zabrak girl. "All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll do it."

Her face lit up, and she produced a piece of flimsi and a pen from behind her back.

With a small sigh, he signed the paper. She gave a small squeal of joy when he handed it back to her.

"Thank you so much, Master!" she exclaimed, beaming at him. "I want to be just like you when I finish my training!"

Before Rhysven could say anything, she skipped away.

"Don't start," he said firmly to the still-grinning Kira. "Let's just get back to the ship."

As it turned out, that was easier said than done. By the time they made it onto the shuttle to the orbital station, Rhysven was in a decidedly un-Jedi-like state of irritability.

"The problem with defeating a Sith Lord with a planet killer," Kira said thoughtfully, "is that everyone is going to know about it."

Rhysven leaned back against the wall, running a hand through his hair. "Stars, you'd think I was a holostar at an awards ceremony."

"Hey, you saved all their lives. They're just showing their appreciation—for you," she added with mock grumpiness. "No one loves the sidekick."

"I wouldn't know about that," Rhysven said darkly. "I saw at least two starry-eyed Padawans looking your way, and both of them should have been old enough to know better."

"Jealous, are we?" Kira teased.

"Maybe," he admitted.

She laughed softly. "And what about those girls by the hangar and the way they were looking at you?"

"They're training to be Jedi," Rhysven scowled. "They shouldn't be ogling people like that."

"They're teenagers," Kira said dryly. She sauntered up to him, swaying her hips. "Oh, Knight D'Anshir," she said in a sultry voice, "will you sign my—"

"Kira—"

"I'll have to take off my shirt—"

"Oh, shut up."

I didn't put a date with the location tag like I usually do because my headcanon involving Rhysven is rather convoluted and I'm still working out the timeline. Hopefully I'll be able to resolve things once I finish the Knight story!

Irritating. Less than twenty four hours since he'd first set foot on The Lambent and here she is again. The tour of the ship, the inquiries as to his comfort and quarters, the veiled hostility of her crew...all tolerable. This is not tolerable.

"What is it?" He makes a point of rising from his desk slowly and faces her, blocking sight of the holocron he'd been studying. To emphasize his contempt he offers her a vicious glare.

She should be cowering. Instead, she smiles. "I need you to take a quick trip to Coruscant."

"Why in bloody blazes would I want to go there? No."

"I don't care if you want to go or not, Lord Scourge. You're going. Some HoloNet gossip show just leaked a few pages of a book being written by a certain Senator's mistress. If she finishes this thing and gets it published it could bring down the entire Senate."

"In that case I'll be sure to purchase several hundred thousand copies."

"Droll. Her name is Andiani Maganu'u. Go have a chat with her. I don't care what you do as long as you stop this mess-in-the-making. That doesn't mean 'kill her', by the way."

"Would it not be more prudent to send your padawan? This being a female matter?"

"She's not my padawan and no. You're intimidating. You have a certain way with words. It's possible this lady has never even met a Sith. Just do...Sith things."

"Interesting. 'Sith things'. As you wish. When I return I expect to hear of what these 'Sith things' might be," he gestures at his quarters' portal, "but in the meantime the door is that way. You owe me, Jedi, for sending me off as you would a servant with a shopping list."

* * *

Even more irritating. Predictable. Tedious.

"A Sith! I had no idea that little tidbit I let out to Galactic Entertainment Daily would spread so far. Tell me again how you managed to escape spaceport security." Fluttery. Perfumed. Batting her lashes. Revolting.

The woman's domicile stinks of Alderaanian nectar. Whomever had decorated the formal sitting room had gone pastel-mad, mixing lavender, pink and peach tones with unrestrained abandon. Maganu'u herself is bedecked in sickly lilac.

He sits stiffly, tiny cup of tea balanced on his palm. "I did not 'escape spaceport security'. There was nothing to escape from once the guards were unconscious."

She titters. The sound stabs at his temples. "So thrilling! I won't tell. I'll even pretend astonishment at every camera in this building being disabled. How did you do it? Did you," she leans forwards conspiratorially, "use the Force? Are you here to brainwash me into giving you my memoir so you can take it back to the Empire? Will you seduce me to the dark side?"

The tea tastes almost as insipid as her leer. "You should consider a new abode. Half of those cameras were malfunctioning. The other half could have been taken out with a mild expletive. I chose to utilize my limited slicing abilities instead of swearing at them. Now. I am not," he slams the teacup down onto the small table in between them, "here on the Empire's behalf. I would sooner seduce a short-circuiting protocol droid than seduce you in any manner whatsoever," standing, he draws himself up to his full height and glowers down at her, "and your tea is execrable. You will dispense of your manuscript and focus your dubious literary talents elsewhere."

Long minutes of silence yawn out before she nods. "Gracious, this tea is dreadful. As much as I despise the man for casting me aside I suppose his horrid wife having him in a chokehold is retribution enough. I should turn my talents elsewhere. What do you think about..."

It worked. Of course it worked.

He listens to her drivel, concurs in monosyllables, and in the end he realizes that it had worked too well. Her simpering as she hands him the small parcel- ghastly. His curt bow before departure is a mandatory unpleasantness.

* * *

Back aboard The Lambent he hunts the Jedi down, storms into her quarters as abruptly as she'd entered his.

"Never again. It's done. Maganu'u will be penning tawdry romances instead of tawdry memoirs. I recommend not reading them. Take this," he throws the parcel at her feet, taking inward pleasure at her perplexed expression, "it's better than you deserve."

"What do you think about a romance novel centering around the passionate longings of a Sith Lord for a Senator's secret slave girl?" 'No.' "No? You don't like the idea?" 'No.' "Should I make the slave girl an actual Senator instead?" 'No.' "Hm. What if the Senator is a secret Sith and the slave girl belongs to a Dark Council member?" 'No.' "Well then, the Senator could be a staunch Republic loyalist and the..."

He conceals the holocron and retreats to his bunk, rubbing at his temples.

A semi-short piece which takes place immediately after Scourge joins the crew, a while before chapter one of Grey. Red. Black.; the specific mission is "Scorned", rank 1 dark Diplomacy. He's been critting about 95% on that mission these past couple weeks. Never gets old when he brings back a Preserved Tarisian Rose or Gree Personal Journal and remarks: "Better than you deserve"

There was more grumbling in Khem’s quarters as he battled Darth Zash for supremacy in his own head. Etonya had her head under her pillow and she was trying to sleep. It had been weeks since her last ritual and Khem seemed more miserable than ever. She gave up trying to sleep and started searching the holonet for something that might cheer him up.

“Hmmm…This could be fun,” Etonya started cackling until Andronikos woke-up and threw a pillow at her. She considered using the force to shock him but he was already asleep and it wasn’t worth the wasted energy.

The rest of the night passed without incident; when everyone was awake, Etonya set course for Balmorra.

On Balmorra Etonya and Khem walked through the battlegrounds. Khem was confused, Etonya generally left him on the ship and traveled with the pirate. They wandered around for a little while longer when Etonya suddenly stopped in front of a dilapidated building.

“Little sith why do we waste our time on this world,” Khem growled at Etonya.

“We are here because there is a deployment of Republic soldiers and at least four jedi in this, for lack of a better term, building,” Etonya was practically overflowing with glee. “I shall deal with the soldiers; you my monster shall eat the jedi.”

They split up in the front hall because Khem said he could smell jedi.

Etonya lit her double-bladed lightsabre and, with a cheerful hello, proceeded to empty the room of all living inhabitants. It was great, there were limbs flying everywhere and people trying to get out of the way of the manically laughing sith lord.

The last man was mortally wounded and obviously not thinking clearly, when he said, “This was an unprovoked attack on soldiers of the Republic. Why did you come?”

“Do you really want to know?” Etonya shocked the man. “I was looking around the holonet for a way to cheer up my Dashade when I stumbled upon your operation and thought it was the perfect thing for him,” she stabbed him and looked around at the devastation she caused. She started giggling, she couldn’t stop and she knew just knew that if Khem could hear her he would find a way to say she wasn’t as good as Tulak Hord and he would mention the battlefields of Yn and Chabosh. That thought started her giggling again.

(Elsewhere)

Khem Val was lumbering through the hallways following the scent of jedi. He made it to the end and found a room where there were five jedi and three padawans deep in meditation. The nearest jedi looked up and he was eaten first. The remaining jedi alerted by the screams of their companion ignited their lightsabres and attacked the hostile being.

Khem ripped through the forces of the jedi feasting with glee. It was an odd feeling; ever since the little sith awoke him back on Korriban he had to make sure she was safe, he had to follow her will, and then he saved her from the witch and now his head was not his own anymore. He had faithfully followed her and when they landed on Tatooine she abandoned him for that pirate.

The jedi were mostly gone and the witch in his head was silent for the first time in a long time. It was a good feeling, and he finished off a particularly crunchy jedi. He left in search of his sith and found her giggling in the midst of destruction. Most of the room did not survive her assault. He grumbled disapprovingly, “Little sith Tulak Hord never giggled, not even on the battlefields of Yn and Chabosh.” For reasons he could not understand she was laughing harder, then she asked, “How were the jedi? Did they taste good?”

“They were weaker than the jedi of old but they will do. One was very crunchy, it was like eating a giant beetle,” Khem grumbled this last bit with a look of mild disgust.

Etonya straightened suddenly and looked at Khem. “I hate this planet let’s get back to civilization,” she flashed a grin at Khem before running out the door and back to the spaceport.

For reason or reasons unknown Etonya has always been attracted to Khem. Its kind of disturbing...at least she's fun to write!!

Drakkach is my lone male character- and he dumped Kaliyo for Raina; the IA storyline changed him drastically

"...You practically have 'Hero of Tython' floating above your head in giant blue letters."

So naturally, Force Persuasion. Or maybe really forceful thoughts. Also: “The other half (of the security cameras) could be taken out with a mild expletive.” Lol

Andren lets the smile rise to his lips as he and his Padawan pass through the ticket line. Zhara is so solemn, offering up her hand with the grave dignity of the very young. When he gives her the map and camera, though, her own smile bursts to life, showing her as the exuberant little girl he is determined to let her remain for as long as she can — there will be time enough for her to be sturdy and responsible later. Zhara takes his hand and she’s off, dragging him along behind her like a great brown kite, chattering her joyous discoveries at each station of their little pilgrimage.

The aviary towers up ahead of them, and Zhara stops suddenly, dragging him away. “Could I have my lunch now, please?” she asks, the question low and conspiratory.

“Are you sure?” Andren asks in return as he retrieves the meal they had prepared that morning. “It’s still early.” He looks past Zhara, toward the aviary, and that’s when he sees her. The scar-ringed eyes throw him, at first, but around them, behind the sullen, simmering anger she wears like armor, he can still see echoes of the girl — the same age Zhara is now — who had pleaded with him to let her sister stay just a little while longer.

“Master? Is something wrong?” There’s concern in her voice. Just barely ten, and she’s already too observant by half.

“Hm? No, not at all.” He hopes nothing’s wrong. He hopes Maneera (he remembers her name, just like he remembers everything else about that day) can allow herself to accept this show of compassion. He gives Zhara a smile. “I’ll be right over there if you need me.” Andren goes to sit on a nearby bench, watching as the girls make their wary overtures.

Maneera is snarly, and he can’t honestly blame her, but Zhara pushes on with tenacious generosity, and soon enough, the older girl is smiling, won over by chatter and a sandwich. Zhara offers her hand, and in the light of some sudden revelation, Maneera looks stunned and homesick and relieved all at once. Andren allows himself a small sigh of relief.

Then the Twi’lek lumbers up. Maneera tenses, Zhara backs away, and Andren’s hand is on his saber almost before he realizes it. The Twi’lek paws at Maneera, pulls something from inside her jacket. His hand slides down into her back pocket and squeezes, and Andren catches the tail end of her reply. “—usual place, usual rates.”

“Careful, pretty thing,” the Twi’lek chuckles, his voice as thick and shapeless as he is himself. “Wouldn’t want the good doctor to find out about your side job, now would you?” It’s only when he catches sight of Andren that he pulls his hand from Maneera’s pocket. “See you tonight, Nera.” His laugh rattles around in his throat as he walks away to lose himself in the crowd.

Both of the girls are shaken, and it’s all Andren can do to keep from sweeping them both into a bone-crunching hug. But Zhara needs a good example, and Maneera needs her illusion of independence, so he keeps back, settling for a hand on Zhara’s shoulder and a simple plea for Maneera as she hides behind her hands. “Let me help.”

Her spine stiffens in defiance as she glares at the two of them. “I don’t need your help,” she spits back. “There’s nothing more you can take from me.” She gives the flutterplumes a long, hungry look before storming away.

Andren looks to the caged carrion-birds for insight, holding back bitter tears by force of will. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jax is late, as kriffing always, so Maneera’s standing at the aviary, watching the flutterplumes. They’re ugly and ungainly and she loves them so damn much because she knows she is, too. She watches the birds go about the business of being a family and feels a churning in her gut that has nothing to do with the hunger that’s been around long enough to almost start feeling like it belongs.

“They’re very pretty,” pipes a little voice from beside her.

Maneera turns, looks down at the little red-haired girl in robes. Just great. “They don’t belong here,” she mutters in reply before looking back to the cage. One of the ’plumes takes off, climbing to beat its wings against the force field at the top of the enclosure. It knows the attempt is hopeless, it has to know, but it tries anyway. “They should be at home.”

The Robe kid leans out over the rail to read the sign. “Their mother wasn’t able to care for them properly. The zoo people had to raise them from chicks, so they wouldn’t know how to take care of themselves now. Where else can they go?”

A pair of flutterplumes have found a bit of food — safe, planted, spiked with balanced vitamins — and are fighting over it. “They’re ruined now. They’d’ve been better off with their real family.” Maneera grins as the littler bird wins its game of chicken, and she laughs right along with it as it clacks its beak over its meal. Flush with vicarious victory, she lets herself be gentle with the Robe girl. “Sorry, kid. It’s not your fault.”

“That’s okay,” the girl replies, pushing something along the ledge toward Maneera till it bumps into her hand.

Huh. Sandwich. “Thanks, kid.” The bread is chewy and the saltnut butter is crunchy and the jewelfruit jelly is just the right amount of tart, and whoops, there goes half the sandwich right there.

“You’re welcome.” The kid punches a straw into a drink box and sets it down next to the sandwich, then looks up at Maneera and holds out her hand.

Miraluka. No. Just... no. She can’t deal with this. The Twins are laughing at her now, they have to be.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Zhara Sindri.”

Oh gods, no. Not like this, Zeezee can’t be allowed to see her like this. Her brain seizes up. “I... I’m...”

Maneera’s never been so glad to see Jax as she is in that moment. He crashes into her, and for a moment she doesn’t even care that he’s got his hands on her like he owns her. He’s made enough down-payments by now; Maneera figures that probably does buy him some entitlement. As she gets her feet back under her properly, she turns so her back’s to the little Robe... and maybe, just a little, to keep herself between Jax and the girl that used to be her sister. “Watch it.” And just look at her, keeping it all together like this isn’t the third most miserable day of her stupid life.

Jax ignores her, just like always, and roots around in her jacket for his supply. Smooth as a magic trick, he trades the usual unregistered credsticks for whatever new batch Hennigan’s cooked up for him. “Tell your boss it’s been a pleasure doing business with him.” The other hand slides down into her backpocket. Whatever. Jax copping a feel is about as much cause for alarm as water being wet. “And with you.”

Maneera grins up at him, reckless and fierce. “Not in public and not for free, Jax. Usual time, usual place, usual rates.” Look how much she doesn’t care. Just look.

Jax’s laughter sounds like a constipated bullfrog. “Careful, pretty thing. Wouldn’t want the good doctor to find out about your side job, now would you?” He catches sight of something behind Maneera and pulls his hand from her pocket. “See you tonight, Nera.” He’s still laughing as he saunters off.

Maneera holds it together long enough that there’s no chance of Jax seeing her fall apart. She leans back against the ledge and puts her hands over her face, just shutting out the world for another moment. It’s a stop-gap, but it’ll do till she can get back to the clinic and make it go away for real.

“Let me help.” A new voice. Male. Low but intense, almost desperate. Not as calm and reasonable as last time she heard it, but recognizable just the same. Nothing could change that voice enough to make her mistake it for anyone else.

“I don’t need your help. There’s nothing more you can take from me.” The sight of the flutterplumes — ugly and unlovable and just like her — fills her with the fierce pride she needs to stalk off with her head high.

I really didn’t write this in response to the discussion already going on in the thread. Really. It’s been bouncing around since I saw the prompt. In point of fact, this was the mindset I imagined for Yuon when I wrote the original piece, even if I hadn’t written it out in specific detail at that time.

It’s very hard for me to justify the Jedi non-attachment policy. I think for myself it comes down to the parallel to monasteries. Ideally, people who make that level of commitment to a deity or belief system do so of their own free will. In Star Wars, Force-sensitives of either faction don’t get that choice. There may be good reasons for it, but it’s also where the analogy breaks down.

He was her last padawan. She’d known that even when she chose him as a student. This chapter of her life was drawing to a close, whether to the Force or some other end, she was as yet unsure. But she knew in her heart she would teach no others after him.

And there was still so much to teach! So much knowledge in the archives! So much history, both on this world and others! The Fount of Rajivari tantalizingly close! Would there be enough time, she wondered, to share it all? Was she selfish to hope there would be? Was she pushing too hard, trying to to make the most of the limited time she had remaining?

Thus, Master Yuon read the arguments in Jurial’s datapad with growing concern. This was a distraction. She hadn’t planned on addressing these issues. In truth, perhaps she hoped Jurial would not question the Jedi on this particular doctrine, or at least not right now. Or not ever. It was so much easier when a padawan accepted their master’s word as final.

Master Yuon suppressed a smile. She hadn’t chosen Jurial because she expected an easy pupil. She chose him because he did question. Everything. Always. His hunger for answers and knowledge was not the same as hers--he was more philosophical, while her interests were largely historical--but it drove him the same way.

So, really, she should have expected he would take a larger view of attachment that the merely personal. The issue always came up, sooner or later. It was wishful thinking to hope Jurial might never find someone to love.. All of her other padawans managed to do so. She had herself, on more than one occasion. The issue at hand was dealing with that powerful emotion. Master Yuon set down the datapad, “Who is she?” she asked.

“I don’t understand, Master,” Jurial said.

“Is it a he then? The object of your affections?” Master Yuon asked.

“Master?”

He seemed so distressed. He wasn’t in trouble, or not yet at any rate. Perhaps he hadn’t expected she’d understand. Perhaps it was the first time he felt this way about another being. “It really doesn’t matter either way, padawan,” Master Yuon said, handing back the datapad.

Jurial took it, “I’m…confused.”

Master Yuon sat back in her chair, “Every Jedi must come to terms with the doctrine of non-attachment. Most confront it as padawans, as you are now. You find yourself attracted to someone. I presume this person returns your feelings?”

Jurial stared at the datapad containing his arguments. “There is no one, Master, I was trying to examine the issue from an outside perspective. As we are encouraged to do.”

Of course. Such an attentive padawan. In truth, he did have some very good points here, something to be discussed separately, once he dealt with the personal aspects. “I will admit, your arguments are more well-reasoned than most. You’ve thought through this really quite well, and I must commend you on that. But Jurial,” she leaned forward and steepled her fingers, “I reiterate. Every Jedi goes through exactly what you are going through now. Every one. Every one then questions the doctrine of non-attachment. Every one argues against it. Because it must be different for your case. I assure you, Jurial, it is not. You must decide which is more important to you, your commitment to the Order, a commitment not lightly put aside, or your feelings for this other person.”

“Master Yuon,” Jurail objected, “That’s not at all why I brought my concerns to you.”

Master Yuon sighed. A distraction. At such a critical time. “Of course not. When you are ready to confide in me, I will be here. In the meantime, I’d like you to study the writings of Master Simikarty and Master Odan-Urr. In addition, I’d like you to examine the Collected Arguments of Masters Vrook Lamar and Vandar Tokare. I believe these texts will prove enlightening.” He would like these works. Master Odan-Urr in particular was a great philosopher; Jurial would appreciate his arguments. These ancient scholars continued to provide guidance to the order, long after they were gone. She found comfort in them through her own crises.

She hoped Jurial would find in them what he needed. Or a start at least. There was a nagging sense in the back of her mind that even this was the will of the Force. That he needed her guidance on this issue now, because she might not be able to provide it later. That...was something she could not deal with right now. Not right now. These writings would speak for her when she was no longer able. She would point the way for him, like Rajivari’s First Blade.

Jurial stood and bowed, “Yes, Master Yuon.”

Yuon’s lips tightened into a thin line. He liked study, but he was not happy with her assignment. She could hardly blame him. “Jurial, this is a serious matter. Many Jedi have been led to the dark side through what they perceive as true love. But this seemingly positive emotion is also at the root of jealousy and possessiveness, of blindness and irrationality. The doctrines prohibiting attachment as well as the others you question exist for very good reasons. Meditate on those reasons.”

“Yes, Master Yuon.”

“And Jurial?” So, so many questions. She was never more aware of how much knowledge she wished to impart, and how little time she might have left to do it.

“Yes, Master?”

“Do keep an open mind.”

Keeper was furious. "Agent, I don't know what you did to anger a Sith, but I must relieve you of duty."

"Sir?" Surely he had misheard him.

"Your ship has been impounded; your assets, seized; and your accounts, locked." Keeper's voice was clear as ever, enunciating everything with precision. "It normally would not come to this, but the Sith was very insistent."

"I have served the Empire faithfully for my entire life, sir." Surely that, of all things, would mean something to him.

"And the Empire exists to serve the Sith," was Keeper's reply. "Dismissed, Agent." Having nothing more to say, he walked over to a holo-display and began discussing plans with a group of Watchers, as if Briel didn't even exist. Over a decade of loyal service to the Empire, and it meant nothing. All those years of sacrifice, everything he accomplished, all rendered moot by the whims of a single Sith.

He finally found the strength to move from his spot, and he made his way out of Intelligence headquarters. As he walked through the halls, no one so much as glanced at him. Even the most familiar of faces ignored him.

And, for the first time in his life, he had to pay cab fare to leave the Citadel. He scrounged around in his pockets for enough credits, and could just barely afford it. The fee had always been waived for those on official business.

The taxi pad at which he arrived was not protected by an overhang, so the rain began to pelt him as soon as he had been let out. Even the weather, it seemed, was out to get him. He didn't even bother to take shelter under an outcropping, knowing he'd be drenched regardless. So he kept walking.

He had grown up in this city, but now he struggled to find his way through the streets. With his apartment and ship off-limits, he had no idea where to go. He certainly couldn't afford a night in a hotel with what few credits he still had, nor could he afford to drown his sorrows at the local cantina.

As he walked, the slick ground and his soaked uniform made him painfully aware that his body had still not fully recovered from the torture he endured at the hands of Valdr. The frequent flashes of lightning in the stormy sky only reinforced this, causing him to remember the electricity that flew from the Sith's fingertips.

He leaned against the wall of a nearby building and began to cry.

This was all the Sith's fault. He hated them. He had done nothing wrong. It was Intelligence that had dropped the ball, not him. He gave them a lifetime of loyalty and faithful service. But they didn't care. The Sith didn't care. Valdr didn't care. They cared about results, and they cared about themselves. Nothing else.

Only Kaaste seemed to be different.

How could he manage to keep his idealism, how could he stay pure when he was surrounded by monsters? How could a Sith survive Korriban and still have such compassion?

He had only known him for a short time, but he knew that Kaaste had something that set him apart from other Sith. He cared for the Empire. He cared for his fellow man. He cared for him.

Briel immediately pulled his holocom out of his jacket pocket and tried to contact him. The Sith had been sent on a mission to Alderaan, and he would have to spend his remaining credits for the long-distance holocall. The expense would be well worth it. Without hesitation, he swiped his last credit chip, and waited as it rang. And rang. And rang.

After nearly a minute of waiting, he received an automated reply. "We're sorry, the person you are trying to contact is unavailable at this time. Please call again later."

With the last of his credits gone, Briel didn't have the money to try again. He threw the holocom in frustration, and slumped to the ground. His career was over, he had no friends to go to, and no hope to sustain him. All he had left was despair.

To say Briel's been going through a rough patch lately would be an understatement. A lot of my writing lately's been rather dark, so I'm gonna try to write more uplifting stuff in the future. Unfortunately, emotions from real life have a tendency end up in what I'm writing at the time, which is why I might not have much luck in that department. More reason for me to cheer myself up, right?

Little brat with his new haircut, polished shoes and a book bag bought on Dromund Kaas. Makes me so mad I could spit. Spit on him, spit on his snivelling, overweight, pathetic-excuse-for-a-man father.

"Isn't he a bit old, Mr Windthorpe?"

Windpipe. The wheezing little tube I wish I could crush right now. Waving his fat little chubby fingers over a datapad, he smiles at me and I smile back, wishing I'd really had that laser installed in my eye, rather than just bragging about it.

"His mother insisted on some private tutelage. She handpicked his lessons, teachers... it's all here."

Sure she did. All Sith do. Give mummy and daddy's precious little crotch fruit some special guidance, then throw them to the military when it turns out they can't move a rock with their mind.

"Ah yes. I see."

I see you've listed all the 'Lords' first, but mentioned the military victories of that old fart you had teach him about strategy. Trying to impress me? That man's secretary did all the work.

Oh stars, that fat bastard is nodding at me. Arrogant pr*ck. Well I'll nod right back, civilians don't get salutes. And don't let the door hit you on the way out. Don't want to clean up that mess.

"You've been left to me, Windthorpe," Are you scared yet, brat? Should be. Keep trying to slide into that chair, the ground won't swallow you. Stop chewing your damn lip. "Are you not the son of a Sith?" Oh goodie, he's nodding too. "Then why do you not act like one?" Skin soft like a pampered child, but he's steady enough not to lose his balance. Could be something in him worth educating. "You will learn. There is no one here to protect you. You will not be a mummy's boy any longer."

That usually sets them off. Crying of course, not glaring. Kid's definitely got some Sith in him.

"Do you understand?" Hands on hips. Show them where the gun is. That's when they stop being so damn stupid.

"Perfectly." Clipped tones and an angry snarl? But you aren't angry at me, are you? Daddy's the one you hate right now - that's cute.

"Good. Then tell me, why are you here?" You're tiny compared to some of them and unless you hit a growth spurt, that pretty face of yours is going to get you in trouble...

"To defy all your expectations of me, and to crush you underfoot."

This ain't Korriban.

"You arrogant little brat." You've got some spirit, but I've got a protocol to follow and so do you, even if you haven't learnt it yet. No backchat, no acting like you're a Sith. Acting like Sith is for Sith.

Aha, good reflexes on you, must've been your mother's work. Don't stand up, brat, you'll only make this worse for yourself.

"I am of Sith blood and you will not treat me as a slave."

We're all slaves to the Empire here. Learn your place.

Slippery little-

F*ck.

"Fine, I get it," Oh that f*cking stings. I deserved that. Son of a Sith, probably used to having people trying to grab him and kill and crap. "You're strong, pretty fierce. Stop looking so f*cking surprised!" Seriously, kid, stop, you're making me feel bad for getting shot. "You never fired a gun before!?" Oh really? Crap. "Thirteen and you've never shot someone? Yours must've been a cushy life," At least I'm not bleeding badly. Oh great, here come the bumbling cavalry. "You shot me. Tell them that."

"They'll kill me, won't they?" Smart.

"Holster the gun. It's there, built into the uniform," Even though you're not supposed to have a gun yet. Better get used to the weight of it. Why are you idiots hitting the door? It isn't locked! "Put some pressure here, where my hands are," Could you touch any lighter? Never had a girlfriend, have you? "Pressure, boy."

"Major Maccorl!"

How did you two idiots even manage to open that door?

"Stop gawking you worthless piles of crap!" I mean that. You two are worthless. "Get a medic."

"But Major-"

Did I f*cking stutter?

"Yes, he shot me," Better own it before it owns me. "Now get a f*cking medic!" Kid's not too bad. He's worried, that's for sure, but he's calm at least. "You're go far, you keep shooting officers. Don't shoot the wrong ones though, don't tend to like it. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." Ma'am's my mother.

"Sir."

"Yes, sir."

This is kid is going to be a medic. Damn.