"Overseer Tremel."

Ruth waited for the greying Sith to look up from his desk. He eyed her for a long moment before he spoke. "Has Lord Baras sent you back to me already?"

"Yes. Hear me out. Lord Baras got to work the moment the introductions were over. As a first task, he has asked that I kill you and bring him your hand as proof. As I understand it, cutting off a hand is in no way fatal, so it would seem that Lord Baras is watching to see whether I have the stomach to kill my own mentor."

"Really? I did not expect him to be this direct, even with his authority. Either I die here or he forces me to slay the apprentice I had hoped to back against his. A master stroke."

"He hasn't demanded any meaningful proof of death. He's almost daring me to spare you."

"That would be very foolish of you."

"Foolish? It would be a waste for all your experience and wisdom to be lost as part of my homework assignment. It seems to me your skills could still be put to use somewhere far away from here, if you were to vanish leaving nothing but the hand Baras has demanded."

"There is no point in such thinking. Baras has made the superior play. You as an acolyte will obey his will or die trying. It's absurd to imagine anything else."

"I don't wish to kill you, Tremel. You've been a good teacher. And a friend."

"If you call me or any Sith a friend, I have taught you nothing." Tremel stood and faced her across the desk, scowling. "Stop trying to talk yourself out of doing what is necessary. I have attempted to show you the ways of the Sith, but even now you prove resistant to the most critical lessons." He shook his head. "I should not have been surprised. Your father didn't have the nerve either. That's why he fled the Academy when we were young. That's why he has lived as a virtual recluse on Dromund Kaas ever since he returned to the Sith. That is why I was shocked that he sent you to me."

"You gave me the practical lessons he couldn't, Overseer. My father gave me what advice he could, but he knew it would take someone more in touch with Korriban's pulse to guide me through the Academy. I've learned a great deal. Even the parts you've never seen me emulate. So don't make me end it like this."

"End it, girl?" He drew and activated his saber. "I don't think you're capable. Not to someone you've been foolish enough to name a friend."

"Hold." She drew but didn't activate. "To fight me is to throw your life away and you know it. You can survive this, just not if you do what he expects. Let me take your hand. Disappear, remake a life elsewhere. Baras will learn something about me and he will think it's a weakness. He will not realize, at least not today, what I am capable of toward those who don't listen to reason. You'll live to see his game go on. I'll give you your victory." Her jaw tightened for a second. "Or you will die here, now. Because I am capable, regardless of what you think of me."

The older Sith faced the young woman for a long time. Then, slowly, he deactivated his saber, set it on the desk, and offered his right arm.

Ruth bowed formally. "Thank you, Tremel. For everything."

She struck.

She stood in the doorway of my office and stared at me with dark brown eyes. She had the longest hair I'd ever seen on a Sith, partly done up with a jeweled black comb. She was wearing black pants and a leather vest - warrior's clothes. She had come here prepared to defend herself, and I was impressed. She was young, but she knew how Sith operated.

"Sit," I said, trying to make it sound more like an invitation than a command. "Please."

She remained standing where she was, her arms crossed over her chest. Some of her blonde hair fell over her shoulder, and she tossed it back. She was a small woman, but I could see a fire behind her eyes.

"I'm not here to hurt you," I said. "I just want to talk."

"Where's Crezelle?"

"Your bodyguard was taken to one of the best bathhouses in the city. I paid for her to spend the afternoon purely on herself."

The girl kept her gaze steadily on me. I could see her set her jaw and tighten her hands' grip on her arms. She was confused.

"I have no issue with your servants being present. I simply thought this was something that best remains private." I stepped out from behind my desk, and she stiffened up even more. I saw her hand move to her belt, like she was preparing to draw her weapon. I raised my hand and fired a quick warning shock at her - just enough to jolt her hand and get her attention - and in a stern voice I yelled her name: "Latula!"

She whipped her face back toward me, clearly surprised. She seemed to have expected me to go right for her throat.

For a moment, we could hear the crackle of a lightning shock. Then silence.

"I - I'm sorry, Darth Imperius," she said, and bent her head. I could see the bewilderment on her face, her confusion as she tried to puzzle out what I might want from her. I felt sorry for her. She was used to being taken from.

"Call me Meenah," I said. I reached out a hand and lifted her chin gently, raising her face to look at mine. "Sit, please."

She did. The look of bewilderment on her face was gone, replaced by a carefully constructed look of practiced poise. Latula was very good at wearing masks.

I returned to my desk and sat across from her. "Tell me about your family, Latula. Your parents."

She shrugged. "My father was a Darth. My mother was the daughter of a Moff. They're both dead now."

"I heard it's quite common for high-ranking Sith to have children with other Sith, if their spouses aren't Force-sensitive. The child is raised by their spouse, to preserve the appearance of pure bloodlines, but has a different biological parent. Did you ever suspect your father did such a thing?"

Latula shrugged again. "Does it matter? My parents are dead."

I handed her an old datapad. She looked at me curiously for a moment, then began to scroll through it. I knew what she was looking at, because I'd looked at it hundreds of times since I'd found it here, attached to the bottom of the desk, hidden away. All the data one could easily find on Latula, and some you couldn't. Notes that started off concise and legible, but became erratic and shaky toward the end. Some of them were barely readable. Latula shook her head and looked up at me. "Have you been stalking me? Keeping a journal of my life?"

"No, I didn't make that," I said. "My master did. I found it here after I took over these offices."

"Why would he care?" she asked, still looking justifiably upset.

"I don't know for sure," I said, "but I think she cared because you were her daughter."

Latula blinked. She stammered for a moment, then spat, "What? Why would you...why would you say something like that?!"

"Don't you think you should know? She wasn't stalking you, she was finding out about you because she cared. From what I've heard, your parents - the parents you knew, at least - didn't care about you all that much. Here's someone who actually cared about you."

For a moment Latula was silent. Then she put the datapad back on my desk with a small clack. "Is she dead?"

"It's...complicated." I fell quiet for a moment, too, and Latula's gaze dropped to the floor. "Do you want to know about her?"

She didn't say anything, just kept her eyes fixed in front of her.

"She did some reckless things. But at her core I don't believe she was a bad person. She was wildly intelligent and she was brave in the face of Sith who didn't like her or agree with her methods. I liked her, despite some of the rather poor decisions she made in regards to me. She was a good teacher. She clearly did care about you. From what I read, she figured you'd be better off tied to a noble family. She did what she thought was right for you."

"Where is she?" Latula asked.

"I don't really know," I said honestly. "She ran off somewhere. As I said, it's a complicated situation."

Latula sat perfectly still, seeming lost in her own world. I reached into my desk and rummaged around until I found what I was looking for, pulled it out, and handed it to Latula.

She looked up at me. "A lightsaber?"

"It was your mother's," I said. "She gave it to me when I became her apprentice. I think it's time to pass it on."

She hesitated, then put her hand on the hilt - but didn't take it. "Are you sure? What if she's not even really my mother?"

I shook my head. "I knew as soon as you walked in. You look just like her. Take it."

She did, turning it over in her hand curiously. When she stood, I put a hand on her shoulder.

"You're a brave young woman, like she was. But don't become reckless. Keep your eyes open. Remember, I'm your ally."

She nodded and turned to leave. Before she left, she picked up the datapad I'd given her. "May I keep this?"

"Of course."

She smiled before she turned away, and I knew I'd repaid the debt I owed my old teacher. I watched her walk out the door, and was struck by who she reminded me of this time.

Me.

Doesn't affect how I RP her. I still plan to RP her as having no idea of this. It's just something interesting for ~fanfiction land~. I always thought the scene where the Inquisitor gets Zash's old lightsaber was nice and I liked the idea of it being repeated, this time with the Inquisitor doing it. Also I just love Zash, I'm sorry, sue me. D:

Though I wonder if he realizes I killed his daughter when I see him again at the end? Or is he just all Sith about it.

also,

Dear Overseer Tremel, Could you at least have told my character the Sith code ? Would that have been so hard? I looked like an idiot.

I told his daughter he was alive and let her go. At endgame he said she hunted him down and confronted him, freaking out over his failure and cowardice and so on, and he was forced to kill her. He blamed Baras for the whole wretched situation. Which I think is reasonable.

I like to think at least Colran could've gotten him a job someplace less awful He was a DS Sith but he was at least not a dick about it, and that's worth something.

Abandoned software factory, Bonadan

“She . . . she just . . .” Kyravi couldn’t find the words. He stared in shock at the dead girl on the ground, then the deactivated lightsaber in his hand.

He had thought there would be more blood, but the lightsaber had cauterized as it cut. Still, he felt . . . stained somehow. It was as if there was an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Captain Ulain Alric, standing behind the energy barrier to his cell, applauded. “Your first kill? Congratulations.”

“I told her . . .” Kyravi stammered. “But she tried anyways. Why did she try?”

The girl – who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, the same age as Kyravi – had gone for her comm, and Kyravi had cut her down.

“Stop sniveling, boy.” Darth Illyare, one hand on the deep lightsaber wound to his abdomen, struggled up into a sitting position. He extended his free hand towards Kyravi and yanked his lightsaber back with the Force.

“You did well,” Captain Alric continued. “She would’ve warned the Republic of our presence here.”

In a daze, barely aware of his actions, Kyravi disabled the barrier to the captain’s cell. Alric stepped gratefully out, crossing to the second body in the dingy room.

“I recognize him from the briefings,” Alric said, turning over the Bith’s body. “Master Oodonar. The Jedi will be wondering what happened to him.”

“Dump it on Roonadan,” Darth Illyare instructed. “My operations here mustn’t be exposed.”

Kyravi tore his gaze away from the girl’s corpse. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked the Sith. His legs tensed for flight.

But the Dark Lord smiled – well, grimaced. “No, I don’t think so.” He rose from the floor, now all but ignoring his wound. “I sense the power in you. I sense the hunger.” He approached Kyravi, gesturing at the girl’s corpse. “You’ve tasted blood. More than that, you’ve made your mark upon this world. Because of you, my operations on this planet will continue.”

“What are your operations?” Kyravi asked tentatively. “Err, my lord?”

“None of your concern, boy,” the Sith Lord replied, but there was little malice in his voice. “Now then: do you want to learn to control your power? Do you want to learn to make your enemies tremble in fear, learn to protect yourself and make yourself master of your own destiny?”

Kyravi blinked, feeling that there was only one real answer to a question like that. “Yes.”

“Then consider this your first lesson: the shame of retreating from battle is outweighed by the shame of dying foolishly. Don’t throw your life away in service to some ‘ideal’ or cause. To be Sith is to be your own cause.”

“Aim it there, just like I showed you. Remember to line it up carefully before you pull the trigger. Right in the middle of the red circle. Remember everything I’ve taught you.” Tarrant Killesa gave the little girl an encouraging smile.

Varenne furrowed her brows in deep concentration as she pointed the small blaster at the brightly colored target. She took aim, squinting with one eye through the little viewfinder, and pulled the trigger.

The blaster shot pierced a hole right in the center of the target. She beamed.

“Wow, Rennie, that’s great! If you can shoot like that at eight years old, just imagine what you can do when you get to be my age.”

Varenne looked up at him with wide blue eyes. Eighteen seemed like a really long way away. “Really?”

Tarrant smiled proudly down at her. “Definitely.”

“Tarrant, why are you leaving?” Varenne’s eyes filled with tears. He was like the big brother she never had, the only one who took her out for fun adventures while her sisters were off doing other things. Eryn and Ariena had left for Korriban, and Thalia was boring, reading all the time and not making time for her baby sister like she used to. With Tarrant gone, she would be all alone.

Tarrant took her much smaller hand in his own. She was one of the only people left on Alderaan that he really cared about. She was a refreshing change from the other nobles his family dealt with – so innocent, sweet, honest and straightforward, in a way only young children can be. The rest of the nobility and their politicking and mind games could all go eat bantha poodoo for all he cared. “I’m going to go and train with the Mandalorians. I’m going to win the Great Hunt someday. With a shot like that, maybe someday you will too.”

“But I don’t want you to leave!” Varenne wailed.

Tarrant put a comforting hand on her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back to visit, at the very least. I can’t stay away from House Girard parties for too long.”

Varenne and Mako walked purposefully into the brig of the Aurora and stopped in front of the only holding cell that was occupied.

“I can’t die like this,” growled the man inside the cell. “Please.” He spat the last word like it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

“You don’t deserve a warrior’s death, scumbag,” Mako said dispassionately. “Let’s leave him. Let him die when the ship is ripped to pieces.”

Varenne looked disdainfully at the man on the other side of the force field. There was nothing left of the big brother figure she once knew, the old friend who had first encouraged her to enter the Great Hunt ten short years before. All that was left was a cold-blooded killer who deserved everything he got.

“Works for me,” she said. She took one last long look at him and turned to leave.

“No! You can’t let me die like this! I’m Tarro Blood, you worthless piece of filth!” The man in the cell banged both fists against the force field. “Let me out, damn you! You can’t do this to me – I am Tarro Blood. Tarro Blood!”

Varenne stopped and turned back around. She met his gaze evenly.

“I know. That’s exactly why I’m doing it.”

"Even out your breathing. Your sabres are an extension of yourself. Let your being flow into them. Let your rage and your hate ignite and fuel their blades."

Sylvia stood, poised and tense. She turned slowly, with arms outstretched, the training weapons in each hand feeling uncomfortably heavy.

"No, not like that! Your arms are too stiff. If you struck anyone like that you'd hurt yourself more than them," Her mother grabbed at her arms and adjusted each joint before stepping back. "You must be supple, yet strong, like a whip. Try again."

Sylvia repeated her dance. Her arms ached from practicing the forms and she was growing tired. She spun suddenly, bringing one arm in and then flicking it out again to contact with the practice dummy. It knocked gently against the wood.

"Mum, I'm tired."

"Nonsense, you haven't practised nearly enough to be tired. Your practice dummy is still in one piece."

"I've been doing this since morning!" Sylvia let the weapons fall to her sides and power down. She turned to her mother, sullen and pouty. Her mother only sighed.

"You must channel your anger into the blades. Every Sith must do this. You are not going to leave this room until you have done so."

"But I'm not angry!"

Her mother merely pointed at the practice dummy. Sylvia shuffled towards it, shoulders hunched. She whacked the dummy a few times and then gave it a small kick. The dummy did not even wobble.

"Every Sith has anger in their hearts, Sylvia. That is a fact of life."

"I'm not angry."

"Perhaps not now, but you will be. Believe me child, you will be."

"Look, Guss. I'm not sure I'm really the best person to explain the facts of life to you."

"But you know all kinds of facts, captain! And life! You've got tons of life. Um, not that I'm saying you're old."

I laughed. Nervously. "Some mysteries are best left...mysterious."

"You can't say that. Not with the sheer volume of supplies you keep hiding. What is it? Spice? Stims? That Hutt tequila you keep saying you haven't bought?"

"No! I've been clean for days!"

"You're killing me, captain."

"Okay. Fine." I stalked over to the supply cabinet and pulled out the plain brown box. I opened it up to reveal a tightly packed set of tubes and small squares.

"See, human females, um…look, Guss, you don't want to know."

"Is this dirty? The Jedi never taught me anything about…" Guss peered curiously at the box.

"Stars. Uh. Let me explain."

*

Guss looked greener than usual.

"Really?" he said miserably. "Every month?"

"Every month."

"How do you not bleed to death?"

"That's just one of the mysteries of the human species."

"If Mon Calamari did that we would all get eaten by sharks."

"I would risk the sharks if I could ditch the bleeding. Hmm, species change. I wonder if that works?"

"I'd offer to help if I knew how. …Every month?"

"Yeah. My secret stash is all about controlling bloodshed."

"I'm sorry, captain. I had no idea. I'll just stop complaining when I get papercuts."

"Glad to lend you some perspective, kid."

This has been collecting electronic dust for quite some time. I wanted to put it up, illustrating the difference between what you think you’re teaching, and what your pupils are actually learning.

It’s also early in the story, when Varrel is still unsure how he feels toward Vette. In some ways, she reminds him too much of the family he lost.

His Vette has customization 1.

Varrel had never owned a ship before. He ran his fingertips over the smooth steel surfaces. Its décor was not to his liking. But then, like all of Baras’ gifts, his wishes had not been taken into account.

He passed the open door to the crew quarters. Vette dozed fully clothed on an upper bunk. Her skin almost glowed in his cabin’s dim lighting, like just-opened paolo flowers in warm summer moonlight. Her head rested on a flat, Imperial-issue pillow, striped lekku trailing out behind. One hand, curled in a little jade fist, pressed gently against her chin.

Once upon a time, he’d watched his wife sleep the same way. And his children, tiny babies, trusting and helpless. So peaceful, sleeping. He’d loved them then. Cared for them. Would have done anything to keep them happy and secure.

He felt none of that for Vette.

Vette was not his slave—he did not own slaves—but she chose to remain with him all the same. Vette was useful to him and amusing company. That made the difference more semantic than fact. He did not love her. One did not love slaves. Slaves were tools. Slaves were there to be used. Somewhere deep inside, he felt as though he finally understood what it was to be Sith.

He did not believe this was the lesson Darth Baras intended to teach him when Baras gave Vette to him—or more correctly, allowed him to keep her. But it was the one that he learned. He’d always been an excellent student.

Not so long ago, Varrel Umrahiel had been a teacher, the most sought after dueling instructor on his homeworld. His students were always learning from him, always observing him, even when he was not teaching. Every action was a lesson. He understood this and always had.

Darth Baras did not.

To see and exploit weakness was in his nature. It was instinctive, from the first time his father placed a training vibroblade in his hand. It was the reason he was such a formidable duelist. It was the reason he managed to survive the academy, when so many far younger than he perished. His personality, as his instructors explained it, was an extension of the Force. And the Force became an extension of his will.

He knew Baras would one day try to kill him. Knew it in his soul. The instructors called this sense a force-premonition; he preferred the older term. Regardless, once he had served whatever purpose Darth Baras had in mind, Baras would discard him. A spent power cell. An empty magazine. This understanding, Varrel realized, was also Sith.

The prudent thing, then, was to determine Baras’ flaws first, and prepare to exploit them.

He already knew one flaw, a glaring one to Varrel’s eye. Darth Baras preferred to work through others. He didn’t like to fight his own battles if he could get someone to do it for him. Baras would not strike the killing blow himself. When he made his move, it would be through an intermediary.

Perhaps the Twi’lek sleeping here.

"Good work today," I told Elara.

She smiled. "It was. I think that was enough to let our backup secure the planet."

"One more for the Republic. One less for them."

I'd been watching her all day. There had been less than usual in the way of combat and more in the way of very firm negotiation. She had a way with that. A long talk, a surrender. A thoroughly clean sweeping victory half the time.

Some days I still got to knock heads, and that was good, too.

I was still shy letting her into my quarters. Even just talking like we did tended to tie my stomach in knots. Really pleasant knots, though. These days we came awfully close to losing sleep, staying up talking, but she enforced curfew when she remembered to.

We talked about everything, and nothing, and a squad that was home no matter where we went, and a future that was very likely to get better and better. Somewhere in there we fell silent for a moment. She turned her head and the gold dust on her eyelashes caught the light.

"There's one thing I'd change if I could," I told her.

"Oh?"

"This, us, it all happened backwards. I didn't realize until way after I got to know you, and respect you, and admire you, that it could ever be…that we could be." I touched her hair. It was more beautiful than ever when she let it down. "I just wish I'd been paying more attention when I fell in love with you."

Her lips parted ever so slightly. She smiled when she said "You might have notified me as well, sir."

"Well." I grinned. "Consider this your formal notification, Sergeant Dorne, that I, Major Vierce Savins, am terribly, terribly much in love with you."

"Noted, sir. I'm afraid I've misplaced the form that would ordinarily make such information a matter of record, but in light of the urgency of the information I feel obligated to bypass the memo and tell you directly that I love you, too."

"Hmm." I trailed a hand down her side, a wicked idea taking shape. "Do I have to sign an approval on that one?"

"Well, sir, confirmation is requested." She did that wonderful fake-innocent hesitation of hers. "Since we're still lacking in the traditional paperwork…we'll have to come up with some alternate means of authentication."

"I can do that," I murmured. My hand paused on her waist. I hadn't asked for more before. "You're sure?"

The first minute or so of her answer was expressed entirely in kisses.

Spoiler I have no idea how or even whether I'm getting here. But I'm dying for some happiness in my own writings, so here.

Exhausted, Lord Vizloch lay down on her chaise longue and stripped off the last pieces of her training armour. The exercises had been trying on her body and mind, but she had made progress. Even if she could not rid herself of it, the pain of separation was now something she could control. Every muscle ached and she wanted only to sleep. Indeed, the longer she lay on the chaise longue, the heavier her limbs became. At length, a serving girl presented a tray of sweetened tea and small cakes.

"Girl," Lord Vizloch lifted her hand from her brow, but did not look at the serving girl. "Where is Nurse Lacroix?"

The serving girl bowed deeply, keeping her gaze focused on her toes.

"I believe Nurse Lacroix is currently in the nursery, my Lord."

"Fetch her for me."

"At once, my Lord."

Lord Vizloch reached out with the Force, feeling carefully for the cakes. The fog settling on her mind made concentration difficult and twice she almost dropped the fancy. She was just finishing the rose-flavoured treat when Nurse Lacroix entered, little Rochester asleep in her arms.

"My Lord." She inclined her head and curtseyed as best she could. Instinctively Lord Vizloch held out her arms and was presented with her son. She settled back and cradled the boy, resting his head on her breast and arm.

"Are they behaving themselves?"

"Benedicta feeds, sleeps and plays with suitable decorum. She has taken to routine as a duck to water," Nurse Lacroix sighed, preparing herself to deliver what she considered less-then pleasant news. "Rochester, however, appears to crave constant attention. He does not observe appropriate play structures - indeed, earlier I gave him a soft toy and he nearly sucked the ear off. I had to remove the toy from him before he chocked."

"Thank you, Nurse Lacroix," Lord Vizloch had not looked at the woman since she had been handed her son and it seemed as if she had not been listening either. "You may leave us."

"Very well, my Lord." Nurse Lacroix bowed and left the room, swift steps taking her to the nursery room and her remaining charge.

Lord Vizloch cooed at her son, delighting as he grabbed at her fingers. She allowed him gum and suck at the digits, pleased just to have his company. She bounced and rocked him gently and he laughed, reaching to her face for a hug.

"A-ma. Ma-mam-a."

I think my utter lack of experience with children really shows here. They're like tiny little screaming aliens and I have no idea why I wrote this. I blame Magdalane and all the gooshy family stuff in Advantages.