Skin Deep

Skin Deep

By Eliavyn

A/N: This is for Jedi Boadicea. She keeps telling me to post it, and even though I think it's rambling mess, I'm doing what she tells me. I generally do what she tells me; she's solely responsible for the fact that I've lost hundreds of hours of my life to an Xbox which I had no intention of purchasing because videogames seemed 'lame.' Right. Anyway, this was the first KotOR fanfic I wrote. Most of this story came flying out before I even finished the game, directly after my first playthrough of the Leviathan, in that awesome adrenaline rush of 'Oh my God, dude -- I am the Dark Lord of the Sith! Brilliant! Horrible! Right on! Oh, poor, tortured Carth! Bring me my laptop!' I wrote it before I knew what would happen to Bastila, and I left what I wrote intact, even though some of Revan's suppositions about Bastila's fall turned out to be dead wrong. They felt right at the time.

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DATAPAD ENTRY

This isn't possible.

I don't accept this. I do not accept this. I don't care what I said to Bastila. Of course I said I understood, of course I reassured her that I knew she had no other choice -- what was I supposed to -- of course I said the right thing -- did the right thing -- I've been programmed for it.

Programmed. This is...

How could I not have known. How could I not have known? Not even a glimmer? Was I so easily wiped away and replaced? How strong in the Force could I have been, if I could be pitted so completely? The memories they gave me are so clear -- I remember my mother. I remember her death -- I understood what Bastila felt when we found her mother dying -- that memory is rooted in me. It is me -- it compels me, it's one of the moments that shapes my choices and keeps them upright -- and that's not just my mind, that's my heart they tampered with. I remember finding... so much strength through that grief. But I never really did. They just gave me that memory, to make me think that I did. Did she even die? Was she real? I must have had a mother - who was she, really? What did she look like? What happened to her? Did I even know her, or was I an infant when the Jedi took me?

I can't believe these memories aren't my memories. Strength through grief. Nice touch -- very light side. Plenty of drama. I bet that one was Bastila's suggestion. Or maybe she had nothing to do with it -- she's no Master. I bet every insignificant, mundane memory of my false life was handcrafted by a Jedi Master. Every flicker in my head was calculated to compel me toward the light. I guess I should be flattered they took the time to go into such detail. I wonder how long it took to remove me. I must have been quite a project. It makes me want to turn off the lights in this cabin and sit in the dark.

I can't process this. My childhood was not my actual childhood. How should I feel about that? Should I feel anything? I feel a little numb. And my adult choices were not my real choices either -- no, they were... I was... I made... very different choices than I remember. And my training. Well, I was never a Scout. What am I, blind and stupid? A Scout? Even without the Force, I was exterminating rooms full of armed Sith in seconds -- I didn't question that? I accepted my military excellence as what -- the standard basic training of the Republic Fleet? What kind of brain is in my head? How was I ever a Dark Lord? Not that... this was possible to guess. I don't think it was possible to guess. Why shouldn't I have had faith in my memory? Who goes around questioning their own memory all the time? It is what it is. It's there, it seems like it's always been there. You don't start questioning that out of nowhere unless you're paranoid or insane. They must have counted on that.

But why did I never look down at this body and see it? For what it is? It's... it's a machine. It doesn't belong to an ordinary person, or even an ordinary fighter. The Jedi might have wiped my mind, but my body remembers. Muscle memory is the only kind I've got left. I took to the lightsaber in seconds -- it felt natural to hold one in each hand. I didn't even have to practice. How could I have taken that at face value -- what did I think I was, a genius? My elbows knew where to lock and stay -- my feet found purchase without a second thought -- my hands placed the crystal perfectly. Perfectly, they said -- and there I was, grinning like an idiot, thinking I was just so remarkable because the Jedi Order were able to train me in their ancient ways in just a few weeks.

Weeks? And I believed that?

I have a feeling that the old me would have executed the new me for being such a fool.

All those Jedi knew. Bastila knew. She probably enjoyed watching me fumble through all of it again. Even the Jedi Masters must have felt some tiny sliver of vengeful victory -- they're not above it, I don't care how close to the Force they are. A conquered enemy stood before them as a willing apprentice, gutted of all former knowledge, obedient and oblivious. What triumph they must have felt. I wonder if they were amused, while they humiliated me.

But then, I'm sure I've humiliated many people. I'm sure I wiped many people's minds. I'm sure I ripped people's lives away, stole them from their families even without killing them, left them demented on every inhabitable planet in the galaxy. I probably... I probably did it just for sport. I know I must have. I see how I programmed HK, and I know what I was. I listen to him and feel sick to my stomach. Not because I find him repugnant. But because I find him funny, even now. His sense of humor is so familiar. His sense of humor was mine. Is mine.

That delight in the Dark is part of me. Deeper than memory. It doesn't matter if I can't access all of it -- it's in me. In little ways, it's shown itself. I've been deliberately unkind to Bastila, and I've enjoyed it. I didn't always make an effort to rise above the desire to insult her, just because she showed the slightest disrespect to me on Taris. Well -- not slight. She was openly cutting, but I could have swallowed it, if I'd been strong. I didn't even try to be strong. I just wanted to cut her back. And then, later, I wanted to rise above that. I did rise above it.

Now I don't know what I want.

No wonder everyone was so worried about me. No wonder there were so many lectures on the lure of the Dark Side. No wonder the Jedi 'made the exception' to train me in adulthood. No wonder Jolee talks in circles, no wonder Canderous wanted to follow me - no wonder I butchered that Sith prospective and walked over her body on my quest for the Star Map. Those students on Korriban... those kids were... just kids. I don't think Lashowe was much older than Mission. They didn't know what they were doing, I don't care if they were willing to kill on command, they didn't know. They were brainwashed and dangerous, but they didn't deserve to die. Still I killed them. And it wasn't like those were fair fights. Those felt like murder. I knew I would win; the kids didn't stand a chance. Just like the Sand People on the dunes didn't stand a chance -- and they shouldn't have had to die. They shouldn't have had to fight -- just like the Wookiees shouldn't have had to fight. They hadn't done anything except defend their world. I was there for something I wanted -- and yes, maybe it's something the galaxy needs -- but I invaded their space, and then I killed them for having the audacity to fight back.

I guess that's in my muscle memory too. Conquer and destroy, no matter the cost. Target the living, wherever you go. Shoot what moves.

There's a voice in my mind telling me to let this go, reminding me of everyone we've managed to save. Like those little Jawas. The slaves in the Vulkar base. Juhani. Yuthura. The Wookiees. Even Griff. And Dustil. Dustil and those other kids. The prospectives who lived, and the ones in the valley caves. The ones who listened to me and promised to seek out the Jedi. But what's the good in that, when they were probably obliterated as soon as they got to Dantooine? I killed them too.

Except Dustil. He didn't go to the Jedi -- I have to hope that. I hope he did what he said he would and stayed where he was to work from the inside. He looked like such a strong young man. He looked so much like his father -- and their voices are... uncanny. Their patterns of speech. I think he could have taken care of himself and escaped, as long as he escaped to a planet that still exists. I don't want to find out that he went to Dantooine. I don't think Carth could stand to lose him twice.

Carth. I can't even... I can still... appreciate the things he said to me before we went into the fight against Saul. But I know that those things applied to another person. Not to Revan. He never would have said those things to Revan, who trained the Sith that corrupted his son and killed his wife. The look on his face, when we found out - I can't... I can't shake it. I don't think that he'll ever... I don't know if we still... I don't know. But I don't know how I'll cope if I've lost him now. I've already lost myself. I need him - I didn't expect to, but I do, and he... he'll always be looking at Revan now, and he won't want her. I know I wouldn't. Not in his shoes. I'd want to kill me, for what happened to Telos - and it doesn't matter that Malak ordered that attack. I made Malak. I made this war.

I want to know how I did that. How could I do that? Even if I have dark impulses, even if it's true I'm imperfect, I would never -- no. I would never. Would I? I... suppose I did. But how could anyone become such a thing as I did? It's monstrous. How was I capable of that? How ugly was my life? Was there at least some reason for what I did? Can there be a reason?

I hate that I am this thing. I hate that, now that I know that it's there, I think I can feel it. Erasing the memory does not erase the truth. My true nature is waiting, locked up at my core, just like HK's was. And I wonder... I don't know... I was careful to protect my droid's core -- was I equally careful in protecting my own? Whatever the Jedi may have wiped away, was there an armored center that they couldn't touch? Something I proactively protected? I can't even begin to know. HK's full memory was triggered by my return. What if my memory just needs a trigger?

Maybe the Star Forge is the trigger. Maybe it's the reason why these Maps are the one thing I almost remember. Maybe all the hazy little visions will snap into focus, and Revan will flood back. I don't know whether to hope it, but I want to know what I was. Not what Darth Revan was, I can find that out from anyone -- but who I was. My real past. Revan, whoever that was before she changed - I want to know her. I want to remember something real. She was someone else, before she was a Sith. She wasn't always merciless -- she wasn't always what she became. What I became. I want to remember. Even if it means feeling so much remorse that it kills me, I want to remember.

But what... what if it doesn't fill me with remorse? What if remembering fills me with hate? What if all of it comes rushing back -- the desire to destroy, the wish to control -- and it overwhelms me? The person I am might be crushed by the person I was. I've only been this person for a few months, and this person is just an illusion. I was Revan for a long, long time, and Revan was real. Is real. What if the darkness just... hatches... and my new mind just vanishes... and I'm a monster again?

Part of me... a part that disgusts me... is almost... impressed? With myself. With what I did, before. Not that I'm proud of those things, but I'm... not sure how I did so much. I'm too young. And I'm not... I don't know. Particularly bright? How did I grow so... mighty, I guess? How did I amass that kind of power? Am I really that... brilliant? Canderous thought I was a brilliant military leader, before. Now I can barely lead this party. In fact, a lot of the time, I don't. I'm definitely not capable of taking over the galaxy. I'm not even capable of manning the stupid blaster turrets, half the time, and the other half of the time, I can't find my way around this damn ship. The memories I was given of myself, my life, my talents -- this new mind the Jedi gave me -- they didn't create anyone exceptionally brilliant.

Except the languages. They left me with the languages.

Come to think of it, I have no idea how I came to speak them.

That had to have been an oversight.

How -- DAMN it. How could I not have thought that was strange? How? What did they do to me? How can I not hate them for this? They destroyed my mind -- and I know I deserved it then, but I don't remember why, and I don't deserve it now. This person they turned me into -- she doesn't deserve this. She's innocent. I'm innocent. They made me good, and now I feel sick and cheated and empty. Why -- why didn't they at least try to turn me back to the light? Me, as I was? Why didn't they try to give me what I gave Juhani -- Yuthura -- everyone else? Was I so fallen as to be past hope? Was there nothing worth saving? Really -- was there not one quality, not one memory, not one word, not one act... nothing? I was worthless? They say they don't execute their prisoners, but they do. I'm gone. I thought the Jedi were about forgiveness -- I thought anyone had a chance to be redeemed. This isn't redemption, this is replacement. They can never claim they redeemed Darth Revan, or gave her another chance. I was not redeemed. I'm not even real. And maybe I deserved to be turned inside out and ripped apart and erased and reprogrammed and twisted away -- but I have nothing to hold onto, inside myself, now that I know that I'm not who I am and that who I was is the last person in the world that I would ever want to be.

That doesn't even make sense.

I can't let myself think about this. I can't. There is no passion. No passion, no emotion, no chaos, no death. No ignorance.

What a pack of lies.

Darth Revan would have undercut the Jedi, for doing this. She would have wiped them out -- along with the Sith, for turning on her -- and reclaimed the galaxy in a second uprising more blinding and fierce than the first. She would have begun it tonight, starting from this moment, recognizing the advantage of this event -- it has created a moment of shock, in which everyone's defenses are down and everyone is concerned about her -- and she would have leveraged the situation by beginning to turn her friends' minds from the truth. Subtly. Imperceptibly shifting the focus of this mission from defense of the Republic to blind hatred for the Sith. Manipulating the easiest ones first -- and they're almost all easy. Mission and Zaalbar would take very little persuasion -- one looks up to me and the other owes me a life debt. T3 wouldn't care much either way, especially after I replaced a few of his parts. Canderous would follow a great leader at any price. HK -- please. I could send him out right now to slaughter a hundred people, and he'd come back in ten minutes with a dozen of them on a skewer. Juhani... it would be deeply cruel to ruin Juhani. But so simple. She isn't far enough from darkness yet to resist it, especially at my encouragement. She would stop her struggling and fall again, to follow me. Jolee -- much more difficult. Possibly the only obstacle. But his neutrality must be pliable, to some extent, and he has a certain rashness. Even Carth would fall. He has so much bitterness toward the Sith that I could turn him against them on whatever terms I chose. And once they were all convinced, we would continue as if nothing had changed. We would go to the Star Forge. We would retrieve Bastila -- I'd need that Meditation, and she could be turned away from the light, if her morality were approached indirectly, rather than head on. Malak will never be able to turn her -- he's much too obvious about what he wants. 'Give in to the lure of the Dark Side,' is probably what he'd say -- what a moronic strategy -- and he usurped me? I could turn Bastila. She'd never turn traitor knowingly. What she needs, in order to fall, is a little gray area. A justified doubt. I'd remind her that we share visions, after all. I'd put the thought in her mind that it is her destiny to fight beside me. I'd help her to convince herself that this destiny was given us by the Force, which we must not resist if we are to serve the light. I'd make her think it was all her idea -- she likes that. And then, once I had slightly altered the motives of all my party, we would slay Darth Malak and begin to pursue all Sith, across the galaxy -- not to help the Republic. Oh no. But to punish those who had turned on me, and to secure the gratitude and adoration of many trillions of people, who would then find it much easier to forgive me my old crimes. They would grow trusting again, as I traveled to the planets where I had recently done so much good, coaxing the spoils of war to my side. Mastering the oppressed peoples first, without their even realizing it. The Wookiees. The survivors of Taris and Telos. The Sand People, the Jawas, the softhearted Sith students. People whose children I've avenged, people whose debts I've paid. Capitalizing on the outcasts, rousing their anger, making them feel included in a great, galactic revolution, sucking in everyone who felt even the slightest debt to me, preying on their sense of guilt, their sense of honor, to seal them to my service, giving the appearance of a great liberator even while I poisoned their minds against all light, gaining prestige and honor within the Republic for my acts of justice and valor, becoming the most legendary of all Jedi -- the one who Returned to the Light -- until I had allies enough to turn the galaxy upon itself and smash it.

Ah. There I am.

That is me. That's the mind that still exists, under the mind they put here. Just scratch the surface. I do know how to build an army. And a war. It must be instinct, since it isn't memory. Maybe it's just who I am. But I have no desire now to follow that instinct, and I hope the desire never returns, because no one could stop me, if it did. No one. I must have known it then and done what I did because of it. The same sheer, bottomless strength courses through me now as then -- I feel the same unbreakable place at my core, making me capable of greatness. Both paths I have chosen require greatness. Great darkness, great light.

Aren't I just well rounded.

No, I can't joke. Or at least I shouldn't. It's just a defense mechanism to shut this out. But I must be open, and I must be serene, and I must accept this. All of this. I must accept it tonight, and not go to sleep wrapped up in these thoughts. I can't let my confusion and resentment feed on me -- and I can't let myself feed on it. No matter how much I want to. I don't know how the hell to accept it tonight, but I have a feeling if I don't, these passions will corrode the part of me that wants to conquer this, until I don't want to conquer it anymore. I can't let that happen. I have to have this out with myself. Now.

All right. Here we go. I feel anger. But I am not anger. I select not to drown in it, but to observe it. It is not who I am. It is separate from me; it is only passing through. I do not have to absorb it and let it take root. I feel compassion for this anger, and I let it dissolve in the wake of my peace. There is only peace. I choose peace. I choose serenity. I choose... everything that I have been programmed to choose.

Oh, what's the use. I don't want the dark. I don't want the light. I don't want to smash the galaxy or to save it. Maybe Jolee had it right. I should go live under a stump somewhere for twenty years and forget it.

I couldn't command a bunch of people wearing Republic helmets anyway. Those things are ridiculous.

[END ENTRY]

I stand perfectly still in the doorway and watch him read it. He doesn't know I'm there, and I'm not even wearing Stealth equipment. I watch his face change -- first he looks furious, and then he flushes, and then pales, and then he closes his eyes for a moment and rubs the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows. I listen to the soft, rapid beeping of T3, several rooms behind me. I hear Mission answer the droid, just as soft, just as rapid. I can't hear what they're saying. I don't have to hear what they're saying. I know they're talking about me.

I wait until Carth is finished reading. I know he's done, because he starts scrolling up to the top of the entry, to read it through again. But I figure he's had enough time alone with my private data recorder, for the moment, and I've been mortified enough, for one day.

'Are you finished there, Carth?'

He gasps, jumps, smacks his head on the sloping ceiling above my bed, and yowls. When he's finished having his seizure, he targets me with very narrow eyes. In them glints embarrassment and guilt. Fury. Maybe a little fear. He makes a wide gesture with both his hands. One of them holds my datapad.

'Look,' he says, and shakes the datapad at me like my mother's index finger. 'Don't -- don't try telling me I don't have every right to read this.'

I don't answer for a moment. I rarely answer right away. It always takes me a minute to decide what I want out of people, and how I have to go about getting it.

I wonder if that's an old habit. From before.

'All right,' I finally say. 'You have every right to read my personal datapad.'

'You're damn right I do,' he says, and stops. He tilts his head and looks confused. Kind of like the gizka used to look, before I poisoned them. He opens his mouth and closes it. Opens it again. 'Wait -- what?'

'You have every right to read my personal datapad,' I say again. 'Need to hear it a third time, or did you catch that?'

His eyes narrow to slits. 'It's the same as reading any other datapad we've picked up on this mission,' he says sharply. 'It's self protection. I need to know what's going on.'

I watch him for a moment. 'Okay, Carth,' I say.

He gains momentum. 'Everyone on the Hawk deserves to know exactly what's happening here.'

'Whatever you need to do.'

'You can't expect we're just going to learn something like that and -- and... and trust you.'

'That makes sense.'

'So don't try telling me I don't have a right to read this -- and you can give it a rest with the Jedi mind tricks, I know you mean the opposite of what you're saying right now.'

I smile a little. 'You're clever, Carth.'

He looks flattered, but only for a second. Then he turns bright red and slaps my datapad onto my pillow with a kind of feminine-sounding smack. Metal hitting sheets. Or maybe I only think that's feminine because I've fallen asleep in armor a lot. I don't know.

'Real cute,' he says. 'You think this is funny?'

My instinctive response is to ask him when I got demoted from gorgeous to cute. Up until today, he would have jumped on that kind of remark -- it would have given him an opening to ask me why I never did get around to calling him the most handsome pilot in the galaxy on a regular basis, to move a fraction closer to me in the small room, to let his eyes rake the length of me in that heated, focused, oddly guilty way they always do. But I know that kind of teasing won't fly. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I think about saying, instead, that now that he knows all my secrets, I'm afraid I'll have to kill him. Somehow I don't think he'll appreciate the joke.

'I don't think this is funny at all,' I say. 'I'm tired.' Tired. I guess it's a good enough word. There is no word, for this. 'So if you're done on my bed, I'd like to go to sleep.'

Carth seems to realize for the first time that he is on my bed. He looks down at the blanket -- then leaps to his feet and lands in the middle of the room, panting like he's afraid I've laid a mine in the mattress. Or like he's afraid I'm going to get ideas. Suddenly we're twelve.

'Hey,' he says defensively, though I haven't accused him of anything. 'I was just sitting here, all right?'

'Yes, I saw you.'

'No, don't --' His face is changing rapidly as he studies mine. Now we're not twelve, and he's not interested, and there is no flirtatious alleyway out of this conversation. He looks furious. Grieved. Sickened. 'Don't you mock me.'

He puts the emphasis on mock. But it's the you that gets to me. I know which you he means.

I can't even begin to apologize for that person. I know better than to try to make such weak amends. I keep my mouth shut.

Carth barely moves a muscle, for several minutes; his eyes stay on my face, but he is not looking at the person I am. He is coming to terms with something -- or trying to. I feel him trying. I feel him failing. I wish I couldn't feel the second part so keenly, but his disgust is palpable. I try to stay open to it. I remind myself that I deserve it, I empty my mind of the desire to lash out with words of self defense - but my heart doesn't care. It gives a nasty thrust against my ribs -- bitterly angry that it can't remember -- bitterly resentful that it is being blamed for what it doesn't even know. Carth's chest rises and falls in determination, slightly disturbing the plates of his armor. He's struggling to accept this. Almost as hard as I am -- except that eventually he stops and slowly turns his face away, apparently unable to face me any longer. I don't blame him. I don't have that option, or I might do the same thing.

'I... just can't.' He barely says the words. I hear them. I want to tell him I'll prove myself, but the truth is, I have no idea whether I'll have that much strength. I can't predict anything anymore. I mean -- really. Not anything. And I don't want to lie.

I wait for him to leave the room; I know he wants to, and anyway he's blocking my path. Or maybe he's waiting for me to get out of his way. The room is too small for two of us, and I don't have the strength to stay this close to him and maintain the rapidly vanishing shred of composure I have left. He has to leave. I can see the stubble on his jaw, and smell him. And there's something I need from him, badly, that I'm not going to get. In fact, he's the last person who's going to give it to me.

'Carth,' I say, more gently than I mean to. It almost sounds like an invitation. But it isn't. Almost isn't.

He jerks back to life, flicks his eyes to mine. 'Get some sleep,' he says roughly. 'Just... just get some sleep. You're going to need all the strength you can get, if we're going to help Bastila.'

I know from his tone that he has nothing more to say, and I'm right. He brushes by me as he leaves, and the outside of my arm goes cold at the contact -- I can feel too much, in these robes. I was used to armor.

I wait until the pulse of him is far away, at the other end of the Ebon Hawk, before I allow myself to move. He influences my thoughts too much, and I need them sharp and clear.

I brace my foot on the footlocker and bend down to unlace my boot, but I don't get privacy for long. In under a minute, footsteps approach the door and pause. They are light, nearly soundless. I know whose they are, and suddenly I don't want solitude. This particular presence is, strangely enough, a big relief.

'Hi, Mission.' I say it without turning, and pull off my boot. I prop up my other foot.

'Hey there,' she says lightly. 'Um.' She stops, and I can hear her toe scuffing the floor.

'Is there something on your mind?' Like whether or not I might suddenly flip out and kill everything in sight?

'Just had a question for you, that's all. Two, actually.'

'Shoot.'

She laughs a little. 'Careful what you wish for when you've got your back turned,' she says, and then I can feel her sober, as if she's sorry she said it.

'It's okay, Mission.'

She raps her fingertips against the doorframe; they make a soft drum. 'So -- first of all, what do you want us calling you now?'

I have no idea how to answer that. 'Whatever you feel comfortable calling me,' I finally say, pulling off the left boot. I lift the lid of the footlocker with swift precision and drop the shoes in. I haven't had bare feet for days. I feel like I haven't been allowed to lie down in weeks. My robes don't feel clean enough to sleep in comfortably, but then there hasn't exactly been time to clean anything. I dig around in the footlocker for a relatively clean set of clothes to sleep in, and finally give up -- this stuff is filthy. Underwear is going to have to cut it. Maybe Jolee figured out a way to launder clothes with the Force while he was on Kashyyyk. I'll have to remember to ask.

'So should I... call you Revan?' Mission asks slowly.

I flinch, but she doesn't see it. I rummage around in the footlocker a little more. 'If you want.' My voice is calm, I don't let her hear the panic.

'What if I don't?' she demands. 'Now that you know what your real name was, will you be, you know, annoyed if I don't say it?'

I finally close the footlocker and turn around. Her face is so easy to read. Defiant and kind and loyal.

'Iara feels like my name,' I tell her. 'It's all I can remember being called. It would be like you getting annoyed when I call you Mission.'

'Right, but doesn't... Revan feel like your name?' Mission cocks her head. 'Isn't it familiar, even, you know, just a little? And that's not my second question, by the way. I still get another.'

I study her pale blue face. There are shadows where there shouldn't be, in such a young expression -- shadows of loneliness, of fear, of battle exhaustion. The soft glow of the sleeping quarter lights illuminates the curiosity in her eyes and makes it glint. She has more than two questions; that much I know.

'You can ask me whatever you want.' I sit down on the footlocker and rest my back against the wall, gingerly settling my shoulders against the hard surface. They're so sore now that I can't imagine what tomorrow is going to feel like. 'There's no limit. I have to think through the answers anyway, so let's go ahead.'

Mission's mouth opens slightly. 'You want to think this through with me?'

'Why not?' I ask.

She instantly shuts her mouth and lifts her chin. 'True,' she says, with her usual nonchalance. 'Like I said before, this is really big. Might as well talk it out with someone, and I'm as good as anyone else, right? I mean, it's not like I'm a kid.'

'I value you more than you know, Mission.'

The words spike straight to her heart; I feel them make a direct hit. For a long, beautiful second, she looks like a healthy, happy young Twi'lek who has never been abandoned and did not spend the morning in a torture cage, refusing to speak. She drops the I-don't-care act and beams at me. 'No one ever says stuff like that to me except you and Carth,' she confesses, plopping down on the bed that was Bastila's. The cover was pulled perfectly into place, just this morning. It barely creases under Mission's small weight. 'Do you even know how many people I helped on Taris? I can't count the number of times I stole money for someone who was in trouble with Davik or talked some dumb kid out of joining the Vulkars. I've been doing that stuff since I was about six. But no one ever noticed.' Mission throws back her head. 'Even Gadon thought I was just a kid -- he'd send me off to hunt things down for him, but only if I really begged him to let me, and it was never anything really dangerous.'

'Actually...' I can't believe I forgot to tell her this. 'That's not true. When we went to the Hidden Beks for help, Gadon sent us to find you right away. He said you were the only one who could get us into the Vulkar base.'

Mission's eyebrows fly up. 'He did not.'

'He did. And when his bodyguard told him to think twice about it, he told us that you were exactly the right person to go to. If he hadn't, we wouldn't have found you, and without you, we never would have gotten the accelerator, and without that, I don't know what would have happened to Bastila.' Though she never would admit that anyone helped her. I hope she doesn't try to pull that attitude when we get her off the Star Forge. If we get her off the Star Forge.

I stop the thoughts. I know we'll get her back. I can't think about the alternative.

Mission looks at her knees for a moment, frowning. She is quiet, and her frown deepens.

'Are you thinking about Taris?' I prompt her. 'And Gadon?'

'No, about Bastila,' she says very softly -- a rarity for Mission. 'I was just, you know. Wondering if she's all right.'

We are both silent for a long time. Mission touches the bed she's sitting on, and lightly scratches her fingertips against the perfectly taut, uptightly stretched fibers. Bastila even makes her bed like it's some kind of Jedi meditation.

'We'll find her,' I say. 'She'll be all right.'

'She's a Jedi,' says Mission, as though that settles it.

We both know it doesn't settle anything. If Dantooine can be destroyed, then so can Bastila. Malak is taking her apart, right now. Probably just the way I taught him to. In fact, we probably planned together what we would do to her, when we finally captured her for her Meditation -- surely there were systems put in place to harness her. Whatever she's suffering now, I probably orchestrated it.

Suddenly, I'm not breathing very well. I bend over my legs and touch my forehead to my knees.

'You okay?' Mission asks. 'You look like you just ate something out of the synthesizer.'

I cannot have a breakdown. There simply isn't time. This has to be swallowed whole. 'I'm all right,' I say, and start to pull off the long socks I've been wearing for weeks. They're foul. I'm hot and cold all over. I want nothing touching me, I want to go to bed.

'You're not all right,' says Mission stoutly. 'You're probably losing it -- I mean, who wouldn't be?'

I throw the socks into the corner and hug myself tight. I rock back and forth, once. I am having a breakdown. I want this breakdown. I deserve it. But I can't afford the indulgence, and neither can anyone else on this ship -- they need me. Bastila needs me. I need me. I need to believe I can be this person -- I like this person. I drop my arms to my sides and close my eyes. I sit up straight. I am not Revan anymore. I can't help what I was before. Self pity is not an option. There is nothing I can do except master this and move forward.

But there is something else I can do. I can be miserable and bitter until I start to slide backward. I can choose fury and violence. Revenge. I can do what I did.

'I don't want to go back --' The words are out of my mouth, hot and swift, before I realize they're not just in my head. It doesn't matter. Mission can hear. She should see this, and know what she's up against, and guard her choices appropriately. 'I don't want to go back. I won't go back. I won't.'

'Oh, won't you now?' The voice isn't Mission's, and neither is the infuriating chuckle. 'Don't get cocky yet, kid. You never know what your destiny holds.'

I don't know why Jolee always has to rub it in, and I don't know how he manages to sound so damn cheerful while he does it. I also don't have any memory, until this moment, of wanting to smack an old man. But I'm sure it's something I used to do on a regular basis, and I think about reminding him of that.

'I'm meditating,' I say as calmly as I can, but I keep my eyes shut. Jolee unsettles me more than the rest of this crew put together -- even more than the fact that Bastila knew all along and didn't tell me, the fact that Jolee figured it out shakes me to my core. He guessed what I was. He guessed -- he didn't know, wasn't told. If he could see that kind of darkness in me without any hints, then it's really still there.

'Meditating -- bah.' He snorts. 'Open your eyes when your elders are talking to you!'

'Leave her alone, old man,' says Mission hotly. 'She got some bad news today, you know?'

Jolee grunts. 'That's just one way of looking at it,' he says with relish. I know that tone. He sounds like he's just warming up. 'Let me tell you a story.'

I open my eyes in alarm to see Jolee standing in the doorway, grinning and rubbing his hands together.

'So there was this fish,' he begins.

'Fish?' I ask, dismayed. 'No, please, don't --'

'Shush!' He pauses and wrinkles his brow -- then grins again. 'I changed my mind,' he says. 'There was this bird.'

Mission groans like she's been shot.

'Biggest thing I've ever seen in flight -- wings as wide as this ship,' says Jolee, who is making it up as he goes along and who never saw any such bird in his life. 'Powerful creature. Awesome to watch. Seemed to calm all the other animals around it -- seemed to be able to lead them, even if they weren't his species. Even had the respect of the Wookiees.'

'Oh, so this was in the Shadowlands?' I ask flatly. 'Funny, I don't remember seeing a giant bird with an entourage, do you, Mission?'

'Nope.'

'Then you weren't looking, dammit!' Jolee barks.

I close my mouth. There's really no point in fighting Jolee. No matter how much cheek I give him, he gives it right back.

I sort of appreciate it.

'Now, this bird -- this awesome creature -- the one thing it didn't have was a nest. It knew it had built one -- a great one -- but it had lost track of it somewhere in the big trees, and eventually had to begin the long and difficult task of building another. Not as great, perhaps. But still a nest. And before long, he had forgotten entirely about the old one. In fact, he had no memory of it at all -- and he never questioned that. Didn't need to. Until one day...' Jolee pauses and takes a deep breath to continue.

I look him straight in the eyes and cut him off. 'If you tell me this ship is my new nest...' I begin.

'You can sit still and listen till I'm through, young woman!' he snarls. 'How old does a man have to be to earn respect?'

'You'll never be old enough,' mutters Mission.

Jolee turns a glowering stare on her, which does not disturb her disdainful expression in the slightest.

'Yeah?' she challenges, flicking a head tail back over her shoulder. 'What?'

Jolee's mouth is twitching as he looks at her, but he doesn't laugh. 'Bunch of upstarts!' he finally bursts. 'Let me finish a damn sentence!'

What's unbelievable to me is that this is actually making me feel better. What's even more unbelievable is that I am actually about to ask Jolee to finish the story and tell me what happens to the nest. I want to know. But before I can open my mouth, stomping footsteps approach this end of the ship.

'Excuse me, Jolee.'

Carth. And it's a fighting tone.

Jolee, looking interested, steps into the sleeping quarters and off to the side. Carth fills the doorway, both hands in fists, and pins me to the wall with a glare.

'For the record,' he says furiously, 'I wouldn't turn against the Sith on any terms you chose. You got that? I'm not -- I'm not easy.'

Mission shifts wide eyes from Carth to me. Jolee looks highly entertained.

I realize that Carth plans to stew over every word I wrote until it drives him crazy. This is not surprising. 'It was your choice to read that,' I tell him.

'You couldn't just turn me if you felt like it,' he nearly hisses. 'I'm not about to follow you blindly -- I swore an oath to the Republic -- it means something to me, it means the world, I -- I lost my family for it. This mission is a part of that -- I couldn't be turned on it -- none of us could, you're wrong.'

I'm right. But I go for diplomacy.

'I don't think any of us really knows when we can be turned, and in which direction.' My voice is quiet and steady, and I don't look away from him. 'I don't think you're any less susceptible than anyone else. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I'm trying to understand how I could have been the kind of person I was. I wanted to see if any of that was still in me, to see if this is true. I'm having a hard time with this. That's why I said those things. That's all.'

I seem to have taken the air out of him.

'I... I know you must be having a hard time,' he finally says. He is quieter. His fists relax. 'And I didn't mean to...' He shakes himself a little, and seems to realize there are other people in the room. 'Sorry, Jolee, did I interrupt something?'

'Yep,' says Mission cheerfully. 'Thanks, Carth.'

Jolee harrumphs. He gives Carth a long look, like he's sizing him up for something, and then he turns on his heel and walks away without another word to me; I hear him pad as far as the med bay, and I still don't know what happens to the giant bird.

---

Carth is staring at me. To be precise, he's staring at my leg. I don't follow his eyes, I just watch him. I can't be sure whether he's actually looking, or if he's just zoned out.

'I'm uh... going to go get my Pazaak deck,' says Mission, sounding a little awkward. 'I'll be back in a minute -- you want to play, Iara?'

I am relieved to hear the name I know. 'Sure.'

She darts out of the room.

It's a few minutes of motionless silence before I start to feel awkward too. I don't know what Carth wants. I hope he doesn't want to talk. I haven't had enough time to process anything new -- then again, I know there's no point in waiting for this to process. There will always be elements of this that I won't understand. Might as well just keep going.

'You don't think Dustil went to Dantooine.' He says it out of nowhere, he hasn't moved at all, he's still looking vacantly at my leg.

'No,' I tell him. 'I don't.' It's the truth; I'm not just trying to make him feel better. I don't think Dustil would have gone straight to the Jedi, even if he did turn his back on the Sith. He still had too much bitterness to make such a leap so quickly.

'Because if he did...' Carth's voice trails off, dangerously close to breaking.

'I honestly don't think he would have.'

'Still, I wish...' He works his jaw, fighting his own emotion. Not with the implacable calm of a Jedi, but with the naked strength of a soldier who has never been trained to calm his passions, yet still chooses to struggle against them. It is one of the strengths I love, in him.

And it is love.

'I wish I had proof.'

'We will find proof.'

'And I mean either way.' Carth looks suddenly haggard, and I remember how severely Karath tortured him. It didn't seem to have a lasting effect at the time, but now I see how close to the end of his rope he really is, physically and mentally. Emotionally, I think he left the rope on Korriban. 'I want proof either way this time, I want -- I want a body if there's a body -- I don't want to lose four years, I'd rather -- I'd rather know he's dead than find out later and know I could have looked, I could have found -- but that's not what I -- I don't mean I'd rather he was -- I can't believe I really saw him --'

'He looked just like you.' I can barely hear my own voice. I don't deserve to speak to him about his son.

'Yeah.' It's a rasp. 'Too -- too damn handsome for his own good.'

He tries to laugh, and misses, and his voice does break. I wish I could help him. But I don't know what it's like to have children -- at least, not that I know of -- and it is my fault, directly, that he lost Dustil for so long. My army twisted Dustil's heart.

Mine is a terrible history. My crimes are past repair. If I had just a little less strength, I would not be able to function, knowing what I've done. As it is, I have the strength of a Dark Lord. I'll be just fine.

Ironic.

Carth shields his eyes for a moment with one hand. Gives a low, almost inaudible moan. Still does not move from where he stands. I want to go to him - to help somehow - but I force myself to stay on the footlocker and watch him stand alone beneath a weight I can't help carry. A weight I put there. It makes me suffer to watch, but I should suffer this. I should feel this remorse. Not as punishment for what I don't remember, but as a reminder of what I must never, never be tempted to do again, for any reason.

When he takes his hand down and finally meets my gaze, the darkness and grief is so raw in his eyes that I catch my breath, struck. I ball my fists on the footlocker and press back against the wall, wanting to push straight through the side of the ship and disappear. The guilt is suffocating.

'I'm sorry -- ' The words break from me, getting the better of me. I was trying to hold them back; I know that they are almost worse than nothing. 'I'm -- so sorry --'

'I know it wasn't you.' He sounds like he needs to believe it.

'I can never -- make it up to you --'

'It wasn't you.' He sounds determined.

'It was, Carth. Yes it was --'

'No.'

'Yes.'

His shoulders slump. His chin touches his chest.

He leaves the room again, defeated, and I wish I hadn't said it, but there's no point in him pretending things are different than they are. If he wants to look at me the way he did before, he's going to have to take the whole me into consideration. This won't work by halves.

This won't work, period.

'Hey there.'

I look dully up at Mission, who is in the room again, and who has surely been listening at the door the whole time anyway. She is tapping her short fingernails against the electronic card deck in her hand; the sound is soft and rhythmic.

'You look terrible,' she says bluntly. 'You want anything?'

I want a lot of things. Starting with another memory wipe. Memory wipes all around, actually. 'I'm fine. But thanks.'

She nods and sits down cross-legged at my feet. 'Bet you don't really want to play Pazaak, though, do you -- oh, hey.' Her eyes are on my leg, where Carth's were before, and they're wide and fixed. 'Whoa. Wow. I never saw that.'

I don't know what she means. I follow her gaze and my eyes come to a path in my skin that I can't quite see, wide and long and jagged. It starts just beside the base of my tendon, a shiny pink river that someone ripped open behind my ankle and tore up the backside of my calf, where it disappears behind my knee and into my soft cloth pants. In order to get a good look at it, I have to turn my knee inward, reach behind my leg and pull the meat of my calf around with my hands.

How I could have missed a scar like this, I have no idea. I must get dressed in the dark and pay very little attention in the fresher. I realize that both these things are true, and that in any case, there have been very few opportunities to use a fresher, and that, in dressing, there hasn't been time to do more than yank on the necessaries and bolt. I might have noticed it the quiet of Dantooine, if I hadn't been so deep in my head, trying to accept the training.

'How'd you get that?' Mission demands, and her hand comes off her knee -- briefly, on reflex -- and then she withdraws and briefly flicks her eyes to my face. I know she wants to touch the thing. It's impressive. It looks so sleek.

'Go ahead,' I say.

She licks her lip and touches ginger fingertips to the back of my ankle. 'Someone really took a hunk out of you,' she says, feeling how deep the valley is, and how much flesh is gone, before she withdraws again. She looks royally impressed. 'Do you remember who?'

'No.'

Mission looks rather disappointed, but then she perks up. 'Could've been Darth Malak,' she says.

'Could've been,' I agree. It is an interesting possibility -- perhaps even a probability; I wonder if there's anyone else who could have managed such a strike against me. I see other scars in my skin, now that I'm looking for them -- on my forearms, on my calves and feet, little ribbons and pocks-- but they're insignificant flaws in comparison with this. This is a trench. I feel beneath my knee and press along the back of my thigh, feeling for the end of it. The scar travels all the way up the back of my leg... over my backside... ends deeply at the base of my spine, where there is a soft crater of tissue, like someone wanted to drill a hole there and didn't quite get deep enough.

That bastard was trying to paralyze me.

'Or one of the Jedi,' Mission continues eagerly. 'What if it was Bastila?'

I try, for a moment, to imagine that scenario, and it almost makes me smile. There must have been many moments, both before and after, when Bastila would have liked to take a good swing at me. 'Not probable,' I say. 'Bastila didn't fight me until recently -- this scar tissue looks a little older than that.'

'Well it could've been... Hey. Hey.' Mission looks triumphant.

'Yes?'

'I bet HK-47 knows all about it.'

She's right. I feel the sharp cut of curiosity. HK surely knows things I would rather not remember but this... this looks like proof of some significant event. Maybe even usefully significant -- if Malak did give me this, I should find out exactly how and why, in case he ever wants to try it again. I stand up and head barefoot for the door. 'Come on.'

Mission follows me down the corridor, through the main bay, and into the garage. HK is there, looking with interest -- if that's possible -- at the dismantled swoop engine. Probably trying to determine whether any of the parts involved in it can be made into weapons. Canderous stands across the room, his back to us, one of his blasters on the workbench.

'What do you want?' he sneers, without turning. And then, without waiting for an answer, he lifts the blaster in one hand, and regards it. It is massive. Like his forearm. He admires them both at the same time. 'I've had this blaster for thirteen years,' he says, his voice dripping with utter contempt. It always does that, whether his statement is a compliment or a detraction. 'I fought you with it, and did something I've only done once.'

He turns on me, and I am both grateful for and afraid of the look in his eyes. His eyes are so different from Carth's. There is no confusion in them, no vulnerability, no need. There is open respect.

'What's that?' I ask him carefully.

'I lost.' He doesn't look upset about it. I think he is proud to have lost to me.

I can't believe I beat him. All of them. Conquered Mandalore. It's... more than I realized I was. I didn't know I had it in me. It's strange, to be handed this kind of strength all at once. I was always -- or at least, I thought I was always -- pretty average. Maybe just a little above average. Talented, maybe, and lucky. But not much more.

'Is there anything else you want to ask?' Canderous demands loudly. I'm tempted to remind him that he is the one who started the conversation, but that kind of comment is lost on him. His sense of humor isn't of the light variety.

'No,' say. 'Actually, I have a question for HK.'

'The droid?' Canderous snorts. 'I was never much for droids with personality. I prefer basilisks. Killing machines. Glorious armies of pure destruction.'

HK-47 has already righted himself and swiveled toward me. 'Interjection,' he says. 'I am a killing machine. Shall I demonstrate it to him, master?'

'No, no.' I wave him off. His blasters are already raised. 'Just -- lower those -- yes, thanks -- and answer a question, please.'

'Statement: HK-47 is ready to serve, master.'

I'm still not used to being anyone's master. It's a little chilling to know I used to demand it. I turn out my foot and hike up my robes, exposing the back of my bare calf to HK. 'Were you there when I got this scar?' I ask him.

Canderous glances at my leg. His eyebrows, which are not prone to flying up, do exactly that.

'Negative,' says HK, and my heart sinks a little. 'I was built to your specifications after the event that caused your blemish. I was not present when the original meatbag attempted to paralyze you, master.'

And my heart leaps again. I was right. 'Then you do know something about it?' I demand.

'Affirmation: you were very fond of the story, master, and so was I. You told it to me many times.' HK sounds wistful. 'Reminiscence: how I used to wish that I had been in the room for the battle, master. The story was so violent.'

'What happened?'

'Explanation: when you had collected the Star Maps and reached the Star Forge for the first time, you realized that you no longer required a partner. Malak was not then your apprentice, he was your... friend.' HK says the word with distaste. 'Fortunately, that arrangement was not to your liking either, master, and you informed the meatbag of your masterhood and of his new apprentice status.'

I begin to see where the story is going. 'I challenged him?' I ask.

'Clarification: oh, no, master. It was not a challenge. It was a statement.'

Canderous grunts something like a laugh.

'So then what?' Mission interjects. 'He just ripped a hole in her? Some friend.'

'Clarification.' HK sounds impatient, as he usually does when anyone other than me presumes to join the conversation. 'As I have already stated, the friendship had run its course, rendering that label obsolete.'

I feel slightly sick. 'So I turned on him, there on the Star Forge.'

'Clarification: you assumed your rightful place, master. It was only natural. It was the original meatbag who then turned on you.'

I let go of my robes and rub my head. 'It doesn't sound like I gave him much of a choice.'

'Statement: you were not a champion of choices, master. You preferred mandates.'

I bet I did. 'And he gave me this scar, in our duel.'

HK is whirring with excitement. 'Supplication: oh, please, master, allow me to tell the story in its entirety. What pleasure I would take in reacquainting you with a tale that once gave you so much satisfaction. And it is so bloody. It thrills me to my central control cluster.'

'All... right.' I guess I'd better hear it. Not to mention that Mission's eyes are falling out of her head with curiosity and even Canderous looks openly interested.

'Gratitude: oh, thank you, master. How satisfied I am to be in your command again, master -- to be the means of reminding you of your most macabre moments is my greatest --'

"HK. Just tell the story.'

'Appeasement: Yes, master. Of course, master. Where... was I, master? I'm afraid a synapse has misfired in my excitement.'

I'm about to misfire a few synapses myself. 'I told Malak he was my apprentice?'

HK gives another deep, dark whir of glee. 'Supplementation: and he was not happy about it, master. He asked why it was that he should be the apprentice, and not the other way around. But you did not answer him, master. You only laughed.'

'I... laughed at him?'

'Extrapolation: I imagine the sound was chilling, master.'

I can imagine it too. I know what my laugh would sound like, if I wanted to use it as a weapon. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

'Statement: there were others with you at the time, master. A small band of those who had followed you since the Mandalorian wars and were the immediate crew with whom you traveled. Until the Star Forge, they had sworn loyalty to both you and Malak. But you told them, master, that it was time for them to choose.'

'How many men?'

'Statement: three men and two women, master. Three fallen Jedi and two who had left the Republic fleet to follow you. Shall I tell you whose side they chose, master?'

'Yes.' But I don't know if I want to hear it.

'One of the Jedi and one of the soldiers were quick to join you, master. One of the soldiers remained loyal to Malak. The other two... were not so sure.' HK sounds maliciously happy. 'You knew that they were waiting, master. Waiting to find out who would win the duel that was surely coming. They did not wish to choose the wrong side, master.'

'Cowards,' mutters Canderous.

'Affirmation: yes, that is just what the master called them, before she slit their throats for hesitation.'

I think I need to put a hand on the workbench to steady myself. I reach out -- but I remember who I am. I have more strength than that. I'm in no danger of fainting. My hand falls to my side.

Mission has taken a small step away from me.

'Go on,' I say grimly. My head is pounding.

'Continuation: after felling your crewmates you told the meatbag apprentice to prepare himself. You reminded him that he could still avoid permanent damage by kneeling to you and sealing himself to your service. But the meatbag was angry, master. He had no intention of swearing loyalty as your subservient -- he said that he had withstood half a lifetime of your conceit, and that it was more than any man could stand. Instead he swore that in the end, you would kneel to him -- and with that, he raised his weapon. You responded in kind. The duel began.' HK pauses dramatically, then lets out a sigh. 'Recollection: at this point in the story, master, you used to pace to the far end of the chamber and stare out through the viewport in silence. It was almost as if you were experiencing an emotion other than pleasure, master. I used to hope that I was wrong, but I was never certain. You did not volunteer the information, and I enjoyed being fully functional far too much to make a query.'

It's very strange. But I don't need HK to tell me -- I know what I must have felt. Detached amazement that the journey with Malak had begun so differently, and that where it had led was so unexpected. Idle wondering over just when it was that the two of us had truly fallen. Had there been a moment? A day? When had killing each other changed from a frightful idea to a necessary one? And finally... grief. I know I must have felt it, or the echo of it, staring through the viewport into a galaxy at my command, entirely alone.

I stare vacantly at the swoop bike behind HK and I wonder just how lonely I was, really. Or if I had forgotten how to feel that. I wonder if remorse ever once entered into the picture. Even for a moment. Or was my humanity gone?

HK clears his gears with a metallic cough. 'Statement... you are doing it again, master... And you look just as you did then...'

I snap to attention with an ugly shiver. 'No, I'm listening.'

HK manages, somehow, to look dubious. 'Query: shall I continue then, master?'

I nod.

'Continuation: the duel was difficult for both of you, master. You were the superior tactician and Force commander, but Malak's physical strength was greater than yours, and he had the advantage of height. Also, the two of you had warred as partners for many years. Neither of you had strategies that the other had not seen. Extrapolation: perhaps it was additionally difficult to strike at a friend, master.'

I hope it was. I hope there was that much conscience left in me.

'Continuation: it was not long before you both grew tired. You knew that your own physical reserves would fail before Malak's, and you realized that it was necessary to strike brutally, at once, and end the contest. But it was too late, master.'

I frown. He's got his facts mixed up. 'Too late?' I repeat. 'For what -- for me? But that's impossible -- I beat him. I became the Dark Lord of the Sith, not Malak.'

The corners of Canderous's mouth twist upward slightly, and I realize that I just sounded outraged on my former behalf.

The ego still lives.

'Explanation,' says HK, who sounds wounded that I would question him. 'Of course you did, master, but this is how you told the story, and you clearly found this method of suspense quite thrilling. I have embellished only a very little. Would you prefer I recite a list of mere facts, devoid of all atmosphere, master? Perhaps access to conversational transcriptions would better serve your purpose? If you wish to utilize me as nothing more exotic than a data file, then I will relegate myself to it, but I will be most miserable, master.'

And now I've insulted my droid. 'No, that's not what I -- fine.' I breathe out hard through my nose. 'Stick with atmosphere. But could you finish?'

'Affirmation: certainly, master -- and suggestion: it will go much faster without these constant interruptions.'

'Go on.'

'Continuation,' says HK rather smugly -- he certainly enjoys getting his way. I can just imagine how happy he'd be if I ever sent him to assassinate anyone. 'You moved to make your strike. But the meatbag apprentice had struck with the Force a split second in advance, sending you into a spin. It took you a mere moment to break from it of course, master -- but it was the only moment Malak needed. He struck your ankle from behind and swept brutally upward, searing your robes straight into your flesh in a jagged line that became your scar. You were knocked to the floor on your face and he pinned you there, melting your belt into the small of your back with the applied pressure of his lightsaber beam.'

I reach behind myself and rub the soft patch at the base of my back. I can feel it through my robes. The crater where he cooked my belt straight into me.

'Continuation.' HK's speech frequency darkens. He sounds morbidly delighted. 'Your apprentice began to laugh at you, master, just as you had laughed at him. He began to detail what your life would be like, in servitude to him. You reflected many times afterward that if he had kept his mouth shut, he might have won. It was his mockery that fueled you with the rage you required. You decided then and there to make it impossible for him to mock you again.'

It's such a deep scar. I suddenly have more respect for Malak as an opponent. Up to now, I have always envisioned myself besting him, in the end. But what if I can't?

'How did I manage to strike back?' I ask faintly.

'Explanation: you always said that it was at that moment, on your belly, pressed against the Star Forge, that you first felt its raw power. Your rage surged into it, and you felt a surge in reply -- ten times stronger than your own, and hungrier for blood. It was as though the Star Forge had fed upon your anger and desired more of the darkness that you had to give -- it wanted you to win, master. It chose you. You felt it.'

I feel it. The Star Maps. The visions.

'Continuation: you were filled with its dark power, master, and suddenly you felt no pain. You felt your seared flesh begin to heal even as Malak burned it. You felt alive in every pore, reenergized by an ocean of ancient hatred that had sought release for millennia. It flowed through your veins where the blood had used to be, it turned your skin to steel. Your mind closed around a single black thought, and you tunneled toward it. Malak was thrown back. You heard him stumble. You rose to your feet and turned on him -- so slowly, master. You no longer required speed. You realized it was impossible to fail. The Star Forge pulsed around you, radiant in its fury, and you stretched out a hand toward your old friend, who had not quite stopped laughing. But when he saw your eyes, he looked surprised, master. His laughter faltered. His weapon flickered.' HK releases a soft, rattling noise, like a breath of awe. 'With your hand still outstretched, you told him quietly that he would find it painful to laugh at you, in future. He opened his mouth to answer, but you cut him off. 'I am tired of your mouth,' you said. And then you took it from him.'

It takes me a second to realize what HK means.

Mission is quicker. 'WHAT?' she bursts out. 'You mean, that's how his jaw --'

'I... took it from him.' My voice is very odd. 'How?'

'Answer: you clenched your fingers and ripped it from his face with the power of the Dark Side, master.' HK says this matter-of-factly. 'It was the first time you had fully utilized the depths of that power. The meatbag dropped to his knees before you, and you handed his jaw to the fallen Jedi who had chosen to remain on his side. You told her to keep it as a reminder of who she truly served. And then you seared shut the gaping wound you had made with the energy of your lightsaber, gnarling the bloody flesh into white scar tissue while the meatbag screamed. But he could not really scream then, master. It was more of a gurgle.'

I am a monster.

'Summation: I think it is safe to say that from that point onward, there was no question of which of you was master and which was apprentice.' HK pauses. 'Query: has the story pleased you, master? Do you require more detail?'

'No.' It's the answer to both questions. 'No.'

I become slowly aware that there are many breath rhythms around me in the room. Mission is beside me, Canderous before me... I sweep my eyes left and right. Jolee, Juhani, Zaalbar and T-3 are standing just outside the two open doors. Listening.

Carth is just behind Zaalbar. I can't see him; he is blocked. But I know he's there. I feel his disgust, but that isn't his overwhelming response. Mostly, he feels grief. For both of us, I think. For all of us. Maybe even for Malak. Carth is a good enough man for that.

I think about saying, well, now that we've all had our bedtime story, perhaps we should get some sleep. But I can't be flippant.

'That will be all, HK-47.'

HK signs off.

I push gently between Juhani and Jolee and leave the room. I find my bed and crawl under the covers. I close my eyes. There is nothing I can do tonight, about any of this. I was what I was. It doesn't change who I am now. It only makes it more important that I do what I can to defeat the Sith. And I can't do that if I'm exhausted -- I know I need to sleep. I only wish my brain weren't full of these new, disturbing images; I'm afraid they'll be in my dreams for a long time coming.

'Hey, kid.'

The voice drifts in from the doorway. I don't need to open my eyes.

'I never finished telling you about that bird, did I?'

I shake my head a little, on the pillow.

'Well, it found a path back to its old nest one day, and decided to go exploring. Not because it wasn't happy with the new one, but because birds are curious creatures.'

'Oh really.' I can't help myself.

'Yes, really -- you just keep your mouth shut, dammit.' He grumbles without words for a moment. 'Make an old man lose his train of thought... Ah yes. It pushed its way through the thickest parts of the underbrush -- met a lot of dangerous creatures, too. Barely escaped with its life, a number of times. And all the while, his -- entourage, did you call it? Fine. They followed him. By that point, they trusted his lead.'

I think of what I said in my datapad about how easy it would be to lead them all down a different path. I wish Carth hadn't seen that. Even if it's true.

Or maybe it's not as true as I think it is.

'They were pretty surprised -- angry, even -- when the area he led them to wasn't a great nest at all, but a tar pit. Dangerous and deadly. Suck you right in, if you're stupid enough to get stuck in it.'

'So there are tar pits on Kashyyyk now?'

'You shush!' he barks.

I am nearly overwhelmed by a desire to giggle. I wonder if it means I'm crazy, and then I decide it means the opposite.

'I'm sick of your interruptions,' he growls. 'In any case, this tar pit was vast, and none of the bird's companions were idiots, so they stayed back and didn't try walking through it. The great bird had the advantage of wings, of course, so he flew out over it, searching for the nest he knew had been there once. But either it had fallen apart, or it had submerged in the tar. Either way, it was gone. And eventually the great bird got tired, and knew he had to land. Now, this bird had mighty wings, I think I mentioned. And as he circled, he knew he had two choices. He could fly back to solid ground and let go of the great mystery of his past -- a difficult choice, maybe even painful -- or he could land in the tar where he had made his first great nest and satisfy his curiosity, maybe even find his past, and count on his powerful wings to free him before he sank too deep -- a dangerous risk.'

It's not a subtle metaphor. Still, I need to know the ending. 'What did he do?' I ask quietly. 'What did he choose?'

Jolee doesn't answer; he merely lets out a soft humph. And then he turns away and pads off, back to the other end of the ship.

So I am to answer this myself.

I sigh out and roll onto my stomach. I bury my face in the pillow. I am curious. I can't help wanting to know what it was like to lie on the decks of the Star Forge and feel an ocean of ancient hatred pass through me. Not because I want to be Darth Revan again, but because those are my experiences, and the memories are rightfully mine. How can I learn from what I don't remember? How have I grown at all, when my redemption was chosen for me? Isn't it the sort of thing I would have to have chosen for myself?

It occurs to me dimly that this is the moment of my choice. Accept and fight, or dwell and fester. It's both a much simpler choice than the one I would have had to make as Revan, and a much more difficult one.

I am so deep in thought that I am out of my senses and don't know what's happening around me; I am badly startled when a big hand cups the back of my head. I jump, a little, but I don't roll over. It takes less than a second to know who is touching me.

'Sleep tight,' he says hoarsely. His fingers travel along my hair -- just briefly. He touches the back of my neck. And then I feel his mouth brush the shell of my ear, and I freeze, and my skin is alive -- what is he doing? 'By the way, sister,' he says, in an infuriating whisper, 'Not into Republic helmets huh? Well, I can't say I'm into Sith masks, either. Maybe we'll just have to compromise.'

His breath glances intimately along my face, and then vanishes. I hear him rise. His fingers brush away from my neck.

I reach blindly behind my head and grab his hand. To my relief, he grips back in instant reply. We hold finger-breakingly tight for a long time, and when we let go, I feel strangely ready. I'm not sure for what. But I think I know what the bird chose.

Carth gently touches the small of my back, through the sheets, marking the spot where the deepest scar is. And then he is gone.

The room is empty again, but not for long. I hear Mission slide into bed a minute later, and I sense no fear from her, which is a comfort. The humming lights of the main bay go dark. The ship is sleeping. And there is one empty bed in it. But we'll get her back.

As I drift into sleep, my mind closes around one thought and tunnels toward it.

We will get her back.