Other K1 characters, Dark Side Male Revan

I don't know how, or why, I've been brought into the KotOR Universe. I've been forced into helping Revan, who doesn't know who he is, stop Malak and the Sith. But unlike the crew of the Ebon Hawk, I know exactly what is going to happen. (Self-insert. Revan/Bastila. Changes to the main story. KotOR 1.) Chapter 24: ... It Pours

“The Schism threatens every Sith, Yuthura Ban. It consumed Darth Revan and nearly halted the Crusade. Merely the fact that the Empire still stands means nothing. The Schism still exists and must be faced by every new Sith Lord. In the course of your trials you must defeat it or you will die.”

Yuthura bowed her head. “I understand, my lord Malak.”

Arravin grabbed hold of Juhani and threw them both to the ground as the Hawk plowed into the side of the ravine with a spectacular splash of sand, dust, rocks, and large clumps of orange clay. Covering her beneath him, he used his hands to protect his head against the flying debris while the ship continued to grind across the sand above, its nose crunching into the opposite side of the ravine and continuing forward until the whole ship lay atop the cleft in the ground.

The Sith were coming.

Bastila hazarded a look out to the street. She saw nothing, and was tempted to say "I sense a disturbance in the Force" but had a feeling none but she would appreciate such a seemingly vague explanation.

The port city of Anchorhead had fallen on hard times. A wave of mine closures had crippled the local economy, leaving nearly one-third of the workforce unemployed. With Czerka Corporation controlling nearly every aspect of port commerce and living, their offices were perpetually filled to the brim with desperate people looking for work. Only the very few could afford housing.

Anchorhead was a city of vagrants and beggars, delinquents and thieves.

War was a terrible thing.

Malak taught that there would be moments in her life such as these; moments when she would doubt the utter necessity of fighting the good fight, times when the path of virtue might seem indistinguishable from the evil they resisted. These were the times when her faith must remain absolute, a stalwart defense and stronghold against the foolishness of thought without belief.

Yuthura couldn't help the thought that Malak's prophesied Golden Age had never seemed further away.

War was a terrible thing. Terribly necessary.

Worst dressed Sith Lords, dancing Jedi girls, and Dark Side cosmetic tips! Read all about it!

Bandon bowed his head slightly, in awe and reverence for the great man. "Greetings from Tatooine, Master."

"It's quite warm there."

"It is indeed, Master," Bandon replied, wiping collected sweat from his brow. He remembered when the presence of sweat could spell death--here its absence was dangerous. "I think it's something I am still getting used to."

"There are places in the galaxy hotter still, Bandon," Malak remarked.

Tempers flare and tensions rise between Revan and Bastila. In a battle of wills, who'll end up winning? 

She looked at him pointedly. He was tall, probably taller than her by at least six inches, with a frame that made him look like he could wrestle a rancor. He seemed friendly enough, though. What could it hurt, except for his foolish expectations?

She nodded her permission.

He gave a congenial smile. "I'm Alek."

Bombs dropped indifferently, not caring whether the things they torched were buildings of glass and steel or bodies of flesh and bone. The smoke alone was unmistakable.

It was like Taris all over again.

"It was my thought to show you the courtesy of an impartial death," the thing said in its terrible drone, "but you foolishly chose to reject your fate, even knowing well your sin. You forsook our sacred vow, turned against the Crusade; you corrupted the Sith, would have thrown away everything for which we bled in the vain pursuit of some new thrill, or whatever your vile Cathar blood would bid you." The thing that was Darth Malak clenched its fist, his glare seething with naked hate. "It is the duty of the faithful to destroy you and your ilk, all who threaten the Crusade. Just as we swore."

In which eating, dueling, and much conversation occurs. . . and an invitation is received.

“MY FELLOW JEDI!  LISTEN TO MY WORDS, AND TAKE HEART IN THEM!  WE MUST HELP THE REPUBLIC!  WE MUST SAVE THOSE THAT CANNOT DEFEND THEMSELVES!  WE HAVE A DUTY TO PROTECT THE INNOCENT, THE WEAK, AND THOSE THAT CANNOT DEFEND THEMSELVES FROM THE MANDALORIAN THREAT!”

The ebb and flow of time can sometimes be a difficult thing to accept.  Its daunting and unending push against all things is a light wind across the face.  Nothing can stop time from advancing, and nothing can interrupt its course.  However, slowing the babbling brook of Time is another thing all together.

Carth didn’t know how long it took for him to fall asleep, but when he woke,
she was gone.

The temple - for its impossible grandeur and overbearing sense of eminence marked it as such - rose to an imposing height above the countryside. Namenlos was made dizzy with trying to comprehend the magnitude of manual labor that must have gone into its construction, for it bore no marks of mechanized construction or pre-fabrications, as did every thimble and door hinge he'd ever run across on Taris.

“What is it?” he asked Juhani, staring in wonder.

"This is where Darth Malak first envisioned his plan to forever destroy the Jedi."

He caught sight of the flames when finally the tickling in his mind brought him to full attention. He regarded its warning with annoyance, trying not to think too intensely as his headache worsened with each second. Nevertheless, his hand slipped toward his knife.

Almost before he could even touch the handle, Namenlos heard a sharp rustle of branches parting and someone landing upright on their feet just behind him.

He whirled around to find a blue lightsabre blade erupting into the night in front of him.

Namenlos squinted his garnet eyes as he stepped out into the bright sunlight. In months of living in the shadow-world of Lower City Taris he'd grown quite accustomed to low light. Not a cloud in the sky, the full sun hit him like a slap in the face. It was something entirely new, and apart from the squinting, he didn't half mind it. The warming rays were a welcome change from the cold, dank drafts coming up from Taris' lower reaches to make him shiver in fitful sleep while he grappled with insanity.

Looking himself in the mirror, Carth was shocked to see how much he'd aged over the past few years. He was still in his early forties, but the image in the mirror made him look closer to fifty. With Dustil long gone, Morgana dead on Telos, and an unending vendetta demanding his every effort towards the war, always the war, life seemed to hold very little for him. He'd become an automaton. Driven by an implacable need and heedless of the cost to himself, he plodded ever onward to what would certainly be his eventual destruction.

Carth turned away from that depressing picture of himself, the countenance that spoke to a life wasted, and quickly changed shirts and threw on his jacket.

...By direct order of the Supreme Chancellor, on behalf of the Jedi Council, Lt. Colonel Gansk was temporarily repurposed for a special assignment on Dantooine. After seventy-one hours, Gansk was released from this position and assigned...

"--To the Republic vessel Endar Spire to conduct ongoing investigations for the Internal Review Board," Kono mouthed in furious revelation.

He now knew what they'd done, how it was not impossible to be two men at the same time. The answer was infuriatingly simple.

Bastila's eyes snapped open. She gulped air in rapid, greedy breaths, with a hand to her chest feeling her frantically racing heart. Each beat pounded inside her skull, adrenaline from the sheer intensity of the vision making her feel at once light-headed and like the weight of a battle cruiser held her down.

Having agreed to assist Atris in the teaching of Jedi younglings, Kai finds his situation not to be what he had originally thought. Quatra communes with Master Kavar, consolidating as to what their next plan of action should be. Whilst in the midst of giving a lesson, Atris has an unexpected visitor, whom forces her to realize a truth within herself that she cannot face.

"Trust? You want to talk to me about trust!" Kono yelled, angrily pulling out a data module from an inner pocket; a data module he'd been keeping for quite some time. He brandished it threateningly.

"What's that?" Carth demanded.

"This," Kono spat, "is your psychological profile."

Entering the estate, Canderous was greeted by the ungainly sight of the vertically-challenged Calo Nord, Davik's new golden boy. With the bright blue overcoat, puffy white hat, and rotund nose sticking out from underneath a comical pair of opaque goggles, Calo Nord looked more like a midget taxi driver than the right hand man of Davik Kang himself.

"What's this trash you're carrying, Canderous?" Calo asked snarkily. He sniffed with exaggerated gesticulation. "Whoo! Smells like rakghoul to me. Have you been mucking around in the sewers, Candy? Davik finally give you some real work?"

The prison warden shot Kono a look that seemed to say 'I hope you know what you're getting into' as he informed him that he had ten minutes with the prisoner and retreated, leaving two security guards a few feet away to keep an eye on them. As he peered into the cell, Kono caught his first glimpse of Sunry, a man who, according to Jolee, was a Republic war hero of the highest magnitude, and in that first glimpse had all his preconceptions stripped away.

"Killing Saul didn't help, did it? No, it's not enough that you offed Saul, now you need someone else to kill, somebody to blame for all your failures!"

He stared dumbly at the Twi'lek girl who stood hurling the blunt words at him. He could hear her saying the words, but they didn't seem to match up in a way that he could understand. She might as well have been speaking gibberish for all the sense it made to him.

But then, it did. In a horrible sort of way, it almost did make sense.

He could hear the sound of guns echoing through the trees, impossible to pinpoint. Caroleen was just in front of him, running every bit as hard despite being weighed down by twice as much gear. They had to be close, but attempting to hit the rebel base on their own would be suicidal. Nevertheless, they kept running, the gunfire growing more distant and muffled through the jungle.

"What about that mission? Just what did we know when we got ourselves into that nightmare?"

Breathing heavily, he dashed through the brush, wet branches and slithery vines slapping against his face as he ran at a breakneck pace. The damp jungle air seemed trying to suffocate him, every outstretched root and overturned log on a mission to trip him, ensnare him. His heart was pounding with adrenaline, propelling him to ever greater effort.

It was more than a dream. He knew that beyond any doubt. It was... communication.

The world was ruled by pure mayhem. Bastila's twin amber blades were more than occupied turning aside the hails of blaster fire from Sith riflemen, and all her attention was focused on merely staying alive. She wasn't able to track Namenlos through much of the battle, but she could see quite clearly the trail of destruction he left in his wake.

The churning flow of bodies and transports rolled over against the steel and crete banks formed by the faces of thousands of buildings along each thoroughfare and boulevard, swirled and meandered within itself, but never deviated in its onrushing course.

Namenlos had at first wondered if it would be possible for him to disappear into that river, let the currents swallow him and bear him away from his captor. The more he thought about it, letting it simmer in his mind as he walked, the concept eventually brought on the pain from the collar. The wretched device seemed attuned to his very thoughts.

I don't think I really need to go through another interation of "this is yet another piece done for the indomitable Lord Zeuss as an announcement for an upcoming series of his", do I?

Didn't think so.