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Bracca
The sheen of red light on her black helmet is sinister as she approaches, prowling like a silent predator, her intent dangerously clear and ringing in the Force even as Cal tries to shield himself from it. The Force is murky once again, the brilliant flicker of clarity he had felt earlier that evening as he reached out to save Prauf all but gone in the wake of the terror that had clamped down around him the moment he had realised what he'd done. Stupid, Kestis, stupid. And yet, he couldn't say he wouldn't do it again. His friend was vibrating with nerves beside him in their sorry line-up, bedraggled in the rain, but he was alive, warm and flickering in the Force.
She is bedecked in black and red, the Imperial sigil emblazoned in a crown of white on her shoulder, her countenance lazy and superior as she casts her gaze over them. He imagines her eyes to be red, too, beneath the obscuring mask of the helmet, but that is fantasy, and he returns to the mix of terror and anticipation that he had been feeling since the train had screeched to a halt.
“Is this all of them?” Her voice is a lazy sneer, dark and low and a little husky, and Cal feels fear trickle down his spine.
“Yes, Second Sister.” The Purge trooper beside her promises, and suddenly Cal has a name, of sorts, for this slender black nightmare who moves with such indolent confidence.
She lets out a slow sigh, the noise muffled by her mask. “We seek a dangerous fugitive.” And still, everything about her is lazy, easy, rippling with the fog of the Dark Side that has begun to creep into Cal's senses despite his tumultuous relationship with the Force. “This is no common anarchist, but a devotee of the treasonous Jedi Order.” Her voice is soft and quiet, but Cal has no trouble hearing it over the rain, and the words send him almost mindless with terror, curling thick and heavy in his stomach. His eyes flickered to the ground as he tried not to broadcast through the Force. With the rising fear, however, dragged from the depths of his memory, comes a faintly familiar resoluteness, his fight of flight instincts wrapping around his bones as his fingers twitched as though to fold around the hilt of a lightsaber. He realises she is still talking, and can't help but look up again at the soldiers, at the huge Dowutin growling at them and pacing beside Second Sister. And at her. “Failure to turn over this traitor will result in a charge of sedition. Turn yourself in, or everyone present shall face summary execution.”
The fear this time is not exclusively his as the words sink in to the workers gathered around him and the gathered Purge Troopers level their weapons at the unarmed line up. Cal lets their fear wash over him and drift away, too focused on his own terror to mind the feelings of the others.
He feels Prauf's flicker of resolution a split second before his friend steps forward. Cal's breath hitches, and he reaches helplessly for the Abednedo's sleeve, a childish little whimper on his lips. He can't. This isn't some Guild matter for Prauf to protect him from, the way he always has, since Cal was a tiny little scrap of a thing still crying for his old Master and lost in an unfriendly world. He is so wound tight with his fear he barely registers what Prauf is saying as he turns to face Cal, those warm black eyes a mix of fright, and resolute fondness. He manages to catch 'before the war', and knows that Prauf is about to speak treason. “We refit and rebuild ships.” His gaze flickers to Second Sister, who is watching this silently, expression hidden behind the mask, obscuring any hint Cal might have had to her intentions. She feels dangerous and hateful, though, and this time, his hand more than twitches – it rests behind him, curling around Jaro Tapal's lightsaber. A gentle memory of his Master carrying him through the ship to his room after an exhausting training session cuts through the rain and the fear for just a flicker of a second, and it gives him a burst of confidence despite the ever present ache of his Master's loss.
“Best in the Galaxy.” A pause. “Then came the Empire.” If Cal had any doubt about Prauf's intent with his words, it vanished. The Abednedo turned to look at Second Sister, who remained still and impassive as Prauf continued to speak, voice loud and clear. “...and engineers became scrappers. The workers just started getting worked!”
“Prauf...” Cal can't help but say, quiet, hoarse, sounding utterly unlike himself. Second Sister's attention was now on him, and he wilted under the sudden heavy scrutiny.
“We all know the truth!” Prauf barrelled on, his face slipping into fury. “To the Empire, we're all just expendable!” He gestured at Second Sister, and Cal started forward – what did he want to achieve? The group could never overpower all these troopers, was he buying Cal time, or was there -
“Yes. You are.”
Cal had no time to process the implication of the carefully enunciated words before Second Sister drew a strange, circular-hilted lightsaber and ignited it straight through Prauf's chest. For a second there was nothing but shock, before blinding rage took hold, and Cal screamed with anger. “No!” He wasn't thinking as he drew his own lightsaber, the blue blinding and jarring in the red-tinted darkness. He brought it down with an uncoordinated overhead strike – and was blocked by a second blade. He felt glee rising from the woman he had tried to strike, a deep, vicious satisfaction. The world shrank to just them for a split second, her savage delight at his rage.
“Look at this. A lightsaber.” She declared, easily throwing him off. He stumbled, and she held out a hand, the Force curling around him with vicious, dark intent. He scrabbled for control that refused to come as she ruthlessly dragged him forward to within an inch of her obscured face, forcing him to bend awkwardly as she appraised him. He struggled in her Force-grip, fingers clenched tightly around his saber. She drew in a breath, delight ringing through the Force as she basked in his unbridled emotions. He struggled again, and with a careless laugh, she threw him hard, where the Dowutin caught him by his collar and lifted him clear of the ground. He yelped, his uniform suddenly choking him as she laughed, holding him out over the obscene drop over the edge of the mountain.
“I found the Jedi!”
Dazed from the throw, Cal shook himself, then with a grunt of exertion he ignited his saber next to the Dowutin's hand. He must have hit her – she let go, and he tumbled through the air with a cry of terror.
~
His fall from the train, not to mention all the fighting and dodging and blinding, all encompassing terror that has clung to him throughout his desperate escape attempt, has left him bruised and battered as he tumbles onto a metal gantry, stumbling and just managing to catch himself before he falls over and injures himself more. Panting hard, he pushes himself unsteadily to his feet and scans the clouds for any sign of the ship that had come to his aid before.
Instead, a different ship lands above him, and his stomach twists unpleasantly as he recognises it as Second Sister's. An unusual sensation joins the fear – anticipation. She is the first Force Sensitive person he has encountered since the Purge, he can't help but be chillingly curious. He watches, mouth twisting in fury as she gets out with all the easy grace of a lothcat. She killed Prauf. In cold blood, all for speaking out to try and protect him. He is practically vibrating with emotion, and he flinches as she jumps down, practically floating to land almost silently opposite him, her cloak fluttering behind her. “Going somewhere?” She asks, sharp but jarringly pleasant as she ignites her saber again.
No, he thinks, no he isn't going anywhere. This platform has nowhere to go but down, and he has had quite enough of falling. If she wants a fight, he will give it to her. He draws his own saber and ignites it, falling back into a familiar defensive stance. It has been years...but these movements are as natural to him as his very bones, drilled into him from infancy.
“I recognise that stance. Perhaps you've had some training after all. Who was your Master, Padawan?” There it was – how could Cal be anything but that? He had been the youngest of all the Jedi children out in the field, he was still just shy of adulthood even now. Hearing the word fall from her lips like a sneer cuts him harder than he expects it to. “Someone I killed, perhaps? What Jedi gave their life so that you might live?”
An image of Jaro Tapal swims into his mind's eye, cold and silent and forbidding. Jaro Tapal is dead because of Cal, who was too slow, too weak, too useless to save him. He is given less that a second to agonise over it, before she is moving towards him, slow and confident. Her saber comes down hard, though she gives him room to block – he has no doubt she is faster than this, she is playing with him as their sabers clash again. He tries his own swing and she parries effortlessly, leaning in to catch his wrist. Her touch is electric, her glove whispering over his skin as she pulls him in close again, twisting his arm until he grunts with pain. She uses his distraction to yank him to the ground, pinning him beneath her and slamming her saber into the ground next to his head, close enough to drive a pitiful noise from him. She laughs. He is prey, to her, something to be toyed with and destroyed. “Not good enough.” She says, almost sounding sorry. “Not even worth my attention. Though I suppose I'll enjoy watching you break apart.” Her finger traces the scar on his jaw with open curiosity, following the mark to where it arcs up under his chin and splits his lip. When her thumb presses a bruise above the scar, he grimaces and shakes his head, unnerved by her sudden closeness, and she withdraws.
He moves. He has to, he won't die like this. He drives a knee up into her stomach and throws her off bodily; the Force still will not come, sluggish and reluctant. All he can do is scramble to his feet and lift his saber, shaking with exhaustion already, the rain still driving down on them. She is not laughing now, anger pulsing through the Force at his rebellion. She snarls and brings her saber down, with twice the force and fury of her previous strikes. Cal catches the blow, and his arms shake under the force of it, driving a gasp from him. For several agonising seconds they push against each other, sabers locked together. Then, from out of the gloom behind them, the ship from before fires at them both. They are forced to disengage, looking away – she leaps, he is not as quick, and is blasted off his feet, tumbling onto the metal gantry and acquiring a few more bruises. He is already black and blue, why not add a few more? His head slams back into the ground and he grunts, grasping at it as he pushes himself up.
The woman from the ship is shouting at him. “Get on board!” Was this her idea of a rescue? Firing a ship's cannon at him? He thinks he may have concussion, he sees two of her as she beckons him, a blaster in her hand. Where has Second Sister gone? He is on his feet, swaying, staggering towards the wide eyed human waiting for him on the ship. And oh, he hurts, everything hurts as he stumbles up the gangplank, flinching at the familiar sound of a saber igniting behind him. The woman's face lights up in red, and her eyes darken. He turns to see Second Sister advancing through the rain, and something draws him back to her. He takes a step back down the gangplank, hands twitching towards his saber as he stares, wide eyed at Second Sister -
But the woman grabs his arm. The moment is gone and he is yanked unceremoniously behind the other, stumbling back into the ship as she fires her blaster over and over at the advancing Imperial. He doesn't see the outcome, stumbling into the ship, though he can feel Second Sister's rage as the doors close.
The next thing he knows, she's in front of his face again, though this time there is a wall of transparisteel between them. She is desperate to get to him – he is her target, and there is an unnatural thrill to being the focus of her terrifying attention. He knows she is grinning, somehow, behind that mask, as she uses the Force to spin the ship. She will crash them, and she will have him, these are things she is sure of, and he can feel her surety in the Force with terrifying clarity. He can do nothing but stare, transfixed by the sight of her clinging to the ship. There is a scuffle at the controls, and he is flung to one side, forced to look away so he can catch himself on the back of the copilot's chair.
When he looks up again, she is gone, and the ship is in hyperspace. Still twitching with fear and nervous anticipation, he is introduced to Cere Junda and Greez Dritus. But he cannot shake Second Sister from his mind.
~
Zeffo
Zeffo is easier to navigate the second time round, now he has his bearings. But Cere's warnings of increased Imperial activity have him very nervous. Cal watches Beedee splice the lift. It grates and grinds beneath him, moving with a shudder, but he holds his ground. He is different now, he thinks. The Force flows through him with a little less sluggishness, responding to his call with the soft gentleness of a parent. Different to Bracca, when he was scared and alone. He has purpose, and he has found an uneasy friendship with Cere and Greez – and companionship with Beedee, who looks up at him and chirps before scrambling back onto his back. “I think we're getting close.” He hums to the little droid.
Beedee trills a question, bouncing a little on his shoulder.
“I noticed it earlier, this feeling in the pit of my stomach.” He tells him. “At first I thought it was Greez's cooking.” He pauses to let Beedee squeak at his joke. “Now it's getting even stronger. I think the closer we are, the worse I feel.” It feels good to voice these feelings out loud, and Beedee is nothing if not a very good listener. He is sweet, Eno Cordova's droid, who has somehow now become Cal's best friend. Beedee asks him with a soft trill what he thinks it means, which is terrifyingly perceptive, but he has learned by now to expect the very human way Beedee interacts with him, so he simply shrugs. “It can't mean anything good.” The lift shudders to a halt, and they step out. Cal is travelling deep into the mountain now, and an eerie sense of foreboding is creeping up from his stomach and twisting up his spine. There are troopers scattered here and there, not enough to threaten his mission – he tries not to think of the body count behind him as he finds another lift. This is the only way he can go, so he activates it, unable to shake the chill from before.
The trip is much shorter than the last lift, and he feels her presence a split second before the doors open. Second Sister is waiting for him, and all at once he knows why he was feeling so nervous.
“Cal Kestis.” She calls – so she has discovered his name, now, she has followed him from Bracca. Having her terrifying attention on him again is oddly intoxicating. “How predictable.” As though hearing his thoughts – or perhaps his feelings are written all over his face – she tilts her head. “Oh yes, I know your name, your past, and most importantly...” She begins to stalk around him again, and Cal is transfixed by her slow, prowling grace. “About Cordova.” She says finally, turning her back to him. It is at ease enough to the point of insulting – though he is certain he cannot best her. She is older, more thoroughly trained, and more importantly, she uses the Dark Side with careless ease. He takes a few hesitant steps towards her, hand on the saber at his hip. He does not ignite it. Not yet. Something holds him almost in thrall, perhaps it is her voice, the slow, careful way she speaks...
“Tell me...where did he hide the holocron?”
That is enough to shake him. He ignites his saber and holds it aloft, his stance surer and more stable than the last time he had faced her.
“Outstanding.” She says, and Cal shudders. She sounds delighted, her voice soft and low with anticipation.
The fight that follows is vicious and fast, and Cal is thoroughly grateful to have had weeks to practise – Bogano, Zeffo, Kashyyyk – all of the time spent following Cordova's trail he has been training, remembering the lessons Jaro Tapal has taught him. His movements are more natural now, muscle memory rising to the fore to help him defend himself. His style is a product of his cut-short training, messy, loose and with no real adherence to any particular form – and that seems to help him out, he thinks she finds him unpredictable in his attacks and defense. She seems to be enjoying the fight, however, and he gets the distinct impression of being played with again. He ducks under a blow, and uses the Force to fling her back. She hits the wall with a startled grunt of pain, and staggers. Suddenly her amusement is gone, and she hisses at him, dragging her saber along the floor.
Cal takes the break for what it is, panting hard, sabre still raised. He trembles, unable to take his eyes off her. Beedee squeaks quietly on his back, concern in his little modulated voice.
This time when she comes for him, she does not hold back, and with a flurry of vicious strikes he finds himself pinned against the opposite wall. Beedee is forced to leap aside to avoid being crushed, and Second Sister is in his face, her body pressing his into the wall. She is taller than him, by just enough to count, and Cal cannot help but lean back, into the unmoving stone behind him as she traps him there, one arm crushed behind him, the other pinned above his head. She plunges her saber into the wall by his ear, a tactic she seems to like, and he gasps, flinching hard. “This is too easy.” Second Sister tells him, voice soft beneath the modulator. He struggles, only for her to press forward with the weight of her body, and he lets out a strangled gasp at her sudden closeness. “Frightened, Padawan? I can feel it. Your fear. I could get used to this. What do you think? I was all for killing you, but Ninth Sister has suggested we bring you in.”
Bring him in? That does not sound like something Cal wants. He lets out another noise, gritting his teeth, still pinned to the wall behind him as she leans in close. Her hand is on his chin, suddenly, forcing his eyes up, and in the back of his mind, he registers that this must mean she has either let go of his arm, or her saber, but she slams his head back against the wall and for a moment he is unable to think at all, crying out as stars explode behind his eyes.
“You don't like that idea? Pity. I would have liked to watch you bleed. Don't worry, you'll join your master soon.” She throws him bodily across the room, and he goes sprawling with a grunt of pain, her throw strong enough to send him crashing through a durasteel gate. His saber goes flying, and he is completely helpless on the ground as she advances on him, saber raised to strike –
A red plasma barrier flickers to life between them, and her saber hits it with a shriek. Cal flinches, and glances to his left, where Beedee has spiced the door controls. Cal has never been more grateful for him than he is now. Beedee looks over at him, and he looks back at Second Sister, panting hard as she tests the barrier. “You're learning.” She calls as he scrabbles to his feet, licking blood from his lips. “Not quite as gifted as Cere's last apprentice but not bad.” Is she referring to the fight, or his rather cowardly escape? It isn't all that clear.
Her words take a moment to sink in fully. “You've been keeping count.” Is she responsible for what happened to Trilla?
“I'm surprised she didn't tell you. Cere was never good at keeping secrets.” The revelation that Cere and Second Sister know one another is jarring. They have encountered one another before, and somehow that sends a flicker of anger curling down his spine.
“And you know her so well, huh?” This is the first time he has actually spoken to Second Sister, if this counts as conversation. He speaks with a false bravado born of that glittering red barrier between them.
She laughs at him. “She was weak. Cracked in an Imperial torture chair.” She says it with such nonchalance it makes Cal shiver. He had known Cere was tortured, she had told him. To hear it spoken of so casually makes him feel cold, and unsettled. “Surrendered the location of her naïve Padawan.” She pauses for a moment, and he shakes with anger, fists clenched beside him. She seems to be trying to keep him here – perhaps she thinks reinforcements will come, or she will discover a way to break through the door? “They would never have found me...” At this, Cal's thoughts screech to a halt as she reaches up and takes off her helmet with a hiss of hydraulics.
“...If it wasn't for her.” She tells him, her eyes piercing and golden brown. Her hair is damp from the exertion of the fight, sticking to her face, and her lip curls at his absolute shock. Everything about her face is sharp, her cheeks, her chin, her eyes. She throws her helmet to the floor carelessly. “She betrayed me.”
Cal cannot help but move closer, until he is almost touching the plasma barrier. “You're Trilla.” He murmurs with horrifying clarity.
“In the flesh.” Trilla says, and he is close enough now to see dark circles under her golden eyes. She is wreathed in the Dark Side, he can sense it still, oil-slick and shrouding the Force like a cloak. She is silent for several seconds, watching him with an unreadable expression on her face. He cannot help it, for a moment he is transfixed, a kind of electricity between them that is definitely no the barrier. There is something between them he cannot wrap his mind around yet. The knowledge that she too is a Padawan – was, a Padawan...she was like him. A child in a war she didn't create. Had she fought side by side with clones, like he had? Had they turned on her too, before she and Cere had been forced to separate? He does not know her, they have not met before, but Cal is burning with curiosity.
Then he remembers Bracca, and Prauf. Whoever Trilla had been before...she was no longer a Padawan. “...I won't let you manipulate me.” He says quickly, turning away.
“So sure are you?” She calls. She wants him to stay. He gets the distinct impression she is having similar thoughts to him – he is a reminder of her past. With a jolt, he understands her question on Bracca. Jaro Tapal had died to save him. Given his life for Cal. Cere, it seemed, had not. Trilla is what she is because Cere gave her to the Empire. “When faced with the choice to protect herself or her Padawan, she chose self interest.” Cal is frozen in place. He can hear her pacing behind him. “She'll sell you out too.”
Cal braces himself, and turns back to face her. “Well, I can handle myself.” He says. It's true – he was alone before Cere, and whatever had happened between her and Trilla isn't anything to do with him. She lets out a small huff of laughter. It's an odd sort of sound, somewhere between scorn and true humour.
“Can you afford to take that chance? Your new Master harbours great darkness. The look on her face when she saw what they had done to me – ” Torture, Cal's mind unhelpfully supplies. Trilla must have been tortured, to fall and become...this. “ – As I am now...she used the Dark Side.” She finishes with a triumphant hiss.
“She cut herself off from the Force.” Cal replies. He isn't sure if he's defending Cere, or just holding onto the thread of conversation, still unwillingly drawn to the Second Sister.
“Oh? How long before she cracks and betrays you too? Is that who you want beside you when you find the holocron?” Trilla is still pacing, back to that lazy prowl Cal was growing so familiar with. “What would Jaro Tapal say?” She leans in, her face painfully close to the barrier.
Cal sees red and takes a step closer. “You have no right to mention his name!” She is goading him, he knows that, can see from the open smirk on her face. She is terribly pleased to have gotten under his skin, and he can feel her delight as she laughs.
“I wonder what would he think if he could see his Padawan now? Skulking in the shadows with a betrayer?” Cal is nose to nose with her again now, albeit through the barrier. His lip curls in a snarl as rage rolls through him, then thin as she continues to push his buttons. “Granting her access to a legion of impressionable students...” She wants him to open the door, he realises. She's pushing him into a fight, and with a thrill, he knows he is close to allowing it. He wants to fight, he wants to hurt her for her cruelty. She wants to hurt him, too, he can feel how much she wants to, and he has to reign himself in, before he does something unbearable stupid.
“I won't let anyone touch them.” He says emphatically. Not the Empire, not her, not even Cere if it comes to it. He will not let anyone get to that holocron. She seems to realise he will not do what she wants, and she calls her helmet to her hand, turning away. Inexplicably, Cal reaches as though to grab her arm, aborting the movement when he realises the barrier is in fact, still there.
“I thought the same thing once.” She says, and inexplicably, her voice has lost the taunting edge, it is soft, full of something that might be regret. She leaps into the lift shaft, and Cal is left alone, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Beedee squeaks beside him, and he shudders. “Yeah. Yeah I'm okay.” He tells the little droid, running a hand through his hair. He isn't sure it's the truth.
~
Bogano
Cal tumbles out of his vision unsettled, shaking. He wasn't sure what he had expected when the Astrium opened the vault like a giant holocron, but a Force-vision of himself turning to the Dark Side after watching all his students get slaughtered was not it. He is still for a moment, drawing in a long breath, his reflection gone now that the glass was shattered. He lets his hand drop from the glass, and turns slowly. There in the middle of the vault, the holocron blinks innocently. He moves towards it, transfixed. All these weeks of searching, and here it is, floating above the water. He reaches up to take it.
The sound of a lightsaber igniting does not surprise him.
“Had a bad feeling I'd see you here.” He turns to face Trilla, hand on his own saber. He does not feel the swell of anger he might have expected – his trip to Ilum has changed him. He advances on her, oddly calm in the face of his nemesis. He had not forgotten her taunts after their fight on Zeffo. She has foregone her helmet this time, and she smirks at him, face illuminated by the red of her saber.
“Oh? How uncharacteristically prescient of you.” She teases. “Here I thought your greatest virtue was your dogged persistence as you stumble from one debacle to the next.”
“Guess you made a mistake not killing me on Bracca, then.” Cal shoots back. He is tense, but has not yet fallen into a stance. He knows her a little better now – she is talking, which means she is not attacking. He does not want to raise his weapon until he has to, though he is vibrating with anticipation.
“A scant mercy.” She retorts, lip curling, her eyes piercing. Her hair brushes the underside of her chin, and her eyebrows draw into a scowl. He has riled her, just a little. “I wagered one meaningless Padawan against a prize that will win me the Emperor's favour.”
“You think I'm gonna let you walk away with the holocron?” Cal calls, watching her as she begins her familiar prowling circle. Their eyes meet, and Trilla's lip curls into a smirk.
“Of course not. We both have our pride.” She stalks just a little closer, and Cal twitches, tensing. “But yours has cost you the lives of all the Force sensitive children on that list. As well as your own.”
Finally, Cal ignites his saber, and warm yellow light floods the vault. She sees the difference immediately, but makes no comment, though her eyebrows raise just a little. Yeah. He had been surprised too. But what is Cal now, if not a guardian? A guardian of this vault, of Cordova's teachings, of the children whose names were in this holocron. Trilla is close now, close enough to strike him, but he is growing more used to the way she fights, the way she moves. He wishes he didn't have to fight her again, but in a way, he will be glad for the challenge. Since Ilum, he has grown more confident...
“Like you said, Trilla. I'm persistent.” He shoots back, and this time, he makes the first move, surging forward to engage her. Since their last meeting he has defeated the Ninth Sister, and though she and Trilla are not the same, their training definitely has been, and there is enough of an overlap that Cal can use the knowledge against her. Their blades clash over and over, lighting up the vault in gold and red as sparks fly.
Cal splits his saber to defend himself, striking hard with both, and it is enough to knock her off guard. She is startled enough to fall back, and Cal presses the sudden advantage, pushing her with a vicious burst of the Force. She topples to the ground, and he follows her down when she yanks, hard to offbalance him. He hits the ground hard, splashing into the shallow pool and grazing his elbow. They are both up quickly, and she hisses at him in fury, lashing out with a stunning twirl of her saberstaff. Cal is forced to throw himself back, defending wildly, keeping the blades away from his face.
As red comes crashing down upon yellow over and over again, there's a fierce look in her eyes. It's desire, he realises with a thrill of horror. Desire to beat him, hurt him, control him, break him down as she had been broken. But also desperation: a desperate desire to cling to the last vestiges of the old life that existed somewhere in their shared childhood memories. He is her obsession, he realises, and that is something he can use.
He ducks, re-centres himself and counters her barrage, pushing forward until their blades lock again in a shower of sparks. She pushes forward with a fierce grin, eyes bright and wild. He glances from the blade to her...and turns off his saber. She stumbles as he ducks the sudden swing his action has caused, and Trilla looks up, her eyes widening in fear – her back is open, all he has to do is ignite his blade again and –
He throws her back with all the power he can muster. She goes sprawling, her saber flying from her hand. Instinctively, he reaches, calling for it with the Force, and of course, it comes, sailing through the air and into his palm. Instantly, he is assaulted with violent echoes, and Trilla staggers to her feet, reaching for the holocron. “Be careful with that thing...” She snarls. “It's been through hell.” The echoes are more than just echoes, and he is trapped in a vicious assault of memories. He feels the naked terror as Cere leaves him, he feels every stab of the neddles and every burst of electricity as he is held down and tortured. He feels the vicious satisfaction as he put on the Inquisitor's helmet for the first time, in front of Cere...so she has to see what she's done to him...her burst of unadulterated fury as she breaks free...
He comes to with a cry of pain. He is lying on his back in the water, his back is cold. Trilla is crouched over him, the holocron in her hand. He jerks, goes to sit up – her boot comes down hard on his wrist and pins the hand with her saber in to the ground. He cries out again, and she laughs. “Did you have fun in my memories, Cal Kestis?” She asks, grinding down with her boot. He grunts, biting his lip as he feels the bones of his wrist grind underneath her. She leans over him, hair hanging down in front of her face. He stares up at her in horror, unable to separate her from the horrendous memories he had just witnessed. The saber has not been through hell. She has. Trilla has. She must see something in his face, as she snarls. “Do not pity me! I am stronger now than I could ever have been as a Jedi!” She lifts her knee, only to drive it into his ribs. “Stronger than you.” She taunts, as Cal chokes and jerks on the ground beneath him. She takes hold of his chin, leaning in. “You only have yourself to blame...taking my weapon like that. I can't say I planned showing you how I was created, but...I can't deny it was useful. And now I have two prizes for the Emperor.” She lifted her hand to show him the holocron, and despair wells up inside him. She has it. She has the children.
She laughs. “That's more like it.”
“You won't win, Trilla.”
“Why? Because you'll stop me? I don't think you're in a position to do much of anything at the moment, Padawan.” She grinds her knee into his ribs and he groans in pain. “Just imagine what terrible things I could do to you.” She exerts her will in the Force, and Cal shudders as he is crushed by more weight than just hers. Tucking the holocron into her uniform, Trilla leans forward to touch his face again, tilting his chin up to force him to meet her eyes. “This is a good look for you, you know. And where's your smart mouth gone now, hm? Are you afraid, yet?”
“Stop it...”
“Stop what, Padawan?” She teases, eyes dark as he writhes underneath her weight, fruitlessly. “You'll make such a good Inquisitor. You'll bleed and cry and scream, and break like all the others. Then you'll be working under me. Don't you think we'd make a good team? All you have to do is submit to me.” There is something there, underneath all that darkness. She wants this, quite genuinely. She wants him, covets him like a possession. He had seen the desire in her eyes when they fought, and now he is hers, she is free to toy with him. Cal struggles beneath her and she snarls. He feels the bones in his wrist shatter as her foot grinds down again, and he arches his back, forcing their bodies closer together as he howls in pain. It burns, the pain sharp and red and agonising.
“Trilla, please...” He tries, choking out her name in desperation, and there is something. Something flickers in that savage gaze, and that something is the last thing he sees before the hilt of his own saber comes down hard on his head, and then all he knows is blissful darkness.