Chapter Text
The water is cold. A biting, merciless cold that drills deep into your flesh like needles through your skin. The sky is overcast, cosmic light fading darker by the minute, and no matter where you look, there is no sign of land nor beacon of rescue.
Suddenly, a flare of light. Bright orange on the horizon in every direction, glowing brighter as it draws rapidly nearer; a ring of fire burning impossibly upon the jagged waves, moving faster, roaring as it closes in on you, and with no hope of escape, you ignite. The prickling cold is replaced with a scorching heat, flames breaching the water’s surface to flutter and dance along your skin. But even as it burns, you do not blister.
What little grasp you have on remaining afloat escapes you and the water takes you in, stealing your breath and guiding you ever lower. The dim light of the surface vanishes, but even as the murky sea around you deepens to an impenetrable black, your cloak of fire never falters. The searing flames keep you warm as your skin begins to peel away, and you blaze like a sun in your descent. Even in this misery, there is a helpless peace.
You awaken.
Sweat adheres your clothing to your skin and a buzzing pain flickers around your skull. By the amount of light that shines through the paneless viewport, you guess that you’ve overslept. Hauling yourself to your feet, you stretch your aching muscles and prepare yourself to abuse them even further with the rigors of the day.
Llanic hasn’t been kind to you, but you can hardly complain. The planet is crawling with smugglers, whether novice idiots still getting their bearings or death-defying veterans looking for reliable work, but in spite of the way they seem to flow perpetually in and out of the rowdy and sordid cantinas at almost every corner, few if any of them have paid you any attention--well, attention of the sober, decent, and dangerous sort at least.
And you know the reason why. By avoiding the seedy watering holes when you can help it and keeping reclusively to the meager dwelling afforded to you by your “employer,” your presence is hardly felt--and even openly in the midst of your work, you and all the other poor souls who could be facetiously labeled your colleagues might as well be obsoleted droids as far as your “clients” are concerned.
It’s simple. The marketable skills you’ve accumulated are almost exclusively menial, and though you’d be hopeless as a mechanic, on a planet that serves first and foremost as a smuggler’s den, there's no shortage of starships. Starships that accumulate grime, mysterious residues, and plentiful carbon scoring from the rigors of the industry; and while one is already here dealing with work, pleasure, or more likely, a combination of the two, why not squander a few measly credits on the poor hacks waiting around the spaceports, willing to polish one’s pride and joy in the meantime?
So, no, you can’t say you’ve grown especially fond of Llanic in the month or so you've called it shelter. Manually scrubbing and scraping and buffing the ships of an ever-changing cast of galactically self-obsessed ingrates for pocket change definitely never gets any more enjoyable. But what makes the arrangement almost worth the effort is the fact that what meager Imperial presence lets itself be known in the sector is much too focused on keeping an eye on the criminals conspiring under their noses to have absolutely any suspicions about a tired old ship-scrubber like you--One could probably get away with outright murder in the shadow of so much precious Imperial property at stake.
At least, that’s what you assumed. But it wasn’t the chest-puffing stormtroopers or cautionary patrol fighters that should’ve warranted your concern. They aren’t the ones tasked with finding people like you, and they certainly aren’t the ones paying attention.
At the end of every day, you're reacquainted with how meaningless it feels to live like this. Aching in every muscle, soaked in cleaning fluids and stained with oil and who-knows-what, exhausted beyond what you even believed was possible--your long-held pacts of avoiding drink to keep your wits about you and rejecting “company” for the dangers it might’ve posed finally snapped on Llanic. At some point, you ceased to fear that any given day might be your last, and began instead to wonder if you might as well guarantee it.
And it's in this state that you are found.
You’d heard about them before, in one seedy cantina or another; bounty hunters and spice-slingers sharing embellished tales of their dealings with the elite imperial Inquisitors, willing traitors to the Jedi Order rewarding hefty sums in exchange for information about any known force-sensitives, rumored to be ruled by the infamous Lord Vader himself. At the time, you were certain that you’d avoid their notice so long as you kept your head down and remained mobile--after all, an unremarkable former-padawan such as yourself could easily fall under the Empire’s radar, right? Who would’ve taken notice of your death, let alone your unlikely survival? The odds of you of all people being tracked down or recognized must have been low, but evidently still higher than you gave the Empire credit for.
In spite of all your oft-repeated self-assurances, you don’t feel terror when you look into the featureless black helmets of the Imperial Inquisitors for the first time. You only feel resigned. Relieved, even, as morbid as the thought may be. After all, what could you possibly do, returning to the pitiful den you've been forced to call your lodgings only to find it occupied by an unfeeling pair of them, your long-unignited saber wrapped tauntingly in the fabric of one of their red-palmed gloves? Fight? There is no fight left in you. You wish you could say you had a good run, but it was the running itself that exhausted you past the point of even passive sentimentality as your unremarkable end stares you in the face. It wasn’t much of a life, and certainly not one you could stand to live for as long as a natural death would take to claim you. So, you raise your wrists in submission. The Inquisitors exchange a silent, indecipherable look before one of them snaps a pair of cuffs around them.
You don’t know how they found you, but it doesn’t really matter. Your name could surely have been found on some list of former Jedi, and it’s not as though you bothered to go by a fake one. Perhaps one of your many brief employers rifled through your things or found something about you suspicious enough to try their hand at the reward, starting off a web of encounters that led them all the way out here. The thought doesn’t provoke much regret. Maybe something inside of you was asking for this all along; a compulsion that only ran in hopes of running into someone who would put you out of your misery.
The last dream of your freedom resurfaces in your mind as you're ushered uncaringly past the curious and fearful eyes of Llanic. It was too clear, too overwhelming to be simple imagination. If it was meant to warn you of this impending procession, it should've tried its hand at basic clarity.
And now, hours later, you stand in discomfort. You aren’t sure where you expected to find yourself after landing in the morose custody of a couple of Sith Inquisitors, but tightly restrained against an upright metal slab affixed with some sort of torture device in an empty, vastly dramatic, and dimly lit interrogation room is about as boringly predictable as you should’ve guessed. A couple of those identical, white-armored soldiers hooked you up to it (while you wondered, briefly, if the faces beneath those helmets would be a familiar one to you) before taking their places on either side of you, and though you aren’t exactly happy with where you’ve ended up, you didn’t offer much resistance. Just getting it all over with is the best you can hope for at this point. Of course they’ll have some questions for you if their job is to hunt down Jedi, but the best you can tell them is to let you know when and where they find some, because you certainly haven’t had any luck in that regard. You wonder what the odds are of them actually taking your word for it.
Whatever planet you’ve been brought to is entirely unfamiliar to you, and the only information you’re absolutely certain of is that you currently reside in a subaquatic base. And though your duo of Inquisitors entrusted your delivery to a stormtrooper escort swiftly after entering the complex, you gleaned during the flight that one of them was referred to as “Second Sister,” and you didn’t catch a number for the other one, but the use of “Brother” tells you that it’s probably a man under there. But who or what they are is the least of your concerns when all you really want from either of them is as minimally sadistic of a death as they’re capable of bestowing by the time they realize you have absolutely nothing to offer. And as the “Brother” and “Sister” eventually enter the sinister room and dismiss the silent guards at your sides, you prepare yourself to make your case--or lack thereof--as quickly as you can. They look at you hooked pathetically up to this thing with equally passive demeanors.
“And you’re certain you can handle this one on your own?” the “Sister” asks, her helmet distorting her words. As she speaks, she strolls up to you, giving you a closer, invisible look. The other one remains near the door with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?” the “Brother” asks, the same robotic modulation affecting his voice, though it seems to bear a much lighter tone.
After a moment’s pause and his “sister’s” lack of response, he steps forward leisurely as well, looking up at you with a tilt of his head and his hands clasped behind his back, but his face is just as unreadable as hers beneath his helmet.
“Work quickly, Brother. We don’t have time to waste on lost causes when there are so many more to be found. This is not solely a test of the Jedi’s viability.”
“Have some faith, Sister,” the man sighs. “I can be pretty convincing when I want to be.”
She makes a sound like a snort. “You’d better hope so. It won’t be me you’ll answer to otherwise.”
Evidently unconcerned with watching the spectacle to ensue, the “Sister” turns and struts proudly out of the door, and the man you’re left with does not move an inch until it swishes closed behind her. Then, he spins on his heels, taking his time as he walks towards the exit as well, and an ominous beep resounds as he presses a button on the control panel beside it. He’s locked the two of you in.
Just as slowly, almost boredly as before, he returns to the place he stood prior, looking up at you indecipherably, and seconds tick by in silence that would have you wriggling anxiously in your restraints if not for the fact that you’ve already given up. Why give this freak the satisfaction of putting up a fight?
“...You might as well just kill me,” you mutter apathetically when the quiet starts to get annoying. “I have nothing to give, and I’m not interested in becoming one of you demented--”
He lifts a gloved hand, one finger up, and you think he’s…shushing you? It’s not a gesture you’d respect, but it’s done with such a strange, distracted impatience that you cut yourself off anyway and frown in confusion. He tilts his head again, and then you think he gives himself a little nod.
Then, before you know it, the helmet is off, and you’re almost taken aback. The shock of red hair catches your eye first and foremost, but what really jolts your senses is the face beneath it. Young and soft, with gentle green eyes pressed into a determined stare, freckled cheeks, a dimpled chin; but that in itself unsettles you more than the image of whatever monster you might’ve imagined to be hiding within. All that you find overtly off-putting is the sunken, purplish skin around his eyes, giving him the appearance of deathly exhaustion, though entirely lacking the body language. Altogether, the sight of him makes your face twist in revulsion; the thought that someone so obviously close to your own age, someone who must’ve been so young and scared when the Purge began could turn his back on the light, could kill for the empire that slaughtered the people he called friends, mentors, family, and--no, wait, you’re getting ahead of yourself. If you project any anger onto him, he'll feel it, and like hell you'd give him that satisfaction either. It’s not like there’s anything you can do.
“...I'm Cal,” he says, in a soft-spoken voice that betrays his age and demeanor much more without the robotic interference. "Cal Kestis.”
A silence follows, but his face doesn't betray any particular expectation. You pop a frown.
"...Oh- kay. Kill me,” you counter monotonously.
A few seconds pass, and he rolls his goddamn eyes at you. What the hell did you get landed with?
Remaining mostly impenetrable, he gestures to the torture equipment affixed all around you, some admittedly intimidating needle-like conductors, currently lifeless but surely primed to curl around you and send you into misery at a moment’s notice. “I'm guessing you don't want me to turn that on," he says, bordering on sarcastic.
"Why would I?"
"Good. Then shut up for a bit." With that alone, he turns his back to you and swiftly sits down on his knees.
"... What?"
"I said, shut up for a bit. You're really gonna want me to be able to focus."
"Why?"
"You'll know when the time comes."
Irritation prickles at your nerves. "What the fuck is your problem?"
A huff. "If you knew what I was supposed to be doing right now, you wouldn't be asking me that."
Oh, so now you’re a complete moron, right? "Obviously, you're supposed to be torturing me to the brink of death until I tell you everything I know--which is nothing, by the way. So why aren't you?"
Straightening his back a little more, the inquisitor stands up, carrying himself much closer to you than before, and staring up at you with intense and pointed eyes that make your face tighten in discomfort.
"I am," he says, just slightly over-enunciating. "As far as anyone else is concerned, I am. As far as either of us are concerned, I am, right? Unless you really want me to."
Once or twice, you blink. He couldn't make his meaning more obvious, but that sure as hell doesn't mean you find it trustworthy--not to mention comprehensible. "...I'll pass."
He nods-- yes, you will --and leans even closer. "Then do as I ask."
With a stiffer finality, he turns on his heels and retraces his steps, running one hand through his hair with a smothered sigh before dropping back down to the floor. When he starts "concentrating" again, the air seems to ripple.
And then, it's quiet.
…
What the fuck?
Minutes tick away mercilessly slow, whether in reality or perception. You'd use this time to process whatever the hell is happening, but every thought you have seems to slip away just as quickly as they come, so you're trapped staring confusedly at the bright-orange back of his head.
This has to be…a joke, right? Some kind of deranged, unintelligible test? Are you passing or failing?
…
What the fuck is wrong with this guy, anyway? Didn't he hear what you said?! Why the hell are you even humoring this?
"How long are you gonna keep me like this?" you blurt out again.
…
Apparently, he has resorted to ignoring you. Asshole.
"Listen, I don't know what the hell this is supposed to be, but I'm telling you, you might as well just end this," you attempt once again, and this time, the inquisitor's shoulders raise just slightly at the sound of your voice. "I have nothing to tell you people. I couldn't even if I wanted to."
"I believe you," he sighs quite reluctantly, tilting his head back in exasperation. Once again, you’re taken aback.
"Then-- Why the hell won't you just kill me like I've been asking you to?! All I want is to get this over with."
Was that a snort? Not bothering to stand again, he simply shifts around to face you. "I can't. I'm being tested. We both are, actually."
"So, what, I'm supposed to be your lab subject here?"
He opens his mouth as if to protest, but changes his mind pretty fast.
"Pretty much, yeah. As long as I don't break you, and you don't get broken, we'll both pass."
"...And then what?"
He furrows his brow at you. "What?"
"After this, then what happens?"
"After today? Nothing, really. No Jedi breaks that easily. Or gets close enough, either way."
"No, after-- After all of this, after we 'pass,' then what happens?"
He looks at you for a long time, and you can't tell if he's thinking it through himself, or debating which lie might get you to shut up the fastest. Eventually, he shrugs. "...Well, if you're lucky, it'll be me."
"What the hell does--?"
"Seriously," he interrupts, rubbing a hand over his face, "if you want to make it through today unscathed, you're gonna have to shut up."
"But--"
"I don't need to tell you how fucked you are right now," he raises his voice, but only enough to snuff out yours, and his eyes get wide again, brimming with all the layered annoyances you've built upon him. "But I can promise you, you'll be doubly-- triply fucked with anyone other than me, okay? So if you wanna stay under my control instead of someone who'll turn this equipment on and take a hike for an hour or two, you--"
Suddenly you feel something, sharp and gut-clenching, and it takes you a moment to realize that the jolt of anxiety didn't originate from you. The inquisitor looks slightly away from you, eyes glazing over as he focuses on something extrasensory, but after a few tense and prolonged seconds, he exhales.
"...Nothing," he breathes. "False alarm."
You have nothing to say to that, but your blood feels a little cooler than it did a couple minutes ago. Having lost his flow, he shakes his head and simply points a stern finger at you in conclusion.
"Keep your mouth shut. I'm not gonna tell you again."
Part of you really wants to curse at him, or spit at him, or maybe scream at the top of your lungs until he explains what the fuck he’s doing properly, but the fact that there’s something going on around here that makes even him nervous compels you to go along with it, at least for the time being. So, you keep your mouth shut and simmer in silence. Even now, it’s not like you can formulate a plan of attack or anything--if he claims to be incapable of killing you, that probably isn’t going to change before the day ends. You could try to sabotage his concentration on purpose and see where that gets you, but you have a feeling you’ll be a hell of a lot sorrier than he will if he fails to do…whatever the fuck he’s doing. So, you close your eyes and you wait. And wait, and wait, and wait…
…And eventually, you feel another jolt of anxiety, and it triggers one of your own as well. A moment later, a brief touch to your leg has you opening your eyes in surprise, and you see Cal suddenly standing just before you.
“Focus your mind on relaxing your muscles,” he advises hastily. “Only that. It’ll hurt less. And the moment it stops, pretend to lose consciousness, if you don’t naturally. You got that?”
“What?” It comes out uncharacteristically fearful. If this sudden advice means what you think it means, then is he going to--?!
The next couple seconds play out in slow motion as you watch the foreboding apparatus spark to life and begin to close what little space is left between you, as you struggle in a panic against the obstinate metal braces, and your eyes land once more on the inquisitor (who even now turns his back to you), frantic, fearful, betrayed, pleading, before--
It’s worse than you could’ve imagined. Everything around you, every single sensation shatters into nothing, and all that exists in the entire galaxy is the white hot searing pain reverberating through every nerve, penetrating every bone, boiling your blood. The inquisitor’s advice couldn’t hope to surface back in your memory--not a single thought can even form in your mind. It’s nothing, just nothing but that agony. It could’ve been hours, for all you could tell.
But eventually, it stops. The pain ceases, the machine powers down, but the dull, electric ache stains your limbs, your muscles twitching erratically and involuntarily. Your head falls forward limply, ears ringings, temples throbbing, and you aren’t even certain which way is up. Nothing has ever hurt you like that before.
When you finally begin to regain some awareness of your surroundings, you realize that one of your arms is no longer restrained. You raise it weakly, flexing your fingers, and your eyes flutter open in confusion. The sluggish, vacant state of your brain hardly even registers that the inquisitor is in the process of undoing the other one as well, and it isn’t until you’ve been entirely released, your slumped and listless body pulled from the upright table and into his arms that a glimpse of that vibrant red hair reminds you of exactly what is happening.
You struggle immediately, wriggling and thrashing until you’ve wrenched yourself loose of his grasp, and fall instantly to the floor with a solid thud--though, after all you’ve just endured, you hardly feel a thing. Though you know that it’s your voice groaning and whining feebly, it feels distant and foreign, like it’s originating from somewhere else in the room, but your nose is stained with the overwhelming scent of something warm and human, picked up from that unfamiliar shoulder. When you shakily push yourself upright on the floor, you find him crouching down beside you.
“Do you see now?” he urges in a harsh whisper. “There's no other option. I am the only one willing to save you from that. I’m the only one who still cares.”
All you can do is stare at him with wide, shaken eyes.
“You’re gonna be taken to a cell in a second,” he continues. “You’ll be brought back here tomorrow. Remember what I told you, alright?'
Seeing that you won’t (or can’t) speak, the inquisitor rises to his feet again, his helmet under his arm. Offering you one last look, he turns and walks to the door, opening it and leaning casually against the wall beside it. Two stormtroopers, possibly the ones from earlier, hurriedly stride into the room and wrench you unsympathetically to your feet, forcing a pair of cuffs around your wrists. You can only stare in rattled disbelief as the inquisitor watches you indifferently in turn, his head following you as you’re dragged from the room, and the very last thing you see before the door closes behind you is an unabashed, lopsided grin pulling at his lips.