Chapter Text
A part of her hates looking at Shin. It isn’t a personal feeling, Marrok’s past that sort of hatred, but Shin acts like she used to. Following a Master around like a begging dog, hanging onto their every word, saying “yes” and “of course” and “whatever you say.” Barely questioning, and accepting the strange half-answers without any other demand. She used to be like that. Not anymore.
They work well despite it, moving in tandem, easily fighting others off. Shin always insists on taking on the Mandalorian, and she’s fine with that. Baylan and her obviously have preferences on what they like; they say they aren’t Jedi even if they carry lightsabers and Shin has a padawan braid bouncing along her shoulder, and she does not have the heart to start any arguements. Marrok didn’t even really want to come, she has better things to do than babysit a few mercenaries and Morgan of all people.
“I trust you to make sure the job gets done,” he’d said, sighing. He always looks tired these days. She hates it. “You know Morgan can be a bit…irresponsible.” He’s too nice. Morgan got caught, and if these were the old days, she’d be executed for being a disappointment. That was the Emperor’s way, Vader’s way, but Eli has never been especially ruthless. Besides, there aren’t many of them left.
So, here she is, stuck following Baylan’s orders and tromping through a forest. Her mask filters out nearly everything, though there’s still a slight undercurrent of leaf rot seeping through. Shin moves fast, nearly sprinting, a student ready to get praised for a good job. Marrok walks at a quick pace instead, because she can feel them: the Mandalorian, barely any Force sensitivity, chock full of worry and anxiety and…Ahsoka.
Ahsoka has stayed crystal clear in her mind, young and full of righteousness, looking at her with a broken expression in her eyes. She sees Ahsoka in double: here in the woods, lekku long and almost to her knees, wrinkles around her eyes and mouth; and staring at her framed by the sterile white of the court, heart cracking in real time.
The white of her saber lines everything in silver, the clash between white and red creating sparks of gold. Marrok moves fluidly, her armor lightweight even as it fits snug against her chest. Ahsoka fights the same, she’s had the luxury of being able to keep her basics and lessons ingrained, and Marrok knows exactly how to handle it. The way she holds it with a backwards grip, the way her other hand flutters to her waist for the Shoto blade when she feels cornered, the way she tenses her legs before she charges.
They practiced together so many times. She can see sweat start to drip into Ahsoka’s eyes, highlighting the white marks across her head, longer and sharper than all those years ago. Marrok tries to count the years, they're both much older now, maybe she’ll even get tired easier. It feels like it, a dip in the Force, and she lunges. If she can knock out one of Ahsoka’s tendons then they can go back to base, get those coordinates, and actually finish the job. Ahsoka smirks just a bit, and then ducks under the swipe of the red blade, opposite hand gripping her Shoto and going up.
Marrok barely ducks out of the way, the short white blade slicing up into her mask, the heat a burn on her eyebrow. It cauterizes almost instantly, a single drop of hot blood sliding onto her cheek, the gap in protection letting the cold air in. The fog and rot and burning wood and her flesh . She growls, almost on instinct, the filter in her voice rising and falling with the damage.
Ahsoka sees her. Marrok knows what’s barely peeking out; a little green skin, the dark diamonds on her cheeks, a strand or two of black hair. “Barriss?” The name hurts, it burns worse than the cut, that is not her anymore. It was beaten out of her.
“Miss me?” Ahsoka’s expression flickers into horror at the twisted voice of it, the deep tones and her normal pitch, a little rougher and quieter than before. She’s dropped her Shoto in surprise, and Marrok goes for it, Ahsoka moving slow enough that the corner of her cape gets stabbed. Marrok starts to twirl the duel blade in her hands until they seem to merge, and Ahsoka steels herself, both hands on one hilt, mouth a thin line.
Both of them go at the same time, and Ahsoka swoops low, aiming for a cut across the middle. Marrok knows it is a killing blow, and goes up on her toes to jump over. She’ll slice off an arm if she has to. Ahsoka drops the blade at the last minute, the white disappearing into the red leaves. Her hand, rough and clawed, dodges the red and places it on Marrok’s middle. She feels it then, a pull at the base of her spine and right behind her heart, the Force working against gravity.
“No!” she hisses, right before it works, wrenching her backward and into the trunk of a tree. Marrok feels her helmet crack, the smaller section falling away as she slumps. The smell of loam and dirt floods her nostrils, her temples are pounding, she feels something warm along the back of her neck. She may have a concussion. A blurry image of Ahsoka comes forward, a single slash leaving the mangled remains of her saber on the forest floor. Shin is out there somewhere.
Marrok almost hopes the girl doesn’t make it before she passes out.
**
She knows this memory well.
The first month after her assignment to the Grand Admiral, she was granted the time to practice in his private quarters, where she could actually work on forms without the full suit on. Marrok knew full well why she was assigned to Thrawn; she couldn’t be around Vader because she knew his real name, and the rest of the higher-ups thought she looked too non-human to be around them.
Someone had suggested once that she carve her tattoos off with a vibroknife. They had been a minor member of the crew, but breaking their arm had still felt good. Thrawn and Marrok seemed equally hated in quiet, and the other Inquisitors worked better with Vader, and she needed to be somewhere. The Emperor didn’t mind disposing of tools, but Force sensitive tools were more important. Nevermind the fact that Marrok was a tool that came with discipline at the ready.
This, she remembers, the cycled air against her skin as she moved through the motions. The double bladed saber still heavy in her hand, the hum as she twirled them. The grimace as she hit the feature that allowed the hilt to spin on its own, a circle of red. Marrok hated this feature. She felt like she was holding a fan that needed to be installed in a hyperdrive engine.
“All I’d need to do is shoot the hilt, and you’re down,” said a voice. Marrok knew it even then; besides, he’s the only other one allowed in Thrawn’s personal quarters. Commander Vanto easily leaned against the wall, eyebrows raised at the overwhelming vum that her weapon kept producing. She resisted the urge to pull her mask back on.
“I’d block it.”
“Without cutting off your own hand?”
“Easily.” Marrok turned it off, the heat all around her disappearing in a blink. She stood at attention, and inclined her head just briefly. He is, after all, her superior, even if he is a lot younger. “If you’re interested, I can teach you how.” She’d never say it outloud, but these aren’t real lightsabers. More like training wheels. Commander Vanto would be able to handle the saber, with only one blade on, rather easily.
“I doubt the Commander will need to train in the Sith arts.” Both of them straightened at the voice. In her mind, in this memory, she smells the forest. For a moment, just a moment, the Grand Admiral isn’t the Grand Admiral. He is a she, long black skirt, a head wrap, black diamonds on her chin. Marrok feels like she has to tug on her braid. When was the last time she wore her wrap? Before prison, that’s for sure.
Then her vision clears, and Thrawn is Thrawn again, hair perfectly slicked back and eyes turned towards her. Marrok can’t help but feel like his eyes radiate the same heat as her blades. They are, after all, the same color. “I meant no insult, Sir,” she said, heels clicking together.
“I mean,” he corrected, eyes sliding to the Commander, “that you’ll be with him if any problems arise. I am sure you’ll be able to defeat any threat.”
“Of course, Sir,” she said, and almost saluted. If not for Commander Vanto, right behind him, rolling his eyes. She had felt it, his energy spiraling out. Marrok heard it almost like he said it out loud, a single chastising and almost teasing “overprotective.”
The corner of Thrawn’s mouth moved, just barely, it would be a smirk on a human. Marrok wondered, looking into those red eyes, if he felt the word too.
**
Marrok rolls over when she regains consciousness, mouth tasting like dead leaves and burnt hair. She peels off the remaining section of her mask and spits, glaring at the melted halves of her saber. She knows it won’t turn on, because these are shoddily made, and she’s now down a weapon.
Marrok looks around, doesn’t see the others, aside from the Mandalorian's helmet left empty on its side. Then she hears the beeping. A small hidden comm on her wrist, a blast of orange that lights up everything. Morgan would have stripped it from her if she knew she had it, because she’s a bit of a control freak. “Hello General,” she says, clicking her tongue, and swishing around the taste of metal and saliva.
“We got confirmation that the hyperdrive ring worked. Are you en-route?” Eli’s voice is clear and strong over the comm, not even a hint of static. Marrok feels her ribs twinge when she sits up, rage bruning in the exact same places the Force tugged at her.
“That witch left me behind,” she hisses, hesitantly standing. Her knees crack, she’s getting too old to be thrown around. “I got injured fighting the Jedi.”
“ What? ” Eli’s taken after Thrawn in one thing, slipping into a steely calm and quiet rage. “Are you alright?”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” Marrok sighs. “I’ll find a way. Permission to eliminate Morgan when I find her?”
“Granted.”
“Thank you, General,” she responds, before hitting the end button. Eli could have her doing a full body report in the middle of the forest for hours until he’s satisfied with her physical condition. She raises a hand and hisses at the tender skin of her new scar, bisecting her eyebrow and stopping right before her eyelid.
She can’t stop staring at Ahsoka’s footprints. They’re deep, etched in the mud. Marrok flexes her fists. Too deep for just standing there for a moment.
She lingered.