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There was fresh blood on the tiles of the interrogation room, settling in pools and streaks against the pristine white floor and walls and mingling with the rust colored stains of old blood beneath. Thrawn hated the smell of blood, and hated the smell of this blood in particular. Arihnda Pryce was hands-on, he’d give her that, but he held a special disdain for her newfound sadism. Ever since Batonn, she had developed a cruel streak and took delight in the pain of others, including, it would seem, his own. She knew how he felt about the explosion at the Creekpath facility, and took every opportunity to prod that wound when they were in the same room; small comments, needling remarks, though she always managed to keep from fully crossing the line. She knew better than that, at least.
Batonn. The Empire held it up as his greatest victory, but in his eyes it was his greatest failure. The mark of a true leader was the ability to minimize deaths, not indiscriminately slaughter civilians and noncombatants - or at least that’s how he’d always operated. Things were different in the Empire, or so he’d come to realize. It was harder here to account for the choices and actions of others. No one worked for the good of the whole; everyone was out for their own personal glory or to get revenge on petty grievances, and he just couldn’t understand it. He thought that perhaps Arihnda was different, but it was obvious now he had been wrong about her, too.
He inspected the interrogation chair, its seat slicked with blood and tissue that he could not immediately identify. Its last occupant was most assuredly dead, judging by the sheer amount of blood spread out on the surfaces around him. Arihnda was never one to only use the chair in her interrogations, and a quick glance around showed him a small table with various sharp instruments, their ends stained dark. He could envision the look of glee on her face as a pointed edge dug deep into flesh, and the very image repulsed him.
Why was he here? Why did he insist on doing this every time she got her hands on some new insurgent? Did some deep, dark corner of himself get pleasure from seeing the aftermath, and rejoice in violence that wasn’t his? Or perhaps he was merely tormenting himself by viewing a reminder of his worst failing: putting his trust in that woman.
And yet he couldn’t blame it all on her, could he? The blood was on his hands as much as it was on hers, because he allowed this to go on. He could have told the truth about Batonn, revealed her treachery, but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut, and to what end? A promotion, the white uniform he craved, the symbol of validation that he knew he would never have been given in the Ascendency? He’d unleashed a monster on to the people of Lothal - but what was one more monster in a sea of monsters?
The Empire was changing him. Had changed him. He could see it, and he didn’t like the feeling that squirmed somewhere deep inside his psyche. He’d grown very adept at compartmentalizing guilt ever since Thrass’ death - he knew that guilt led to doubt, and doubt was deadly for a leader to possess. Yet here in the interrogation room, surrounded by the results of needless violence, the guilt was threatening to spill out, doubt already forming.
He snarled, grasping the edge of the tray that held the blades and threw it as hard as he could against the far wall, sending droplets of blood spraying. So rarely did his frustrations slip past his careful self-control that the action startled him, and he stared at the instruments scattered across the floor. He took in several deep breaths to calm himself, quelling the urge to continue the wave of destruction. He wanted to tear the room apart with his bare hands, scream until the guilt and doubt dissipated, but he couldn’t allow himself that release. That was not him, not his nature; he was the calm before and after the storm, he was the sole island of reason in a vast sea of roiling irrationality. Logic was his guiding principle, and he’d be damned if he let raw emotion consume him now.
And yet…that little wriggling feeling was still there, tugging at the back of his mind and daring him, urging him to let it free. He shed no tears, but the noise that slipped from between his lips could only be described as a choked sob.
No. He wouldn’t lose control. Not here, not now, and most certainly not because of that woman. He took a moment to straighten his tunic and smooth back his hair. It wasn’t until he lowered his arm that he noticed the spot of red on the cuff of his pristine white sleeve. Blood had seeped into the gaberwool, leaving behind a tiny stain that would be impossible to remove. He scratched at it with his thumbnail, as though perhaps he could scrape it off, but that only served to work the red deeper into the cloth. He sighed, and dropped his arm to his side. He took one more disdaining look around the room, then stalked out into the corridor, not noticing the long trail of bloody boot prints he left in his wake.