Chapter Text
The Underworld was just as dark, damp and grimy as every other day. Sometimes, Thron wondered why the Chancellor insisted on sending patrols down here anymore. Even at the beginning, natborns always gave him and vode a wide berth, wanting little to do with the Republic’s mysteriously acquired army. Some were simply glad it wasn’t them fighting on the front lines, and most tended to live and let live, inasmuch as they could manage with the Coruscant Guard. A part of him couldn’t quite blame them. Even other Vode weren’t exactly happy to see the Corries. They were soft, had it easy with cushy jobs at the center of the Republic itself, and wouldn’t understand what it was like fighting on the front. Rare as those words were, hearing them from his brothers’ drunken mouths wasn’t exactly comforting, no matter how many apologies he and Thire received come morning.
Fox usually didn’t bother with the drunk tank, more concerned with whichever idiot was trying to bother the Chancellor, or whatever suicide mission their Glorious Leader had deigned he could surely handle, for the Republic’s security of course. The slimy muck in his boot—as well as the distinct lack of railings on the walkway—didn’t exactly seem secure to Thorn, but to each their own. Perhaps the most understanding were the normal residents of the Undercity. Criminals and thugs aside, it had become somewhat of an unspoken truth between guard and civ. The Senate didn’t care. For as much as Chancellor Palpatine liked to go on and on about his great Republic, nobody bothered to so much as keep the streets clean.
Level 1315 wasn’t even the worst of it. He’d seen the looks his brothers would share—those just returning from patrol—and only those drawing the shortest stick would be sent out to anything below Level 2000. Unlike the busy nightlife only a mere 2 Levels above, the streets here were eerily quiet. Only the buzzing of barely-working lights, squelch of grime under his boot, and echoes of other Guard patrolling the surrounding area reached Thorn’s ears. Pitifully little, barely even a drunkard out this late. The Commander shifted his head, arriving at a somewhat-cleaner spot on the sidewalk, and standing directly below the light. It radiated at least some heat, a small reprieve from the oppressive nothingness permeating the air.
For a moment, all was quiet. Not much out here other than warehouses and a few ammo depots halfway across the planet, currently swarming with whichever vode had been stationed to defend them this rotation. A glass bottle shattered in the distance, making Thorn put a hand on his blaster out of reflex. Kriff it all…he should be in his bunk, chugging that confiscated bottle of Jet Juice they’d looted off the 327th on their last shore leave. Honestly, if Bly’s boys wanted to get wasted, they could at least not brew it in the damn Venator’s fresher units…
Faint footsteps suddenly sounded against the grimy metal walkway, and Thorn carefully turned the safety off his blaster, just in case some natborn decided to blame their life’s problems onto the Guard again. It wouldn’t be the first nor the last time one of them ended up in infirmary because a civ couldn’t afford therapy. The Commander steeled himself as the sound steadily got closer, scanning his surroundings. Nothing but dark alleys and shadows as far as the eye could see. Thorn refrained from grumbling to himself. Breaking formation had been stupid, but every bone in his body ached and those 3 hours of sleep were calling to him like a siren from wild space. Senate duty was bad enough when he got shut eye, and patrol had been taking far too long anyway. Erring on the side of caution, he took aim at the footsteps’ source, and waited.
Before Thorn even had a chance to blink, he felt cold. Every bone in his body chilled instantaneously, the street light and insulation on his armor doing nothing to prevent it from seeping into his skin. His mind began to wander over to his brothers, who were spread around the alleys and keeping far from ledges. It wasn’t at all uncommon for Guard to end up MIA after Undercity Patrol, and either Stone or Thire always did a head count for the returning squads. Of course, they were soldiers, well-trained instruments of war. Logically, he shouldn’t worry. He trusted them to come back safe, just as Thorn himself would…as soon as his legs allowed him to move again. But a primal fear had gripped him, beyond the kind which came with the threat of death. There was something else here that his mind couldn’t quite grasp, just barely out of sight. And he felt himself tremble at the thought of it getting to his brothers, at the thought of losing another vod. The Commander smacked the side of his helmet, as if to reboot his brain and get it to work again. He knew the signs of a breakdown all too well; he’s seen Fox pace himself into unconsciousness more times than he’d like to remember. This isn’t a safe place for him to have a screw lose. From within the shadows, another step sounded, echoing into the empty alleys.
He'd left Hammer back at base. As another tremble shakes his core, Thorn thinks he’d been a heck of a lot better with it instead of a simple blaster pistol. A small rush of fabric peeked out through the darkness, and then a lean figure stepped towards him. It seemed almost lost in thought, wandering aimlessly, but he wasn’t taking any chances tonight. Without thinking, Thorn pulled the trigger, sending a bolt directly at whomever was approaching. The Coruscant Guard could afford to throw a drunkard’s body off the streetside. They needed their Commander. The bolt went flying through the air…stopping just an inch before connecting with the hooded figure’s chest. The newcomer raised their head, tilting it as if perplexed that they’d been shot at to begin with, and careful stepped aside before releasing the bolt, letting it blast harmlessly into a metal wall. Thorn’s heart dropped before he could even blink. There were only two kinds of people in the Galaxy who could do something like that. Dooku and Ventress—dark wizards who’d never step foot on Coruscant without being blasted out the sky—and their own Generals. Blast, he’d almost shot a kriffing Jedi.
“Hello there!” a female voice sounded under the hood, low and with a tinge of warning etched unto its innards. Thorn considered running away, if only for a moment. She wouldn’t know who he was under the helmet. It was dark, he could go blend in the with the rest of the Vode back at base. But…she’d report the incident. Surely, a Clone blasting a Jedi was grounds for decommissioning, and there were only so many new ID numbers of KIA Guard to spare. Fox couldn’t afford to hide him like that, not when they needed every digit to survive the Senators’ daily complaints. Shinnies especially were endangered, with one offhanded bitching session being enough to have them shipped back to Kamino and never heard from again.
No, he wouldn’t take a spot which could save a brother’s life. He wasn’t a coward. Thorn felt the near-crippling cold corrode his spine, but straightened himself anyway, pointing his blaster to the ground as a sign of peace. “General. I’m terribly sorry, ma’am! Misfire,” he says curtly, hoping she can’t hear his teeth gritting against one another. It’s banthashit and they both know that, given the curious stare he can feel emanating from beneath her hood.
The robed Jedi steps closer, holding her arms in clear view and making a point to show the lightsaber clipped on her belt, as if to assure him that things were fine. “I can’t recall being part of the army,” she muses under her breath, with amusement he almost wasn’t meant to hear. “Sorry for scaring you. I’m just a little lost. I’m guessing you’re in the same ship?” she asks, voice sounding an octave warmer and abating some of the fear lashing at Thorn’s mind. Maybe this Jedi would be like Koon or Skywalker, and show him mercy? Pretend he hadn’t tried to kill her?
“No ma’am. Just on patrol.” The answer is sharper than he meant, but she doesn’t seem to be offended in the slightest. Only, the Jedi tilts her head at him again, as if trying to get a better angle to look into his visor. Reasoning she mustn’t know him, Thorn places his blaster back on the belt and gives a respectful nod. “Commander Thorn, General. Coruscant Guard,” he tells her regardless of how redundant it feels. Not like a CT number would help her recognize him, and if decommissioning is on the table, he isn’t about to shy away from consequences.
In response, the Jedi lowers her hood, finally looking him in the eye. She looks human at first glance, or at least close enough to it that Fox’s forms wouldn’t mind classifying her as such. The Jedi has an ashy tint on her skin, but doesn’t look malnourished or in any way unhealthy like the people he’s used to interacting with. She’s got fiery copper hair like General Kenobi—reaching just low enough to fall off her shoulders—and beneath the heavy black robe, he can see some kind of armor. At least one of them knows how to protect herself, unlike the majority of Jedi out there. It’s become something of a joke, yet every vod he’s ever met always bitches about their Generals fighting without proper protection. But…none of that is what catches his attention. No, Thorn’s gaze is locked on the Jedi’s eyes. They’re a strong, glimmering gold, a kind of hue he’s never seen before, even in reptilian species with similar coloration. And even to him, the particular shade makes something in his brain turn itself off and on again, like an electrical signal fizzling out of existence for just a tenth of a second.
She raises an eyebrow at him, almost amused to see him shiver. “And pray tell, what’s a Commander doing here without a squad?” she asks ever so innocently, voice warm and inviting. It’s to be expected of the Jedi if what he’s heard is true, but Thorn’s instincts still tell him to be wary. Senators like to pose harmless questions too, and if a Shiny gives the wrong answer, they aren’t heard from again.
Steeling himself further, he assumes the pose most typical in front of superior officers, hoping to appease. “I’m…alone, ma’am. Coruscant’s quiet tonight, my men were needed elsewhere.” From the way she meets his gaze, the lie’s clearly fallen through. Still, it isn’t anger or accusation that comes in response. Just…earnest confusion.
“Coruscant? This is Coruscant?” she questions in what he can only describe as utter bewilderment, looking around at the damp, dark steers. “What Level is this, Commander?” the Jedi turns to him suddenly, agitated far beyond the serenity they’re all supposed to maintain. He tells her of course, but it only seems to further whatever rage is boiling inside her veins. Oh, she doesn’t show a bit, simply looking around in a way which would make a rookie think she’s taking in the ugly, corroded sights. Thorn however, knows body language. And no matter how good someone is at it, powerful emotions always make those masks slip, if only for a moment.
“Ma’am, would you like me to take you to the Temple?” he proposes, snapping her out of whatever mystical thoughts were going on inside her wizard head. Frankly, if not for the woman’s piercing gaze, he’d have thought her a Shiny too, or at least the Jedi equivalent. Whatever’s going on here, he’s got his men to look out for. If a sheltered space wizard decided to visit home mid-war, that was the Council’s problem. Assuming she wasn’t going to decommission him, that is… “I’m sure a Jedi has better things to do than walk around the muck,” he insists lightly, hoping she’ll take the hint and play along.
The copper-haired woman laughs, stepping closer with an almost dramatic flutter of her black robes. “I’m sure a Jedi does,” she answers him sweetly, before pausing to give him a bow. A Jedi, bowing to a Clone. Thorn isn’t entirely sure how normal that is, but it unnerves him to see. “Oh, I never introduced myself!” she exclaims suddenly, reaching out to shake his hand as the Commander merely stands, slightly at a loss. “I’m Arwyn, it’s good to meet you…Thorn.” And now she’s smiling brightly, in a way that suddenly reminds him of Senator Amidala. Never showing teeth, only genuine warmth.
“Right…this way, ma’am.” The Commander can feel the awkwardness in the air; it’s almost as palpable as the chill that still ravages his bones. Thorn gives another involuntary shiver, and it vanishes in a blink, as if never there to begin with. Great…the lack of rest cycles must be getting to him again. They fall into step beside one another, with Arwyn never surpassing him no matter how much he tries to follow protocol. One step to the back and one to the left, yet she copies his exact pace without fail, until he finally gives up. She seems friendly enough; maybe it's a quirk the good ones have that he’s simply not heard about. Still, without the chill to distract him, Thorn becomes acutely aware of the silence they’ve both fallen into. Normally it wouldn’t bother him, but something almost compels him to speak to this Jedi. “So…ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking…how does a Jedi end up wandering the Underworld?” he says as matter-of-factly as possible, as if expecting a simple status report.
General Arwyn tilts her head to look him in the eye, seemingly considering how to answer. Oh, lovely. If she’s one of those mystic types like General Yoda, he’s just dug himself into an entirely different type of grave. “I was…on duty, let’s say. Tried something stupid and risky, now I’m apparently halfway across the Galaxy,” she tells him, and Thorn doesn’t mind the secrecy. It’s a simply fact nowadays, that some things simply shouldn’t be shared with just anyone. “I was on Andelm conducting research for the Council, when my experiment went slightly awry,” the Jedi elaborates after a beat, an unidentifiable glimmer shining in her eye.
Thron hasn’t the first idea where exactly Andelm is, but being forced to memorize the Galactic Map has its benefits, and he wracks his head about any intel flash training might’ve left in him. Despite the Commander’s best effort, all he can recall is that it’s utterly insignificant and potentially ruled by a crime family of some sort. Why the Jedi Council would send someone so far out for experimenting, he doesn’t know, and is quite comfortably with chalking up to Force osik before moving along. There isn’t anything he can say as a response except bring her to the people who can presumably help, so they continue their trek through the mucky streets. Curiously enough, not a single glob of slime has slipped into his boots from the moment he began to walk with her. Having Jedi around all the time must be a dream, if they’re nice like her and Kenobi.
Suddenly, their quietude is interrupted by annoyed grumbling coming from an alley, and a clearly-intoxicated man stumbling out of the dark a moment later. He holds a broken glass bottle in his hand, looking utterly filthy and halfway through drinking himself to liver failure. “Y-you kriffing meat droids—” his voice slurs, forcing Thorn to suppress a loud sigh. It’s going to be one of those arrests again… “Took ma job…my wife…” the man coughs under his breath, and the Commander takes a better look at him, cautiously setting his pistol to stun. Just in case.
The drunkard wore a wrinkled CSF uniform, with its badge tattered almost beyond recognition. The General seemed to notice it as well, putting herself between him and Thorn. “With all due respect, we were having a conversation here. You’re being rude,” she chides him in a stern tone, raising a finger and pointing towards him as she moves it up and down. The Commander isn’t entirely sure if it’s for emphasis or some kind of Jedi secret, but she certainly doesn’t seem to be helping the civ calm down.
“Kriffing Jedi! I had a job before these meat droids came along! N-now look at it! Subhuman thing…thinks it deserves my credits!” the former officer bellows out, earning himself an annoyed scoff from the General. He can’t help but agree with the sentiment. It’s not like they’re getting paid. She seems utterly unimpressed, yet stands aside nonetheless, looking towards the Commander expectedly.
Thorn looks back, wondering what he is supposed to be doing in this situation. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, and protocol dictates to avoid engagement and walk away. When the guy inevitably comes back with friends, make sure to rescue the Shinnies from an ambush and fine them for property damage. He couldn’t just arrest them when no crime had been committed, and the Guard weren’t civvies. Senate wouldn’t care if a few of them got beat black and blue, so long as Coruscant’s orderly nature was being enforced. The Commander was about to tell her as such when the once-officer let the bottle slip from his grasp, shattering against the metal pavements and cutting him at the thigh.
General Arwyn must’ve used the Force, since the rest of the glass shards floated in the air, neatly piling themselves up in a dusty corner where nobody would accidentally step. Apparently, the man seemed to take offence, as he snarled angrily before shoving a hand inside his coat. Thorn’s finger was already on the trigger before the former officer could draw his pistol, but neither had the chance to fire. Suddenly, a burst of blue flames devoured the man, roasting the coattails of his uniform and making him scream in agony as he started to stumble over himself in an attempt to put it out…and directly into the abyss below, courtesy of another missing handrail.
“You know, I don’t think that’s up to code,” she smirks at him with a sly wink, gesturing at the aforementioned safety violation. “Oh well, problem solved!” the Jedi cheers aloud, just as a few vode come running with their blasters out. They must’ve heard the screams, so Thorn quickly signals them to keep weapons cool. No need to shoot the local space witch again, even if she never seemed to take offence. He never knew the Jedi could throw fire around, but if she wasn’t going to decommission them, he wasn’t going to ask.
After barking out an all-clear and ordering his men to form up around the General, Thorn continues leading the way to the closest pickup point, and finds a gunship already waiting along with another two brothers. None of them say anything, only sparing General Arwyn a passing glance as he lets her take the lead. They all load up, share an unspoken moment of understanding, and promptly decide to ignore the homicide. She’s a Jedi, after all. Who are they to harass a superior officer, especially when she came to Thorn’s defense?
“So…ma’am? Haven’t seen you around before. Which legion are you with?” a Shiny named Drip breaks their comfortable silence. From what Thron remembers, he’s a transfer from Krell’s command, and the kid couldn’t be happier to be part of the Guard. Optimistic to a fault, he and Stone have been trying to keep him out of trouble, lest he end up making small talk with the Chancellor again!
The Jedi shakes her head, giving an amused smile. “Not part of the army, like I told Thorn. We just bumped into each other is all,” she says in a voice all too-chipper for someone who’s just killed a man, but none of them can really blame her. Maybe it’s different for vode on the front, but on Coruscant, passing by dead bodies is slowly becoming the norm. As long as it’s not visible on the surface, the Senate lets it slide. And just when Drip perks up again—probably to keep asking questions—she decides to give them all a collective headache. “Oh, and you can just call me Arwyn. I don’t do well with titles,” she says, shaking the Shiny’s hand in greeting. A General being casual with them is bad enough, but Thorn gets the sudden urge to fling himself off the gunship at her next words. “Though…I am curious. Why do you all sound the same?”
Why, indeed! Her tone almost makes it seem like the Jedi honestly doesn’t know, but that thought is entirely absurd. He’d be willing to believe almost anything else! “…Ma’am, all due respect, but have you been living under a rock?” Drip asks before someone can stop him, and every vod on board goes entirely still. Thorn half expects her to burn him alive for the disrespecting tone, but nothing comes. For a moment, everyone holds their breath, watching as the General’s startled look slowly morphs into another confused stare.
“No, of course not. I’m merely curious. Besides, I’ve never seen Stormies with armor like yours. Is it new?” the Jedi asks, clearly bewildered once again, and her state of being slowly extends to everyone else aboard the gunship. “Are you…not Stormtroopers?” she raises an eyebrow, her right hand slightly swaying towards the lightsaber clipped to her belt.
As Commander, it’s his job to take the fall—and the hit—for misunderstandings like this, and Thorn is beginning to think it must be fundamental this time. “General, we’re clones. Serving the Republic. The Clone Wars, ma’am?” he questions in a sharp tone. Everyone and their murdered family knows about the War! Especially because of the aforementioned death and destruction the Separatists are spreading through the Galaxy! Yet with every word, the Jedi—if she even was one—only seems more and more perplexed.
She takes a deep breath, looking at all of them solemnly, as if readying herself to deliver devastating news. Unless the clankers somehow managed to wipe out every brother across the front in the few hours they’ve been on patrol, none of them can imagine why she looks so forlorn on their behalf. Still, Arwyn—for she’d allowed them to call her by name, a privilege given only by vode—seemingly forced her nerves to steel, golden eyes glimmering with a sensation none of them could quite place. “Commander Thorn…the Galactic Republic hasn’t existed in four thousand years.”
Jedi Master Cin Drallig had felt the disturbance in the Force, as had everyone in the Temple. With the Council spread thin across the stars, Master Yoda had advised caution, recalling Skywalker and Kenobi from the front to investigate. Honestly, despite annoyance being unbecoming of a Jedi, sometimes it felt as if the Council forgot that people aside from them existed. He and Knight Vos could’ve already taken a trip to the Undercity and back, or contacted the Coruscant Guard to check for anything unusual, but evidently the wise and venerated Masters of their Order wanted the matter handled by the professionals.
Cin shook his head, pacing across the empty training gallery. Serra had already turned in for the night at his personal instruction, despite the girl’s excitement to spar with Anakin again. His dear Padawan had been rearing to have a go with the Republic’s poster boy, especially since her old sparring rival hasn’t spent almost time of his shore leaves at the Temple. Where Skywalker does and does not go is none of the Battle Master’s business, but Serra needed to get her chronic competitiveness out of her system soon, lest some poor Knight get spin-kicked into the wall again. He’d scolded her for such an underhanded move many times already, only to be countered by its presumed effectiveness during real combat. And how could Cin possibly deny her, when his Padawan’s survival would be at stake if she were ever sent to the front lines?
There was only so long he could delay her Knighting for, and despite Mace’s help, excuses about her training still being incomplete wouldn’t hold up to even the barest of scrutiny. Serra Keto was the only Jedi in this Temple who’d ever managed to throw Anakin Skywalker onto a training mat, and have him stay down without being a Master. Not that their exalted Chosen One had been fighting to the death, but for the Council, it was nearly reason enough to knight her then and there. Thank the Force he’d adamantly refused at the time, for the War broke out not seven months after. And with no end to the fighting in sight, his Padawan was staying home, where he could ensure her safety. Far from battle droids, far from explosions, and far from any Sith.
Force, the mere word had been making him internally shiver ever since Kenobi revealed to them that Dooku had Fallen. Thankfully Coruscant offered a certain measure of security against the ex-Jedi’s many dark acolytes, security which more often than not took the form of the Coruscant Sector Fleet, and the Guard. While Cin wouldn’t exactly call himself friends with any clone, that was more due to his duties never giving him the chance to interact with any, and not having the energy or excuse to seek one out regardless. It was a lesson often reminded to the younglings; clones were people too, not a mere novelty. But with the War’s second year halfway behind them, her Knighting was an unfortunate inevitability. Call him attached, but any Jedi worth their saber could agree there was something entirely different between sending a Senior Padawan or Junior Knight to regular solo missions, and making them Generals against an army of death machines!
That was why he’d spent the last few months drilling Serra with every known military tactic in the books, and was heavily considering sending a comm to Commander Fox in order to borrow a few of his men for her to speak with. For as much as she excelled in lightsaber duels, his finest student had yet to master the art of war. He could not allow her to die from a damned battle droid when she had the skills to face off against General Grievous. Cin forced himself to take a deep breath—calling upon the Force to ease his mind before he walked a ditch into the floor—and felt something strange as he reached out. A presence…not Sith, definitely lacking the oily and sickening sensation of Dooku’s signature, or the seething hatred which still haunted the Naboo’s Royal Hangar, if one believed the rumors to be true.
Far more nebulous and clouded, yet Dark nonetheless. Distraught yet barely detectable by his senses, which he’d attempted to hone against the Sith treat for well over a year. Dooku had once walked among them with even Yoda none the wiser, and nobody could’ve imagined him Fallen until it was too late. Taking time to study the Holocrons of Old Republic Jedi had paid off, for as Cin rushed through the Temple’s hallways, he spied myriads of his fellows seeming oblivious to the threat. He didn’t call upon the Temple Guards yet; this could very well be a distraction, but made his way to the source and quickly found himself in one of the many hangars, watching a gunship land with only mild shaking.
He felt momentary confusion as to the sight; Coruscant Guard rarely came to the Temple unless they needed help, and seemed entirely averse to actually reporting external requests for reinforcements. Cin dismissed the Padawan on duty with a wave of his hand, and the young boy walked away, entirely oblivious to the danger he might be in. The hangar was silent for a moment, with only a quiet murmuring emanating from behind the gunship’s metal doors. “—you seem to believe that! …yes, I’m sure!” a clone’s voice whispered, and said gunship slid itself open, revealing Commander Thorn, a few of his men, and a woman donning long black robes…with piercing golden eyes.
If there were ever a stereotype for Dark Lord of the Sith, it would be all-black garb, yellow irises and a red lightsaber. With two out of three seeming entirely too positive, Cin found himself unwilling to take any chances. If what he’d studied was true, then this Sith could very well have the troopers under some sort of spell. He’d need to approach this carefully, without endangering them or any other Jedi. “General Drallig, sir!” the Commander saluted him, tone sharp as always. “Apologies for the late hour, but there’s been a…misunderstanding,” Thorn sighs under his breath, gesturing to the woman in all-black.
She gives him a respectful bow, but Cin does not lower his guard, instead putting a hand on his saber. “Greetings, Master Jedi. I am Lady Arwyn. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she smiles almost warmly, as if such a notion could possibly be true. “Like Thorn here said, I find myself a tad confused. This is…the Galactic Republic?” she questions, intoning her voice with a covert demand for answers. Cin finds himself feeling compelled to answer, and steels his mind further.
Although, it’d be better to conserve his strength. Frankly, why she’s even asking is more curious than her allegiance in the Force. “It is. And you are a Lady of the Sith?” he counters with a cold tone, holding his saber out for her to see. One of the clones steps up to the copper-haired woman, but another has the good sense to stop him in time.
“I am indeed,” she confirms, looking damn proud to say so while standing in a Jedi Temple. “Darth Ignis, at thine reasonable, respectful, and rational servitude!” the Sith proclaims, grinning wildly at her own joke. Since when have they been any of that? Cin ignites his blade without another question. He’s heard enough, and despite the clones still being unharmed, her mere existence is a blight against the Republic, not to mention the Force! She giggles at the searing blade, leaning forth to examine it further before looking him in the eye. “A spar, here?” she has the gal to taunt him with a sweet tone. “Very well. May I know your name, Master Jedi?”, she asks, igniting her own crimson saber.
The clones all jolt back at that, with one trying to step between him and the Sith. “General Drallig, sir! Wait! With all due respect, she doesn’t appear to be a Separatist! Lady Arwyn claims not to know what a Sep is, sir!” the clone protests vehemently, and he can only assume she must’ve tricked them somehow. Sith have a historic precedence for backstabbing, and a non-Jedi would never understand the true danger posed by their dynastic order. Just as he’s about to warn him away from her, she turns to face the trooper, and time nearly stills.
Cin is certain that the man should be dead. Skewered in yet another betrayal, continuing a series of what must be millions by this point in time. Instead, Darth Ignis—for she wouldn’t have given the clones her true name—simply shakes off her black robe, using the Force to fold it neatly in half before handing it over to the trooper. “Thank you, Drip, but I can handle myself just fine. My very presence sends Jedi running to the hills,” she jokes as he numbly takes it, being pulled away from her by another Guard. Underneath, she wears a full suit of what looks to be armorweave. Almost as light as a robe, yet much more protective against energy weapons than mere cloth or leather. And if the glint catching his eye is metal, she could have further layers still.
Commander Thorn looks torn, fingers already curling around the trigger as Cin motions no to him. If the Sith has—for whichever reason—not slaughtered the clones, he wouldn’t put them in the very literal line of fire. Ignis steps forward—bowing in the way traditional for Jedi duels—and he hides his surprise with a shallow one of his own. “Stay out of this,” he warns the clones again, watching as Thorn and his men retreat a few paces back. Naturally, the Sith decides to be helpful, and blasts the floor with a nimble thread of blue flame, marking a line for them to not cross.
Lady Arwyn steps forward, twirling her saber in a manner designed purely to show off, before jabbing at his side, testing Drallig’s defense. Not giving her the courtesy of combat yet, he steps aside, letting it harmlessly pass through air. She spins herself around—exposing her back in what must be a feint—before swinging from a low diagonal, which he is forced to block. The Sith retracts her blade quickly, not letting him feel even a fraction of her strength, and Cin forces any thoughts of his fellow Jedi away from his mind. As Qui-Gon Jinn used to say, this is the here and now. He cannot afford distractions, especially since Ignis could simply choose to slaughter these men when she’s done playing.
“Your stance is wrong. Knees aren’t bending enough,” she suddenly remarks, so casually that it almost literally trips him up. Drallig doesn’t grace her with any response, but does correct himself. The damn stress is already getting to him, and this Sith seems intend on fooling around. If he can hold her off and protect Thorn’s squad until more Jedi arrive, they can probably capture her. Probably. “Aww, no charging into battle?” she coos, as if speaking to a youngling. “Alright then, guess I’ll do the honors!” Lady Arwyn remarks, before flipping right over his head.
Cin turns just in time to block a strike which would have taken a weight off his shoulders, countering with two swings of his own that she easily deflects. Ignis has enough confidence to even inspect his boots for something more interesting than their duel, yet he applies self-control and doesn’t rush the so-called spar. Drawing this out is the only way to win against an unknown opponent, especially when in friendly territory. He jumps back, only for the Sith to blast him with a Force Push that sends Drallig just inches away from the boundary line she’d made earlier. Commander Thorn helps him stand, and she seems to accept the ‘cheating’ without complaint.
“I’m not sure which tomb you crawled out of, but as a Jedi, tis my duty to send you right back!” Cin bellows, miming the kind of taunting Serra would surely give if she were here. His Padawan is blessedly asleep—he can feel her through their bond—but it helps the Master ground himself in her comforting presence. Although such sensation is accompanied by a small amount of relief, since she’d never let him live these dramatics down. The Sith giggles, before lunging forward in an attack that nearly results in him being skewered within the blink of an eye.
He dashes away on pure instinct, watching as the blade just barely stops before running a clone through. Darth Ignis turns around and makes a show of preparing lightning in her left hand, letting him get a good look at the crackling blue energy between her gloved fingertips. Cin doesn’t let himself freeze, instead remembering Obi Wan’s account of the man’s fight with Count Dooku. Angle the lightsaber, keep the blade steady, don’t overextend oneself. Simple in theory, but watching this monster gleefully prepare such a devastating attack is slightly different, he thinks. Getting ahold of his fear, he copies the movement as best he can manage, only to be met with barely any bolts being thrown in his direction.
Instead, Darth Ignis uses the Force to raise her sphere of electrical doom into the air, causing the hangar lights to flicker and turn off as needles of lightning blast into the ceiling. Left in near-complete darkness, Cin isn’t at all surprised when the crimson lightsaber turns off. Of course, she’s trying to stab him when he’ll least expect it. Any moment now, the ball of dark side energy will dissipate, and he will very likely be one with the Force. Yet, the Sith simply calls it back to her, holding it between both hands…before suddenly blasting his saber with the crackling energy, almost making Drallig lose his grip.
Still, he manages to keep steady and raise it into a block, with only minimal sparks falling onto his robes. The Jedi Master finds himself struggling as she slowly increases the intensity, but before he knows it, the lightning seems to have been expended. Now the entire hangar—sans the clones, who are still bathed in faraway city lights—drowns in shadows, with the Sith’s form nowhere to be seen.
“Still think you can defeat me?” a purr comes from right behind Cin, and he slashes blindly, only for his blade to rush through air. “Aww, how quaint! You’re really taking this seriously!” Ignis laughs, letting the mad cackle echo through the deserted hangar…and Drallig suddenly finds the space lit by blue fire. The Sith stands across from him—only a meter or so away from the clones— and is visibly casting some sort of spell, summoning a massive ring of flames to envelop them both. Once she deems him sufficiently trapped, the Dark Lady ignites her crimson blade again, it’s bleeding hue standing out and devouring all other light. “Time to end this, wouldn’t you agree?” she smiles with the faux warmth of a friend, before lunging at him once more.
Calling upon all his strength, Cin tries. By the Force, he tries. But she is entirely too quick, more aggressive than even Skywalker. Her attacks are relentless yet precise, setting the tip of his blade off-balance with each and every swing. The Jedi successfully ducks under one of her swipes, only to be met with a kick to the gut, and then flung back, nearly into the flames. He pushes her away with the Force, only for the Sith to dig her saber into the ground and hold onto the hilt for support. He desperately tosses the nearest throwable object in their vicinity—a starfighter fuel container—and she simply puts it down safely behind the clones. Cin didn’t even realize it would have exploded had her blade made contact until after she gave him breathing room to think. Still, Cin Drallig does not falter. Fighting a Sith alone while in a Jedi Temple must mean she’s clouding them in the Force, that all the Council will find come morrow is his cooled-down corpse.
Not seeing a way out, the Battle Master charges, attempting to skewer her as she’d nearly done to…Drip, he thinks the man’s name is. Darth Ignis bats his lightsaber aside as if he’s an unruly youngling, and applies a mountainous pressure with the Force, making Cin fall to his knees in front of the Sith. She spares the time to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, for Master Yoda’s sake! Then, the Dark Lady gives him a gentle nudge with her boot, and the Jedi’s exhausted body simply fails him. She points her lightsaber at his neck, and he has half a mind to order Thorn to blast her…if only for the precious few seconds it’ll buy him. Cin barely even glances in the man’s direction, and the shot comes instantaneously, stopping in midair right before it makes contact with the back of her head.
Ignis simply takes a step aside, letting it blast against the wall, and not even sparing the clones a second look. She brandishes her saber once more, and he, Jedi Master that he is, cannot bring himself to stare death in the eye. Not when she is a complete unknown, when she’s inexplicably shown Force Abilities he’s barely ever heard of. If Yoda or Windu were in the room, perhaps they’d stand a chance. She could even be Dooku’s Sith Master, if the woman didn’t look barely above Skywalker’s age. And so, Cin Drallig is forced to admit defeat. He shuts his eyes, content in the fact that Serra still sleeps soundly. Peace is all he’d ever wanted for her, his Pa- his daughter. Then…there’s nothing.
The Jedi waits for the blade to sear into his flesh. For his neck to be sliced open with a mere flick of the wrist. For the Sith to blast him with lightning and laugh at Cin’s agony. But…there is, quite literally, nothing. “…you can get up now, you know. Honestly, and I thought we were the dramatic ones!” a warm voice rings in his ear, and he steels himself enough to open his eyes. The Sith, Darth Ignis, is kneeling next to him, saber very clearly displayed on her belt. The hangar lights nearly bling him, until a flash of blue shuts a few off, letting Cin survey the area as his eyes adjust.
Despite all possible logic, he is still alive. And the Dark Lady of the Sith…is looking at him with concern. “What?” he feels the fall out of his mouth, barely able to process his own confusion. “I’m…not dead?” the Jedi Master asks aloud, earning himself a disgruntled scoff from Ignis.
“Yes, you live. Can you get up now? I’m horribly confused about all this, especially why you wanted to spar. And I swear this is supposed to be a joint Temple, so…if you could point me to the whichever Sith is in charge, I’d appreciate it,” the woman—girl, now that she isn’t trying to tear his organs out—smiles to hide her frustration. It’s an expression he’s seen on countless Jedi faces…and Cin Drallig suddenly finds himself equally bewildered. What in the name of the Force is she talking about?
Before he can ask any questions, Drip rushes forward, exuding excitement into the Force much like an overeager Padawan watching two masters finish an exhibition duel. “T-that was amazing!” he beams at her through the helmet, offering back the Sith’s robe. “Ma’am, is this how all Jedi fight? I’ve never seen anyone do that!” he practically gushes at her, and Ignis has the decency to play along for whatever reason. Sith Lords and decent don’t quite belong in the same sentence, if one were to ask any Jedi worth their Kyber. She floats the robe around herself, quickly putting it back on to hide the armor underneath, and placates Drip with a soft smile.
“Again, I’m not a Jedi. Does the word Sith seriously mean nothing to you?” Lady Arwyn asks with a sigh, entirely too easygoing for one who aligns herself with the Galaxy’s most well-known boogeymen. The woman gets up from her crouch, and Cin remembers that his limbs are all intact, pushing himself off the floor. “Alright. So…apparently the Republic isn’t an Empire, and there’s…a war of some kind?” the Dark Lady asks, turning to face him. Golden eyes meet stalwart blue, but he gives her no answer. Drallig collects his saber, putting distance between them, and glares at Thorn with a warning.
The Commander walks up to her and his trooper, placing a hand on the Sith’s shoulder of all things. “Sorry about the shooting ma’am. Finger slipped,” he excuses himself, receiving a simple shrug in return. One might expect a Sith Lady to wantonly slaughter the man who’d tried to blast her head off, yet Thorn was not only very much alive, but making physical contact unimpeded.
“I’m guessing it’s the force of habit, commander. Now, what were you saying about these Separatists?” Darth Ignis questions, as if their entire duel meant nothing at all. Barely considered water under the bridge, when she’d utterly bested the Jedi Order’s Battle Master. For reasons beyond a mere sense of pride, Cin Drallig had never before felt so insignificant.
Naturally, she continued to ignore him, instead devoting her full attention to Thorn as he explained the premise of the Clone Wars. A political crisis going unsolved, break-away systems challenging the Republic’s authority, what had been discovered on Geonosis and since plastered all over the Holonet as accusation against the CIS, Dooku’s relentless war and invasions of Republic star systems. It was little more than a summary of publicly available information, but his Jedi instincts still protested revealing so much information to a Sith of all people.
“All in all, ma’am, Seps bad, Republic good,” Thorn shrugs, gesturing to the symbol painted on his armor. “You know, aside from the war crimes.” Said comment elects a laugh out of Ignis, and Cin isn’t at all surprised at her cynical sense of humor. The fact that she has one…is slightly more unexpected.
Lady Arwyn stands for a moment, seemingly pondering the newfound knowledge, before turning to look at the Jedi-shaped bantha in the room. “Right…it’s not as if the Empire exists to prevent a kerfuffle like this,” she Sith sighs in honest-to-Force exasperation. “Frankly, it seems too clear-cut, even for an engineered conflict. I suppose we are nothing more than legend, then?” she asks him, putting a hand on her chin and miming a stroking motion that reminds him of Kenobi. The very movement of her hand is identical, and Ignis takes pause at his staring, stopping her musing and instead deciding to simply breathe.
As fine an idea as can come from a Sith, Cin thinks to himself. He’s nowhere near done processing this mess, especially not the part where their local Darth was apparently under the impression that they’d been sparring instead of fighting to the death. Still, he chooses to consult the Force as a Jedi must, no matter how clouded and lightless it may be nowadays. “I’m assuming you’re unfamiliar with our conflict? What is the last major war you’re aware of…Lady Arwyn?” Master Drallig asks, even if addressing a Sith with respect digs out an uncomfortable feeling from the pit of his stomach.
Commander Thorn perks his head up at the question, clearly listening for the answer. “Hmm…ignoring the wars we started, the last major conflict before the Republic’s reformation into our Empire…would be the Stark Hyperspace War, if I remember my history courses right,” she earnestly muses, as if problem-solving alongside a Jedi isn’t strange nor notable for a Sith Lady. Cin forces himself to ignore that slip of intelligence she’d gifted him, instead focusing on the bloody timeline being presented here.
The Star Hyperspace War was an old, now almost forgotten conflict in the Outer Rim. Force, Kenobi had still been a child when it happened. The thought brought immense relief, since there seemed to be a distinct gap of time during which this Empire should have shown up. With no Sith Warships or hordes of Acolytes butchering his fellow Jedi, Cin could say with some measure of confidence that whichever circumstances led to its creation or return simply hadn’t occurred here. “That rules out time travel then,” Drip speaks up, still keeping close to Darth Ignis’ back. “Heck, we thought you might be like…an ancient Sith, not a future one!” he chuckles at her, earning himself a slap upside the helmet from Commander Thorn as Lady Arwyn rolls her eyes at the clone.
Said dark-sider scoffs under her breath, as if insulted by the mere comparison. “Do I look like a genocidal maniac to you?” she poses the question, receiving only stunned silence as an answer. The Jedi Master ignores her dejected look, still trying to puzzle out the circumstances at play. “Ugh, you’re all uncultured,” the Sith lets out an offended huff, striding over to a console at the back of the room. Cin thinks it must be used for storing maintenance-related data, and can’t quite bring himself to stop her from accessing the terminal. “Why in the Force’s name are you still using the Ruusan dating system?” she suddenly bellows in frustration, slamming her hand onto the console hard enough to dent the metal outline.
Drip moves forward and quickly assists her with getting online, prompting Thorn and another clone to join them in huddling around the screen. Drallig hasn’t the faintest idea as to why they’re trusting a Sith, but…she hasn’t hurt them yet. And is allegedly as confused as everyone else. Were she an agent of Dooku’s, such a ploy would be entirely too convoluted for a proper lie. “Here, ma’am. There’s the list,” Thorn’s voice reaches his ear, and the Jedi makes his way over as well. She’s apparently looking at the list of Republic Chancellors, golden eyes glimmering as her gaze falls on Finis Valorum.
“Finally, a name I recognize! Your government’s last Chancellor, and the man who gracefully surrendered Coruscant to the Emperor, putting down his pride for the sake of the greater good!” Lady Arwyn beams at the hologram of Valorum, almost seeming to recall her words purely by memory. He still can’t quite imagine her attentively annotating during history class, no matter what she may claim. However much the Sith’s presence disturbed him, the information was rather invaluable. Truly, Cin felt a weight lift from his shoulders upon realizing that this Sith Empire must truly not exist…which begged the question of where this Darth had come from.
“If you’re quite done, I have questions of my own to ask,” he addressed her directly, earning a glance from Ignis. Commander Thorn wisely leads his men away, and she makes a show of gripping her lightsaber. Something tells the Jedi that she wasn’t going to be sparring if he raised a blade against her this time. Only a dismissive nod grants him permission to ask. “You’re a Sith, obviously. Yet you seem disinterested in killing me or the men who work under Jedi command. Why?” he crosses his arms in an effort to appear unintimidated, even as the Dark Side seeps off her skin and a chill permeates the hangar’s air.
She powers off the terminal with a zap of lightning, before proceeding to casually sit on its flat side. “Because I don’t want to be arrested for murder. Not to mention that whatever ideological crap your head is filled with has long been rendered void within the Empire. Jedi and Sith coexist just fine, rest well assured!” Ignis snaps at him, almost hissing out her final words. He doesn’t fall for such an obvious lie, causing her to narrow her eyes at him. “Ugh! Search your feelings, you know it to be true…” she prattles off with an eye roll, before wandering back towards the clones.
Cin Drallig hasn’t the faintest idea who she might be mimicking, but the advice isn’t self-destructive at first glance. He chooses to search the Force instead…only to find truth ringing back into his ears. That’s— utterly impossible! Over a thousand generations of Jedi Knights have guarded the Galaxy, and ever since the Sith’s first appearance after the Order’s initial schism, they’ve done nothing but defile and wound the very stars! Yet…he’s begrudgingly forced to admit that she hasn’t killed him. And the clones seem to be themselves, if confused and doing their best to follow along with what has been creatively dubbed Force osik by the men.
Speaking of, it seems she’s once again engaged the Commander in conversation, now leaning against the gunship’s metal doors as clones gather ‘round her. Cin hastes to run up to them, a familiar protective urge flourishing in his gut. It’s his duty as a Jedi to protect them from what the troopers don’t seem to understand, even if their apparent Darth is momentarily docile. “So…what exactly is a Sith, ma’am? You don’t look anything like Dooku or Ventress.” Drip is the one speaking; his force signature is starting to become distinct among the crowd.
“We forge our path through the acquisition of power. The Force can be many things. An ally, a friend, but also a tool. Inasmuch as one uses a hammer to build their home, Sith utilize the Force’s energy to construct our own destinies. So long as we don’t harm it in the process, anything is possible through the Dark Side.” Arwyn answers him calmly, almost as if she’s lecturing students. Cin wouldn’t call the thought sickening by necessity, but given what Sith historically do with their apprentices…he is under no delusions of peace between their Orders. It’s impossible for the Sith to have undergone major philosophical reforms. Surely, they would have accomplished at least a step in the right direction if he was wrong, yet Jedi records indicate only the opposite.
“Yet your predecessors are responsible for some of the greatest crimes against sentient beings the Galaxy has ever witnessed,” he cuts her off promptly, “I may be unable to destroy you, but I won’t allow a Sith to spread lies amongst our men.” The declaration makes the troopers exude hesitance, but Darth Ignis doesn’t deny his statement.
“I’m not here for a philosophy class, Master Jedi. Darth Naasade and his Master have succeeded where the Old Lords failed. Petty squabbling is beneath the nature of civilized beings, much less that of Sith,” she has the gal to scold him, yet Cin can’t exactly rebuke nor dismiss the statement. Wherever she came from, none of their Jedi has been, and so they cannot verify the truth to her words.
Nonetheless, he’s not about to let what amounts to blasphemy stand uncontested. “Frankly, I find your circumstances incredibly suspicious. Why not tell us all how you appeared here, if even time travel isn’t the answer?” the Jedi Master demands, preparing himself to shoot down any absurdity that will surely follow. To their credit, the troopers also seem to give pause and consider the matter more carefully, with only Drip and Thorn exuding any sense of genuine trust towards the Sith.
Ignis deflates at his question, forcing herself to take a deep breath. She recalls the Dark Side to her person, closing her eyes to enter a state Cin may have called meditative if he were looking at a Jedi instead. The chill which had begun to subtly permeate the room vanishes, replaced instead by a clumsy offering of genuine-seeming warmth. “Elementary, my Jedi friend! Simple dimension travel…applied entirely on accident!” she exclaims almost jokingly, yet the Force still whispers truth to his ear. “Don’t worry, we have recovery teams on standby in case experiments go awry. They’ll fish me out eventually, I’m certain,” she sends him a smile which borders on assuring of all things, yet only serves to send Cin into a near-breakdown.
Dimension travel? Even more ludicrously, the Force itself supported her claim! Though it made some sense, seeing as she clearly offered up the Stark Hyperspace War as a conflict before their Sith Empire’s rise, and looked entirely unfamiliar with even the most basic facts regarding clone troopers. Cin was still unwilling to believe it, much less that there existed a non-hostile Sith who wasn’t planning on backstabbing the Order if they could get away with doing so.
“Recovery teams, ma’am?” Thorn perked up, almost sounding intrigued at the idea. With a gentle nudge to the man’s thoughts, he could see they strayed to whichever weapons technology Sith Troopers must possess, which clearly allowed for something as insane as a contingency for Force-damned dimension travel. What next; security units meant to contain Sithspawn?
Lady Arwyn nodded along, clearly willing to indulge him. “Obviously. One doesn’t experiment with the fabric of reality without having dedicated specialists to handle the inevitable fallout.” Oh, how lovely! The Empire was apparently quite well-prepared for this exact circumstance! It’d be wise to punt Master Yoda out the nearest window now, wouldn’t it? “But don’t worry Thorn, I’m sure you can land one good punch before going KIA,” she assures the commander with a warm smile, and Cin finds himself far more disturbed at the fact that it’s genuine than he would at any attempt to mentally unbalance the troopers.
“Forgive the interruption, Lady Arwyn, but we are at wartime. Surely you don’t intend to treat this as a vacation?” Drallig questions her sternly, narrowing his eyes at the Sith. Friendly or no, he had no intention of letting her within the same star system as his Padawan, especially given Serra’s tendency to challenge any and all able-bodied Jedi to a duel with her. If she caught wind of a real Sith running amok without slaughtering people, Serra wouldn’t hesitate to drag Darth Ignis to the exhibition hall for a sparring match. And Force help him if he ever tries to deny his Padawan anything but her Knighting Ceremony…
The Lady of the Sith rolls her eyes at him, appearing entirely unconcerned. “Believe it or not, we sometimes do as the Force wills. And I sense my purpose here is not yet complete. Besides, it’ll be fun to see if I can find a Jedi who isn’t a total pushover!” she laughs earnestly, and Cin decides then and there that he has failed as an adherent to the Light. Why else would he be punished by the existence of a foe whose skill he could never surpass? Why else would this Sith be acting friendly with her Order’s most ancient enemies? Why else would he be cursed with the one dark-sider in this Galaxy who knew how to give Jedi-esque non-answers to even the most pointed questions?
“Uh…not to interrupt your contemplations, General, but Commander Fox has recalled me and my squad back to base.” Ahh, Thorn, always the one with good timing it seems. He would do well to remember that if any politician ever tried to have a conversation longer than the blink of an eye. Said clone commander took another look at his comm, which buzzed with a new message moments after. “Well boys, we’ve got ‘morrow’s Senate Duty list!” he suddenly exclaimed enthusiastically, electing about as many cheers from his men as a medic does from corpses on the field. Despite the raised eyebrow from their local Darth—and Cin finds himself horrified at how relieving it is to accept that someone isn’t trying to kill Jedi for a change—Thorn focuses on scanning the names, before suddenly snapping his head up to Drip’s visor. “Private, new orders for you! You’re being stationed at the Jedi Temple, to…uh, to watch Lady Arwyn! Don’t let her out of your sight!” he hastily barks out, before rushing the rest of his men to the gunship and taking off without even hearing said trooper’s acceptance of assignment.
Ignis’ golden eyes follow the transport as it flies through the dark Coruscant sky, turning her head ever so slightly even as it moves outside her field of vision. Then, she pats Drip’s shoulder reassuringly, and Cin is again met with an empathetic Sith. Despite the Force calming his nerves, something tells him she’ll do her best to give him grey hairs until this alleged recovery team arrives to take her back to whichever Hell they all crawled out of.
And just as he finally allows himself to take a breath, a lone figure walks in through the hangar door. Master Windu pauses at the sight, of a Sith Lady, a Jedi Master and a Clone Trooper standing around in the hangar bay. Drallig can begrudgingly admit it sounds like the start of a horrible joke, and the Korun Jedi wearing a nightrobe and holding a steaming mug of tea clearly isn’t helping things. Ignis—revealing her evil plot to drive him completely insane—offers him a friendly wave, swirling black robes and all. Drip simply stands at her side, taking his orders to their most literal extreme…and also waves hello to their new arrival. Cin simply gives his deepest sigh, and thinks that Mace is going to need a bigger mug…