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Chapter Text

If Revan still had lungs, she would have sighed with relief as the last grasp of the Emperor slipped away from her, and she—whole again—slowly surrendered to the Force, welcomed by her old friends: Meetra, Bastila, Juhani, old Jolee, and hopefully, Carth. The relief seemed shared by all present, but most especially by Satele Shan and the Outlander, both more than ready to have their minds to themselves again.

Revan wished them luck with the future that awaited them. With the Jedi, the Sith, and the galaxy itself in shambles, she knew they had their work cut out for them. But she was just as certain that, after everything they'd endured, that small group of rebels was more than prepared for anything the galaxy could throw at them. And truthfully, Revan was glad it wouldn't be her job to rebuild it this time. She didn't have the temperament for it. She’d already managed to kriff that up once—and had no desire to repeat the mistake.

Sure, she knew how to inspire, to lead, to rule—hells, she had once led the Sith Empire across the galaxy—but Revan had always done things her way. She loathed the endless, petty debates of senators and politicians, and she raged against the hypocrisy of the Jedi—whose rules were so often fluid, changing with the internal politics of the Order or the whims of whichever Jedi currently held the Grandmaster’s favor.

Why was she thinking about this again? Revan wondered blearily as she sank into oblivion. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel important anymore. She didn’t chase the thought. Instead, she welcomed the warm, quiet, painless presence overtaking her mind—until nothing was left.

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“What a sweet child... are they a boy or a girl?” asked a woman in a soft, gentle voice, peering into the crib next to the one that held her son.

“Girl, unfortunately. Like she didn’t already have enough bad luck,” grunted the Twi’lek woman slouched in a chair in the corner of the small room that served as the maternity ward for the poor and enslaved on Tatooine.

“Oh?” questioned the human woman, cradling her newborn son to her chest.

The Twi’lek, who had nothing better to do than sit in this hot, cramped room and watch infants—unable to leave until her replacement arrived—was more than happy for a little gossip. Besides, Shmi was well liked among the other slaves of Gardulla the Hutt.

“Her mother was a free woman,” the Twi’lek explained, “scraped together enough credits to get off this dustball. But the transport wouldn’t take a pregnant woman, and she would’ve had to pay extra for a baby. So she gave birth here, then caught the first ship out once the little one could walk. Didn’t even name the kid—left that to me.”

“What will happen to her?” asked Shmi, glancing down at the small infant with a tuft of black hair and green eyes.

“Well, she was born free... but slavers love to stop by and snatch up unclaimed or unattended kids from nurseries. I don’t let those types in when I’m here, but I’m not here all the time.” The Twi’lek shrugged, too used to life on Tatooine to rail against it.

“Is there anything that can be done for her?” Shmi asked, gently placing her finger next to the infant’s hand.

“Well, technically, she’s up for fostering. But good luck finding anyone who isn’t a slaver willing to take on a kid and actually care for her,” the Twi’lek muttered, her lekku twitching slightly as she narrowed her eyes at Shmi.

“Does it have to be a free person to foster?” Shmi asked, as the baby curled her tiny fingers around hers and stared up at her.

“No, no, no—Shmi, don’t even think about it! You already have one kid without a father—you can’t take on another!” exclaimed the Twi’lek, jumping to her feet and rushing over to separate Shmi from the baby.

“I didn’t hear you say it wasn’t allowed,” Shmi teased, gently bouncing her baby boy in her arms.

“It is allowed—but only because no one’s been stupid enough to try it, so nobody’s bothered banning it,” snapped the Twi’lek.

“Well, you just met someone stupid enough,” Shmi smirked, returning to the baby’s cradle. “What did you name her?”

“Noma. Noma Kon,” the Twi’lek muttered, throwing up her arms in despair, knowing it was pointless to argue.

“Noma Kon,” Shmi echoed softly, brushing a finger over the infant’s cheek. “I’m Shmi Skywalker, and this is my son, Anakin.”

Chapter Text

20 Years Later

“Good morning, Commander.”

“Morning, Commander.”

“Good day, sir!”

“Kriff, Fox, do you ever sleep a day in your life?”

Marshal Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard strode past the night shift clones, nodding absently before stopping in front of the last speaker.

“Commander Stone,” Fox said, voice flat, “I hear you had some trouble while I was away.”

He ignored the jab about his sleeplessness. He’d already been forced into bed last night by Thorn and Thire—literally. Thorn had climbed into his berth and locked him in a bear hug until Fox physically couldn’t get up to work. The tactic had succeeded in stopping him, but it left behind a deeper discomfort. Coruscant had made Fox wary of touch, and while he cared deeply for his brothers, Thorn wasn’t a batchmate. The closeness only reminded Fox how long it had been since he’d heard from his own.

But sleep had been short-lived. A comms officer had barged into his quarters, panicking about an incoming transport of captured Separatist prisoners—and a detention block already bursting at the seams.

Fox had called Stone on his way in, ordering him to clear out the drunk tank and the cells holding low-level offenders: vandals, pickpockets, petty brawlers. Stone had replied sheepishly—some detainees could be released without issue, but others required the Marshal Commander’s direct sign-off and a parole tracker.

Now, bleary-eyed and dead on his feet, Fox was trudging through release forms, scanning petty crime logs, and running brief interviews to confirm offenders had somewhere to stay, understood their parole zones, and had legal work waiting for them.

“Don’t you know it,” Stone groaned, falling into step beside him. “Right after Thorn and Thire tucked you in like a baby, we got a full-on bar brawl at 79’s. Spilled into the street. Had to drag a bunch of angry brothers in—some still sobering up.”

Fox sighed. “Any still here?”

“A couple. Most of the brothers we tossed already kriffed off. But there’s one... special case you’re gonna want to see for yourself.”

Fox arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

Stone handed him the datapad.

Subject: Noma Kon
Charges: Disturbing the Peace, Assault (Minor Injuries), Interference with Lawful Investigation of Smuggling and Piracy
Location of Incident: 79’s Cantina, Level 1217
Additional Note: Under observation by Coruscant Guard per request of Senator Lott Dod.
Suspected of smuggling activity linked to Hondo Ohnaka.

Fox frowned. “She’s flagged by Lott Dod? What did she do to piss off that sleazebag?”

“No idea, Fox,” Stone replied with a shrug as they walked, “but if I had to guess, she and Hondo did something to piss off the Trade Federation—and this is Lott’s way of getting even without losing face in the Senate. Underhanded moves, same old story.”

“Why was she at 79’s?” Fox asked. “Is she one of those anti-clone agitators?”

“Nope,” Stone popped the ‘p’ with exaggerated flair. “She just didn’t have many options. Remember a week ago when Thire was griping about some senator demanding we assign brothers to full-time surveillance on a suspect?”

“That was her?”

“Yep,” Stone popped the ‘p’ again. “Last night she was stuck with Lockstep and Dogma shadowing her everywhere. Apparently, she bumped into some nat-born officer, got upset, and tried to get a drink. But the only place that’d let her in—with clone company—was 79’s.”

“And she got caught up in the brawl?” Fox guessed, raising a brow.

“Caught up?!” Stone threw his head back and laughed. “She started it.”

“Really,” Fox drawled, curiosity piqued.

“According to Dogma and Lockstep, she was downing drinks fast enough to worry them about her liver. Then some bigoted shebs walked in, started trying to pick fights with the brothers. Kon either took it personally or was already looking for a fight. She laid out the ringleader with a shot glass and went full fisticuffs with the rest. The rest is in the report.”
Fox exhaled sharply. “Let’s go meet her.”

They passed through the durasteel security doors and descended into the lower cells. The lighting dimmed slightly, humming panels flickering overhead. The drunk tank was mostly empty now, cleared per Fox’s earlier orders—except one cell remained sealed.

Inside sat a woman—upright, alert, arms crossed over a civilian spacer’s jacket with smug indifference. Her dark hair was neatly pulled back save for one jagged piece that fell on her front head and right cheek, her face untouched by so much as a bruise or smudge. Not even a smudge of dried blood. For someone arrested in the middle of a bar fight, she looked like she’d walked out of a holo ad, the only sign that anything had happened to her was the jagged piece of hair and the prison walls around her.
That, more than anything, made Fox pause.

“Noma Kon?” he asked evenly, stepping up to the force field.

She looked up with an arched brow, as if she'd been expecting someone taller. “Let me guess. Marshal Commander. You’re here to lecture me about public property and poor life choices.”

Fox frowned. “I’m here because you caused a bar riot. Although I must say you are looking very good for someone who was at the heart of brawl.”

Her lips twisted into something between a smile and a smirk. “I have good reflexes. And friends.”

“Friends don’t start brawls in clone bars under surveillance.”

“I didn’t start it.”

“You shattered a glass across someone’s face.”

“Fine,” she allowed. “I didn’t technically start it. I just escalated it efficiently.”

Stone leaned against the wall behind him, clearly trying not to grin.

Fox exhaled through his nose. “I’ve got nowhere to put you. The cells are full. We’ve been rotating comms cadets just to keep up with calls, and the paperwork backlog is starting to choke us out.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” she said blandly.

Fox ignored that. “Here’s the situation: You’re flagged by Senator Lott Dod under a continuing observation clause. That means I can’t release you freely. But I can assign conditional supervised service. You’ll be watched, your comms are recorded, and if you try to bolt, you’ll be back in this cell until the Trade Federation finds a use for you—or throws you off a landing platform.”

Kon looked him over, studying him like she was measuring weight rather than rank. “Let me get this straight. You want to turn me into a receptionist.”

“I want to keep my comm center from collapsing under its own weight. Civilians respond better to a familiar face and a non-clone voice. You qualify. Barely.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. “And what exactly is the alternative?”

Fox didn’t blink. “You rot in here. Lott Dod eventually pulls rank and either ships you to a remote detention colony or vanishes you into the bureaucracy.”

She held his gaze a second longer, then stood up, straightening her jacket with deliberate slowness. “Then I guess I’m your new temp. I want a real chair. One that swivels.”

Stone made a noise that was definitely a laugh.

Fox didn’t smile. “No armor. No weapons. You’ll wear a civilian ID badge. Violate the terms, and I’ll personally drag you back here.”

“Understood, Marshal,” she said, with mock crispness.

Chapter Text

A Couple Months Later – Coruscant Guard HQ

Noma Kon leaned back in the barely-swiveling chair at the front desk of Coruscant Guard HQ, boots planted carelessly on the edge of the terminal, a scuffed datapad balanced on her lap. A shiny trotted by with a crate of supplies too light to bother using two hands—medbay delivery, probably. Poor kid.

She watched him disappear into the corridor, already imagining the look on Hacksaw’s face when he opened that crate and found the sorry scrap of field equipment inside. Synthskin rolls and knockoff bacta, if they were lucky. A disappointment, sure—but not the shiny’s fault. Still, Hacksaw’s disappointment had a kind of righteous weight to it that could crush a man without raising his voice.

The switchboard light blinked red. Someone had requested a sentient—as if the comm officers weren’t sentient themselves. She hit the receiver button with the toe of her boot.

“Coruscant Guard HQ, communications desk. State your emergency—or don’t. I’m not paid enough to judge.”

On the other end, a jittery delivery pilot stammered, “I, uh… is this the right frequency for reporting lost cargo?”

“You tell me,” she drawled. “Do you normally call the Guard when your lunch is late?”

There was a pause—then a nervous chuckle. “It’s not food. It’s, uh… it fell off a speeder. It was intercepted, I think. Lower levels.”

Her fingers moved over the desk console, logging the call. “Coordinates. Manifest. And if I hear the word spice, I’m ending this transmission and blocking your comm code.”

As she took the report, Stone wandered past her desk, caf in hand. He threw her a sideways smirk as he passed into Fox’s office.

“She’s fitting in disturbingly well,” Stone laughed as he disappeared through the door.

A moment of stillness passed—then a shadow. Dogma stood in front of her desk, helmet under one arm, holding out a packet wrapped in recycled foil.

“You have a delivery,” he said.

Noma raised an eyebrow. “If it’s another lost cargo report, I’m punching something.”

“Pastry,” Dogma replied flatly. “From the Senate security room. Leftovers.”

Her brow rose further. “You’re feeding me now? What, are we bonding?”

“No one else wanted to fight Thorn for it,” he said, already turning.

She snorted. “Tell him I’d have taken him in three bites.”

Dogma didn’t respond, but she thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch as he walked away.

Noma peeled back the foil and took a bite. Real fruit. Tart. Sweet. Expensive.

It tasted like guilt.

Not hers—well, not only hers. It was the guilt that hung in the air of the entire building. The Senate’s indifference, buried in half-eaten treats and one-paragraph requisition denials. Fox’s tightening jaw. The shinies’ haunted eyes. The dead silence whenever someone asked for reinforcement rotations and got a shrug instead.

Noma saw it all. She felt it all. Even when she didn’t want to.

She hadn’t wanted to know. Not again. Not in this lifetime.

She was done with war. She had done her part—she had defeated Malak, helped destroy the Sith Emperor, saved the Jedi, and forged an alliance between Jedi and Sith alongside the Outlander. She had found peace. She had joined her friends and Carth in the Force.

And then she was reborn. Four thousand years in the future. Done with the Force’s games.

She had buried her past life—both Jedi and Sith—hoping to live quietly, far from the never-ending churn of empires and crusades. She had tried to live the life the Jedi once told her was hers. Revan had become the smuggler—the identity they had made her believe was real. She had swashbuckled across the galaxy, sometimes like Hondo, sometimes alone aboard the Ebon Hawk II, a similar model to the first one.

She had recovered a copy of HK’s memory and personality files, but droid technology had changed enough that she couldn’t integrate it into a new body—and Revan had yet to find a mechanic skilled enough to make it work.

So she drifted. Doing her best to avoid the Jedi. The Republic. And especially her old friends and Carth.

But of course, the Force couldn’t just let her be.

Then came the war. And Revan—Noma—did her best to stay out of it. Another Jedi-Sith conflict? She wanted no part of it.

Then she got arrested.

At first, she thought she’d just wait it out. Let the pressure from Dod die down, then slip away unnoticed.

But then… she got attached. Again.

These clones—these brothers—were good men. She could feel their hearts when they brushed past her desk, each beat echoing the same fatal rhythm: expendable. Replaceable. Forgotten.

She knew that rhythm. The Republic had played it before.

As Darth Revan, she had played it before.

It had turned Jedi into generals, friends into enemies. And now, the same play ran again: new cast, same script. The Republic still lied through its polished teeth. The Sith still clawed for power while carving out their own knees.

She watched Thorn drill the new recruits like they were droids. Watched Fox read his deployment schedule like it was a death sentence. Watched shinies line up for rations that wouldn’t last the week.

And she began to feel something she’d hoped she’d left behind.

Purpose.

It frightened her. Because she knew where it led.

But maybe—just maybe—it was time again.

Time to stop sitting behind the desk.
Time to stop waiting for the Force to leave her alone.
Time to remember who she’d been—not the monster. Not the myth.
But the soldier who once tried to stop a galaxy from eating itself alive.

“Message from the Southern District precinct,” a voice called from the hallway, breaking her reverie. “Some gang tried to hijack a Republic transport. Driver says they were targeting clones.”

Chapter Text

Coruscant Barracks

The room Fox had assigned Noma wasn’t a proper berthroom—just a long-forgotten storage unit, left unused for so long that no one objected when she claimed it. Since she was under surveillance, she couldn’t stay on her impounded ship, nor return to the cramped apartment she’d been using before. This was the compromise.

It was small, windowless, and quiet. A broad ventilation duct ran along the ceiling. Her cot was shoved against the far wall beneath it. A small chest for her clothes sat at the head of the bed, and at the foot lay a neatly rolled-out meditation mat, incense burning low.

But Noma wasn’t sleeping.

She sat cross-legged on the mat, a ceiling tile shifted aside above her. Two lightsaber hilts floated silently between her knees. In front of her sat an open box, revealing a black-and-red mask.

It had taken years to stop hearing the hum of her sabers every time she closed her eyes. Now, it came without warning—low, cold, familiar.

One of the hilts still bore the burn scar from when Malak had struck it from her hand. She’d reforged it herself—out of sheer stubbornness, and spite. Using dark iron scavenged from the wreckage of a Sith warship. She had bled for it. Bled into it.

And now, she wasn’t sure if it still answered to her... or if it only remembered her blood.

In the stillness, she turned it slowly in the air. Then, with a breath, the blade hissed to life.

Red.

Its glow bathed her pale skin, catching in her golden eyes like fire trapped beneath ice—reflected faintly in the visor of the mask before her.

The scent returned first. Burnt flesh, lingering in memory like a ghost.

She had crouched beside the blackened wreckage of the Republic transport, fingertips brushing blistered plating. The blaster fire had chewed straight through the shielding like it wasn’t even there. Not random. Not careless. These had been precision shots—military grade.

This hadn’t been an attack. It had been a message.

She had risen slowly, eyes sweeping the alley. Red Guard armor drew stares in the Southern District, but she hadn’t cared. Let them look. Let them see the Guard had noticed. Let them know someone had.

Hound had stepped beside her, helmet on, rifle slung casually at his side like an afterthought.
“Three clones injured,” he’d said. “One in critical. Driver said the gang called them ‘purebloods.’ They were yelling something about clone abominations.”

Noma had snorted softly. “I wonder if they even know what a real Pureblood is.”

Hound had given her a curious look—but said nothing, far too used to her cryptic remarks.
“Fox wanted you down here,” he added. “Figured the press would make less noise if a non-clone spoke for us.”

Her fists had clenched. “They’re hunting you.”

“They always have been,” he’d replied, quiet. “We were just too busy pretending we weren’t soldiers anymore.”

She had turned away from the wreckage, the word we echoing too loudly in her head.

The door chimed, pulling Noma back to the present.

With a soft snap-hiss, her saber deactivated, and the room fell dark again.

She rose fluidly and opened the door.

Thorn stood outside, helmet tucked under one arm, his expression surprisingly relaxed despite the day’s chaos.
“Some of the boys are heading to 79’s,” he said. “You’re welcome to come—so long as you don’t wreck the place again.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I make no promises.”

He grinned. “Didn’t expect you to.”

“Give me a moment. I’ll meet you on the steps.”

Noma shut the door and flicked on the lights. In one smooth motion, she wrapped her sabers and placed them—along with the mask—back in the box. With a gentle push of the Force, she lifted it into the ceiling, guiding the tile back into place.

She extinguished the incense, grabbed her jacket from the hook near the door, and stepped out to join Thorn.

The night air in the upper levels was cooler than usual—quiet, but never still. They walked together down the long stretch of the barracks corridor and out into the city.

They didn’t make it far.

The sound hit first—loud shouting, the crash of something heavy toppling over, followed by the unmistakable screech of someone laughing far too hard.

Thorn sighed, already pulling his comm off mute. “Tell me that’s not our boys.”

A squad of four clone troopers came staggering out of a side alley, one of them shirtless and wearing a traffic cone like a trophy. Another was loudly arguing with a vendor droid, who had retracted into its armored chassis in apparent terror.

“Commander! Thorn!” one of them slurred, pointing. “Ey—you’re comin’ to 79’s with us, yeah? Drinks on Fives, ‘cause he lost a bet to a speeder.”

“I won that bet,” Fives snapped, unconvincingly, “that pilot cheated!”

Noma blinked slowly. “Are they... bleeding?”

“Only pride,” Thorn muttered. “For now.”

By now, a pair of civilians had gathered nearby, eyeing the clones with a mix of worry and amusement. A few holorecorders were already out. Thorn shared a grin in Noma, before sobering up and turning to the other clones again.

“Right,” he said, stepping forward and raising his voice. “501st! Stand down and form up—now.”

That earned a groan from the group. One of them made a vague attempt to salute and nearly fell over.

“This is going to look fantastic on the morning reports.”

“Better if it doesn’t make the holonet,” Thorn muttered. Then, louder: “You know the drill. Drunk and disorderly in uniform—we’ve got to bring you in.”

With a few more sighs and complaints, the squad fell in. Thorn signaled a patrol detail nearby to help escort them back to the drunk tank—no cuffs, just firm warnings and promises of paperwork. Lots of paperwork.

As they resumed walking, Thorn gave her a grin. “Still feel like going to 79’s?”

She gave a dry chuckle. “After that? More than ever. Who knows, maybe they will have more shot glasses for me to practice with.”

In the midst of war and prejudice, Noma was glad that the clones were still able to find some sparks of enjoyment.

Chapter Text

Of course, a few drinks turned into story time with the Guard. Naturally, that required a couple of social beverages, and then Hound ran into his batchmates—Comet and Stinker—who were on leave. That led to introductions, and each offered Noma a drink, which she returned in kind. But it wasn't good form to bring drinks for others and not drink yourself.

Then Thorn challenged her to a drinking game with Thire. After she soundly beat them both, the rest of the Guard grew curious about just how much alcohol she could hold.

This ultimately led to Noma the next morning, slouched behind the front desk of the Guard HQ, feet up, squeaky chair tilted back as far as it would go. A shiny’s cap was pulled low over her eyes, a toothpick lazily rolling from one corner of her mouth to the other. The stacks of datapads and flimsi sat untouched beside the comm headset she was supposed to be wearing.

“Hey. Hey!” a voice barked from the doorway. “Where is your commander?!”

Noma sighed and rolled the toothpick to the right side of her mouth, lazily waving toward the rickety waiting chairs and their towering stacks of forms.

“If you’ve got a complaint about the Guard in general, fill out form 3-756. If it’s about a specific clone, use form 6-883—but don’t forget his full designation number. Incomplete forms are useless. If you’ve got a complaint about clones in general, feel free to contact the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic with your bigotry. Our comm code is on the wall. If you’d rather not, use the flimsi provided. Black ink only.”

Having recited her well-practiced spell, Noma returned to the task of metabolizing alcohol and rolling her toothpick.

“I don’t have time for forms!” the voice shouted again. A pair of hands slammed down on the desk near Noma’s boots. “I need to know why my men were arrested a day before we’re supposed to ship out—and why they were arrested in the first place!”

“That’s something you’ll need to take up with Commander Stone at the detainment facility,” Noma replied coolly, not even lifting the cap from her eyes as she shifted her toothpick again.

“Look, lady, do you not understand the urgency?” cried a second voice—this time female, young and indignant. “The 501st is the most important battalion in this war! We should be out there kicking seppie shebs, not filling out your flimsi! Who even are you? You’re not a clone. What are you doing in the Guard command center?”

Noma froze.

Even someone doing her best to avoid the war had heard of the 501st. One of the most decorated legions in the entire Grand Army of the Republic. Led by him. The Hero Without Fear. Jedi Knight. The Chosen One. The boy who had once been her foster brother.

“Anakin?!” Noma exclaimed, pushing the cap back onto her head properly and finally sitting up. There were three figures—not two. She was more hungover than she thought, to miss not only the number of people but the brightness of Anakin Skywalker in the Force.

Flanking him was a face she recognized instantly—Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo. And on his other side was a teenage Togruta padawan with blue and white montrals wearing an outfit Noma desperately hoped was not her combat uniform.

“Yes, yes, yes. The Hero Without Fear. Hero of the Republic. Greatest Jedi. Blah blah blah. Now—where are our boys?” the Togruta demanded, trying to glare over the desk, though it came up to her chin.

“Noma?!” Anakin gasped, stunned.

“Noma Kon?” Senator Amidala added, squinting as though trying to reconcile the woman slouched behind the desk with the dusty child she had once seen escorted by Captain Panaka, returning to Tatooine to be with Shmi Skywalker.

“In the flesh,” Noma smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Have I really changed that much?”

“Yes.”

“NO!”

“Who are you?!”

Anakin rested a hand on the Togruta’s shoulder, grinning.

“Noma, meet my padawan—Ahsoka Tano. Snips, meet my sister, Noma Kon.”

“A pleasure, young padawan,” Noma said with a nod.

“Sister?!!” Ahsoka shrieked, her head whipping between Anakin and Noma, mouth agape.

“Technically foster sister,” Anakin explained. “My mom took her in when she was a baby. We grew up together until Master Yoda offered us both a place in the Order. Noma refused. Went back to Tatooine to take care of Mom.”

“That’s the short version,” Noma added, coming around the desk to shake Ahsoka’s hand and give Anakin a quick hug.

“What are you doing on Coruscant at Guard HQ?” Anakin asked. “Mom told me you were off traveling the galaxy.”

“Also a long story,” Noma replied with a wink. “Short version involves smuggling accusations, an impounded ship, a bar fight, and community service.”

“That just gave me more questions,” Anakin muttered, crossing his arms.

“I work here—comms, public interface, you know. Community service. Also, they wanted round-the-clock surveillance on me. Apparently, I’m considered a security risk by Senator Dod.” Noma added finger quotes around sentient as she continued, “I’m here to talk to people who’ll only speak to sentient beings.”

“I take it the surveillance has to do with the smuggling accusations?” Senator Amidala asked, already knowing the answer.

“No formal charges laid against me,” Noma said smugly, mirroring Anakin’s crossed arms and rolling her toothpick again.

“Well, this is great and all,” Ahsoka interjected, “I’m learning a lot my master never told me—but we do have some boys to break out of prison.”

“Oh, you mean the drunk and disorderly clones from the 501st that Thorn arrested yesterday? They’re probably being processed for release now. They were just sleeping it off. No need to bring a senator.”

“Oh, I’m not here for that,” Padmé said with a smile. “I actually have a meeting with Commander Fox about the Guard detail for Senator Dresk Valorran of Arkania.”

“An Arkanian and clones? That’ll go great,” Noma said dryly. The Arkanians had always seen themselves as the pinnacle of evolution. Even in Revan’s time, their obsession with genetic manipulation had led to horrific experiments on other species, resulting in enslavement or extinction. But the Senate—like with Kamino—turned a blind eye because of Arkania’s medical innovations and supply dominance.

“They certainly present challenges,” Padmé said tiredly. “Senator Valorran won’t even speak to clones, let alone take orders from them. Which is... difficult, given that they’re supposed to protect him.”

“Well, Fox is in his office,” Noma said, stepping aside. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, Noma. It was good seeing you again. If we have time, I’d love to share a meal with you and hear what’s happened since we last spoke.”

“As long as you're paying, Senator,” Noma called after her, just as she knocked on Fox’s door and entered at his faint grunt of permission.

“Same here,” Anakin added. “I know a great diner called Dex’s—if you’re free tonight. There’s a lot of explaining and catching up to do.” He pulled Noma into another hug.

“As long as you’re paying,” Noma echoed, returning the hug.

“Still a cheapskate.”

“Hey, I don’t get paid for this gig. It’s community work—room and board, nothing else. I’ve got to save my credits.”

Anakin laughed heartily before stepping back from the hug and meeting Noma’s eyes.
“Don’t go disappearing again. Or avoiding me. Promise?”

“Not like I can go anywhere,” Noma reminded him with a rueful expression. “They still have my ship. And I really like that ship—it was really expensive.”

“Seven o’clock at Dex’s Diner. I’ll bring Ahsoka. Maybe Obi-Wan, if he’s free,” Anakin said with a grin. “Now I’ve got to round up my boys and make sure they get back to Rex for a proper tongue-lashing.”

“See you then, Anakin,” Noma confirmed, before turning and mock-saluting Ahsoka. “Padawan.”

“Skyguy’s sister,” Ahsoka replied with a smirk as she followed her master.

“Just so you know,” Noma called after them, “the one with the Republic crest tattooed on his head was wearing a traffic cone as a hat.”

She watched them climb into a rented speeder and take off at a frankly reckless speed and angle, weaving into the packed Coruscant traffic and breaking more than a few laws.

Noma hadn’t expected to see Anakin. That, in hindsight, was a major oversight. She was living on the same planet—in the same part of the city—as the Jedi Temple and the Senate during a war filled with clones. The Force had brought her back to life to watch over Anakin. Did she really think she could avoid the destiny forced on her? Especially now, when Anakin was arguably in the most dangerous period of his life?

Revan wanted to scream. She wanted to reach out into the Force and shatter everything in the building. She wanted to fight the Force itself. Couldn’t it let her have her own life—her own death? Couldn’t it just be done with her?

But even as the anger surged, Revan knew the truth: it wasn’t the Force holding her here. It wasn’t making her stay. She could run. She knew where her ship was impounded. She could leave the planet, flee the galaxy, and wander again like she had once with Alek.

But she wouldn’t.

She had grown to care about the clones—soldier-slaves of the Republic. Their courage and loyalty to each other had awakened something in her long thought dead. And Anakin… she couldn’t abandon him again. One look in his eyes, one mention of his Padawan, and it had all come rushing back.

Anakin wasn’t made to be a Jedi. Their strict ways, their petty politics, their narrow dogma—it was never meant for someone like him. The Chosen One, born of the Force, was being slowly destroyed by this war. Just as she had been by another.

She had abandoned him because of her resentment for what the Force had made her do, what it had taken from her. But he wasn’t just a duty or a destiny—he was her brother. Not because the Force had said so, but because she had chosen him.

And this time, she wasn’t going to run—not over something that wasn’t his fault.

Straightening, Revan drew in a slow breath, releasing her rage into the Force. She closed her eyes, forcing away the yellow tint that had begun to bleed into her vision.

She knew what she had to do.

Help Anakin. Not because the Force demanded it, but because she loved him. Because she had failed Alek—and failed Anakin once before.

Maybe, this time, she could make it right.

Plucking the toothpick from her mouth and flicking it into the trash, Revan turned on her heel, strode to Fox’s office, and rapped sharply on the door before pushing it open.

Chapter Text

“I might have a solution to your dilemma, Senator Amidala.”

Both Fox and Senator Amidala looked up in surprise—tired eyes locking on Noma’s. The senator's gaze was filled with hope; Fox’s, frustration.

“Well, do enlighten us,” Fox said dryly, rubbing the side of his head in a slow, circular motion—an unmistakable sign of a headache.

“Senator Valorran won’t talk to clones because he sees them as beneath him, just like many of the people on Coruscant I’ve dealt with. Which means—I have experience dealing with people like him.”

“You mean making people like him angry,” Fox muttered, earning a sharp glare from Noma.

“Are you suggesting we send you along to play translator between the senator and the clones?” asked Senator Amidala, quickly catching on to Noma’s train of thought.

“Precisely.”

“Absolutely not,” Fox snapped, immediately vetoing the idea. He turned his glare on Noma. “We’re trying to avoid an interplanetary incident, not cause five new ones. Besides, you’re to remain under Guard supervision until Senator Dod clears you of smuggling charges.”

“First of all, I’m not that bad. When I put my mind to it, you'd be surprised what I can accomplish in terms of diplomacy and planetary unity. Secondly, I’ll be under guard the entire time anyway—I’ll need to be present in order to interpret for Senator Valorran. And thirdly, it doesn’t have to be Dod who removes me from suspicion. The law states that any senator of equal or higher standing may do so, provided they are convinced of the accused’s innocence—or, in a case of emergency, convinced it’s for the greater good.” She turned to Senator Amidala and pointed. “You outrank Senator Dod. You can authorize me to leave the planet, and if I complete this mission, you could clear the charges—right?”

“That is correct,” Senator Amidala admitted, albeit hesitantly. “But I’d be placing my reputation on the line... and making an enemy out of Senator Dod.”

“He’s already your enemy, since the Trade Blockade. Besides, I have no intention of returning to my smuggling days anytime soon. I have more important things to worry about.”

“Such as?” the senator asked, while Fox pinched his eyes shut in irritation.

“The treatment of clones. Anakin. The war, for starters,” Noma replied with a shrug.

“You want to get involved in the war now?” Fox asked, eyeing her carefully. He remembered well how adamantly she had insisted on staying uninvolved—limiting her efforts to helping the Guard with communications and little else.

“It was inevitable.” Noma shrugged again. “I can’t keep sitting on the sidelines, pouting because life didn’t go my way. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and this time, I’d like to make fewer foreseeable ones.”

“And you have a way to help with the war?” Senator Amidala asked, cautiously.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Noma grinned at the senator and commander. Something about the look made both of them shiver. Noma still looked like Noma—but now there was something else. Something unplaceable… and frightening.

“What do you need?” Senator Amidala asked. She didn’t know why, but deep down, she felt this was the opportunity she'd been waiting for since the war began.

“First, I want to be on the mission with Senator Valorran, so you can officially remove me from suspicion. Secondly, I want my ship back—it’s currently impounded under Dod’s authority, and I can’t get it back without your help.”

“Easily done,” said Senator Amidala with a nod.

Fox groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Next,” Noma continued, “I want to meet with the group of senators you've been gathering. The ones working to support the clones and end the war.”

“And why do you think such a group exists?” Senator Amidala asked, her expression carefully neutral.

“Thorn told me.”

“Ah,” she said, lips twitching into a sharp, dangerous smile. “I suppose that could be arranged. Anything else?”

“No. I’ll need to speak with the Jedi Council, but I can arrange that myself.”

“And why,” Senator Amidala asked, steel entering her tone, “should I do any of this for you? Why should I even trust you? The last time we met was over ten years ago—we hardly know each other.”

“Simple,” Noma said. “You shouldn’t trust me. But right now, you’re desperate. You see the good in people and abhor suffering—but that’s all this war is. Two groups of power-hungry leaders fighting like spoiled children because they can’t get what they want, while the rest of us suffer. And you, Senator Amidala, are desperate to end it. To save lives. To save democracy from the rot that’s been festering for centuries. But you can’t do it alone.”

“You’re a shipless smuggler doing community service for the Coruscant Guard,” the senator said coldly. “What could you possibly offer that would help?”

Fox lifted his head, eyes narrowing. He studied Noma intently—those strange, fox-colored eyes of his sharp and calculating.

Noma threw her head back and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. It reminded Senator Amidala of a wild dog—one that laughed as it hunted.

Then, suddenly, Noma’s head snapped forward. Her eyes—just for a moment—looked yellow. Her lips curled into a smile, and she held up a single finger, as if counting.

“Power.”

The word echoed through the small office. It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t whispered. But something in the way it was said left no room for doubt in anyone’s mind: it was true.

Senator Amidala closed her eyes briefly. Then she stood, stepped forward, and extended her hand.

“If you succeed in this mission, I will see you cleared and your ship returned. After that… I suppose we can find time for that meal we spoke of earlier.”

“Most certainly,” Noma said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll be sure to succeed. Though I may insult him a few times along the way.”

“If you didn’t, you’d be the first,” Senator Amidala replied with a smile, then turned to Fox. “Thank you for your help, Commander. I hope taking Noma away for a while won’t impact your work too much.”

“We survived without her before, Senator,” Fox muttered, rising and giving her a crisp salute. As she left the office, he turned to Noma, expression exasperated.
“What the hell was that about?”

“That was about a promise,” Noma said quietly.

“What promise?” Fox was more confused than ever. Noma had always been strange—talking like someone far older than she was, with obscure knowledge of the ancient Jedi and Sith wars. Fox had long suspected she was Force-sensitive, given her uncanny knack for knowing things she shouldn’t. But this? This was new. And Fox lived on Coruscant—his “normal” was already weird.

“This promise,” Noma said, locking eyes with him. “I promise that I will do everything in my power to end this war and save as many of your brothers—here and across the galaxy—as I can. I’ll do everything I can to get you off this hellhole of a planet. I will protect, with my life, those I love—even if they don’t know me.”

Fox stared into Noma’s eyes as she stared into his, and for the first time, he thought she might somehow be older than her real age. Her eyes were ancient—full of pain and grief, love and joy—a life lived and a life lost. And then, suddenly, it was gone, replaced by a cocky smile and a wiggling eyebrow.

“So, when do I ship out?”

Fox sighed, sat back down, and rubbed the side of his head again.
“Just go pack and meet me in the briefing room in 30 minutes. I’ll give an emergency update to the rest of the vode.”

Noma gave Fox a mock salute before turning on her heel and sweeping out of his office, closing the door behind her.

Entering her small, dark room and taking a long, deep breath, Revan was abruptly reminded that she was, in fact, very hungover. All the excitement of her reunion with Anakin and everything that had followed had led her to compartmentalize the discomfort—something she had learned to do while a prisoner of the Emperor. Now, however, she was very aware of the pounding headache and rolling nausea.

Groaning in annoyance, she opened the chest by her cot and quickly took a painkiller, then pulled out a pack from the chest and opened the top flap. She only had a few sets of clothes with her, and all but the one in the chest and the one hidden in the ceiling were unwashed.

Using the Force, Revan retrieved the box from the ceiling and brought it down to the floor. She knelt and opened it.

Inside was the mask she had once worn, her sabers nestled on either side atop a remarkably well-preserved recreation of her original robes. She had found them sealed in a tomb left by the last of the Revanites—discovered not long after she left Tatooine, during her efforts to piece together her old life.

The clothes she currently wore were actually one of the spare sets of uniform greys Fox had given her, after telling her that the set from the chest made her look far too much like an Outer Rim scoundrel to be seen at the front desk of Guard HQ. Technically, she was allowed to wear the greys as a GAR operative, and while she could probably grab another pair—since greys weren’t often used on Coruscant—she had needed to make alterations to the uniform so it didn’t hang off her body. She was smaller than the clones.

Looking down at the robes and helmet, Revan made a decision—and began to change.

It didn’t take long to pack. She added the outfit she wore while traveling aboard the Ebon Hawk II—a simple combination of pants, shirt, and vest with a holster. It reminded her a little of what Mission used to wear during their adventures. On top of that, she packed her mask wrapped in her red sash, her long kama skirt, and her cloak. Her folded uniform went on top. One lightsaber was secured in a pocket near her neck; the other, hidden at the bottom of the pack, was positioned so she could easily reach it in case of danger—whether her hands were behind her head or at her back.

Revan had donned the black pants and shirt, over which she placed her armor, bracers, belt, and boots. She affixed her hood to the clasps on her shoulders, though she left it down for now.

It felt familiar, like the embrace of an old friend you hadn’t seen in a long time. Revan sighed as she felt the weight of the armor settle onto her frame. It wasn’t the one she’d worn on the Star Forge, drenched in the Dark Side, but it was still a very good set—with the same heft and specifications as her original.

With a deep exhale, Revan returned the now-empty box to the ceiling and sank to her knees on the meditation mat in the corner. She closed her eyes and centered herself for a brief meditation before Fox’s briefing.

Chapter Text

“I love you, Revan, but I’m going to reiterate this one more time. This. Is. A. Terrible. Idea,” Carth whispered harshly into his comm, blinking furiously against the heavy rain of Dromund Kaas.

“Aww, you love me. You always say the sweetest things,” Revan teased, her Mandalorian mask keeping the rain from obstructing her vision.

“I tell you that all the time—and that wasn’t the point,” Carth hissed, wiping water from his face.

“But it was the best part of what you said,” Revan replied cheerfully.

“Hey lovebirds, this is a public comm. I really don’t want to hear your flirting—it’s bad enough when we’re on the ship,” Mission Vao interrupted.

“Agreed. This is an important mission, and I can’t have you two distracted,” Bastila Shan added, her voice crisp with Fleet Commander authority.

“Ugh, you’re making me and the stickler agree on something,” groaned Mission, shuffling closer to Zaalbar, hoping his thick coat would shield her from the downpour.

The group was on Dromund Kaas, searching for a faction calling themselves the Children of Revan—some splinter loyalist group opposing both the Sith Empire and the Galactic Republic, following only Revan’s teachings from the Sith Academy. Revan had suggested reaching out to them, hoping to gather information or perhaps even persuade them to ally with the Republic. Even if they wouldn’t join the Republic, she hoped to sway them to her side.

Getting to the group had been a challenge. T3-M4 had scrambled their signals so the Ebon Hawk II could land undetected in a small valley, hidden beneath the canopy. From there, however, they had to proceed on foot. Revan had decoded fragments of their writings, narrowing their possible location to a small region. The news had briefly lifted the crew’s spirits—until HK-47 pointed out that the area was dense jungle, crosscut by streams and jagged rock formations, and bordered by mountains.

Now, the group had spread out as much as was considered safe. Mission and Zaalbar stayed together for protection, and T3 had been left on the ship. The rest moved independently to cover more ground.

“Found anything other than Carth’s undying love?” Juhani muttered, clearly displeased with the weather despite her constant protests that she was nothing like a cat.

“Ah, patience, Juhani. Love blossoming between the wounded is—”

“Oh shut up, Jolee,” she growled, taking refuge beneath a tree for a brief respite from the downpour.

“No signs that I can see,” Revan said. “You see anything, Carth?”

Silence.

Revan straightened from where she had been examining the ground.

“Carth? Are you mad because I was teasing you again?”

Still no response. Revan frowned. She reached out with the Force but could only sense Carth faintly—too faintly—and not in the same location as before.

“Carth!” she called, this time not into the comm, but into the jungle itself.

“What’s happening?” Bastila asked, already turning toward the direction Carth had been headed.

“Carth’s stopped answering his comm,” Canderous responded, appearing at Revan’s right as they both ran toward where she’d last sensed him.

“Carth!” Revan shouted again, not caring about the mud or brush snagging at her kama. “Carth!”

No answer.

Only an empty clearing surrounded by jungle, and on two sides, high rocky walls of the mountain range.

“Statement: This is one of the entrances to the mountain labyrinth,” HK-47 said as he joined her. “Commentary: The meatbag you are fond of, Master, was most likely taken by the meatbags we are hunting.”

“Well, me and Zaalbar made it through the Taris sewers. What’s a little cave system compared to that?” Mission offered with a grin, giving Revan’s shoulder a gentle punch. “Follow us. We’ll show you all the tricks for finding your way.”

“Great. Getting lost in a cave system. Just what I needed to improve my day,” Canderous muttered as he followed the others inside.

“When the way back is impossible, sometimes the only path is forward—into the darkness,” Jolee intoned, taking up the rear as they entered the cavern HK had indicated.

The sound of her comm alarm broke Revan out of a haze of old memories—faces she couldn’t quite grasp long enough to find comfort in, only a deep, gnawing hole of pain.

With a sigh, Revan silenced her comm, running her hands over her face and through her hair. She snorted at the realization of just how much she’d been sighing today. She could already hear Canderous muttering some complaint about how dramatic she was being.

Chuckling at the thought of the grumpy Mandalorian, Revan swung her pack onto her back, pulling her hood out from beneath it so it rested on top—adding an extra layer of concealment for the lightsaber hidden there. Flicking off the lights, she headed down the hall toward the small briefing room.

“Noma, thank you for making it on time,” remarked Fox, exaggerated gratitude in his voice.
Noma shrugged.
“This is the first briefing that’s actually been important for me to show up to.”
“Ah yes, because the one about the details of your employment here wasn’t?” Fox replied sarcastically.
Noma waved her hand dismissively.
“You and Stone already filled me in while I was in prison. That one was just retreading old ground—a waste of time.”

Fox closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reminding himself not to engage in a semantics argument with Noma. She would always win, which was precisely what made her so good at working the desk and comms. Not because she gave people what they wanted—but because she was so irritating that they would either give up their complaint, agree to speak with a clone, or comm the actual people responsible for the problem, namely the Coruscant police.

“Let us begin, shall we?” said Fox, glancing around the room. Aside from himself and Noma, there was Thorn—who was almost always the leader of off-world guard activities—and four other shock troopers: Lockstep, Gambler, Trickshot, and CT-6987, who had yet to find a name he liked enough to make his own.

A chorus of “Yes, sir” met Fox’s question from the troopers.

“As you already know,” Fox began, “we are escorting Senator Dresk Valorran of Arkania to Thyferra to help secure their bacta production. It's in the Inner Rim, so it should be a short and relatively safe trip. You'll be traveling with the 501st Legion as a show of strength and respect for the people there.

Senator Valorran is there to present new methods his people developed to streamline bacta production and increase its potency. However, as you also know, Senator Valorran is an Arkanian—and holds an even lower opinion of clones than most. He refuses to speak to or acknowledge a clone, which complicates communication.

Originally, Commander Ahsoka Tano was scheduled to act as our intermediary. However, she was personally requested by Duchess Kryze to assist in a diplomatic negotiation with the Separatists. Fortunately…”—and here Fox gave a small, dry snort—
“…Noma Kon has stepped up to take her place and will serve as your voice to the senator. She is still under supervision, so while you’re on-planet, one of you must keep her in your sights at all times. That shouldn’t be a problem—if she does her job.”

His final comment came with a weighty glare directed at Noma, who was currently picking at one of her nails and seemed completely uninterested.

“Is everyone clear?” asked Fox.

Another round of “Yes, sir” from the troopers—and a “You know it,” from Thorn—answered the commander as he turned to Noma.

“Got it. I play broken comm with the senator,” Noma replied with a smirk.

“Good. There’s a transport waiting outside to take you to The Resolute. Senator Valorran is taking his own transport. Good luck.”

With that, Fox turned on his heel and marched out, putting on his helmet as he went. He didn’t want to be late for his meeting with the Chancellor.

Revan boarded the transport ship after Thorn. Glancing around, she found it empty except for herself, the five members of the Guard, and the pilot. It seemed the 501st troops they had arrested yesterday had either taken a different transport or had no interest in riding with the Guard. Not that Revan was going to complain—she preferred not being crowded by a bunch of plastoid-armored clones.

Tightening her pack strap, Revan grabbed the safety strap overhead and grinned at Lockstep.
“This your first time on off-world escort duty?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lockstep answered stiffly. Like Dogma, he was a stickler for the rules. And while Dogma had learned to relax around his brothers—or Noma—Lockstep remained awkwardly formal, even with his own unit. Revan suspected that was simply how he felt most comfortable. She didn’t mind; in fact, it reminded her a bit of Bastila when she was focused on a mission.

“When did you pick up the armor?” asked Thorn, giving Revan a playful shove.
“I’ve had it for a while. Just didn’t feel like wearing it until now.”
“Hmm,” Thorn hummed as he looked her up and down. “Are you sure you don’t want a bit of our armor? It doesn’t stop blaster bolts completely, but it’s a lot better against glancing shots than leather.”
“Well, considering the leather is made from Zillo Beast hide, I think I’ll take it over your plastoid. It’s a lot lighter too,” Revan shot back, kicking the back of Thorn’s knee in retaliation.
“Now I know you’re joking. Zillo Beasts are practically unkillable. I would know,” Thorn grunted as he straightened up.
“True. But I wasn’t the one who killed it,” Revan replied.
“Do I want to know how you got it, then?” Thorn asked with a sigh, already bracing for another one of those strange Noma Kon stories.
Revan shrugged.
“I stole it from a temple on Dromund Kaas.”
“I’m both curious and very sure I don’t want to know,” Thorn muttered, rolling his eyes as the transport sped through the Coruscant sky toward the fast-approaching shipyard.

Revan laughed and launched into a somewhat embellished and deliberately vague recounting of her adventure in the old Revanite shrine on Dromund Kaas. Even though the darker half of her had once used the Revanite cultists, it had still been strange to enter a shrine dedicated to herself—and then rob it.

In fact, stealing from her own shrine had been the least weird part of the experience.

Even without the personal connection, the clones clearly enjoyed her tale of escapades.
“But wasn’t that shrine several thousand years old? How were the traps still working?” asked Gambler, as the ship gave a small rock—indicating their approach.

“Old Sith temples, tombs, and shrines were built to last,” Revan explained. “It had to do with their obsession with immortality. Some could even return as Force ghosts, if they were powerful enough or had a relic bound to their life force.”

That had been the obsession of many Sith—before and after Revan—like Naga Sadow or the Emperor. It had drawn in Malak, but never interested Revan much.

She had always been more interested in the Sith Academies—where immortality came through teaching future generations her philosophy and techniques—not in dusty shrines and tombs just begging to be robbed.

The transport shook as it landed, engines winding down as the group exited the bay of The Resolute. It was an impressive ship, Revan had to admit, though she found herself both disappointed and slightly suspicious of how similar it was to those of the Sith Empire.

A clang echoed from a neighboring hangar as another ship touched down.

“Did he seriously take his personal luxury transport?” Trickshot groaned, squinting at the spotless, shiny blue shuttle that had just landed nearby.

A sharply dressed pilot stepped out and opened the craft’s door to reveal a tall, pale man with white hair and eyes so light they looked blind—though Revan knew they weren’t. His four clawed fingers were hidden inside smooth white gloves that matched tastefully with the tan and white of his outfit, accented by a small, utterly useless decorative blue shoulder cape.

He approached with clear distaste etched across his face, ignoring everyone but Revan as he addressed her directly.

“I am Senator Dresk Valorran of Arkania, and it is of utmost importance that I complete my mission from the Chancellor. I trust you are capable of making those things understand what is required of them?”

Revan felt a powerful urge to reach out and choke him with the Force—but restrained herself. For now.

“I am Noma Kon, and this is Commander Thorn,” she replied, offering a slight, mocking bow as she indicated the clone beside her.

“We must depart immediately,” Valorran insisted. “This mission is of the utmost importance. We must reach the bridge at once.”

Revan was beginning to wonder if this man could form a sentence without using the phrase utmost importance. She doubted it—and if not for the diplomatic consequences, she might throttle him just to preserve her sanity.

“I am Lieutenant Jesse,” came a voice from the side.

Revan turned to see a small group of 501st troopers. The one who had spoken, tattooed with a Republic signet on his forehead, stepped forward. Revan recognized them all—they were the ones they’d arrested the previous night.

“General Skywalker has ordered me to lead you to the bridge,” Jesse continued.

“Right away,” Revan said, offering a mock salute. She turned to the senator. “Lieutenant Jesse is going to lead us to General Skywalker on the bridge.”

The senator’s pilot made a choked sound, quickly disguised as a cough, as Valorran’s face flushed.

“Tell them to lead on,” the senator ground out.

“The senator says to tell you to ‘lead on,’” Revan echoed cheerfully. One of the clones—tattooed with a large “5” on his forehead—grinned in response.

Jesse didn’t reply. He simply turned on his heel and started walking toward the turbolift. The group followed.

The ride up was awkward. No one spoke. Valorran kept shifting to ensure his cloak didn’t brush against any of the clones. Revan occupied herself by imagining venting the senator into space and watching his body freeze and drift past the viewport.

The Sith Empire—and Revan’s own—had been notoriously xenophobic. Unless you were human or pureblood Sith, you were less than nothing—unless you were powerful enough to be tolerated. Revan had never cared for species as a metric, only strength. But Malak had taken those philosophies and twisted them into dogma, enforcing them brutally after betraying her.

After the Jedi’s brainwashing, Revan had come to loathe her old indifference—and Malak’s cruelty. It was one of the few moral insights she’d actually kept from her rehabilitation. And the more time she spent with clones, the more disgusted she became at how others—those who commed her—treated them.

The lift doors whooshed open onto the bridge—a controlled chaos of clones and nat-born officers rushing to finalize pre-departure tasks.

Anakin stood near the windows, deep in conversation with a clone and two navy officers.

“General, I’ve brought the senator and his escort,” Jesse said, offering a quick salute before making a tactical retreat—clearly eager to avoid Valorran.

“Ay, Senator Valorran—welcome aboard!” Anakin greeted. “Noma, Padmé commed and said you were coming too. Good thing—I was gonna have to cancel dinner at Dex’s. We were supposed to leave tomorrow, but the senator insisted on going today. Said it was of the utmost importance.”

Revan groaned audibly. It was a verbal tic.

Anakin chuckled, then gestured to those beside him. “Senator, I’d like to introduce Captain Rex and Admiral Wullf Yularen—they keep this place running. This is Senator Valorran, Noma Kon, and Commander Thorn.”

“A pleasure,” said the mustached man—Yularen—nodding politely. “I’d also like to introduce our new bridge captain. I was lucky to pull him from the Naval Academy before someone else snapped him up.”

He waved over a young man in a crisp green uniform.

“Let me introduce a prodigy with a bright future in the GAR—Carth Onasi.”

Chapter Text

Noma had forgotten how cold the galaxy felt outside of Tatooine—especially how cold it had always felt in Jedi temples. While the Temple on Coruscant was not the one she was familiar with, it still carried the same cold, grandiose condescension, as though it were constantly judging you and finding you lacking.

The doors of the Council chamber closed behind her, hiding the faces—but not the disapproving Force presences—of the Council Masters. She might not remember in detail what the Jedi Council members in her past life had been like, but Noma remembered that they, too, had worn that same cold, judgmental gaze toward anyone who didn’t fit their idea of a Jedi.

Anakin was sitting on a bench outside the Council chamber, small legs swinging back and forth, feet not quite able to touch the floor. They hadn’t even been offered heavier robes before Master Jinn had rushed them from Queen Amidala’s warm apartments in the Senate District to the freezing Jedi Temple for testing.

Noma knew she had passed every test they’d thrown at her, and she was confident Anakin would do even better. She had the benefit of memories from her old lessons at the Dantooine Temple, but Anakin had raw talent and a powerful connection to the Force. Master Jinn had surely known this too. Noma guessed that was why he’d sent her in first—to impress them with one child before exposing them to the astonishing supernova that was Anakin.

“Was it bad?” Anakin whispered, hopping off the bench.

“I think they looked so judgy when they were young that their faces just stuck that way,” Noma whispered back, just as Master Jinn placed a hand on Anakin’s shoulder and guided him into the Council chamber. The doors swooshed shut behind them.

Noma stood alone in the cold antechamber. She considered sitting where Anakin had been, but the loud growl and tight clenching of her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten since that meal with Mom on Tatooine. It felt like ages ago—what with the podrace, the escape from the Sith apprentice, the arrival on Coruscant, and now the testing at the Temple. She didn’t even know how long it had been.

At the thought of that meal, Noma’s heart did something strange and uncomfortable. Revan had been given to the Jedi as a baby, and Noma had been taken in by Shmi as a baby, so she retained no memories of a birth mother in either life. But in this life, she had had a mother—and the best one she could have asked for. Now that mother was gone, alone, a slave on Tatooine, while Noma stood in this grand, wealthy, cold temple on the most important planet in the galaxy.

Shaking her head, Noma marched out through the doors, hoping that if she found food, the strange heavy twisting feeling in her chest would go away.

Filled with purpose, Noma made her way down the hallway and into the turbolift—only to immediately remember that this wasn’t the Temple from her memories, and she had no idea where the mess hall was. Staring at the buttons on the lift, she scrunched up her nose in thought. She might not know where the mess hall was, but if she had to guess, the kitchen would probably be on the first or second lower levels—away from the main Temple activity, but still close enough to serve food efficiently.

She pressed the button for Lower Level 1 and waited, rather impatiently, as the lift descended.

Exiting, Noma was encouraged by the smell of food drifting from down the hallway. Setting off at a trot, she quickly found the kitchen of the Jedi Temple. It was mostly empty—no meal was being served at the moment, so there were no preparations or dishes underway. That suited Noma just fine.

Even in the dim light, she managed to find some bread, cheese, and meat and whipped up a couple of sandwiches. One she wrapped in paper and stuffed into a pouch on her belt for Anakin; the other she bit into as she prepared to leave.

“You know,” came a voice from behind her, “some might say that stealing is a path to the Dark Side.”

“Well, some say starving is a path to death,” she retorted, turning to look for the speaker. “And I’d rather be a Sith and a ghost.”

“Oh, indeed. They make a fine sandwich too, heh heh heh. But don’t tell the Jedi Council I said that,” giggled the man seated in the corner of the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hands.

He was on the far end of middle age—probably slightly older than Master Jinn—with receding, greying hair and a mustache-beard combo that he somehow pulled off quite well. Despite being younger than he had been in her memories, Noma recognized him instantly.

“Jolee!”

She dropped her sandwich in surprise. She had thought she was alone in her rebirth—a consequence of time spent as a Force ghost—but here was Jolee, younger than she remembered, yet still the same old man he had always been as long as she’d known him.

“Most Padawans call me Master Bindo,” Jolee replied calmly, as Noma began moving toward him—only to stop short when he added, “But you’re not a Padawan, are you? So I’m curious how you know who I am… sandwich thief.”

“You don’t know me?” Noma asked, staring at him intently, watching for the telltale crinkle at the corners of his eyes that always appeared when he was joking. But while his face was kind, there was no spark of recognition.

“I’m Noma Kon,” she said slowly, her voice trembling slightly. “Although sometimes… I’m called Revan.”

She stepped closer, hoping—begging—for even the smallest glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

There was nothing.

“Well, those are two different names I do recognize,” remarked Jolee as he swirled his tea. But his face held none of the recognition Noma had hoped for.
“How so?” demanded Noma, stepping in front of the old Jedi.
“Well, Revan is an old, mostly forgotten myth from several thousand years ago—only historians and old Masters like me, who spend too much time in the archives, remember the name,” Jolee informed her, staring into her eyes but still showing no recognition of who she was.
“And Noma?!” she pressed, desperation leaking into her voice.
“That crazy Qui-Gon commed me and said he had some kid called Noma Kon and the Chosen One on his ship,” Jolee replied with an eye roll at the mention of Master Jinn. “I swear, that man is always chasing robe tails. Sometimes the swirling Force is just swirling Force. But Qui-Gon gets excited and says, ‘Ooo, destiny!’”

There was a distinct level of disdain in Jolee’s voice when he spoke of Qui-Gon—the same tone Noma remembered him using when talking about the Jedi of Revan’s time. Even the words were the same as when he had been her close friend. But there was still no recognition. None.

Then something else he’d said hit her.
“What do you mean, Chosen One?”
“Humph. You know the name Revan but not the Chosen One? What do they teach you out on the Outer Rim?” Jolee muttered, more to himself than to her, before sipping his tea.
“Just answer, old man!” Noma snapped, dread rising like bile in her gut, replacing the hunger from moments before.
“So impatient,” Jolee grumbled as he crossed his legs. “The Chosen One is from a prophecy. Supposedly, he’ll bring balance to the Force. Qui-Gon’s obsessed with it.”
“What is the prophecy?” Noma demanded. She didn’t care what Qui-Gon liked or disliked.
“‘A Chosen One shall come, born of no father, and through him will ultimate balance in the Force be restored,’” Jolee quoted. “If you ask me, it’s excitable garbage…”

Jolee continued to rant, but Noma wasn’t listening anymore.

Born of no father.

When Shmi had told her about Anakin’s birth, Noma had assumed it was a soft way of saying something much darker. But now that she thought about it—there had been no pain or shame in Shmi’s eyes. No hesitance or distance. She spoke of it with warmth, like a cherished mystery.

If Anakin was truly born of no father, then there was only one possibility. The Force. The Force was Anakin’s father.

And Noma—Revan—had been reborn at the same time, taken in by the same woman? No. That was impossible. Revan’s rebirth had been planned, not a coincidence. Not after her time as the Emperor’s prisoner, not after she had been split into light and dark.

No... the Force had done this. It had pulled her from her long-awaited and well-earned rest with her loved ones—ripped her from peace to live on a dustball planet with its child. No. Not just live with Anakin. She was meant to protect him. She was the guardian the Force had sent to its chosen son.

Her hands clenched into fists, and her ragged nails bit into her palms until they bled.

None of this was an accident. Her peace had been stolen because of the Force. Because of Anakin Skywalker. She could not join the Force. She could not rest with her friends. With Carth.

And now the Force had the gall to give her one of those friends back—Jolee—only for him to remember nothing. Why did the Force drag her into this? Why couldn’t it leave the dead in peace?

If Jolee was back… who else had been pulled from peace? Bastila? Mission? Zaalbar? Canderous? Juhani? Meetra? Even the Outlander?

Carth?

Please not Carth.
Please yes, Carth.

“Hey! HEY!” Jolee shouted, shaking her.

Blinking, Revan pulled herself out of the spiral and stared at him.
“What happened?” the Jedi demanded, almost angrily.
“Uh…?”

Jolee gestured around the kitchen. Everything not bolted down was scattered across the room. Many of the smaller items were bent beyond repair.
“Impressive use of the Force, kid,” he said dryly, “but I’d appreciate it if you left us some forks to eat with.”

His scolding faded into a grin, and he added with a chuckle, “What caused the display?”

“I… I need to go,” she stammered, avoiding his eyes and yanking free from his grip. She turned on her heel and bolted.

“Alright, kid, I won’t tell if you don’t,” Jolee laughed, watching her retreat. “Hey! You gave me two names—if I ever need my tea mugs smashed, which one should I call out?”

“Noma. The name Revan should stay a forgotten myth.”

“It’s a pleasure to officially meet you, Noma Kon,” Carth Onasi said, saluting Senator Valorran and Commander Thorn.

“Oh? You’ve met her before?” Anakin asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked between them.

“Briefly. A couple months ago,” Carth explained. “I bumped into her on Coruscant—she was being followed by two Guard members. I helped her up and introduced myself. She turned around and rushed off in the other direction, muttering something about finding a bar that would let her in with her clone shadows.”

Although Carth kept his tone serious, there was a twinkle of humor in his eyes as he turned.
“I hope my presence here won’t cause discomfort this time—alcohol is strictly controlled on GAR ships.”

Without a word, Revan turned on her heel and strode across the flight deck, vanishing into the turbolift.

Chapter Text

“…so then of course he claimed it was of the ‘utmost importance’ that we make it to the party—which, apparently, was not a legal excuse according to the Coruscant Police. So they put us both in cuffs,”
the pilot regaled as Revan passed the bottle of Revnog back to him. The burning sensation in her throat from the alcohol offered a brief distraction from the storm churning in her mind. Senator Valorran’s pilot accepted the bottle, took a swig, and passed it back again before continuing his story.

When Revan had seen Carth again—really seen him, in the flesh, assigned to the same ship—the only thing she could think of was getting as far away as possible from the man who had once been her husband, and now looked at her like she was a stranger. It had been an instinctual and admittedly dramatic exit on her part. However, a slight snag occurred when she realized, while standing in the turbolift, that she had no idea where her quarters were—or where anything was on the ship, for that matter. She hadn’t the energy to explore, so she’d returned to the only place she knew: the docking bay.

There had been a few 501st clones milling about, refueling transports and performing maintenance on some fighters. None had approached her—either uninterested in the strange nat-born or warned off by her stony expression.

Senator Valorran’s pilot, however, had possessed no such qualms. He’d waved her over with a bottle of Revnog, declaring that she looked like she needed something stiff. Which was how she ended up sitting side by side against the senator’s shuttle, being regaled with stories of Valorran’s exploits. Revan was only half-listening, most of her mind preoccupied with wallowing in self-pity and concocting half-baked schemes on how to avoid—or confront—Carth. None of which were productive.

“…and then he had the gall to ask for their supervisor, claiming he had the right to travel unimpeded and that they were pirates, not law enforcement…”
The pilot trailed off into laughter, which quickly turned into coughs as he tried to down another gulp of Revnog.

“I imagine that went over well,” Revan remarked, patting him on the back to help dislodge the liquid from his throat.

“They broke the window and dragged him out,” gasped the pilot, his laughter and coughing redoubling.

Revan pictured the pale senator, wrapped in pristine robes, being hauled out of the window of his luxury transport while screaming about the ‘utmost importance’ of them not doing it. A smile crept onto her lips as the image played out in her head—quickly devolving into a chuckle, and then a full-blown laugh.

“Well, you seem to have recovered nicely from whatever that was on the bridge,” remarked a voice from above.

Still giggling, Revan looked up to see Anakin standing over her with his arms crossed as though annoyed—but the smile on his face betrayed the posture.

“Revnog?” Revan offered, holding up the bottle as the pilot tried to make himself look more presentable in the presence of the Hero Without Fear.

“Please,” Anakin grunted, grabbing the bottle and taking a large gulp—only to double over in a coughing fit.
“That tasted like fire! Are you sure that was Revnog?”

“Meh,” Revan shrugged, taking the bottle back and draining the last of it in one long draft. “It’s not the kind of stuff you’d find in any reputable bar, but it’s close enough to count.”

“That had taste?” Anakin asked hoarsely, dabbing at his eyes.

“Not really,” Revan wheezed again as she handed the empty bottle to the pilot, who promptly tucked it into a compartment under his seat—where it clanked against several other empty bottles.

“Right…” Anakin muttered, giving Revan a once-over, concern flickering in his eyes. “I got Senator Valorran to his quarters without too much trouble, and the rest of the guard is settled with the boys. Thorn was pretty worried about you, but I said it was better to let you cool off.”

“Thanks,” Revan muttered, heaving herself upright and steadying herself on the shuttle’s hull.

“You’re welcome,” Anakin grinned, watching her try—and fail—to stand fully straight. “I came to show you to your quarters. We didn’t have time to set anything up for you originally since Ahsoka was supposed to be doing your job, and she lives aboard. But she’s off to Mandalore with Padmé, so you’ll be taking her berth for this mission.”

Logically, Revan knew Anakin was expecting some kind of response. But at the moment, she was far too busy trying to decide which of the three Anakins in front of her she should be addressing.

Anakin, for his part, made a half-hearted attempt to hide his smile as Revan squinted at him—and then slightly to his left—with a look of great concentration and mild concern.

“Come on, I’ll guide you there. You should have enough time to sleep it off before we reach Thyferra.”

Anakin gently took her arm and began guiding her toward the turbolift.

“Jesse, could you escort Senator Valorran’s pilot to her room?”

“Yes, sir,” Jesse saluted, then took the now-equally-unsteady pilot by the arm and followed Anakin into the lift.

Revan wasn’t exactly sure at what point the clone and the pilot had exited, but by the time Anakin was leading her out of the lift, they were gone.

“You know,” Anakin began, voice softer now, “when we met at Guard HQ, you mentioned you were doing community service for getting into a bar fight. Then Captain Onasi said you ran away from him saying you needed a drink. And now I find you absolutely sloshed in my docking bay.”
He looked at her, concern etched in the lines of his expression.
“You’re starting to worry me, Noma. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. What happened to you? And what’s going on between you and Onasi?”

“He doesn’t know me. I love him, and he doesn’t even remember me!” Revan grumbled as she pressed her face into Anakin’s shoulder.

“Love him?” Anakin queried before an idea struck him. “Noma, please tell me he’s not some guy you had a drunk night with and fell for?”

“He looked me in the eyes and didn’t know me! They all just look at me like I’m a stranger! After everything we went through—after everything we did—all the places we visited: Taris, Tatooine, Dantooine, Kashyyyk, Manaan, Telos IV, Korriban, Lehon, Malachor V—they forgot it all!”

“They?” Anakin demanded, pulling Revan away from his shoulder to look at her face. “Who are they, and why wouldn’t they know you? What in the Seven Sith Hells have you been doing?!”

Revan ignored his question and instead grabbed his shoulders, staring into his face with desperate intensity.

“Have you ever loved someone so much that they became your whole world? Have you ever had a people so dear to you that, when you’re with them, they’re your home—no matter where you are in the galaxy?”

Anakin stared at his sister for a long moment. There was something in her eyes—a bright, painful fire. A loneliness that didn’t belong to someone her age. Without meaning to, Anakin’s mind drifted back to Mortis and the beings that lived there. Her eyes didn’t hold the same timeless wisdom, but there was still a quality he couldn’t explain, something too old for her youthful face.

Then suddenly it was gone. Revan went limp, collapsing onto him with a loud snore.

Anakin stood in the hallway outside his quarters, his drunken sister in his arms and a burning in his throat from the Revnog—before he promptly broke into laughter.

Carefully, he scooped her up and carried her into his quarters, through the set of doors leading from the common area to Ahsoka’s room. Removing Noma’s pack, Anakin laid her on her side, facing the door—just in case she woke up sick. No need to ruin Ahsoka’s sheets.

He briefly considered removing her armor to help her sleep more comfortably, but dismissed the thought. A little discomfort might serve her well. Her drinking habits were beginning to concern him.

Grabbing her pack, Anakin exited the room and closed the doors behind him. He placed it on the small table bolted to the wall next to the kitchenette—one of the perks of being a general with a Padawan whose species couldn’t live entirely off rations.

Undoing the strap, Anakin flipped open the top. The bag was heavier than it should have been—as if something was hidden inside.

A quick glance reassured him: just clothes, no sign of alcohol. He patted the contents, feeling only soft fabric. Guilt tugged at him for snooping based on one drunken outburst. But then, his hand brushed the side of the pack, knocking it lightly against the wall.

Tink.

Anakin froze.

He reached for the flap and ran his hand over it. There—inside—a cylindrical shape. He tried to tell himself it could be anything: a tool kit, a comm device… even a bottle. Anything but what it felt like. It couldn’t be. Not like the one hanging from his belt right now.

Abandoning all hesitation, Anakin searched until he found a hidden pocket. Ripping it open, he reached inside and pulled out the one thing he’d hoped wouldn’t be there.

A simple silver cylinder. A band of gold at the top. A small silver button on the side.

A lightsaber.

He didn’t need to ignite it to know a kyber crystal was inside—but not one used by the Jedi. Even a brief touch through the Force made Anakin recoil. It screamed in agony and anguish, its energy steeped in suffering. He’d felt something like it once—when he briefly held Ventress’s lightsabers on Yavin 4, months after the war began, when he was still a Padawan.

Slowly, he pressed the activation button.

A bright red blade snapped to life.

Anakin extinguished it instantly and hurled it back at the pack, where it clattered with another tink.

He stared at the bag, then roughly grabbed it and dumped its contents on the table. The empty pack was tossed onto the nearby chair, unnoticed as it hit with a final, faint tink from its base.

Rummaging through the clothes, Anakin found an object wrapped in a dark cloak and red sash. Ignoring the garments, he unwrapped it with trembling fingers.

It wasn’t another lightsaber.

It was a mask.

Slim and fitted more closely to the face than a Mandalorian helmet, it resembled something worn by Death Watch or clone troopers—but more personal, more intimate. Less helmet. More identity.

Anakin stared into the dark visor, frozen.

Why did Noma have this?

Why did she have a red lightsaber?

What had happened to her since they last saw each other?

Where had she been?

Suddenly, he realized he had the answer to that last question—Noma had told him herself. She’d listed the planets. The ones she and the “they” who forgot her had visited.

Reaching into his belt, Anakin pulled out his comm link and made a call.

“Anakin, this had better be important,” grumbled Obi-Wan, the static crackle of the connection hinting that he was in the Jedi Temple.

“Yes, Master, I think it might be,” Anakin said, more serious than usual.

There was a rustle as Obi-Wan straightened, surprised by the absence of Anakin’s usual banter.

“What is it, Anakin?”

“What do you know about the planets Korriban and Malachor V?”

A long pause.

Then Obi-Wan’s voice dropped into something sharp and commanding.

“Anakin… why do you need to know about those planets? And how did you hear of Malachor V ?”

“Just answer me, Master. Please!” Anakin cried, slamming his hands on the table. The mask rattled where it lay.

Obi-Wan’s reply was measured. “Malachor V was steeped in the dark side. It was once home to the Sith Empire and the site of the final battle of the Mandalorian Wars. Korriban is what many call the Sith homeworld. It’s where the Sith are believed to have originated—home to their tombs and ancient academies where they trained new Sith.” He paused. “Now tell me why—”

Anakin ended the call.

He dropped his face into his hands.

“Why couldn’t it have just been alcohol?”

Chapter Text

Revan groaned as awareness tore its way through the comfortable blanket of unconsciousness she’d been lingering in. The unwelcome clarity brought with it a wave of vertigo, a pounding headache, the urge to vomit, and—bizarrely—a craving for caf.

Groaning again, she ran a hand over her face, rubbing her thumbs into her eye sockets in a futile attempt to dull the pain and clear her thoughts. When that failed, she blindly flung her hand to the side, searching for the bottle of pain relievers that usually sat on the chest beside her bed. Her hand met only empty air.

Still half-blind, she flailed around, trying to locate the chest that had been by her cot ever since she’d moved into the small storage room in the guard headquarters. When her hand struck nothing but more air, Revan cracked open one eye, just in case she’d somehow collapsed in the wrong direction or ended up sleeping backwards.

The room around her was completely foreign. While it shared the same cold metal walls as her own, the layout and design were vastly different. Small shelves held various knickknacks—rocks, stones, tiny pieces of art. It was also larger than her usual quarters. The door was positioned across from the head of the bed, not off to the side as in her room.

Struggling upright, Revan squinted through the ache in her skull and tried to remember what had happened. Slowly, fragments filtered into her mind: the mission… Senator Valorran… Carth… and then drinking Revnog with the senator’s pilot. After that, everything blurred. She remembered movement, and an overwhelming sense of warmth—comforting, protective, familiar. It had wrapped around her, soothing the sharp edges of her being. But she couldn’t pinpoint the source. Just the feeling. Elusive, unplaceable.

With little else to go on, she glanced around the room again, trying this time to spot her pack. She was fairly certain she had packed painkillers. If Thorn had been the one to drag her here, he’d likely have left her things at the head or foot of the bed. But a quick sweep of the room told her otherwise—there was no sign of her gear.

Frowning, Revan focused on that memory of warmth, prodding the edge of it, and was rewarded with a vague recollection: she’d been rambling. About Carth.

Panic lanced through her.

She leapt to her feet, only to be slammed by another wave of vertigo. Who had she been talking to? If it had been Thorn, she’d never hear the end of it. But that didn’t fit the feeling she remembered. That warmth—it reminded her of the first rays of sun on Tatooine. Not too hot, not too cold. Perfectly balanced.

Anakin.

The realization hit like a shockwave. It had been Anakin who found her, who carried her to this room. Likely her assigned lodging on the ship.

Which meant Anakin had her pack.

And if he hadn’t left it in the room…

There was only one explanation.

He was going through it.

Clenching her jaw, Revan summoned the Force into her limbs, attempting to metabolize the alcohol lingering in her system—an old trick she’d learned for neutralizing poisons. Not foolproof, but enough, she hoped, to get her to the door and find out just how bad things had gotten.

Her steps were shaky, but sheer determination—and a deep familiarity with hangovers—carried her to the door. She slammed her hand into the panel.

It opened onto a small common room: a kitchenette, a table bolted to the floor, and a single figure sitting in a chair.

Anakin.

He sat motionless, staring at something on the table in front of him.

Her Mandalorian mask.

The T-shaped visor was angled toward him like it was watching. Just behind it sat the hilt of her red lightsaber.

“Anakin,” Revan greeted him calmly.

“Korriban and Malachor V are Sith planets,” he said dully, still staring into the mask.

Revan winced—partly at the words, partly at her throbbing skull.

“I take it I said more than just Carth last night,” she muttered.

Anakin didn’t answer, but the silence said enough.

“Yes,” he confirmed eventually.

“Enough that you felt the need to violate my privacy and search my belongings?” she asked, walking slowly to the table and taking the seat across from him.

Anakin raised his eyes to meet hers. The storm within them—hope, anger, pain—swirled like the darkening tide in his Force signature.

“Did Dooku send you to spy on me?” he asked hollowly.

Revan snorted before she could stop herself. A reasonable suspicion—but still absurd enough to be funny.

“No. I’ve never met the man. And if I did, I imagine he’d find himself on the unpleasant side of my lightsaber.”

Anakin studied her. For a moment, she thought he would have preferred to hear that Dooku had sent her—it would have been easier to understand. Simpler.

“If you’re not his apprentice,” he asked, voice suddenly sharp, “then how did you get this lightsaber? And that mask? What is all this, Noma?”

“I retrieved them from a shrine,” Revan replied, as though it were perfectly ordinary to loot ancient Sith tombs in one’s spare time.

“Why?” he pressed, angrier now. His hand dropped to the hilt at his side.

“Because it seemed like something I might need,” she hedged, unwilling to lay the full truth bare. Not in this moment. Not to him.

“Do you even know how to use it?” he hissed.

“Yes. There are holocrons in those tombs—ones that can teach the ways of the Force,” she said smoothly. It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. Holocrons did exist. They could teach. And someone like her could have learned.

For a breath, Anakin considered that.

Then he moved.

In one fluid motion, he drew his lightsaber and ignited it, swinging straight for her throat.

Revan acted on instinct. Her right hand surged forward, catching his blade mid-air with the Force. Her left hand snatched her red saber from the table and ignited it, meeting his blow with a violent hiss of plasma against plasma.

They froze—red and blue sabers hovering at each other’s throats, the Force crackling between them.

“That’s not a reflex you learn from a holocron,” Anakin growled. The dark side laced his presence now, seeping through the cracks. He reminded her too much of Alek in the war.

“That’s something you learn in battle. In hard-fought, brutal battle.”

Revan stared at him for a long moment, then deactivated her blade and set it carefully back on the table.

“No,” she agreed quietly, sinking back into her chair. “No, it’s not. Though I must admit—I didn’t think you’d test me quite so violently.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Anakin snapped. He kept his lightsaber active, still hovering near her throat. “I am responsible for every man on this ship—and for the security of the Republic. You may be my sister, Noma, but you are Sith. And that’s something I can’t ignore.”

“Nor is it something you have the authority to prosecute,” Revan said coolly, leaning back. “You could arrest me and bring me before the Senate on suspicion of espionage—but being Sith? Using the dark side? That isn’t illegal. Not according to any Republic law. It’s frowned upon, yes, but the Senate is far too opportunistic to outlaw power they might one day wish to exploit.”

Anakin continued to stare at her, pain and grief slowly replacing the anger in his eyes. With a hiss, he extinguished his lightsaber and sank into the chair across from hers, running a hand across his face.

“I don’t understand, Noma. You refused to be a Jedi. You walked away from the Force—for me—after the Battle of Naboo. Why would you choose this…?”

He gestured at the mask and the lightsaber on the table between them.

“Because I was angry.”

It sounded too simple, even to her. But the moment the words left her mouth, Revan realized they were true. That had always been the reason. It was why she had first abandoned the Jedi after the Mandalorian Wars, why she had sought power, why she had ruled an empire, why she had faced Malak, why she had survived the Emperor’s centuries of torture. It was why she had left Anakin. Because she was angry—at the Force, at the Jedi, at the galaxy, at her friends, at herself.

“I’m not who you think I am, Anakin,” Revan admitted, the words slow and uneven as they slipped past her lips. She massaged her forehead, remembering all at once that she still had a pounding headache.

“Well, that’s clear enough,” Anakin huffed, a twisted imitation of a laugh. “The real question is, what do you mean by that? Are you actually my sister, or is this some trick of the Dark Side?”

“The Dark Side has many powers,” Revan said with a tired, rueful grin. “And while it plays a part in this story, it’s not the main perpetrator.”

“I’m going to need a lot more explanation than that if I’m not going to turn you over to the Jedi and the Senate as a spy,” Anakin informed her flatly.

“My name is Revan. About four thousand years ago, I was known as Darth Revan—a powerful Sith Lord and conqueror. I was the hero of the Mandalorian Wars and the scourge of the galaxy. I brought a Sith Empire into being. I was betrayed by my apprentice and had my memories stripped by the Jedi. Eventually, I joined a group of unlikely companions and slowly regained who I was. I defeated my old apprentice and tried to bring peace. But I was taken prisoner by the Emperor—a Sith so powerful he imprisoned me for centuries. I escaped. I helped defeat him. And finally, I passed into the Force… only to be reborn on Tatooine, with a mission given by the Force itself: to protect its child. You.”

Anakin stared at her for several long moments, jaw slightly open, eyes wide, hands limp at his sides. Then, without warning, he began to laugh—loud, unrestrained laughter that echoed around the small room. He fell out of his chair and landed flat on his back on the floor, still laughing as he stared up at the ceiling.

Revan blinked. That had not been on her list of expected reactions. She’d braced for anger, disbelief, maybe a furious attempt to drag her to a Jedi prison cell—but not this.

“I wish you were lying,” Anakin gasped from the floor.

Revan continued to watch him, concern growing. Had she broken the Chosen One by simply telling him the truth? That would be a new record, even for her.

“It’s funny,” Anakin said hoarsely, his laughter dissolving into harsh, humorless chuckles that sounded far more like suppressed tears than amusement. “I looked through your pack because I thought you were an alcoholic. And I find out you’re a Sith. So I confront you, and you don’t just admit to being a Sith—you tell me you’re some ancient conqueror from four thousand years ago, and the Force tells me you’re not lying.”

“Do you believe me?” Revan asked, genuinely uncertain what to do with his reaction. In truth, she had only told Anakin the truth for two reasons. One: she was exhausted, and having a secret that massive was crushing her. And two: she’d been so sure he wouldn’t believe her that anything else—any half-cocked story she invented—would seem more plausible by comparison.

But, as usual, the Force had its own plans and seemed to think this was the perfect moment to inform its favorite child exactly what Revan was.

Revan snorted and leaned her head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling.

“Well, isn’t this lovely. The one time the Force decides to be communicative.”

Anakin snorted too as he sat up, crossing his legs and folding his arms as he looked at her.

“It always does pick the most interesting moments to offer us clarity. Or… that’s what Obi-Wan keeps telling me.”

Revan made a noise of agreement, but didn’t say more. Whatever came next… that would be up to Anakin.

He stared at her for another long moment, then finally asked the most Anakin question possible:

“I don’t suppose you also know how to counteract Force lightning, do you? Because I have a couple scores to settle with a certain Dooku.”

Chapter Text

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on one's perspective—Rex knocked on the cabin door to inform his general that they were currently in orbit around the planet, and that Senator Valorran was demanding they land as soon as possible. While Rex hadn’t quoted the senator directly, Revan felt quite certain that his statements had included at least two instances of the phrase “utmost importance.” As the senator made his case, she also distantly wondered which poor nat-born officer had been forced to play the intermediary—a role that had once been her own.

In any case, any further questions, suspicions, or possible training had to be postponed. Revan immediately straightened up and called back to Rex that she’d be there in a moment. The young, concerned brother and Jedi that had been present just a moment before disappeared as Anakin suddenly became the general—the Hero Without Fear—that Revan detested.

She had been a warrior for much of her life and a conqueror after that. She respected the military, respected good fighters and clever leaders. But the abrupt switch Anakin could make, from earnest youth to masked legend, always sat wrong with her. It wasn’t the military efficiency that bothered her—it was the impossible balancing act he seemed to perform: being who he was, and being what the Guard and Republic demanded of him.

Revan found it distasteful.

She had led Jedi and troops during the Mandalorian Wars. She’d had to learn how to be a great leader, and she had certainly felt the weight of that responsibility. But she had also fought hard to remain true to herself—not entirely successfully, of course, but that was a story for another time.

Revan quickly repacked her bag and secured her lightsaber in the pocket Anakin had taken it from earlier, carefully rewrapping her mask and placing it back in the bag. Something told her it wouldn’t stay there long. That nagging little pulse in the back of her mind—what she knew was the Force—seemed to be trying to tell her something. Or perhaps push her in a direction she didn’t particularly want to go.

Revan hated it.

But she wasn’t fool enough to ignore it.

Anakin, meanwhile, had brewed two cups of instant caf and pulled a few painkillers from a nearby shelf. He offered them to her wordlessly. Revan accepted them with a grateful nod, downing both the pills and the caf in short order. They helped, somewhat—but she couldn’t help wishing she could find a stim somewhere.

However, before she could further enhance the already vaguely poisonous cocktail she’d ingested, Anakin was ushering her out of the cabin and down the winding corridors toward the turbolift. They arrived at the bridge moments later.

Thyferra was not an especially impressive sight from orbit: a brown-and-green planet with a few scattered bodies of water, more functional than beautiful. It was, for all intents and purposes, a farming world. Its one notable export was Vratixian barley, one of the three primary ingredients used in the manufacture of medical-grade bacta.

The planet had two major populations: humans, and the native Vratixians, an insectoid species that had first cultivated the barley and later become addicted to its effects. This dependency allowed certain humans to exploit them—offering pittance wages and feeding their addiction in exchange for a stable labor force. The Republic had eventually condemned such actions, classifying the original settlers as criminals. But in truth, the Republic was not above using similarly coercive tactics to keep production flowing.

During the time of Revan’s Empire, this planet had been under her control. Its bacta production had been one of the most valuable assets in her war against the Republic. Now, it appeared to be back under Republic jurisdiction—and in all likelihood, not much had changed.

“Where the hell have you been?” Thorn hissed quietly as she entered the bridge with Anakin. “What’s got you so worked up about that nat-born officer?”

Revan shrugged and muttered something vague about explaining later. She had no intention of giving a full explanation—but she knew Thorn and the others deserved at least an apology, which she was willing to offer. She had let her feelings cloud her mission. That was a compromise she couldn’t afford. There had to be a balance—and she’d lost it, if only briefly.

Thorn didn’t get a chance to respond—though his Force signature radiated with barely concealed confusion and curiosity—because Senator Valorran immediately swept over to Anakin, demanding they land at once.

“I tell you, it is of utmost importance that we reach the surface immediately! This mission is imperative! I need to get to the bacta facilities! This is of the greatest significance! Do you want to win this war? Then get me on that planet!”

The senator continued in this vein for quite some time. Anakin tried, at first, to assure him they would land as soon as possible, but he could hardly get more than three words out before being interrupted again by the senator’s effusive insistence.

Eventually, Anakin gave up and turned to Admiral Yularen, informing him that he would be taking Rex and a few others down to the planet to escort the senator.

To his credit, Admiral Yularen remained entirely unperturbed. He merely raised his voice slightly—so he could be heard over the senator’s continuing tirade—and informed Anakin that he would look after the ship in his absence.

Revan, who had only briefly met the Admiral, found herself reminded of Saul Karath, her own admiral during the Mandalorian Wars. She couldn’t yet decide if that was a good or bad thing—but it was, at the very least, a comparison worthy of respect. She resolved to reserve judgment until she had seen more of Yularen, and not let her own nostalgia drive her reasoning.

Anakin then turned to the still-ranting senator and attempted to explain that they were heading to the docking bay, where transports would take them to the surface. Senator Valorran, however, seemed in no mood to listen to anyone but himself. He continued to rant until Anakin gave up entirely, seized the senator by the arm, and escorted him bodily toward the turbolift.

Revan followed, along with Rex, the red-armed Coruscant Guard, and a few others from the 501st.

The turbolift wasn’t large enough for all of them. Only the senator, Anakin, Revan, and the Guard made it into the first car. Rex and the others would follow in the next.

As the lift descended, Revan found herself wondering if it was just something about senators—or something about turbolifts—that made her vividly imagine tossing people out airlocks. At that particular moment, she was having rather detailed and oddly amusing visions of what Senator Valorran might look like drifting through space.

For a moment, a tempting thought crossed her mind: she could just reach into the senator’s mind with the Force. Silence him. Bend him to peace.

But she recoiled from that idea immediately.

She might dislike the senator—intensely—but there was one thing she despised more: those who used the Force to poke around in others’ minds, changing who they were just to make things easier for themselves.

So, Revan forced herself to be content with her macabre daydreams—and made a mental note to track down that pilot later and see if he had any more Revnog.

The trip, fortunately, was a short one. Soon enough, they stepped out into the docking bay, where they were once again greeted by the clone with the Republic signet on his head—Jesse, if Revan remembered correctly. Beside him stood two other troopers, and with Rex and the two clones he had brought from the bridge, their group made for an adequate display of the Republic’s strength and sincerity.

A quick glance at their armor told Revan these were no ordinary clones. She had noticed subtle differences among the Coruscant Guard before, though their armor generally followed a similar pattern and paint scheme—save for the commanders and Hound. But these clones clearly took pride in setting themselves apart. Their armor was individualized, strikingly so, and each of them wore kamas, carrying far more equipment than the average trooper she’d encountered.

“Jesse. Fives. Appo,” Anakin greeted the clones as he stepped off the lift.

“General,” they replied in unison, snapping to a crisp salute.

“The transport ship is ready and waiting,” Jesse informed them. “Hawk will be flying us down to the planet.”

Anakin nodded and gave the clone trooper with the five tattooed on his head a brief pat on the shoulder as he passed.

“Let’s get in the air, then. After all, it’s of the utmost importance we reach the surface as soon as possible.”

Revan snorted involuntarily at the phrasing, earning a side-eye from the senator. But he seemed eager enough to get aboard that he didn’t comment aloud.

Not waiting for Rex and the others, Anakin strode off toward the troop transport, tossing a salute at the clone pilot seated up front before climbing inside.

The rest followed suit, with Senator Valorran voicing a few complaints—about the cramped quarters, the lack of luxury, the indignity of being made to travel “like a clone.” Anakin shrugged off the protests and informed him it was for his own safety. He personally ensured the senator was seated and securely strapped in before motioning for Revan to take the seat beside him.

Captain Rex arrived not long after, followed by two clones and three nat-born officers. Two of the officers, locked in a deep conversation, took the seats to the senator’s right to avoid speaking over Revan and the dignitary. This left only one seat open—directly beside Revan. The last officer claimed it, as the rest of the clones remained standing, leaving no room for the fold-down seats.

“I can stand on the other side of the ship if it makes you more comfortable,” said a familiar voice beside her.

Revan didn’t need to look up to identify the speaker. She had felt him the moment he approached with Rex. Thousands of years and a complete rebirth hadn’t changed the way Carth Onasi felt in the Force.

“Your presence doesn’t make me uncomfortable… It was merely a surprise. I’m sorry if I came off as rude,” Revan replied, aiming for calm and dismissive but landing somewhere closer to uncertain and anxious.

Internally, she groaned. Jedi Master. Hero of the Mandalorian Wars. Lord of the Sith Empire. And here she was, stammering like a padawan discovering her first crush.

“Really? Because usually, when someone turns around and bolts at the sight of your face, it tends to send a different message,” Carth replied dryly. Still, he sat down beside her, giving her a once-over.

Embarrassed by her earlier reaction and determined not to make a fool of herself again, Revan met his gaze. That was a mistake.

Carth looked almost exactly as she remembered him—slightly younger, perhaps, certainly younger than when they had first met above Taris. But it was unmistakably him. Same face. Same eyes. Even the same damn hairstyle. His clothes were different—Republic military blues—but he still managed to make them look good. He always had. Revan forcefully banished that unhelpful thought from her mind.

His eyes, while unfamiliar with her, still held that same tenacity she remembered. A quiet but relentless determination to get to the truth. That unshakable part of him she had once admired—and now cursed.

She couldn’t lie. Or rather, she couldn’t lie well while looking him in the eyes. So the truth would have to do—carefully pruned, not the whole truth, certainly, but enough for his imagination to fill in the rest. It had worked (poorly) on Anakin; she chalked that up to the boy’s Chosen One status and overwhelming Force presence. Carth had no such power in the Force… but his presence still overwhelmed her.

The ship jolted as it took off, exiting the Resolute and beginning its descent toward the designated landing pad.

“So… was it something with my face?” Carth asked casually, though his eyes pinned her in place—disarming and challenging all at once.

If it was meant to shake her, it didn’t. On the contrary, it stirred something old and fierce inside her. Someone was challenging her. Trying to gain the upper hand. Trying to read her.

“No. Well… yes,” Revan admitted. “You reminded me greatly of someone I used to know. My husband. He’s not with me anymore. The Force took him from me a long time ago. And… well. It’s hard sometimes, when I see his face.”

Carth was silent for a moment, watching her carefully. Revan held his gaze, allowing the pain and regret to linger openly on her face and in her voice. They were real feelings, even if the full story behind them wasn’t quite what Carth might assume.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he said at last, bowing his head slightly. “I haven’t lost someone like that, but… I understand, in part, the pain. The ache when someone you love is beyond your reach.”

Now it was Revan’s turn to study him. His face, his words. And then she remembered—Morgana Onasi. She had never met her, but knew that Morgana had died in a strike ordered by Malak early in the war. She’d never considered the possibility that Carth might have found someone else in this new life… or that Morgana herself might have returned.

It was foolish of her, really.

Still, she couldn’t ask. Not without prompting him to ask in turn. And she wasn’t ready to offer that kind of answer.

So instead, she settled for the small comfort that whoever he spoke of, he had admitted they were now out of reach.

“How do you deal with such pain?” she asked, part curiosity, part deflection.

“Work,” Carth replied without hesitation. “I always felt drawn to the military, but I never seriously considered enlisting. Most of the positions were either political or dull. I didn’t want to spend my life on some Core world wandering around in uniform with nothing to do. Then the Clone Wars broke out. I tried to enlist, but since the GAR was built on the clone army, they didn’t need citizens—except as naval officers. And to get those posts, you needed a commission, powerful backing, or a family history of military service.”

He shrugged.

“I had none of those. It took a while to get into the Academy. It was actually Admiral Yularen who helped me. I don’t know how he knew about me—or why he thought I was worth the trouble—but I’m grateful. Even more so that I was able to serve aboard a ship like this… with the Hero Without Fear himself.”

Raven couldn't help the slight snort that escaped her. She hadn't spoken to Anakin in a long time—and their last conversation had revolved around slightly more important matters—but she could still guess that he didn’t particularly enjoy the title Hero Without Fear. It was pompous, and came with far too many expectations. She imagined it felt a bit like being called The Chosen One—a burden you were expected to live up to, whether you wanted to or not.
She had grown up with Anakin. She knew the boy he had been. Hearing that boy hailed as a fearless hero was, frankly, a little funny.

Carth glanced at her, uncertain, then plunged ahead with his own question.
“I take it your way of dealing with it is alcohol?”

“And bar fights,” Revan admitted with a crooked smile. “What can I say? Fighting’s always been what I’m best at.”

Carth seemed to consider this for a moment. But before he could ask another question, something he’d said earlier struck Revan—hard.

She’d been avoiding the Clone War. Burying her head in the sand. It felt too much like the Force trying to push her toward something again, so she’d chosen to ignore it—studiously, stubbornly. Even when she’d been living among the Guard, there were still plenty of nat-borns around Coruscant. The Senate Guard, the police force, the prison wardens—many of them weren’t clones. And all the battle footage she’d seen, all the war propaganda posters, featured soldiers in helmets. She had simply assumed—foolishly, it now seemed—that the Republic, like her old army, was using a mix of conscripts and volunteers, all wearing the same armor the clones did because that was what was available.

So when Carth mentioned that there hadn’t been any conscription, and that he hadn’t even had the option to enlist… it stopped her cold.

“What do you mean only clones are allowed to fight in this war?” she asked, brow furrowed.

Carth gave her a surprised look, as if trying to decide whether she was joking. When he realized she wasn’t, he answered slowly, cautiously.

“I mean—it’s called the Clone War for a reason. It’s clones fighting droids. The Republic didn’t want to risk its citizens. Neither did the Separatists. That’s why neither side uses conscripted militaries,” he explained, keeping his tone neutral as he watched her reaction carefully.

Revan wasn’t sure what he saw on her face. She wasn’t even fully aware of her expression—her mind had already spiraled far from the conversation.

How could she have been so stupid? How could the Republic be so foolish?

It was their war… and yet they were fighting it with an army of clones. Clones versus droids. Disposable flesh versus disposable metal. No wonder the Republic seemed so careless about its military strategies—because they didn’t care. To them, this wasn’t a war between sentient beings. There were no real citizens of the Republic involved, no public outcry. It was just droids versus clones.
Just meat puppets against tin cans in a galactic game of holochess.
No wonder the Senate didn’t blink at losses. The consequences didn’t touch them.

How long, she wondered, had they been planning this? You didn’t manufacture entire armies—two of them—overnight. The scale of the Clone Army alone suggested years of preparation. Years.

Revan had always known that the Republic didn’t care about anything that didn’t directly benefit the wealthy senators and the Core Worlds. But she had never realized the rot ran this deep. That they’d go so far as to manufacture life just to avoid risking their own.

She didn’t know much about cloning. Only what little she’d picked up from the Coruscant Guard in passing. She knew the clones aged faster than normal. That they didn’t emerge fully grown. That they were young—too young. And that they were treated as only semi-sentient. She had abhorred that. But she hadn’t really thought about it until now.

And now that she was thinking about it, the implications were… unacceptable.

A new headache bloomed—darker and sharper than the one left over from her hangover.

“How long has the Republic had the clone army?” she asked Carth abruptly, voice low and tense.

He gave her a curious look.

“I know you said you’re fond of alcohol and bar fights,” he said, “but surely you haven’t missed all the news?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been avoiding anything to do with the war,” Revan said tightly. “And yes. Lots of Revnog.”
She stepped closer to him, suddenly grabbing his arm with a grip far stronger than her tone suggested.
“When did they order the clone army?”

Carth stared at her, openly disbelieving, but before he could answer, Anakin—who had just finished speaking with Captain Rex—interjected.

“Actually,” he said, “it was originally ordered by a Jedi named Master Sifo-Dyas. Supposedly on behalf of the Republic, though the Republic didn’t know about it at the time. That was… ten years ago, I think. But Master Obi-Wan said Jango—the guy the clones are based on—claimed he was hired by someone called Tyranus. And we’re not really sure how much of that is true, considering Jango sided with Dooku.”

If anything, that only made Revan’s thoughts more chaotic.

Ten years ago? Before the Separatists had even formed?

So a Jedi had commissioned the army… without the Senate’s knowledge. And the man the clones were based on—Jango Fett—had not been hired by that Jedi. He’d been hired by someone else. Someone who went by Tyranus.

Revan knew that name structure.

She knew a Sith name when she heard one.

The name of a Darth.

Chapter Text

The transport shuddered as it touched down. Anakin cut off his spiel about the inner workings of the transport to bark a few crisp orders to the clone troopers. He then extended a hand to Senator Valorran—more a hollow gesture of courtesy than anything else—as the Coruscant Guard formed up around them.

Carth stood at the same time as the two other nat-born officers. He turned and offered a much more genuine hand to Revan, who didn’t acknowledge it for a long moment. Her forehead rested against the steepled tips of her fingers, eyes unfocused, staring at the floor of the transport—mind racing to process the avalanche of corruption she’d just uncovered and the staggering depth of stupidity encompassing this war.

“Miss Kon, the Senator requires you to accompany him,” Carth urged, giving her shoulder a light shake.

Revan shot to her feet with such suddenness that Carth had to pull his hand back, startled. She rotated her shoulders and adjusted her armor slightly before turning without a word and following the Senator, Carth trailing behind her.

Outside, Senator Valorran was receiving an effusive welcome from the lead scientists of the bacta facility. At last, it seemed, the Senator had found people suitably impressed by his title—fawning, bowing, scraping, and hanging on his every self-important word. The sight churned Revan’s stomach. She came to stand beside Commander Thorn and the rest of the Guard, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable as she watched the charade unfold.

Anakin, to his credit, looked equally unimpressed by the mutual ego inflation. He seemed eager to get this mission over with and return to his ship. Revan wondered if it had anything to do with his padawan being on a separate diplomatic assignment—negotiating peace elsewhere in the galaxy alongside Senator Amidala. When Anakin spoke of her and her efforts to end the war and champion the rights of the clones, there was more admiration in his voice than one would expect from a mere colleague. Revan remembered the crush he’d had on Padmé when they first met on Tatooine. She filed that away for later—prime material for teasing him when they weren't knee-deep in Republic dysfunction.

For now, her focus was the war, the clones, and the unmistakable stench of Sith manipulation behind it all.

She knew from what Anakin had told her that Count Dooku had a so-called apprentice, Asajj Ventress, who necessarily also used the dark side. Dooku might very well be Darth Tyranus. But what puzzled her was the apparent lack of other Sith. Traditionally, Sith Lords kept multiple apprentices—or at least a collection of acolytes—jockeying for position. From what she’d gathered, Dooku had only Ventress, and Grievous, who—while formidable—was not truly a darksider.

It didn’t make sense.

Two Sith, alone, holding their own against the entire Jedi Order? Revan didn’t buy it. There had to be more. More Sith. More schemes. Powerful ones, using Dooku and Ventress as pawns to quietly execute a broader plan. But if that were true, why hadn’t the Republic noticed? Unless they had—and ignored it. Perhaps these hidden Sith simply eliminated all witnesses. Or perhaps, more damningly, the Republic cared so little for its soldiers that mass disappearances were just chalked up as “casualties of war.”

Her thoughts spiraled deeper—new theories forming, old ones discarded just as quickly. Nothing stuck. Everything contradicted. Revan clenched her fists behind her back, aching for something to crush. She felt the temptation to reach out through the Force, to act, to do something. A fleeting image of Senator Valorran’s smug face contorted in a Force choke crossed her mind, but she dismissed it. Not helpful. Not now.

She needed him—for now. As insufferable as he was, the Senator was her ticket to digging deeper. The Jedi would never trust her, not with her history, not with their unspoken suspicion that she reeked of the dark. But the Senate? They would sell their souls for results. They didn’t care how the Force was used—only that their objectives were met. And Revan was more than willing to give them what they wanted… as long as she got what she wanted in return.

She was snapped from her thoughts by Thorn’s elbow nudging her side. The Senator had moved off the landing platform, being ushered into the facility by the scientists. The Guard—and by extension, Revan, Anakin, and the 501st—needed to follow.

The facility was nothing remarkable. Revan barely looked at it. She’d been inside bacta plants before—this planet had once belonged to her empire, and little seemed to have changed. She didn’t care for the specifics of how the plants were harvested, processed, or refined into bacta. Science had never been her forte. A quick scan of the area for danger was all she afforded it before returning to her musings.

That was, until the scientists stopped outside a sealed laboratory and insisted that, due to the sensitivity of the Senator’s knowledge, only he and General Skywalker could enter.

Both Anakin and Thorn immediately protested.

“Senator, I assure you, my men are completely trustworthy,” Anakin said.

“Senator, it’s unwise to enter without your guard,” Thorn added. “We don’t know what threats may be present.”

Thorn nudged Revan again—her cue to serve as “translator.”

“Senator Valorran,” Revan said coolly, “it would be unwise to proceed without your escort. The Guard cannot ensure your safety from the hallway.”

“Ah, but we will have General Skywalker with me,” the lead scientist said, tone both deferential and condescending—a delicate balancing act that almost impressed her. “Surely, the Republic’s greatest warrior is enough.”

“Quite so,” Valorran parroted. “General Skywalker will see to my safety far better than any number of… clones.”

Anakin’s gloved fist clenched at that.

“I can only do so much, Senator,” he said through gritted teeth. “It would be wise to have additional protection.”

But Valorran waved a dismissive hand.

“I’m the one in charge of this mission. I give the orders, General. And I say that only you, I, and the scientists will enter. Now—no more delays. This is of the utmost importance.”

Revan fantasized, vividly, about throwing the Senator out a window.

She wondered, idly, if the phrase utmost importance was some kind of Force-sensitive trigger for homicidal thoughts. Or maybe it was just him. That was a theory she’d have to test another time.

As it stood, there was little to gain from arguing, and Anakin seemed to realize this. With a sigh, he turned to the chief scientist, who was still standing stubbornly by the locked door, refusing to let anyone enter until the situation was resolved.

“What should my men do while we’re inside? Is there anywhere they can wait?” Anakin asked.

The scientist looked contemptuous.

“This facility is not meant for visitors, General. We don’t have a lounge for them to waste their time in. However, they may explore the non-restricted areas at their leisure, so long as they do not attempt to enter any of the labs. Perhaps they can learn something by observing through the windows.”

Without another word, the scientist turned his back to the clones and placed a data identification chip on the scanner beside the door, pressing his hand to the pad—likely for genetic confirmation.

“Rex, keep your comms open,” Anakin ordered, stepping back. “If I don’t check in within the hour, call me. If I don’t answer, come find us.”

Then, turning to Revan, he added, “Noma, don’t get into any trouble. And don’t disappear on me—we still have a lot to talk about.”

Revan offered a smile meant to be friendly but laced with an unsettling sharpness. “Oh, I have no intention of going anywhere. There’s still a lot I need to do.”

Anakin raised a skeptical brow but had no chance to question her further. The door beeped, followed by a long whine and hiss of decompression. The scientist—who may have introduced himself earlier but whose name Revan had missed in her reverie—gestured for the senator, Anakin, and the other scientists to step inside. With another hiss and a sharp click, the door sealed behind them, effectively dividing the group.

Revan, Carth, Thorn, Rex, the rest of the clones, and two nat-born officers were left standing awkwardly in the corridor, unsure of their next move.

The two officers were the first to act, clearly eager to be away from the clones. They announced they’d go exploring and quickly headed down another hallway—until the blonde one paused, turning back.

“Not coming, Carth?”

Carth shook his head. “No thanks, Dallo.”

Dallo and his companion squinted at him, then offered a pair of distinctly unfriendly grins.

“All right, Carth. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your time with another pretty woman. Just remember—you don’t exactly have a good track record.”

Snide comment delivered, they turned and walked off, chuckling to each other in low voices, likely elaborating on the jab.

“Sorry about that,” Carth muttered, shooting Revan an apologetic glance. “They come from a long line of naval officers. They don’t take kindly to an ‘upstart’ like me.”

“Really,” Revan drawled, watching the pair disappear around a corner. “In my experience, people like that often make the worst officers. Too reliant on the deeds of their ancestors to do anything worthwhile themselves.”

Carth snorted. “You’ve got no idea. The way they talk, you’d think they fought every battle themselves. I’m pretty sure their only real accomplishment is maintaining very shiny boots in the middle of a war.”

Revan laughed, and a few nearby clones chuckled as well—clearly familiar with such officers.

“Well, you heard the General,” Rex said. “We’ve got an hour. Let’s have a look around.”

The clones nodded in agreement and fell into step. Thorn joined Rex, and the two quickly launched into a conversation about their respective posts and the burdens of command. The 501st and Coruscant Guard stayed mostly within their own groups, chatting quietly.

Carth and Revan brought up the rear, walking side by side in amicable silence—until Revan, unable to hold back her curiosity any longer, broke it.

“You mentioned earlier that it was difficult getting into the Academy because of all the clones. I’m curious—why pursue a military career so ardently? You mentioned earlier feeling drawn to it, I am curious why you think that is, after all, it’s not exactly the most lucrative path in the galaxy.”

Carth gave her a guarded look—one she remembered well from Taris. She recognized the signs: this wasn’t a topic he was eager to delve into.

“At first, after my rejection, I did not pursue it. But circumstances made it so that it was one of the few options I felt I could take,” Carth said gruffly, looking away. “Something I felt I needed to do to prove myself and find something worth living and fighting for.”

They walked in silence for a moment. Revan didn’t push—experience had taught her that trying to force Carth to talk when he wasn’t ready only led to him closing off entirely.

Surprisingly, it was Carth who spoke again—this time, not to change the subject.

“But if I’m being completely honest…” he hesitated. “It wasn’t just that. It also… felt right. Like I belonged. Like I’d done it before—even though I hadn’t.”

He trailed off, glancing at her awkwardly. Revan resisted the overwhelming urge to grab him by the shoulders, stare into his eyes, and beg him to say more. Her restraint was rewarded as he spoke again.

Letting out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, Carth added, “What’s even weirder—I have no idea why I’m telling you this. You’re a complete stranger. And yet I feel comfortable. Maybe I’m going crazy… or maybe Dallo’s right and I really should stay away from pretty women.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” Revan replied, the words out before she could stop them. “Unless, of course, you’re this open with all pretty women. Or am I an exception?”

It was the kind of teasing line she used to say to her Carth. The Carth who’d been her husband. Who laughed when she flirted like that. The realization hit like cold water: this Carth didn’t know her. This wasn’t her husband.

She opened her mouth to retract or apologize—she wasn’t sure which—but Carth beat her to it.

“Not really,” he said quietly. “In fact… I think you’re the first person I’ve ever told that to. So yeah. You’re special.”

“Well, now I’m extra flattered,” Revan said, trying to recover some composure. “Not only am I pretty, but I’m also special.”

That wasn’t what she’d meant to say, either. She’d meant to thank him for his trust. To be dignified. Instead, she’d flirted again. Part of her wondered if it was too late to throw herself out the nearest airlock—much like she’d imagined doing to the senator earlier.

Carth laughed again, a little awkwardly, cheeks tinged pink as he fixed his eyes on the armor of the clone in front of him.

“So I’ve bared my soul to you,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any equally embarrassing secrets to share so we can be humiliated together?”

Revan tilted her head, humming in thought. “Well… I was one of the best smugglers in the Outer Rim. Had a hobby of raiding tombs and temples on forbidden planets—collected artifacts from ancient wars thousands of years old. A few months ago I got arrested in a bar fight, and now I’m doing community service with the Coruscant Guard. Oh, and Anakin is my foster brother. And I fully intend to end this war.”

Carth blinked, then laughed at her blunt delivery. “Well, I agree with you on ending the war, though I hope you don’t get carried away and get yourself killed playing the hero.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Revan said with a wry smile. “I’m no hero. No delusions of grandeur here.”

Carth looked skeptical, but didn’t argue. “Also—best smuggler? I’ve never heard the name Noma Kon before. Kind of hard to believe.”

“On the contrary,” Revan said, flashing him a conspiratorial grin as she leaned closer. “The mark of a great smuggler is not being famous. It means you’ve never been caught. Anyone with a well-known name? That’s someone who’s made a lot of mistakes.”

That made Carth laugh again. He bumped her shoulder gently, warm brown eyes meeting hers. For a moment, it was all Revan could focus on—his eyes, his smile, the sound of his laugh. Memories surged from her first life, unbidden and bittersweet.

Then, without warning, the Force screamed a warning.

A split second later, the world flipped—inside out and upside down—as an explosion ripped through the facility. The shockwave sent everything scattering in every direction.

Chapter Text

Revan’s hands clenched, as if crushing an invisible sphere in each palm.

Technically, when using the Force, physical gestures weren’t necessary. The Force was about channeling the mind more than the body. But still, many Force users found it helpful to pair intention with motion—visualizing and tracking the flow of power through physical cues.

Revan had long since surpassed the need for such theatrics in normal circumstances. But instinct was a stubborn thing. And when caught off-guard, like now, her reactions defaulted to older habits. As she lifted the heavy slabs of ceiling that had nearly crushed her, Carth, and the clones, her fingers curled in tense focus—arms lifting as though she were physically pushing the wreckage away rather than doing so with her mind.

Of course, she also had a slight flair for the dramatic. It did look far more impressive to onlookers when someone raised tons of debris with clenched fingers and rigid arms—especially to those unfamiliar with the Force.

With a final surge of energy and a flick of her arms, Revan flung the rubble to either side of the room. Not ideal—it might block potential escape routes—but it was better than dropping it back on their heads, which was a decidedly worse outcome.

She rose to her full height, standing in the middle of the shattered space and surveying the damage. A large portion of the wall behind them, and to the left, had collapsed. Several massive support beams were missing, and much of the ceiling had caved in. Every window was blown out, and the air was thick with dust. The building groaned around them, as if struggling to remember how to hold itself together.

A rasping cough pulled her attention back.

Carth was kneeling nearby, one hand covering his mouth as he coughed. It looked like he’d ducked on reflex, trying to shield himself. He now sat frozen, stunned, still processing the fact that he was alive.

Revan dropped beside him, scanning him quickly. He seemed fine.

Very fine, a traitorous part of her mind whispered.

She shoved that thought aside. Carth might be unfairly attractive, but now was not the time. Curse her brain and its habit of flirting mid-crisis. Was she really so used to war that she could compartmentalize romance and immediate danger?

Possibly. She didn’t particularly want to test the theory.

“Carth, are you all right?” she asked gently, placing a hand on his shoulder—partly to reassure him, partly to deepen her read on his presence in the Force. It wasn’t strictly necessary. She could feel him just by proximity. But it was a habit she'd formed… a long time ago.

No, Revan, she scolded herself. Not the time.

Carth coughed again and dragged a hand through his hair, shaking dust and grit from the strands.

“Uh… alive. Somehow,” he muttered, glancing at her with a bemused expression. “Guess I need to add ‘Jedi’ to your list of surprise talents. Right up there with ‘galaxy’s best smuggler’ and ‘community service comm center attendant.’”

Revan scoffed, but before she could answer with her usual dry wit, two familiar voices cut through the lingering haze—Captain Rex and Commander Thorn, both barking out orders for their men to sound off and report in.

Thankfully, it seemed Revan had acted in time. The clones all responded quickly. Somewhat shaken, perhaps, but with nothing worse than dusty armor and ringing ears.

“What the kriff was that?!” Thorn snapped, eyes scanning the ruined space, blaster raised and turning with every sharp pivot as he searched for enemies.

“Sir,” piped up one of the clones—Fives, if Revan remembered correctly, memory was not Revan strongest asset, “did the roof just float off us? Shouldn’t we all be… y’know… dead?”

The others seemed to be having similar realizations, glancing around in disbelief. Rex’s visor remained fixed on Revan. Sharp. Calculating. Unflinching. Even amid chaos, this one remained locked in, assessing everything.

Revan suspected that was how he’d survived this long—and how Anakin had, too.

She followed his gaze briefly before turning to where the blast had originated, letting her awareness reach into the Force.

“It would seem, Fives,” Rex said slowly, “that our senator’s liaison is more than just the general’s sister. She appears to share his gift.”

His voice was measured, but his stance wasn’t relaxed. His blaster wasn’t aimed at her, but it was held in a way that could shift in a second. There was a challenge in his tone, and a warning.

Revan didn’t take it personally. Rex was doing his job. Someone had just tried to kill them. Whether or not she had saved them didn’t mean she was above suspicion. For all he knew, they’d survived by accident—collateral survivors of a blast meant for her alone.

She knew those thoughts well. She’d had them herself many times.

“Great,” Fives drawled.

He and the others slowly edged closer to Carth and Revan, instinctively forming a loose circle, weapons ready and eyes scanning outward in every direction.

Carth had gotten to his feet, brushing himself off and smacking at his ears as though trying to slap the ringing out of them.

“I think we have a bigger problem than Miss Kon’s ability to use the Force,” he said, straightening up and falling naturally into the authoritative tone that always seemed to cling to him. He was one of those people who just seemed born to give orders. “Like, where that blast came from. Who set it off. Whether there’s more. And whether it was the Separatists or just some angry locals.”

“Based on our earlier conversation, Carth, I don’t suppose you’re particularly fond of Dallo and his friend?” Revan asked suddenly, cutting through the suspicious looks and the unspoken questions still hovering in the air from the clones.

Carth gave her a wary glance. “I mean, they’re my fellow officers, but we don’t exactly see eye to eye. Why?”

“Because the answer to your earlier question—‘what the kriff was that?’—is that it was Dallo and his friend,” Revan said evenly, voice cool and unconcerned.

“It was what?!” multiple voices shouted at once—Carth’s among them.

Revan continued, tone as calm as ever. “Based on the direction of the blast and what I felt in the Force, the bomb was being carried by one—or both—of them. Unfortunately, they’re no longer with us to confirm.”

Despite the use of the word unfortunately, Revan’s voice betrayed no sorrow. If anything, she sounded mildly intrigued. Possibly bored.

“So you're telling me that two Republic officers brought a bomb into a bacta facility and blew themselves up?” Rex asked incredulously.

“Yes. Though I doubt they knew they were carrying the bomb,” Revan replied. “And, to be fair, I don’t think they succeeded in blowing up anything particularly important.”

“Except themselves,” a clone muttered under his breath—earning a sharp jab in the ribs from Fives, who added in a low whisper:

“She said important, not self-important.”

Revan had to bite the inside of her cheek not to smile. She wanted to—desperately—but with Carth still recovering from the shock and Rex already watching her like a hawk, she figured now wasn’t the time. Still, she tucked the moment away in her memory—along with the clone who made the comment. Something told her he’d be fun to talk to later.

“If they weren’t in a position to destroy anything crucial, why would someone set off the bomb on them anyway?” asked Trickshot, the Coruscant Guard’s sniper, still shaken.

“I think they were meant to,” Rex muttered. He scanned their surroundings again, then seemed to come to the same conclusion Revan had. “My guess is, the bomb was meant to kill us. Whoever triggered it didn’t know they’d split off from the group.”

“Exactly,” Revan said, dusting off her hands against her pant legs and adjusting the weight of the pack on her back.

“If I had to guess who could smuggle a bomb onto two Republic officers in the short time we’ve been here,” Thorn muttered darkly, “it wouldn’t be a local. I’d bet a month’s worth of rations that it was Senator Valorrian.”

“Agreed,” Rex said grimly. “Even if it wasn’t him directly, the attack may still be tied to him. Either way, we need to find the general—now.”

Carth, who had collected himself during the exchange, drew his blaster and stepped forward.

“They both had private conferences with the senator while we were still on the ship. He summoned me too, but I couldn’t make it. I remember afterwards… they were showing off some kind of gift he gave them. A new comm device, I think.”

Rex, who had just started moving down a passageway likely leading back toward the lab, stopped cold in his tracks. He spun around.

“A comm device?”

“Yes,” Carth nodded, already grimacing. “Apparently it had higher transmission capacity, smaller size—some kind of upgrade. I wasn’t really listening at the time.”

Then his face paled, realization dawning.

“The comm signals… they triggered a bomb that was already here, didn’t they?”

“Most likely,” Rex confirmed. Then, to the group: “Shut down all your comms. Now. Since they would know where we were going and the bomb detonated based on the comm signal it is a good bet that this most of these hallways that we were directed to are rigged with explosives. And we don’t know if it is juts there comms or all comms. The Resolute will figure out something’s wrong when we don’t check in. For now, we proceed with extreme caution. Everything points to the senator’s involvement, but someone on this planet still had to plant those bombs. It is not a smart plan on their part but it is a dangerous one.”

He turned back to Revan. “Everyone moves in pairs if we get split up. Kon, can you use the Force to sense any threats we can’t see?”

“To a degree,” Revan replied with a shrug. “The Force isn’t infallible—and neither is my connection to it—but it’s better than stumbling around blind.”

“A chance is better than nothing,” Rex said as he turned, blaster raised, and began leading the way down the corridor.

And also a better way to keep an eye on her, Revan noted silently. Rex was still suspicious. Which, frankly, she appreciated. It meant he wasn’t an idiot.

Their progress was slower now. Each hallway, each doorway was cleared with the meticulous caution of soldiers expecting an ambush. But the building seemed eerily empty.

“There’s something wrong here,” Carth said suddenly, once they stopped at a junction. Two clones peeled off to clear the surrounding doors and passages.

“Really?” asked Jesse, the clone with the Republic sigil on his helmet. “What gave it away—the explosion, or the dead officers?”

Carth ignored the sarcasm and pointed upward. “What do you hear?”

Jesse paused. “Nothing.”

The others quickly drew close, frowning.

“What’s the holdup?” Rex asked, approaching.

“I asked what you hear,” Carth repeated.

“Nothing,” Rex echoed. “Kon hasn’t sensed anyone either. Seems like everyone’s evacuated.”

“It seems so,” Carth assented. “And as you’ve said—there’s no sound. Which begs the question: why haven’t any of the security alarms gone off? Why haven’t any defense droids been deployed? And why can’t we hear the approaching sirens from the emergency response teams that should be racing here after an explosion of this scale?”

The group fell silent, staring at him. Even Revan, seasoned warrior that she was, felt the chill of realization crawl up her spine. She had been so focused on threats—bombs, attackers, sabotage—that she’d overlooked the most obvious clue of all: the silence. There should have been alarms. Sirens. The unmistakable whir of security droids. But there was nothing.

Now that she thought back on it, the facility had always been quiet. Other than the handful of scientists who’d greeted them on the landing pad, they hadn’t seen anyone. No technicians, no medics, no maintenance staff. It had been too quiet from the very beginning.

Revan cursed silently. How had she missed something so glaring?

A senator, desperate to get to the planet as fast as possible. Demanding minimal company. Splitting the group the moment they landed. She’d brushed it off, but now... Now it all seemed deliberate.

Sure, bacta facilities were often built in isolated areas due to the volatile nature of the chemicals involved. But even then, the emergency systems should have activated. The signal should have gone out. They should be hearing the whine of speeders and sirens approaching. And instead—nothing.

Dead quiet.

A window shattered nearby with a sharp, crystalline crack.

The clones instantly tensed, weapons snapping toward the source of the sound. Panic flickered across a few faces.

Revan drew in a slow, deep breath and exhaled through her nose. Then she composed herself and offered a tight smile.

“My apologies,” she said calmly, addressing the group. “I let my temper get the better of me. I’ve just realized how completely we’ve all been played.”

She straightened, adjusting her stance.

“I think we can pick up the pace. She’s not going to waste time on this section of the facility. She wants the finished product—and the Hero Without Fear.”

“She?” Tickshot asked, frowning.

“Ventress,” Revan answered, voice level but cold. “Only a Sith apprentice would take a risk this reckless of a plan for a prize this valuable.”

She reached back to her pack with the other, fluidly drawing both of her lightsabers from their hidden compartments.

“She’s trying to impress her Master. Which leaves me with a very lucrative opportunity to gather some excellent information.”

Revan gave the group a sharp, unreadable smile—one that held no warmth—before turning on her heel and heading down the corridor toward the lab, where they had last seen Anakin… and the senator.

Chapter Text

It seemed Revan’s suspicions were not unfounded. It wasn’t long before the sharp crack of blaster fire split the air, prompting the group to tighten their formation and quicken their pace. Revan and Rex took point, while Thorn and the other members of the Coruscant Guard secured the rear. Carth remained in the middle, flanked by the 501st, his lack of armor and single blaster making him the most vulnerable among them.

Rounding the final corner, they came face to face with the still-sealed lab doors, guarded by a squad of battle droids.

“Halt! Surrender immediately!” one of the droids barked, thrusting a hand forward.

Its answer was a blaster bolt straight through the head, courtesy of Rex, who, along with the other clones, swiftly dispatched the rest. Revan barely spared them a glance. She trusted the clones to handle the droids. Her focus was solely on the door.

Igniting her saber with a sharp snap-hiss, Revan carved a clean slash through the hinges and lock of the lab door in one fluid movement. Then, stretching out her hand, she seized the heavy door with the Force and hurled it across the room. The door smashed into and crushed the last remaining battle droid, conveniently blocking an adjacent hallway from which she could already hear the distant clanking march of reinforcements. It wouldn’t hold them for long, but it would buy them a precious moment.

Without hesitation, Revan swept through the ruined doorway and found herself facing another door—its surface melted and scorched by a lightsaber. Clearly, this had once been a decontamination chamber. Judging by the damage, Anakin had tried to escape but had not made it through the second door.

Grinding her teeth in frustration and growing anxiety, Revan pressed forward, the clones following close behind.

The lab itself was chaos.

It was much larger than it had appeared from the outside, deceptively so, and an absolute wreck. Desks, machinery, bacta samples, healing tanks, and countless other scientific instruments lay scattered and broken across the floor. But what truly alarmed her was what wasn’t there.

There was no sign of Anakin.

Battle droids lay smashed in heaps, lightsaber scars scorched the walls—and even the ceiling—and every window was shattered. But of Anakin Skywalker, there was nothing.

A faint groan from beneath a pile of wreckage drew her attention. Striding over, Revan flicked her wrist, tossing aside what remained of a desk and part of a bacta tank. Beneath the debris lay Senator Valorran, bleeding from countless small cuts but, much to Revan’s disappointment, not in any immediate danger of dying. Pity, really. That would’ve been far more convenient.

“Help... help me... Separatists... ambush...” the senator rasped, reaching weakly toward her.

Revan stepped back just enough to avoid even the edge of her robe brushing against him.

“Where is Anakin? Where is Ventress?” she demanded, voice sharp as a vibroblade.

“I... I need medical attention...” Valorran groaned, ignoring the question.

Frustrated beyond patience, Revan seized him with the Force and lifted him effortlessly off the floor. With a flick of her wrist, she hurled him toward the shattered windows and left him suspended in midair, dangling above the drop outside. The only thing keeping him from plummeting was her will alone.

The senator let out a noise that might have been a scream—though it was pitched so high it could’ve doubled as a hound-whistle. And given how much he flailed and kicked, it seemed clear that his health was far less dire than he had implied.

“Where. Is. Anakin. Skywalker?” Revan ground out, each word crisp and dangerously precise.

“They... they fell... jumped... flew... out the window!” Valorran stammered, clearly struggling to describe the scene. “Now please—put me down! Don’t—don’t—!”

Revan released her hold without warning.

The senator let out another of those canine-pitched shrieks as he fell, followed by a dull thump as he hit the platform below. His wailing continued unabated.

“Well, I’d say there’s a fair chance Anakin survived that,” Revan remarked dryly as she stepped to the window and looked down.

The building was perched precariously on the edge of a plateau—no doubt a safety precaution to prevent any fires or explosions from spreading to nearby crops or settlements. From most windows, the drop would have been fatal. But below this one, Revan spotted a landing platform—likely for emergency transports or shuttles ferrying scientists to and from the facility. And, if she had to guess, hidden beneath that platform was the Separatist ship, cloaked from the Republic transport’s scanners when they’d arrived.

That at least gave her hope. This was probably a small strike force, not the vanguard of a larger invasion. Reinforcements were unlikely.

On the platform below—only a story down—was the still-groaning senator, sprawled on his back and whining like a child who’d dropped their ice cream. And near him, locked in fierce combat, was Anakin Skywalker facing off against a pale, bald woman that Revan guessed could only be Asajj Ventress.

At first glance, Ventress was unimpressive—slightly shorter than Revan, pale-skinned, and adorned with black tattoos near her mouth. For a brief moment, Revan thought she might be Rattataki; the chalk-white skin and bald head reminded her vaguely of someone she'd once seen accompanying an Imperial agent to her temple. Even though that memory was more ghost than truth—a fractured echo from her days as a ghost worshiped by the Order of Revan—she pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time to get lost in half-remembered faces.

Instead, Revan quickly assessed the rest of the platform and understood why Anakin was having trouble dealing with a single Sith apprentice.

The Sith never fought fair. Not that Revan minded—it was one of the few reliable traits you could count on from their kind.

It seemed Ventress had brought more than just a few battle droids. Several MagnaGuards wielding electrostaves—capable of deflecting lightsaber strikes—surrounded her. Some of them wore weathered ponchos for reasons Revan couldn’t immediately fathom, a detail she mentally filed away for later. Smaller, more spherical droids hovered nearby, encased in personal shield generators that hummed faintly.

All in all, a messy, unfair fight. Typical.

And exactly the kind of battlefield Revan excelled in.

Anakin was fighting valiantly, but it was clearly a losing battle. He spent most of his time ducking behind the wreckage of small personal shuttles, trying to pick off as many droids as he could without getting himself killed. It probably hadn’t been going on for long, but Revan could already see him flagging.

It seemed the Sith acolyte—or apprentice, whatever she was—had noticed this too. She taunted him as she rose to her feet after being kicked aside by Anakin, who had quickly taken shelter behind a fallen speeder.

“Come now, Skywalker. Is that all you have? The great hero of the Republic, cowering like a coward?” Ventress mocked, idly swinging one of her lightsabers back and forth, cutting grooves into the metal beneath her feet.

So Sith still enjoyed taunting their enemies. Revan noted this with some satisfaction. She always found battles dull without at least some dialogue. Then again, that was hardly a productive thought to be having right now. Mentally shaking herself, Revan chastised her inner monologue—first flirting, then losing focus because she was flirting, and now getting distracted analyzing Sith battle banter. She really was losing her edge. And in war, losing your edge was dangerous.

She hooked her lightsaber to her belt and shrugged off her pack, reaching inside to pull out her mask. Turning, she tossed the pack to Carth with a quick, “Hold on to this, will you?”

“Absolutely. I’ll make sure it’s safe,” Carth replied, stammering slightly and clearly confused.

“I hope you do. I’m rather attached to the spare pair of pants I keep in there,” Revan joked before turning to the clones. “Can you get down there without breaking your necks?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Rex, nodding. “We’ve got grapples. But the instant those droidekas see us, they’ll start picking us off one by one on the way down. Although it would probably be best for Captain Onasi to stay here. This area should be clear of bombs. Try to get on the comms and call for reinforcements.”

“Leave the droidekas to me,” Revan said, flashing a grin meant to be reassuring. Judging by the flash of apprehension she felt ripple through the Force from the clones, it had the opposite effect. Apparently, her reassuring smile had long since crossed into sinister. She really was slipping. First her focus, now her expressions. Though, if she was honest, Bastila would have said she was never particularly good at not coming off as terrifying before a fight anyway.

Shoving that thought—and Bastila’s voice—aside, Revan fastened the mask over her face and pulled up her hood. The digital display inside flickered to life, as it always did, scrolling through long-outdated diagnostics. It warned her, yet again, that she had no neck seal and that the rest of her armor wasn’t linked to the mask—leftover programming from the Mandalorian who had once worn it. She’d never bothered to delete it. Truthfully, she missed her full armor set right now. Even thought she was wearing most of it Revan had forgone the long, skirt-like cloth had added a dramatic flair to her movements in battle. It completed the image of Darth Revan the Conqueror, the feared Sith Lord. Bastila’s voice again whispered something about her love of theatrics, but Revan silenced it with practiced ease.

She took one step forward and dropped from the window.

The Force cushioned her fall, and she landed smoothly, rising from one knee. Glancing around the platform, she noted that while her landing had been quiet, Ventress—skilled as she was—had not missed the telltale ripple of another Force user nearby. Revan gave a soft, derisive snort, muffled by her helm.

“Oh, Skywalker brought company,” Ventress smirked. Revan was almost impressed by how every word seemed like a smirk in itself. Clearly, this Sith had mastered the art of being a smarmy bastard. Revan could appreciate that—it always made it more satisfying when the smug look was wiped off their face.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Ventress continued, spinning her lightsaber lazily. “Some new Force-sensitive clone? Or perhaps a fresh-faced Padawan?” She tapped the hilt against her chin, grinning. “I suppose I’ll find out when I peel your corpse apart. Droids—kill them!”

At her command, the droidekas pivoted away from Anakin’s position and opened fire on Revan just as the clones began rappelling down their grapples.

Revan’s hand dropped to her belt, igniting one of her sabers. The violet blade hummed to life, cutting through the air as she deflected blaster bolts back toward their sources. The bolts did little against the droideka shields, but they forced Ventress to ignite her own blades and deflect them as well, wiping the smile from her face.

With her free hand, Revan seized the brief lull that followed the ricocheting blaster fire. She reached out through the Force and hurled several droidekas backward, sending them tumbling off the platform. Whether they were destroyed or merely delayed, she didn’t much care—one problem solved for now.

Rex, Thorn, and the others had landed by then, engaging the remaining droids and sending covering fire toward the MagnaGuards with electrostaves. Three of them had vaulted over the fallen speeder and were now dueling Anakin directly. A tough fight, but manageable.

“Curse you, Jedi!” Ventress spat, bringing her lightsabers into a defensive guard, glaring at Revan’s mask.

Revan tilted her head slightly, then drew her second saber. The crimson blade sprang to life, casting its bloody glow across the metal deck. With a sudden burst of Force-speed, she lunged at Ventress.

To Ventress’ credit, she managed to block both blades, but the force of the attack drove her to one knee, Revan towering over her, sabers locked and pushing down.

“What, is swearing illegal for the Sith now?” Revan asked, her voice dry and mocking through her helm. “If so, I may have to side with the Jedi on at least one point of doctrine. 'Curse you'? Really? That’s just prudish. And not a good look for a Sith—if you even are one.”

Ventress growled and swept her leg in an attempt to knock Revan off balance. But Revan saw it coming and hopped back, disengaging their blades and allowing Ventress to regain her feet—but giving her no real opening.

Ventress lunged again, her lightsabers striking in swift, practiced arcs. Revan gave ground, parrying and sidestepping. Ventress used every trick she could—kicks, Force pushes, trying to trip Revan over fallen droids, even launching herself from a half-destroyed speeder to strike from above. But Revan countered each attack effortlessly, her defenses calm and measured.

Revan had to admit, this acolyte—she was definitely an acolyte, not yet a full apprentice—had potential. She had natural skill with a blade and a clever understanding of her environment. But she was wild, driven too much by her anger and frustration. She relied on brute force when she should have been striking with speed and subtlety. If trained for assassination and surprise strikes, Ventress could be formidable. But as she was now, burning through her stamina in a head-on assault, she was predictable.

Ventress seemed to realize this too. She suddenly leapt backward, using the Force to vault over debris and put some space between them.

And in that moment, her blind spot revealed itself. She’d been so focused on Revan, she’d forgotten Anakin.

Skywalker, having dispatched one of the electrostaff droids, was already closing the gap, his saber a blur of light. The two remaining MagnaGuards were locked in a desperate struggle with clone blaster fire.

Ventress turned just in time, barely dodging Anakin’s furious strike.

“So, Skywalker finally found someone to fight his battles for him,” she hissed, eyes darting between Revan and Anakin like a trapped animal. “Tell me, is she your new Padawan? What happened to the other one? Did her foolishness finally get her killed? Pity I wasn’t there to see it.”

The taunt struck home. Anakin’s Force signature flared with anger as he roared and lunged, aiming to strike her down.

Ventress would’ve been dead if Revan hadn’t seized her with the Force and yanked her bodily out of Anakin’s strike, slamming her unceremoniously onto the deck in front of herself.

“Good tactic,” Revan remarked, planting a boot firmly on Ventress’ wrist. “Blind your enemy with his anger so he can’t think straight. Problem is, if you can’t finish the job, you’ll end up headless. Didn’t your master teach you that? Speaking of which—”

“Noma, kill her!” Anakin shouted, storming toward them.

Revan’s head snapped toward him in surprise. Anakin was a Jedi. She’d been rised with him for ten years. She also knew the Jedi had changed over the years and during this war—but she hadn’t realized how far. Killing an enemy this swiftly? That was... fast, even for wartime. Especially for Jedi who preached peace and had once been so against killing that they had wiped her mind and given her a whole new set of memories just because they all could not agree unending Revan's life.

Ventress, not one to miss an opening, snatched her fallen lightsaber and struck at Revan’s ankle. Revan jumped back, releasing her grip, and Ventress scrambled away, retreating toward the platform’s edge.

“Hells, Noma, I had her! Why did you have to get in the way? I could have ended it!” Anakin shouted, charging past her, lightsaber raised, clearly intent on finishing Ventress for good.

But Revan couldn’t allow that. She could only learn so much from fighting Ventress herself. If Ventress was merely an acolyte, then that meant there were apprentices above her—and a Sith Master above them all. Tyrannus was certainly one of them, but was he Ventress’ master? And how many apprentices or acolytes did he command? Was he the only Darth left in this galaxy, or just the one they knew of?

These were questions that could only be answered if Ventress remained alive. Anakin, unsurprisingly, had no intention of leaving her that way. And Revan doubted he'd listen to reason in his current state.

Which left her with a snap-second decision, one that would almost certainly end badly.

Reaching out with the Force, she slammed it into Anakin like an invisible speeder, hurling him sideways into the path of two electrostaff-wielding MagnaGuards. Sensing the opportunity, the droids disengaged from the clones and rushed toward Skywalker, forcing him onto the defensive.

That left only Revan and Ventress.

“Not eager for your friend’s help, Noma?” Ventress panted, trying for mockery, but her exhaustion muddied the effect.

Revan tilted her helmet slightly, then burst forward in a blur of Force-speed, lightsabers descending in a fierce strike. Ventress barely managed to block, crossing her red blades in front of her.

Their gazes locked—the black, expressionless visor of Revan’s mask meeting Ventress’ defiant eyes.

Then Revan opened her palm slightly, just enough to aim without dropping her lightsaber, and unleashed a crackling bolt of violet Force lightning straight into Ventress’ exposed chest.

With a strangled cry, Ventress collapsed, her lightsabers falling from her numb hands as she tumbled backward, nearly tipping off the platform’s edge. Before she could fall, Revan caught her in the Force, leaving her dangling helplessly over the drop.

“I’m afraid our playtime is over, little acolyte,” Revan said coolly, clipping her violet saber back onto her belt but keeping the red one ignited—a clear warning of what Ventress could expect. “I have a few questions. Your master—is it Darth Tyrannus?”

Ventress glared at her, panting heavily but refusing to answer. Whether it was bravery, stubbornness, or fear of her master greater than fear of death, Revan wasn’t sure. Likely some mix of all three. A true acolyte indeed.

“Are there others? More apprentices, more Sith?” Revan pressed, loosening her hold so Ventress dropped a few hand spans lower.

Ventress gasped at the sudden drop but still refused to speak, her defiance flickering in the Force alongside a sharp pulse of fear and uncertainty.

Suddenly, the roar of a descending troop carrier split the air.

Without losing her grip on Ventress, Revan glanced up. A Republic transport was landing on a clear stretch of the platform, and clones were already pouring out. She felt two strong Force signatures aboard—one faintly familiar, though she didn’t have time to analyze it further. Ventress tried to use the distraction to break free, hurling a weak Force push at Revan, but it barely staggered her. If anything, Revan’s grip on her throat tightened.

“Careful,” Revan warned coldly. “Today is not the day to test my patience, acolyte.”

Ventress shuddered slightly but stilled, staring into the dark lenses of Revan’s mask.

Then the low hum of engines igniting below them drew Ventress’ gaze downward.

“Your ship, I presume?” Revan guessed, watching Ventress’ eyes flicker with reluctant confirmation. Revan walked closer to the edge, glancing down as the Separatist ship rose from beneath the platform, just as she’d suspected.

“Stranger, stand down and surrender yourself to the Republic!” a familiar voice barked behind her.

Revan turned slightly to see that the reinforcements had finished off the remaining droids. Anakin had cut down the two MagnaGuards and was advancing on her, lightsaber lit, his Force signature still burning with anger. Flanking him were two Jedi. One was a Kel Dor—Plo Koon, if Revan recalled correctly from her brief time in the Temple. The other was a human male with green-streaked hair tied in a half-up, half-down style.

And there was Carth, who had stayed out of the battle but now stood alongside them, clearly having succeeded in contacting the Resolute—and several Jedi, judging by the sudden influx of reinforcements.

But none of that concerned Revan nearly as much as the second Jedi.

Qui-Gon Jinn.

The man who had found both her and Anakin on Tatooine. The man obsessed with the prophecy of the Chosen One. And the man whom Noma Kon had prevented from becoming Anakin’s master all those years ago.

“In the name of the Grand Army of the Republic, I am placing you both under arrest,” Qui-Gon declared, igniting his saber and striding forward.

Revan turned back to Ventress.

“Well, it seems our chat is being cut short,” she said dryly. “Not that you seemed very eager to give me answers—or more likely, you don’t have them to give.”

That hit a nerve. Anger flared in the Force around Ventress, sharp and defensive. Revan smiled faintly behind her mask. Too close to the truth.

“Well then, I suppose there’s only one thing left you can do for me,” Revan whispered, drawing Ventress close, her mask inches from the acolyte’s ear. Her voice dropped to a low, cold murmur. “Be a good little apprentice... and tell Darth Tyrannus that Darth Revan wishes to speak with him. And challenge him for his right to the title of Darth.”

With that, Revan hurled Ventress away from her, over the platform’s edge.

Shouts of protest erupted from the Jedi and clones as they rushed toward her, but the roar of engines drowned them out. Below, the Separatist ship surged upward, its side ramp opening just in time for Ventress to roll inside. The vessel blasted past the platform, engines blazing, and soared into the sky. By the time anyone reacted, its thrusters had carried it into the upper atmosphere. Moments later, it vanished into hyperspace—well beyond the Republic’s reach.

Anakin rounded on Revan, his fury palpable. “Noma! Do you know what you’ve done?! You just let her go! The commander of the Separatists, right in our grasp, and you let her escape! I thought you were on our side—I thought you were on my side again!”

“I am, Anakin,” Revan sighed, deactivating her red lightsaber and letting it fall with a clatter to the platform at her feet. Slowly, she dropped to her knees, placing her hands on the back of her helm, submitting as the Kel Dor Jedi approached. “Believe it or not, I really am trying to help. But I can’t fight this war, and I can’t help you, if I don’t understand what’s really happening. And since no one else seems interested in learning that... I’ll have to do it my way.”

Cold, heavy binders snapped onto her wrists, dampening her connection to the Force. She was hauled to her feet by clones in grey-marked armor—likely part of Plo Koon’s forces.

Carth stepped forward, his face uncertain, torn. “But why, Noma? Why show her mercy? You could’ve gotten answers another way... without letting her go.”

Revan laughed softly, tiredly. “Mercy? Oh, Carth, I didn’t give her mercy. I gave her a choice in how she’ll die. Sith aren’t kind. And letting her goes ensures that I will meet her master at some point were or not she delivers my message immediately.”

With that, she was marched toward the waiting troop carrier and seated beside the bruised but bound Senator Valorran, surrounded by clone troopers, Plo Koon, and Qui-Gon Jinn.

Chapter Text

“Get to your ships!” Queen Amidala shouted as she and her troops, flanked by the two Jedi, fought to push back the invading droids inside the hangar.

Anakin and Noma crouched behind a container of emergency supplies—or something like it—watching as the defenders slowly pushed the droids back, clearing a path for the pilots to reach their starfighters. The astromechs, including R2-D2—Anakin’s favored now that he no longer at C-3PO—were being hoisted up into the fighters’ rear sockets to assist with piloting and flight calculations.

Blaster bolts tore through the air in every direction, ricocheting off the hangar walls and their flimsy cover. The crate they hid behind was barely large enough for one child, let alone two. Forced into close quarters, the children huddled together, flinching with every sizzling bolt that struck near them.

R2-D2 zoomed past them and took his place beneath an unoccupied starfighter, rising smoothly into position.

“R2!” Anakin cried, abruptly breaking cover. Noma lunged, her fingers brushing the hem of his tunic, but he slipped free and dashed behind a pillar. Then, before she could stop him, he bolted out into the open again, climbing the stairway into the fighter’s cockpit.

“Anakin!” Noma called after him, nearly following, but a fresh volley of blaster fire forced her to duck back behind the crate.

Her panic, it seemed, was unfounded. The Jedi and the Queen’s Guard were quickly gaining ground, cutting down the remaining droids. The pilots boarded their fighters, and Amidala’s forces began advancing toward the palace.

“Hey! Wait for us!” Anakin called as he stood in the cockpit, while Noma peeked out from behind the crate, hurrying to catch up.

“Stay where you are! You’ll be safe there,” Qui-Gon ordered as he and Obi-Wan passed, not even glancing at her.

“But I—” Anakin began.

“Stay in the cockpit,” Qui-Gon repeated firmly, continuing on without waiting for a reply.

Noma didn’t mind being ignored by him. They hadn’t gotten off to a particularly good start on Tatooine, and nothing since had improved that impression. Qui-Gon reminded her of a certain kind of Jedi she’d known in her first life—polite enough to your face, but convinced they were wiser than everyone else. Mavericks, the people in the Order had called them. Noma had always preferred “self-important pricks.”

People like Qui-Gon didn’t really care about others—only what they believed, what they wanted, and what they thought they were owed.

His arrogance had become especially clear when he told them the Jedi Council had refused to train either of them. They were “too old,” he’d said. That had been a shock. Noma remembered people far older than ten being accepted into the Order—she herself had been retrained as an adult after the Council had wiped her memories. Granted, that had been a special case, but most of her instructors hadn’t known who she really was. They hadn’t seemed bothered by an adult Padawan.

She’d thought they’d make an exception for the supposed “Chosen One.” Apparently not. In fact, it seemed like only Qui-Gon actually believed in the prophecy. Obi-Wan certainly didn’t, but he was far too eager to please his master to insist upon his disbelief out loud for more than a moment.

There was a story behind that eagerness. Noma could see it in Obi-Wan’s face when Qui-Gon declared he would train Anakin himself. Mavericks rarely made good mentors. And Qui-Gon, ever the problem-solver, had quickly cooked up a solution to that tension: Obi-Wan would train Noma. Anakin would be his. Neat. Efficient. As if either of them had a say.

They hadn’t had time to object. A battle had interrupted the conversation—and now, the Jedi and Queen were advancing toward the palace’s inner blast doors.

Noma came to a stop beneath Anakin’s fighter, staring at the doors. Something felt wrong. She’d sensed it ever since arriving, a faint hum of wrongness she couldn’t quite grasp. Every time she reached for it, it slipped through her fingers like mist.

Now, it surged back full-force.

The blast doors hissed open, revealing a figure clothed in black: the same Sith who had chased them on Tatooine.

“We’ll handle this,” Qui-Gon said as he and the Zabrak Sith locked eyes, ready to settle the unfinished business between them.

“We’ll take the long way,” Queen Amidala stated calmly, turning away to lead her guards around the confrontation. She knew better than to interfere.

That left only the Sith apprentice, the two Jedi, and the two children from Tatooine in the hangar.

The Jedi and Sith simultaneously shrugged off their cloaks, letting them fall to the floor. Lightsabers ignited—green, blue, and red.

Noma cowered beneath the fighter. Yes, she had once been a Sith Lord. A Jedi. And something in between. But right now, she was a ten-year-old girl, and memories only carried you so far when faced with a real, armed Sith.

Her instincts were vindicated moments later when droidekas rolled into the hangar and opened fire on the retreating Queen.

“We have to do something, R2!” Anakin yelled, ducking into the cockpit and pressing buttons in a frantic rush.

The Sith, unconcerned with the Queen’s retreat, advanced on the Jedi, igniting his double-bladed saber and launching his assault.

Suddenly, the engine of Anakin’s starfighter roared to life above Noma. The ship lifted from its mooring, the cockpit canopy snapping shut just as Anakin blasted the droidekas to scrap—then shot out of the hangar and into the sky, chasing after the other fighters.

Noma stood alone and exposed, staring after him.

Worry struck her first. Anakin was a good pilot—one of the best she remembered, even at his age. But he’d never been in a battle before, and that fighter had practically flown itself. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t ready.

But that worry was quickly consumed by resentment.

Anakin was the Chosen One. The child of prophecy. The Force had pulled Revan from peace and ripped her friends from memory. If it was so determined to shape the future, then let it care for its golden boy on its own. What did Noma have to offer, it not like she could fly nor wanted to get in another fighter and follow Anakin. It had been his chose to do something stupid and now he had to live with it, Noma had done her part.

Her scowl deepened. She turned away, the bitterness rising once again, and began to follow the Jedi. If more droidekas showed up, she didn’t want to be left behind in the hangar, unprotected.

The Sith was strong. He fought with a ferocity that spoke of years of training. He leapt between walkways, kicked Obi-Wan nearly to his death, and maneuvered the Jedi deeper into the palace.

Noma followed at a slower, safer pace, making her way around without all the dramatic acrobatics. She arrived just in time to see the Sith drag Qui-Gon into a corridor shielded by a series of red energy barriers—safety shields to contain explosions, if she remembered correctly.

Qui-Gon knelt, meditating, while the Sith paced like a caged animal—either taunting them or harnessing his fury. Likely both.

The shields began to drop. Qui-Gon leapt into battle again, Obi-Wan following—only to be trapped by another shield midway through.

The Sith pressed his advantage. He knew he had the upper hand. And Obi-Wan could only watch helplessly.

But Noma wasn’t trapped. She hadn’t rushed into the fight. She stood just outside the shield corridor and spotted two buttons—one green, one red—on either side of the door. A failsafe.

Unfortunately, it required two people.

She wasn’t two people. But she had the Force.

Guessing that green meant activate and red meant deactivate, she slammed her hand on the red button and reached across the doorway with the Force, pressing the other. The shield fizzled out, and Obi-Wan dashed through with a cry of “No!” as he charged the Sith.

Noma tried to follow, but the shield returned immediately, trapping her inside. She reached around for the buttons again, but her Force control wasn’t what her memories claimed it should be. And sensing through the electrical hum of the generator made it even harder.

By the time she got through, it was over.

Only Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan remained in the generator room. The Sith was gone—most likely fallen or flung down the massive cooling shaft.

Obi-Wan knelt beside his master, who was sprawled on the floor. The Sith had landed a strike. Not a killing blow—more a slashing wound from hip to shoulder. Likely he’d tried to stab Qui-Gon through the heart, but Obi-Wan had redirected the blade at the last second.

Noma approached quietly. It seemed Qui-Gon was whispering something, but Noma had good hearing, a skill honed as a young girl on Tatooine always on the lookout for people who might try and snatched her up.

“Obi-Wan… if I die, you will train the boy.”

“Of course, Master,” Obi-Wan assured, cradling his master in his arms.

Qui-Gon’s voice was faint now. “He is the Chosen One. He will bring balance… to the Force…”

He passed out.

Noma knelt beside them, pressing two fingers to Qui-Gon’s neck. “He’s unconscious,” she reported. “But we need to get him to a healer fast if you want him to stay alive.”

Obi-Wan nodded once, gathered his master into his arms, and took off with surprising speed—speed Noma rather pointedly noted to herself he could’ve used earlier to get through the shields.

Noma elected to stayed behind.

It was quiet here now, and she had no particular love for Qui-Gon Jinn. A small, dark voice in her mind whispered that it might be better if he died. Him and his obsession with the Chosen One prophecy. He didn’t understand what balance meant. Like all Jedi, he believed in balance through the Light alone—which was one of the most illogical things Noma had ever heard.

But she wasn’t going to argue with him. Self-important pricks never listened.

They only heard what they wanted to.

With a sigh, Noma stood and walked to the edge of the cooling shaft, peering down into the darkness. She couldn’t see the bottom—only the endless black—but for the briefest moment, she felt that familiar flicker in the Force. The boiling hatred she’d come to associate with the Sith apprentice flared, then vanished again, slipping through her grasp like smoke.

It left her cold.

She couldn’t tell if it had been his final breath, or if he still lived somewhere far below. Either way, it wasn’t her concern for now. It was something she’d suggest the Jedi investigate later. At the moment, her priorities lay elsewhere.

Turning away, Noma made her way back up to one of the higher platforms—far enough above to remain hidden, but still with a clear view of the halls below. She pressed herself against the wall, occasionally stretching out into the Force, until she finally felt a wave of overwhelming relief spread through the palace. The battle was over. The fight had been won.

It was later, while she wandered the palace halls, that Noma saw the aftermath.

More Jedi had arrived, including several healers tending to Qui-Gon. From the talk of the pilots and Queen’s guard it seemed Anakin had succeeded in destroying the control ship, rendering the battle droids inert. For some reason, Jar Jar Binks was receiving an undue amount of praise—not that Noma cared enough to ask why. The less she spoke with others, especially Jedi, the happier she found herself.

Qui-Gon remained unconscious, leaving Obi-Wan—and by reluctant extension, Noma—to explain everything to the Jedi Council’s most ancient member: Grand Master Yoda.

She had met Yoda once already when he had tested her at the temple. Briefly. Her opinion hadn’t improved since.

What shocked her was how little concern the Jedi seemed to show regarding the Sith’s presence. They even hesitated to acknowledge that it was a Sith. The word itself had become taboo—an inconvenient truth they refused to speak aloud. Noma snorted quietly to herself.

Some things never changed.

The Jedi had ignored the Mandalorian Wars, just as she’d predicted once long ago. And now, they were ignoring the Sith standing in their midst.

Yoda glanced her way at the sound but said nothing, turning back to Obi-Wan.

“Confer on you the level of Jedi Knight, the Council does,” Master Yoda announced, pacing slowly before Obi-Wan. “But agree with taking this girl as a Padawan learner, I do not—nor with Qui-Gon taking the boy.”

“Qui-Gon believes Anakin is the Chosen One,” Obi-Wan replied, a little hesitant. “And he believes I’m ready to take on a Padawan of my own.”

“The Chosen One the boy may be,” Yoda said gravely. “But great danger in his training I fear. Darkness shrouds this girl. Of her, the prophecy does not speak. The Force gives no clarity. Unwise it is to train the boy... even more so, the girl. Much anger and resentment I sense in her. Strong, she is. Knows much she should not. How came her by such training?”

“That I do not know, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan admitted. “But Master Qui-Gon believed I was ready for this, and he entrusted both Anakin and Noma to my care. I won’t turn my back on that now. And if, as you say, she leans toward the dark side, isn’t that all the more reason to guide her—to show her the right path, rather than cast her out?”

Yoda sighed and stamped his stick against the floor.

“They will be trained, Master Yoda. With or without the Council’s blessing,” Obi-Wan said firmly. “I intend to fulfill my duty—to Anakin and to Noma. I will take her as my Padawan. Qui-Gon will take Anakin. I accept whatever consequences that brings, but I believe it is the right thing to do for both her and the greater good of the Order and Galaxy.”

Noma snorted again at the phrase greater good. Too many people used that excuse to justify foolishness. But, frustratingly, Obi-Wan seemed sincere.

Yoda’s ears twitched. “Defiance, I sense in you,” he muttered. “Unwise this action seems to me, but agree with you, the Council does. Skywalker, apprentice to Qui-Gon will be. Kon, your padawan, will be.”

This was her moment.

“I must agree—at least partially—with Master Yoda,” Noma said, trying not to grit her teeth as she spoke. “I believe Qui-Gon Jinn would be a poor master for Anakin. Even from my brief time around him, his obsession with the prophecy and his rigid interpretation of it are obvious. He sees only what he wants to see and hears; only what supports what he already believes. That is not what Anakin needs.”

She turned toward Obi-Wan and met his gaze directly.

“But Qui-Gon has the experiences and knowledge and his a great master…” Obi-wan started.

“And I didn’t know the Jedi were taught to lie,” Noma remarked raising and eyebrow and gambling that her observation about Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had been right.

Obi-Wan recoiled slightly. “I—I’m not—”

She raised a hand to cut him off as she remember doing when she was a Sith Lord. The gesture might have been more commanding if she weren’t ten years old and barely up to his waist, but it had the desired effect.

“Becoming a Jedi is a lifelong commitment,” she continued. “You give up everything. You submit yourself to the guidance of a master—not just someone who trains you in lightsaber forms or the Force, but someone who helps you grow into the best version of yourself. They teach you diplomacy, morality, independence. Someone who will put aside their wants, their needs, and their aspirations for their padawan. So I ask you both—can either of you look me in the eye and tell me that Qui-Gon Jinn will truly put Anakin before himself? That he’ll sacrifice his own wants, his belief in the prophecy, to see the person Anakin is—not the myth he represents?”

Silence.

Obi-Wan looked away, eyes fixed on the floor, as he muttered something that sounded like, Xanatos.

Yoda's expression was unreadable. “Suggestions, have you?” he asked finally. “Able to guide the Chosen One, this master must be. Know much of what Qui-Gon does, they must.”

Noma nodded toward Obi-Wan.

“You already have your answer,” she said. “Obi-Wan was Qui-Gon’s Padawan. He’s absorbed all of his teachings—and, more importantly, he’s not blinded by obsession. He’s familiar with the prophecy, but not ruled by it. He’s never trained a Padawan younger than Anakin, so he won’t be trapped by unrealistic expectations. He has the knowledge and the clarity.”

Yoda turned his sharp eyes on her. “And you? Who trains you?”

“I won’t be joining the Jedi Order.”

Before Obi-Wan could interrupt, she raised her hand again.

“I’ve seen enough to know that I’ll never belong among you. I have no desire to be one of you. I’m returning to Tatooine. My mother is still a slave there, and I intend to free her.”

Her voice sharpened.

“I wish no further contact with your Order. And if you try to detain me, I will remind you that you rejected me, and I am a guest of Queen Amidala of Naboo. You have no jurisdiction over me.”

Silence fell.

Then Yoda tapped his stick on the floor and let out a low hum. “Want this, you do. Respect your decision, we must. Good luck, the Order wishes you. But a warning I give—do not give in to the resentment and anger you feel.”

He paused.

“Good to meet you, it was, Noma Kon.”

Noma took that as the dismissal it was. She gave a slight nod to Obi-Wan—but not to Yoda—and turned on her heel, walking from the room.

She made it a few paces down the hall before she stumbled against a pillar and slumped down, breathing out a long, shuddering sigh.

Despite all her memories of standing tall before armies, deep down she was still just a frightened ten-year-old girl from Tatooine who had just stared down the Grand Master of the Jedi Order and told him he had no power over her.

She really hoped they bought that bluff about jurisdiction as she knew nothing about the actual laws in this time.

She drew her knees to her chest, resting her head atop them as she stared out a nearby window at the setting sun.

The anger was still there. The resentment. No matter how she tried to bury it.

She resented Anakin. Even though she knew she shouldn’t. It wasn’t his fault he was the Chosen One. It wasn’t his fault she’d been dragged back from peace to serve as his protector.

But the resentment didn’t care about fairness.

And more than anything, she resented the Force.

How dare it tear her from peace? How dare it bring back her friends—Jolee and the others—and leave them without a memory of her?

But she had done what the Force asked. Anakin was safe. He was free. He was no longer a slave. He had a path. He was a Jedi. She had secured him a good master, and he was going to be in the same temple as Jolee. Anakin couldn’t be in better hands as far as the Force was concerned.

That had been Revan’s task.

Now, it was time for Noma Khan to decide what came next.

She stood, straightening her shoulders, eyes fixed on the fields of Naboo beyond the glass.

She hadn’t asked to be reborn. She hadn’t asked to be a protector. But she had fulfilled her duty.

Now the future was hers.

The Force had had its say.

Now it was Noma’s turn to do whatever she wanted.

Sitting in a cell aboard a Venator-class starship, hands cuffed in front of her with some kind of Force-suppressing restraints, was not what Revan had wanted. Still, it was a means to an end—and if there was one thing she was good at, it was adapting.

Across from her, Senator Valorian lay curled on the floor of the opposite cell, whimpering pathetically. Revan allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

No, this wasn’t ideal—she would have preferred no cuffs, no prison cell, and a clean exit—but she could work with this. In fact, this might work better than she had planned. Now all she had to do was bluff her way through another round with the Jedi.

Hopefully, they hadn’t grown any wiser since the days of the Battle of Naboo.

Since then Revan had done her homework, brushing up on galactic law concerning darksiders and Force users outside the Jedi Order. She had a working understanding of where their jurisdiction started and where it conveniently stopped—though wartime tended to blur those lines. Still, she had options.

Even if the Jedi refused to give her what she wanted, there were always others in the Senate—men and women hungry for power, eager to be flattered, and more than willing to be played for fools.

And Revan? Revan was very, very good at playing fools.

Chapter Text

The only problem with being good at playing fools is that you need fools to play—and at the moment, the only fool anywhere near Revan was Senator Valorian. And he had long since shifted from useful to insufferable.

The clone guards were out of sight, though Revan cut off from the Force by suppressing cuffs could still guess their locations. But that wasn’t the real problem.

The real problem was that Revan had nothing to do. And that was dangerous.

She had already planned and replanned every possible outcome, analyzed every failure point, mapped every misstep. But the glaring hole in her plan was already swallowing her whole—too much time alone in her own head.

There were many things Revan had come to despise over her long lives, but being trapped with only her own thoughts was near the top. It led her down a spiral Mission had once called her “bad days,” where her mind drowned in memory: pain given and received, paths taken and paths lost, truths and falsehoods tangled so tightly she couldn't sort them. On those days, even standing up felt like moving mountains.

So Revan stayed busy. She had to stay busy. Planning, fighting, smuggling, helping her family with odd missions—anything to keep her mind running outward, not inward.

Once, Carth had asked her about it. They’d been resting on Shili, the others enjoying a rare reprieve, and Revan unable to sit still had gone out to hunt raxshir with the Togruta locals. He’d confronted her afterward, concern in his voice. Revan, unused to being seen as anything but invincible, had been taken aback. But perhaps it was because she wanted him to understand—fully understand—what he was getting into if their relationship continued.

She had explained it to him like this: "It’s like I’m running across quicksand. If I stop, I sink."

Carth had only nodded and said he was coming with her next time. She had protested that he needed rest, but he’d just smiled. He proposed not long after that. And for a time, he’d been at her side, helping her take those impossible steps out of bed on the worst days.

That was, until she’d left him to chase what had been calling to her. And ruined everything.

Now he was somewhere on this ship, above her. And Revan had nothing but her thoughts and her pacing.

The cell she was in was exactly ten steps by five. Gray durasteel on three sides, a crackling blue energy barrier forming the door. A small bunk suspended from the wall and a fresher in the corner—privacy in name only.

Revan paced. Slowly. Purposefully. It gave the illusion of calm, of control. A stance of readiness, not impatience. It was a discipline she had mastered in the days of her armadas—when a Sith lord could never afford to show weakness, not even for a moment, not with rivals like Malak.

“You seem impatient,” a smooth, slightly muffled voice observed.

Revan silently cursed herself for slipping. She hadn’t sensed him arrive—Force suppressed, yes, but she should have noticed something.

Plo Koon, her memory supplied. He had settled in front of her cell, cross-legged as though preparing for meditation. Two gray-armored clone guards flanked him.

“I was expecting Anakin or Jinn,” Revan said, stopping her pacing. “You are not who I anticipated. But I suppose that surprise is on me considering I know little about you.”

“And that is precisely why I came,” Plo replied, his voice like distant thunder. “There is advantage in a lack of preconceived notions. Our only meeting was brief.”

“Brief… but memorable, apparently,” Revan said, stepping closer to the barrier.

“Indeed. It is not every day that two children of immense power are brought before the Council—one believed to be the Chosen One, the other… possessing a deeply personal…distaste shall we say, of the Jedi, yet claiming no past encounters with us.” He tilted his head slightly, stroking his chin. Revan couldn’t see his expression behind the mask, but she was certain he was smiling.

Revan snorted quietly, thoughts drifting back to that meeting. She’d been exhausted, grieving having to leave her mother, furious with Qui-Gon Jinn attitude, and disturbed by the appearance of a Sith no one seemed to take seriously. It had not gone well.

"Given my attitude back then, I’m surprised you didn’t form beliefs about me anyway, Master Jedi."

Plo Koon chuckled lowly. “True. But time has passed. And your predictions… proved accurate. About the Sith. About their master. This war has confirmed much. So if I hold any belief about you now, it is this: despite your distrust and passion, your insight has value. We should have listened. Instead, the galaxy is at war—just as you warned. And you sit in a cell, having wielded the powers of the very darkness you foretold. Which raises the question—how much of your prophecy was vision… and how much was memory?”

Revan knelt slowly, crossing her legs to match his posture, bringing them eye to eye. Her weapons, her mask, her pack—all taken. She had requested that either Anakin or Carth be entrusted with them. Whether that request had been honored was another matter entirely.

“It wasn’t a Sith master who told me what was coming,” she said evenly. “It was simple observation. I didn’t bury my head in the sand like the Jedi. I saw what was happening—and I refused to pretend it wasn’t.”

“Oh?” Plo mused. “Then you must have been quite the perceptive child… to see what even the Council could not.”

“I was,” Revan said without flinching. “But that’s not all. The blindness of the Jedi was one factor. The other was this—have you ever heard of a Sith who didn’t want to conquer the galaxy?”

Plo Koon didn’t answer.

“Exactly. Even on Tatooine, in the lowliest cantinas, the stories are the same. Sith don’t make small moves. They don’t chase lone Jedi and vanish. When one appears, there’s always more to come. Their ambitions aren’t subtle. Red lightsabers. Talk of dominion. So yes, even at ten years old, I could make an educated guess. One Sith meant others. One appearance meant a war.”

The Jedi Master let out another rumbling laugh. “You seem to have an answer for everything.”

“In this case, my answers are correct.”

Plo grew quiet. Then, after a moment: “The Jedi have been willfully blind for many years. We so desperately wanted peace to continue… that we failed to see it had long since ended.”

Revan gave a dry smile. “A Jedi who admits fault and doesn’t blindly praise the Order? Careful. They might start accusing you of being a Sith.”

“You still hold deep resentment toward us,” Plo said, his voice softer now. “You claim it wasn’t taught to you by a Sith master. Yet you use their tools. Wield their powers. Speak their language. Tell me, Noma Kon… if not a Sith, where did this knowledge—this hatred—come from? Were you trained by one… after you left Naboo?”

"No—and yes, depending on how you look at it," Revan replied, her tone clipped, indifferent.

"I freed my mother. She fell in love with a moisture farmer, moved to his homestead, and married him. She was safe. She was happy. That was enough for her."

She gave a small shrug.

"But me? I always wanted more than Tatooine, and just looking at the stars wasn’t enough for me. So I took the first spot with a crew that wouldn’t immediately sell me into slavery, and I started my life in the wider galaxy. It wasn’t long before I had my own ship. Being Force-sensitive has its advantages. After that… I went where I wanted. Did what I wanted."

Her expression tightened with amusement—and something sharper.

"I found artifacts. Sith. Jedi. Didn’t matter. If it was connected to the Force, it sold well. Because they were rare. Dangerous. Nearly impossible for non-Force users to retrieve. But for me? Easier. And if I kept a few sabers? If I took a few lessons from the holocrons I picked up along the way? I work for myself. No Order to betray. No one to be hurt by it."

Plo Koon tilted his head slightly, the soft rasp of his breath mask punctuating the silence.

"So you claim to have trained yourself. While not impossible, with holocrons as guidance… I find it improbable."

Revan’s smile was crooked, bitter.

"My whole existence is improbable."

The irritation in her tone wasn’t just aimed at him. It was aimed at everything. The Jedi. The Republic. The galaxy itself.

"And I suppose," rumbled Plo Koon, "you have an equally convincing explanation for how—and why—you wear the mask of Darth Revan?"

That made her go still.

She didn’t flinch, but something subtle shifted. A new intent sharpened behind her gaze as she studied him. Few remembered Revan as more than a myth. A weapon of history, rarely spoken of even among the Jedi. And yet here sat a Jedi Master—Council member, no less—who spoke of her legacy not with derision or confusion, but knowledge.

"Why does it matter?" she said carefully. "It's just an artifact. I found it while plundering a tomb. The holocron that came with it granted me permission to wear it. So I wear it. No harm done."

"Really," Plo Koon murmured. "From what little we do know, Darth Revan was not the forgiving sort. It seems unlikely he would let a thieving child from Tatooine walk away with his mask."

"He?!"

Revan's voice cracked into a higher octave, the fury rising without warning. Her lip curled into a sneer—a twisted expression of offense, outrage, and something far more personal.

"And here I thought I’d finally met a Jedi who knew something . Revan wasn’t a man. Why does everyone assume she was? It's as bad as those who claim she married Malak—worse, even Bastila ! Bastila and Revan had a strong bond, yes, but it was never romantic. Bastila was a loyal friend—nothing more. And her descendants became some of the stiffest, most sanctimonious Jedi the Order ever produced."

Plo Koon remained composed, though there was a touch of dry amusement in his voice.

"That’s quite a personal correction, coming from a smuggler who 'merely stole' a holocron. One might think it was your own legacy being misremembered."

Revan’s face twitched. Her sneer deepened, undermining any protest that she wasn’t a Sith.

"What is it to you, Jedi?" she hissed. This Master was beginning to get under her skin, and she hated that. Anger made her careless. And when Revan was careless, she said more than she meant. That’s why she worked so hard to remain calm. Why stillness made her uneasy. Stillness made her weak.

"Would you allow me to postulate a theory?" Plo Koon asked, ever composed. His voice held no mockery—only cool curiosity.

Revan spread her hands, gesturing to the cell walls around her.

"By all means, Jedi. You have a captive audience."

The sneer was still fixed on her face, but if she’d had access to the Force, her eyes would have burned yellow. Curse these cuffs. Curse her lack of control.

"If memory serves," Plo Koon began, "when you were brought to the Temple as a child, we were told that while you had strong familial bond with both Shmi and Anakin, you shared no blood relation. You were abandoned—named by a midwife—and raised by Shmi out of kindness. Is that accurate?"

Revan’s posture straightened, her voice cooling again.

"Yes. She was my mother in all the ways that matter. And Anakin was my brother. But by blood? No. So? How does this tie into your theory?"

Her hands rested on her knees, her gaze locked with the covered eyes of the Kel Dor.

"Not much is remembered about Darth Revan’s true life," he said. "Even her gender has been obscured by myth. But it is known that Revan was not merciful. All who tried to access her shrines, her temples, her tombs… they died. And yet you—" he inclined his head slightly, "—you possess the mask, the sabers, the holocrons. Real or not, they could be fakes—but if I handed them off to Quinlan Vos, his psychometry would tell us if they are true relics."

Revan’s face remained impassive, but it took effort. Inside, she wanted to bash her head against the cell wall. How had she overlooked psychometry? Of course they’d try to read the past from the artifacts. Of course the Jedi would dig.

"Go on," she said with a nod. "Tell me where this theory ends."

Plo Koon’s voice didn’t waver.

"I believe you are a descendant of Darth Revan. A direct one. Your blood grants you access to her temples, allows you to wield her holocrons, to learn her teachings. She has likely spoken to you—perhaps since you were a child. Before you met the Jedi. Histories have claimed that Darth Revan could, to some degree, transcend death. I suspect she was the one who seeded your mistrust of us."

Revan leaned back slightly, studying Plo Koon with renewed interest. It was a good theory—she had to give him that. In fact, it was nearly identical to the story she had been planning to feed the Jedi herself if things became too complicated. She could work with this. The fact that the Jedi Master had reached this conclusion on his own both simplified and complicated her situation. It even offered a partial solution to the looming issue of psychometry; if any lingering memories were uncovered, she could simply blame them on ancestral resonance. After all, she bore a striking resemblance to her forebear.

Yes… this could work quite well—depending on what Plo Koon said next. His next words would determine everything. He would either become a valuable ally—or a very dangerous enemy.

“And where exactly does this theory of yours leave me, in your estimation?” Revan asked coolly.

Plo Koon ignored the question.

“Why did you allow Ventress to escape?”

Revan’s eyes narrowed.

“Surely you must know the answer to that. After all, you’ve figured out my connection to Darth Revan, conqueror and destroyer of half the galaxy. Obviously, I let her escape because we’re both Sith and I plan to join her and conquer the galaxy ; just like Revan did.”

The sarcasm in her tone was so thick, she was mildly surprised the walls didn’t start melting around her. Plo Koon merely chuckled—he wasn’t fooled.

“I do not believe that,” he said. “I may not have seen the full extent of your escape, but I witnessed—and felt—enough. You held no love for Ventress. Not even respect. What I sensed bordered on hatred. Oddly juxtaposed, however, with the concern you showed for the clones… for Anakin… for Captain Onasi.”

He paused, his breath mask hissing softly.

“Commander Thorn and his entire squad vouched for you. Even Anakin, though angry, could not bring himself to condemn you. And Captain Onasi—who barely knows you—defended you. None of them believe you support the Separatists. So I ask again: why did you let her go?”

Revan held his gaze for a long moment. Then, with a tired sigh, she shrugged.

“Because I had to. She’s just an acolyte—a pawn. I needed the master. She was my message r , my beacon. I need him to come to me . Whether or not she tells him, it will get back to him eventually. Our fight will be whispered in the right ears, and when it reaches him… he’ll come.”

Her eyes gleamed now, something hard behind them.

“If there’s one thing I know about Sith… they can’t resist a challenge. Especially from someone with power that rivals or exceeds their own. Their curiosity is only matched by their arrogance.”

“So you’re using her to draw out Count Dooku,” Plo Koon said thoughtfully. “Still… it seems there are easier ways. He’s not exactly hiding.”

“There’s more at play than Dooku,” Revan replied. “Too many pieces on the board don’t make sense. That Zabrak from Naboo. The name Darth Tyranus. There’s been almost no real investigation into that title. It all smells wrong. There are more Sith at work than you see. Far more.”

“There are only ever two,” Plo Koon said quietly. “A master and an apprentice.”

Revan snorted.

“The Rule of Two? Do you honestly believe the Sith ever truly upheld such a stupid law? That was never a rule—it was a lie. A smokescreen to fool the Jedi. It’s a violation of the Sith philosophy itself. Limiting themselves to one apprentice ensures their extinction—if both master and apprentice die, the line ends. No, the Rule of Two was never for them . It was for you . And you fell for it.”

Plo Koon was silent for a moment, then nodded.

“It seems we’ve found something we agree on. There’s more to this war than what’s seen on the surface. More than the Senate admits. More than even the Council is willing to admit. I fear—as you do—that something deeper and far more sinister is at work. This war… it’s too precise. Too calculated. A war of clones and droids, yes—but orchestrated with intent. Someone is pulling strings. You see it. And I see it. The question is: what do you intend to do about it, Noma Kon?”

Revan smiled, but it was a cold, tired smile.

“Isn’t that the question of the century?” she said. “I intend to end this war. And find the Sith Lord responsible. And kill him.”

Plo Koon tilted his head again.

“Only him? You do not intend to destroy all the Sith?”

“He’s the only one causing problems at the moment,” Revan said, her voice even. “There’s no way to root out every Sith. They’ll always find a hole to crawl into. And they’ll crawl back out, eventually. That’s the way of things. There’s no light without darkness. No darkness without light. We wouldn’t even have names for either if we didn’t know both. That’s the balance of the galaxy. Whether the Jedi like it or not.”

Plo Koon was silent for a moment, observing her carefully. “I believe you know Captain Macon,” he said at last. “I will speak on your behalf before the Council when they put you on trial. I believe that you hold the key to winning this war—to ending the slaughter of my men, and of all the clones.

“This war has been orchestrated too long by those who hold no true stake in it, or by those unwilling to grasp what it truly is. I believe we need your perspective if we are to have any hope of ending it.”

“Your offer of assistance is appreciated, Master Jedi,” Revan replied calmly, “but as I am neither a member of the Republic nor a Jedi, and as I do not believe I have committed any crime, I fail to see why I must stand trial before your Council. If anything, I would be under the jurisdiction of the Senate, not the Jedi.”

“Perhaps that would be true in times of peace,” Koon said, folding his hands behind his back. “But now, the Jedi Council has ordered you into its custody. And as leaders of the Grand Army of the Republic, we hold the authority to detain and try those we deem a threat in times of war.”

As he spoke, Plo Koon stood and bowed politely to her. “We land soon. Be prepared. The others on the Council will not be as willing to listen to you as I have been. My word will only carry so much weight.”

Revan inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement, offering no further argument. As the Jedi and his two clone escorts departed from view, she released a long breath and let herself fall backward onto the cot, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling.

This was not the outcome she had hoped for—but it was one she had anticipated.

The Jedi, for all their talk of peace and justice, were never immune to the lure of authority. They liked to claim it was the Sith alone who sought power. But Revan had learned, long ago, that even the self-righteous could become enamored with control when given the chance. The only difference was that the Sith were honest about it.

Still, this wasn’t over. She had already secured Master Plo Koon’s support. Perhaps she still had Anakin’s. And there was always Padmé.

Revan had not been entirely honest with Padmé when they met again on Coruscant, but they had struck a deal—and they were still friends, even after all these years. They shared the same goal: an end to this war. And if there was one thing Revan knew about Padmé Amidala, it was that she did not shy from confrontation. If necessary, Padmé would march into the Council chamber itself and demand answers.

The real concern was surviving long enough to let any of that happen.

Still, if the Jedi proved deaf to reason, there were other angles to play. The Chancellor might be one of them. Revan had only met him briefly as a child, and even then, something about him had unsettled her—though she hadn’t been able to say why. But he was a man who sought power above all else.

That, Revan could offer.

And if Anakin was still close to the Chancellor—as she suspected—then getting a message to him wouldn’t be difficult. It wasn’t an ideal plan, but it was a backup. One she might soon need.

In the meantime, at least she had something to think about—something to keep her mind from drifting, from sinking into the dark and restless quicksand.