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“I hope you understand that your evasiveness is an answer in itself, Padawan.”
Rolling her eyes, Devon avoids Master Secura’s scrutinizing glare. For the most part, it’s come as a tremendous relief to cross paths with another survivor of Order 66—although, more and more, she’s wishing Aayla would mind her own business and go survive elsewhere; it’s a big galaxy, after all, and Devon is sure there’s someone out there who wants to hear dogmatic Jedi proselytizing more than she does.
“I’m not being ‘evasive,’” she huffs, giving a deflective shrug. “I’m not just answering your questions how you’d like me to.”
Beside her, Aayla sighs, lekku stiffening in exasperation as they turn the corner from one dirty, neon-lit street onto another dirty, neon-lit street, passing a pod of Quarren leaving a run-down casino. Shifalri-3 seems to have an excess of those—shady backstreets, seedy bars, and the hedonistic scoundrels who frequent them—even for the standards of Mid Rim systems dominated by underworld crime lords; in fact, Devon wouldn’t have the slightest idea where she was going if not for the underworld crime lord leading the way several paces ahead.
Walking with hands clasped primly behind his back as per usual, Maul should be out of earshot of her and Aayla’s hushed whispering; nevertheless, she’s spent enough time under his tutelage to be confident he’s picking up every word.
Master Secura, however, doesn’t seem to be aware of that fact herself.
“No, Padawan, you certainly are not answering as I wish you were.” Brows furrowing, Aayla readjusts her choker, some shiny chromium trinket worn to make her look more like a regular at sleazy underworld nightclubs and less like a fugitive from Imperial justice. Devon has to hand it to her—there’s no better way for an attractive adult female of their species to remain inconspicuous than to dress conspicuously; having swapped her Jedi garb for an off-shoulder elastifibre bodysuit and heeled over-the-knee boots, it’s hardly a surprise that Master Secura has been getting so many second looks from stormtroopers—who haven’t been interested in checking out her identification.
In a simple tunic and trousers, Devon herself is content to be rendered all but invisible in her presence.
“What do your instincts tell you about placing your trust in a former Sith Lord?” In stark contrast to the ditzy, disarming smile she flashes the guards at every checkpoint, Aayla’s glower deepens into maternal scolding. “Surely you can sense the danger?”
“I haven’t stopped sensing danger since clones tried to flatten me and Master Eeko with a turbo-tank. After Janix—” She stops, taking a breath to steady her nerves and still the involuntary tremble of her lekku, lest they make her lingering anguish all the more apparent; half a cycle later, the loss of her master still feels fresh, as does her simmering fury for the Imperial creatures who took him from her. “—Maul did nothing but help. He’s put himself in harm’s way to protect me, and it’s thanks to him that I’ve grown so much stronger in the Force.”
“Do you believe he has done this for your sake, or in pursuit of his own ends?”
“Our ends are the same, Master.”
“And what are they? Revenge? Spite? Chaos?”
“Justice.”
As Maul leads them past a smoky nightclub, the deafening pound of music imposes a reflective pause.
Devon isn’t naive. She’s well aware that Maul can’t exactly be called a paragon of virtue—but that doesn’t mean he’s devoid of virtue, either. As far as she can tell, he’s never had anyone in his life who believed he could be something more than a force for tyranny and vengeance, who saw the potential for goodness within him and made a genuine effort to foster it.
“Master Yoda used to talk about how there’s no such thing as total darkness,” she says as the music begins to fade behind them. “‘Even in the deepest shadow, snuffed out, not all light can be’—or something like that.”
Arching a brow, Aayla throws her a skeptical glance. “Master Yoda used to say a great many things. He also said that darkness is the easy path: ‘As subtle and effortless as drifting off to sleep, being seduced by the Dark Side is.’”
“Well, that may be true, but I don’t see how it applies to Maul. He told me his master took him from his family when he was just a boy, and his life has been full of suffering ever since. Doesn’t seem like anyone even gave him a chance to be good.”
“Is that so?” Aayla hums. “If he’s trapped in a prison not of his making, I suppose you’ve witnessed his redeeming qualities, then?”
“Of course I have.” Devon folds her arms across her middle, suddenly on the defensive again, though not content to be so. “So have you. He saved you when we found you on Nar Shaddaa didn’t he?”
“I would hardly call dispatching a few second-rate bounty hunters the same as ‘saving.’ Besides, I doubt his motives were as noble as you imply.”
“And after he saved you,” she continues, objection ignored, “he offered you sanctuary—which meant postponing his campaign against the Hutts and traveling several parsecs out of his way. If he’s so dangerous, why did you come with us?”
“Only as a matter of practicality—and to pull you out of his orbit, Padawan. I have not made the mistake of allying myself to him.”
“Is that right, Master?” A smug smile tugs at the corner of Devon’s mouth; she flicks her lekku to signal impish sass. “Sounds like you’re just using him in pursuit of your own ends.”
Aayla gives a soft scoff, lips slanting in displeasure at having her words turned against her. “Well played, young one.” Her own lekku briefly flex outwards, emphasizing the sarcasm. “But you’ve yet to name a single redeeming quality in Maul’s favor.”
Biting the inside of her cheek, Devon avoids Master Secura’s amber eyes—not so many shades away from Maul’s; while her gaze is decidedly softer, it feels no less piercing at the moment.
She racks her memory, but everything that comes to mind is either a vague platitude or an example too readily misconstrued as evidence of ulterior motives. Never has she witnessed Maul spare concern for the safety of innocent bystanders, but unlike some pirates and scoundrels she’s crossed, he doesn’t go out of his way to cause pointless carnage; his sense of justice isn’t dogmatic like the Jedi Code, but it’d be a lie to say he doesn’t have a consistent moral navicomputer; he isn’t the sentimental sort, but she’s watch him put himself between his allies and danger, even mourning the ones he’s lost.
None of that can be condensed into a single ‘redeeming quality’ sufficient to convince Master Secura, though; Devon can only hope that she’ll stick around long enough to see for herself that there’s more to Maul than red blades.
Instead, she opts for a tactic learned from playing sabaac with Spybot and Rook: misdirection.
“I mean, he does pull off that sleeveless-vest-look, doesn’t he?”
Almost immediately, she realizes she might as well have tried a mind-trick on a Toydarian.
“I’ll take your resort to humor as a concession,” says Master Secura, tone dry and tight—then, as Devon senses the indistinct fringes of an emotion she couldn’t imagine coming from a knighted Jedi, Aayla’s eyes narrow on her, standoffish and critical. “He’s much too old for you, anyway.”
After a moment of stunned, wordless disbelief, the full realization crashes into her, and Devon can’t help a sharp snort of amusement.
“I didn’t mean it like that!” she guffaws amidst bouts of laughter. “I was just talking about his, you know, intimidating fashion sense—but you thought I meant…” She lets her sly grin and raised brow finish the sentence for her. “Maybe you’re the one being seduced by the Dark Side.”
“Absolutely not,” Aayla briskly retorts. But she must be out of practice masking certain emotions, because the faint violet flush on her cheeks and the indicative curl of her lekku disagree. “You misunderstand, Padawan. I was only deterring you from—”
“Hey, blue buns!”
The slurred shout from half a block behind them, followed by a lilting anooba-whistle, brings a sudden end to their back-and-forth; Devon’s attention had been so absorbed by Master Secura’s slip-up that she missed the dozen-or-so Force signatures trailing them from the nightclub, emitting the same feeling as Aayla—albeit far more strongly and crudely.
Without acknowledging the flagrant Loth-catcall, the two of them continue after Maul, though Devon does sneak a look over her shoulder. The Weequays—smugglers, likely—are visibly drunk, either too inebriated to understand Aayla heard them or too persistent to care that she isn’t interested.
“C’mon, where ya goin’ in such a hurry?” shouts another one.
“Give those head-tails a shake for my boys and me!”
“Think yer too good for us, do ya?”
Devon’s ire flares as the calls turn to jeers; she’s spent enough time in the criminal underworld to know that quickening their pace is the worst thing they can do—these types love the thrill of the chase, and while they might be harmless loud-mouthed buffoons, the attention they’re attracting is a threat in itself.
To Aayla’s credit, she maintains her composure as if she’s just taking a pleasant stroll through the corridors of the old Jedi Temple.
“What’s the rush, Twi? Not even gonna say hello? Have some manners!”
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere till you show us them bouncy blues!”
Just as the calls become impossible to ignore with the Weequays growing nearer, louder, and more vulgar, Devon considers pinging Maul through the Force to draw his attention—only for him to abruptly wheel around and pass between her and Master Secura.
“If you would excuse me,” he drawls, low and menacing, “this shall take but a minute.”
The two of them share a glance before turning to watch him approach the Weequays at an easy saunter, giving them no reason to think him a threat.
“Uh oh! Looks like we made someone mad!”
“What’re ya gonna do, horny boy? Tell us off for admiring yer lady?”
All but one bursts out in cackling laughter—the outlier, however, gapes at Maul in horror, slowly inching backwards. “I think the Wampa Paw’s got half-price drinks t’night, don’t it, lads?” he croaks, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s get over there before she closes, eh?”
But the warning of the only Weequay to recognize Maul for who he is goes unheeded by his compatriots.
“This is our territory,” sneers the leader, his head wrapped in a red bandana. “We work for Dryden Vos, the new boss of Crimson Dawn, and we ain’t never seen you ‘round here before—so why don’t you walk away while you still can? I’d hate for your wife and kid to have to watch us beat you into jogun jam.”
“A fascinating proposal,” Maul quips, meeting the Weequay’s eye. With a sweep of his hand, he gestures down a narrow side-alley. “Would you be interested in hearing a counteroffer?”
Red Bandana makes a show of cracking his knuckles, grinning like the fool he doesn’t know he is.
“You bet I would, horny boy.”
They step out of sight—and a mere instant later, Devon hears the sickening crunch of bone, followed by the thud of an adult humanoid hitting the pavement. The other Weequays start in surprise, shouting curses; as a group, they rush into the alleyway, leaving behind a lone straggler.
“Aw, kriff…” he groans, hands on his head, watching the brawl unfold. “…lads, this is one fight we shoulda run from…I don’t think this fella is the kind we needta be reckonin’ with…”
Devon throws a quick look at Master Secura, her wide eyes trained on the shadowy mouth of the alley as eleven Force signatures drop to ten with a resounding crack! and then eight with a thunk! of two heads being knocked together. There never comes a flash of red or the hum of a lightsaber—just the sound of one lifeform pummeling several others with remarkable ease.
This sort of thing doesn’t come as a surprise to her, as she’s seen what Maul is capable of without his double-emitter, but Aayla seems stunned—impressed, perhaps, and maybe even flattered if her lekku are anything to go by.
Flickers of the living Force go dark one by one until the last of the Weequays in the alley staggers onto the street, making a mad dash for his life; though he doesn’t get far before his feet are yanked out from under him as if he’d been tripped, then dragged backwards into the alley again where his frantic shrieking comes to a crisp end.
When Maul emerges, he does so without any evidence of having just engaged in a ten-on-one melee: expression unreadable, tunic spotless, gait languid. He tosses the red bandana to the surviving Weequay, cowering and begging for his life in pathetic sobs, and strides back up the street.
Devon considers nudging Master Secura to bring her attention to the fact that she’s radiating the same carnal need as a bantha in mating season, lekku curling in ways regarded as outright obscene on Ryloth; instead, she decides to relish how, after a moment of charged eye contact between Aayla and Maul, the former snaps out of her daze and frantically recomposes her thoughts in a silent scramble.
“That,” she says, voice wavering across the single syllable, “I could have done myself.”
Maul offers a nod in polite deference. “Of course, Lady Secura. But as your host, the obligation was mine.” (Aayla does a passable job of pretending not to be affected by that response.) “Let us continue; we are nearing the hangar.”
He then, as if they’re about to make an entrance at the Galaxies Opera House on Coruscant, extends his arm to her.
The cascade of confusion and mixed emotions which comes rolling off Aayla’s Force signature nearly leaves Devon rolling on the ground in laughter. It’s all she can do to hide her amusement by raising her hand to her mouth and chewing the inside of her cheek as Master Secura just stares at the proffered arm for a painfully awkward interval, clearly trying to figure out what sort of sinister hidden motives might be at play beneath the casual chivalry.
With caution appropriate for petting a Zillo beast, she loops her arm through his. Together, they fall into stride—
—though not before Devon, following a few paces behind, catches Aayla’s eye for long enough to smirkingly mouth a couple of words:
”Redeeming qualities.”