inquisitorium | [ open rp ]

The Dark Side is always strong on Nur, but there's something about how much deeper, colder, it is when Vader is on the moon. Like the temperature has taken a free-fall and gained actual weight, it's why to the Inquisitors at least, he needs never announce his arrival. They know.

And he doesn't really bother otherwise - they will know when he enters the airspace or lands. It's not them he's there for. It's one of the Inquisitors or a prisoner.

His boots hit hard on the flooring, resounding in the hallways as he strode through until he narrowed in on a training hall.

Second Sister has (he expects) already prepared herself for his arrival.

Of course she's prepared herself. Second Sister is nothing if not prepared, always. Even when it means the mental equivalent of holding her breath so that awful oppressive cold doesn't seep too far into her spirit.

It's not that she minds the Dark; it's just for her the Dark is a fire, a living flame she can use to fuel the rage that is never far from the surface. But Vader -- his power could swallow her whole, she thinks. Her rage is a tiny candle flame next to his -- his everything. She admires him, but she knows he'll be the death of her the instant she fails.

Perhaps one day she can earn enough favor from the Emperor to put her beyond his reach.

One day.

She puts those thoughts far from her mind as he enters, her back ramrod straight and her breathing as calm and even as though she'd never once known fear.

"Lord Vader. How can I be of service?"

Always prepared and yet, not his favorite - for he did have favorites, in all things. But neither was she among those he detested most, which placed those in the most danger, the ones Vader would replace with a stroke as soon as replacements were found.

No, he knew of her ambition, even approved of it. But it was who she sought the approval of that prevented her from earning his approval, among other reasons. Not that she'll ever be free from danger where he is concerned - the Inquisitors are simply lesser than and prone to failure, which he cannot tolerate. But there is always room for upward mobility.

Beneath his mask, his mouth twitched. Not a smile, but something more faint and sinister. She may feign fearlessness but he knew better. He'd heard her screams after all.

"Second Sister, you've been chosen to accompany my legion. Summon your Purge Troopers to Hanger Bay Six, equipped for Yar Togna. The mission is not anticipated to be brief, but you are not inform the others of your mission. Only your absence from training."

1. Look, bitch. One day when everyone I care about deserts me for my severe moral depravity, you’re going to be the only one I have.

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No one takes care of us but us, right?

4. You can’t hurt my feelings. I don’t have feelings

[ Do you ever wonder if your messages are being spied on? Because SEEMINGLY from nowhere: ]

Third Sister and yourself are having a disagreement again?

3. I don't need inspirational quotes. If I'm going to be motivated, it will be by anger and spite.

---------

Atta girl. Need something to sharpen that spite? And perhaps vent it?

Are you offering to make things worse on purpose?

I wouldn't call it a disagreement, no.

Precisely.

Not that we need taking care of.

Worse for someone. There's many things in the galaxy to fuel those emotions without harming you.

I am open to suggestion, I suppose.

[ Does she particularly care if she's harmed? Not especially. But she doesn't seek pain on purpose all of the time. ]

What would you call it?

Merely a spirited debate.

I'll pick you up from Centax-3 tomorrow with travel papers. You'll have to be disguised.

[ Sith(ling) that he might be, Palpatine and Dooku hasn't managed to beat all the compassion out of him. But he desire for justice? Oh that is a fearsome and wild thing. A terrible weapon to set upon enemies - and Anakin all too often plays into Palpatine's hands. ]

No, but it's nice having someone watch your six and not just your ass.

The subject of the debate?

Whether or not she's a sore loser.

[ The answer to that is 'Yes'. ]

I take it sparring you once again lead to a lesson in your tactical prowess?

Naturally.

And I told her that I am immune to her attempts to goad me into making a mistake, at which point she redoubled her efforts, leading to the exchange you just intercepted.

Indeed.

Not that my ass isn't worth admiring.

She should perhaps stick to sparring with her equals for the time being.

[ Is he going to admit anything? Nope. ]

You ain't wrong. But so's mine.

Can't say the same about my tits but Can't have all the gifts.

What you up to anyway?

The Imperial High Prince was probably the most beloved person in the entire Empire. Since he was a child, he would be doted on by everyone, from the lowest sycophant to the Emperor himself. To say he grew up privileged was a bit of an understatement, and yet as he got older, Luke Skywalker began to realize just how lonely it was on the high pedestal he had been placed on. People were willing to bow and scrape the ground before him, but not a single one dared to get close enough to touch, almost like he was made of glass, and he would shatter.

He would occasionally accompany his father to Nur, to look over the goings on of the facility and receive reports from the Inquisitors -- though terrify them was probably a more accurate description. This time instead of joining his father in his long terror session, he found himself wandering the halls of the massive fortress, occasionally peering into rooms, but not walking with any kind of destination in mind. There had to be something interesting in this place outside of the torture chambers below; maybe he would be lucky enough to find it.

It wasn't that Vader had wanted her to live. He'd firmly expected her to die as his blade slid through her before he turned his full attention to Kestis, Junda, and the holocron. And the two Jedi hadn't spared time to check her either, even if, in the very back of his mind, he'd known the girl clung to life. However much it weakened by the millisecond.

After the damage to the base was under control, the water held by why more than Vader's will, he ordered someone to do clean up 'the trash'.

Only to be later met with a frightened staffer who was unable to find a body. He considered punishing the ensign for his failure but something stopped him. After all the girl had to have died but that didn't mean she hadn't moved first.

He'd gone to look. True to the word of the ensign, Second Sister's body did not lie in the introgation chamber, they had not passed it in the corridor. At that he'd ordered a full scale sweep.

It had taken hours, Vader growing more and more impatient and cross the longer it had taken. Eventually he'd ordered the other Inquisitors to join the search - not that they proved useful.

"How can we trust you to hunt the remaining Jedi when you cannot even find a dying member of your own?" He'd not expected an answer - and anyone attempting to would quickly find their airway crushed off until Vader felt they were sufficiently contrite. Or he was distracted by one of the staff.

Which was how Forth Brother was released.

A Purge Trooper had found her, close to the infirmary but hidden away, curled around herself, shaking, unconscious, barely alive, with three spent bacta infusions on the ground.

What do we do with her, he'd been asked.

And she had impressed him, greatly, with her grit, determination, and command of the Force.

If Second Sister had even regained enough of her senses to feel the casually rough handling that dumped her into a lifesupport pod, he didn't ask.

She had been moving, eyes open, on Mustafar before landing, Vader's black for looming over her. "Impressive. Most impressive." was all he'd said, before she gone still again.

Seven days submerged in Bacta had been the reward, only with Vader's increased interest - which meant months of personal training before returning her to Nur.

Five years.

Five years of personal attention and training, five years of being summoned to Mustafar for months long personal training and attention. Five years of drilling and pushing. Three years of the Grand Inquisitor getting nervious and trying to sabotage, and Vader leaving her to figure it out.

Five years culminating to her being sent after Third Sister when she had gone off on her own, of hunting her down, to find out she'd been hunting Kenobi on her own.

Find him first he'd ordered her.

And she had been with him, them, on Mapozu. But with Kenobi missing, Vader had ordered the base searched, found the hiding place and tunnels, and set the Inquisitors, sans Second Sister, to find the depth of the treachery.

Second Sister was to find the missing Third Sister, Kenobi, or whoever had assisted them.

Meanwhile, he waited.

Before he'd cut her down, Trilla had been terrified of Vader, seeking the Emperor's favor mainly as a means to placing herself further from his reach. As Second Sister she was anticipated to take over the role of Grand Inquisitor eventually, but in the short-term she'd merely wanted to prove herself too valuable to the Empire to be harmed. Her own need for revenge had come second only to this, and she had fallen in anger at herself most of all, at her failure, her weakness in the face of her former Master and the Padawan who had replaced her.

After she'd awoken, the fear had been replaced with something akin to loyalty that would sharpen and develop in truth over the following years, though Vader's interest in her had earned her the envy of her Brothers and Sisters, and more than one attempt on her own life.

She'd bristled slightly when her nearest rival had been named Grand Inquisitor while she herself had been held in reserve for some purpose she had yet to fathom. But with Third gone, her path forward became clear. She would deliver her wayward Sister, and Kenobi, or die in the attempt.

Unfortunately for Trilla, two days of chasing half-dead leads had given her precious few answers. She had no taste for physical torture, finding its results inferior to pressing against the mental weaknesses of her prey, so she had at least granted clean deaths to those who rewarded her with what little scraps remained to be had on this world.

Disappointed but undefeated, she approached Lord Vader's audience chamber with her head held high in spite of the punishment she expected soon to face.

Vader had an extremely small group of allies, and had he still hands, they could be numbered on one, with digits remaining and his acolytes where counted within that group. And of them, only Vaneé had met all of them. But he had plans for Trilla soon, a contingency plan to lay out, which would nessetate a meeting. It was, in fact, what he was doing when she arrived.

In truth, after ten years of hunting Kenobi, if she had managed to track his location in days, he'd have been incredulous. Third Sister, for all her...lessor potential had still been an Inquisitor: she knew how they hunted. It would take time, and he was willing to give her weeks to turn up a lead before his mood would turn to displeasure.

Expecting an audience or no, he was not actually in his audience chamber, but an antechamber, gloves fingers typing up a message. She could could wait a few moments until the core of the message was constructed.

Finally he rose, striding into the chamber, taking in her posture, her presence. Studying. "Second sister, you have me with your attendance so soon after departing."

The gentle sounds of plucked hallikset strings drift through the Mantis, fragments of old familiar melodies blended in an almost aimless sort of tune, as if the one playing has no particular plan. Cere herself is barely conscious of what she is playing, using her instrument as much to pass the time and settle her own thoughts as to provide music for the others on board the Mantis.

It has been days now, since Nur. Although they are more certain than they were that Trilla will pull through and live, it is difficult not to worry and impossible not to wonder what state her mind will be in when she does. It would undoubtedly be safer for them to restrain her in some way - both for her protection (lest she re-open her wounds) and theirs - but Cere will not let that happen. Instead, she has taken it upon herself to keep watch, only leaving Trilla's side to trade off with Merrin so that she can check on Cal or attempt to get a little bit of sleep herself.

Despite the profound relief that they'd made it out against all odds - and brought Trilla back against all she had dared let herself hope - sleep does not come easily, but she does try. So much has happened in so short a time, and opening herself back up to the Force on top of that... And when she looks at the wounds burned into Cal and Trilla... If she let herself, she could tear the ship apart around them with her rage, freshly stirred up by being back in that place and seeing him once more, feeling his oppressive darkness. But there is so much more there, now than the tarry pits of seething pain she had sunk into before, and she no longer fears that she will drown. Still, there is only so much time she can sit in silence with her thoughts, and she remembers that once, Trilla had enjoyed hearing her play.

Perhaps some part of her may yet find it comforting in some way as she finds her way back to the waking world. Cere can only hope.

There's no surprise left in Trilla when her pain continues after what she'd been certain was death. Darth Vader didn't miss; he simply hadn't cared to finish her off quickly. There's a part of her that remains angry at that -- for not having expected dying to take an eternity, and for not having resisted it just a little harder at the end.

For days there's nothing for it. She can sense the Force, even the Light, just out of her grasp, but there against all odds. Taunting her by remaining just out of reach and yet annoyingly persistent, like the music that filters into her consciousness now. It does not bring comfort so much as distract her with a fresh sort of misery -- the reminder of a time that she'd felt safe, and cared for. The reminder that she would never have those things again, and that even the release of death remains frustratingly elusive.

She drifts somewhere on the edge of consciousness until she can start to feel something more than the agony of the lightsaber burn that was apparently not going to kill her. The fingers of one hand twitch as she tests her ability to move and finds that her muscles aren't quite ready to obey. Escape isn't yet a possibility -- never mind that she hasn't a clue where she is -- so she feigns sleep a while longer and reaches out with the Force instead for information.

What she finds yanks her back to consciousness rather unceremoniously, instinctual panic overtaking her enough to force her eyes open to confirm what a part of her has known for days.

No no no NO, she screams in her head as her mouth tries to find the strength to shape the word. Her eyes fly open and she looks about wildly, trying against all odds to find a way to flee. She can't be here, can't be this. She'd rather fling herself directly out an airlock than face the reality of being at the mercy of her former Master and what's starting to feel an awful lot like forgiveness.

There's a shift before it happens. A brush of something familiar and then, a warning surge of panic rippling in the Force just before Trilla tries to scream. Cere stops her playing, the last notes ringing in the air, jangled as she sets the hallikset aside. She rises and moves to Trilla's side.

"Trilla," she says, soft but firm, steady in the face of Trilla's obvious distress. "You are safe, but you are injured. Try not to move. Just breathe."

Cere watches her former Padawan's eyes, both to gauge lucidity and in an effort to catch her gaze and give Trilla something to focus on. (And maybe, also, to give herself something, too. Stay in the moment.) She places a hand on Trilla's shoulder as much to offer some attempt at grounding as to prevent her from lurching off the cot.

"You're safe, now."

It's a lie.

The warning from the part of her that still has any self-preservation is immediate. This is a dream, an illusion impressed upon her weakened mind. A dying wish, perhaps. Something that will certainly be used to punish her for her failure. It must be that, no matter what her senses are screaming at her as she forces her vision to focus.

She feels real in the Force, but Trilla knows better than most how the Dark can offer just enough truth to throw everything into question. She remembers how the memory of Cere had been used to taunt her, to tear her apart and reshape her into the Empire's weapon. She'd been a good weapon. Better than whatever she would be if she gave into the lie that was safe.

"Never safe," she rasps out, her voice hoarse from disuse. She'd laugh if she had the energy. Cere cannot possibly think that the two of them would ever be safe if this were real. An Inquisitor stolen from under the nose of Darth Vader himself by a Jedi Master who had escaped the Fortress twice now? There's no reason at all either of them should be alive. She can't wrap her mind around it, whether reality or fiction.

"There's nothing left to save," she whispers, her eyes drifting closed again for the moment. She's too tired for this. Whatever's going to happen will happen; she's in no state to fight it at present.

Of course Cere is not so delusional to believe they're safe forever, but for now, it is the truth. Between Greez's piloting, Merrin's cloaking, and the many pockets of the galaxy the Empire does not yet have complete control, it will take time before they can be tracked down. Still, she isn't about to argue the point with what follows. It hurts to hear that whisper, knowing how deep that belief must have been driven in, inch by agonizing inch, knowing the fragile, bitter reprieve that can be found in giving up and giving in. Sometimes that's how you survive.

"I haven't given up hope." Cere tightens her fingers on Trilla's shoulder just slightly, brushing her thumb back and forth in a small attempt at assurance. "As long as you are alive, you always have a choice."

It's the same refrain as before. The glimmer of hope that had finally caused Trilla to waver after it became clear that Cere's new Padawan was well-matched enough to wear her down. Trilla flinches slightly under that touch, knowing that a moment's comfort only means worse pain to follow. Any moment now this, too, will be taken from her, and that tiny flicker of hope that she'd been weak enough to allow will be crushed once more.

She is silent as she waits, her body tensed in anticipation of the pain to follow. When none does, save that of the lightsaber burn that's been a constant even in her unconscious state, she opens her eyes again to regard Cere warily.

"This is real. How did we survive?"

A question Cere has asked herself time and again these past days, and a reminder she often tells herself in the amorphous unreality of the moments just past waking -- when nightmares of the past and what could have been still cling as unwelcome cobwebs. The reminder that this is real is far easier to take solace in now, however, than it had been the first time she'd left Nur. After all, this time, she hadn't left Trilla behind. She cannot undo the past, and if Trilla never forgives her for how badly Cere failed her, then... so be it. But now that she - now that they both have this chance, Cere means to help however she can.

"Yes, this is real," Cere echoes, nodding. However, she pauses before giving any more of an answer, her gaze finally sliding away from Trilla's eyes to some unknowable point in the middle distance as she collects her thoughts.

She has had plenty of time to think about i in the time since, of course, but putting everything into words - into coherent words - is another matter entirely. Much of what Cere remembers a series of lurid snapshots connected by a blur of adrenaline, and even then, a haze of emotions and out of sequence memories of the first time she'd survived Nur makes it all muddy and hard to sort through. BD-1 has been helpful, of course, in relaying what he bore witness to, but the droid had been at Cal's side, not hers, and therefore missing moments remained. Still, what she could piece together would have to do.

"The short version is a combination of Cal's quick thinking, and Merrin's talent for teleportation -- followed by a lot bacta, Magick, and some help from the Force." The Trilla Cere remembers was rarely satisfied by cursory answers, though, so after giving her a moment to digest this, Cere continues, "The long version, however..."

"He," she begins and then stops for a moment, thinking she should have just said his name. She should have just said Vader. He has no power here, and avoiding his name only gives the fear and the fury a foothold for the future. So she starts again, willing her voice to be steady:

"Vader was more concerned with retrieving the holocron from Cal than dealing with you or me. I could still feel you there, alive, so when he left in pursuit, I climbed back to the platform and did what I could to stabilize you before carrying out." Their bond as Master and Padawan may have long since been utterly shattered, but enough remains in the jagged edges that Cere would have known if Trilla had died. Of that, she is certain. "We rejoined Cal in the underwater tunnels to make our escape. Vader caught up with us again. Cal was injured, and I..."

'I nearly lost myself to the Dark Side again,' catches in her throat, and Cere pauses again. She had been so afraid of losing both Trilla and Cal, then, and she had been so very angry, so full of hatred for everything Darth Vader had done to them, had done to her. Everything the Empire had taken and twisted. But she shakes herself out of the memory, pressing onwards.

"I held off Vader long enough for Cal to break the tunnels, and then we escaped into the water. Luckily, he had a spare rebreather, so you avoided inhaling too much seawater. Merrin teleported us back to the ship, and since then, like I said. A lot of bacta. A bit of Merrin's brand of assisted healing, and some of mine."

Cere finally looks at Trilla properly again, understanding that's a lot to take in just after one's woken up from days of recovering from life-threatening injury. Perhaps she should have stuck with the short and simple version...

It is a lot to take in, so much that Trilla finds herself wondering if she was wrong after all, if this is some strange fever dream that she's invented with which to distract herself from the monotony of dying. She cannot yet comprehend that she might be allowed to live after everything, but this is a strange enough diversion to cause her to want to know more. Her curiosity has remained intact, at the very least.

It takes her a few moments to piece together some manner of sense all the same, her brow furrowing as she works it out.

"Magick... you have a Nightsister."

Trilla had somehow missed that part, much to her annoyance. Where had they been keeping a Nightsister all this time? Why was a Nightsister of Dathomir helping two Jedi in hiding?

She has approximately a dozen more questions to ask as soon as she can manage such complexities as sitting up. For now, at least one more has already been answered, but it seems worth confirming anyway.

"Cal Kestis survived, then."

She's not sure if she's disappointed or relieved. Her emotions surrounding her replacement are too complex a knot to untie when she's still not sure how she feels about having lived to contemplate it.

The girl, without suppression cuffs now, had gotten hersel into a corner, between the wall and a jutting support.

There she stayed, about four feet from the ground, curled around a ratty cloth dollshed managed to keep ahold of.

Someone would be in, she was told, who would take over her training.

----

That someone being Second Sister, at Darth Vader's orders. Train the new recruit. I believe you will find her most useful in your endeavors.

[ open rp ]

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Tfln 1

Tfln 4

Tfln 3 | that Palpatine raised AU

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Trilla Lives AU OWK thing

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