The Knight, Death, and the Devil (Star Wars, Old Republic-era)

Synopsis: A republic conscript was captured by a Sith. His latent force powers appear under duress.

Author: Ninurtah

Site: Sufficient velocity

Word count: 220k, there's also a sequel

Chapter 1: Breathe In​

When you lived out on the edge of space, with your nearest neighbor fifty miles away and the nearest starport ten times that, self-reliance wasn't a matter of pride—it was a fact of life. As Torin stood in that crowded compartment, fingering his rifle and blinking the sweat from his eyes, one thought passed through his mind:

Gods, help me. Someone help me.

The compartment trembled and creaked, a low roar audible through the metal bulkheads. A faint orange glow filtered in through the slatted windows situated on the upper quarter of each wall, waxing and waning in intensity as they passed through the clouds. Sometimes the change would be accompanied by a violent rocking of the transport, a sign that some bomb or munition had nearly come close enough to punch a hole in the side and suck them all out into the stratosphere.

One—breathe in.

Two—breathe out.

Torin looked to his left, then his right. Dozens of soldiers stood on either side of him in tightly packed rows, shoulder to shoulder in the cramped metal box. Soldiers may have been a generous term—they were wearing plasteel armor and cradling blaster rifles in their shaking arms, but that hardly made a soldier. Not that Torin was any different. Before a week ago, he had never touched a blaster. As for the armor? It should have been comforting, but the weight of the breastplate hung over his shoulders only seemed to remind him how out of his element he really was.

He ran a hand over the smooth surface of the plate covering his chest, feeling the scratches and blast marks that it had incurred protecting whatever poor bastard had worn it last. Would some other young man be handed this and marched onto a troop transport after it was scavenged off of Torin's corpse? Or maybe when they landed it would be incinerated with Torin in a rain of orbital laser fire, and that would be the end of that little saga.

"Landfall in five minutes!" The commander at the front of the transport walked back and forth at the front of the troop formation, holding onto a railing to steady himself as he repeated the announcement up and down the line. Would he be charging off of the transport with them?

Of course not.

One look at his armor marked him as a naval officer. When they'd put Torin and the others on here, there was no briefing, no real mission. They weren't soldiers—they were cannon fodder. Their job was to bury the empire in a human wave while Republic military did the real work—capturing comm centers, destroying forward operating bases, disabling anti-craft emplacements. All that the men here were expected to do was die.

"Can't wait to kill some Imps!"

An elbow jostling him in the side prompted Torin to swivel his head to the right. The man next to him wore a strained smile, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead before dripping off of his brow. Torin took a moment to process his words, then tried to force a grin that would project some degree of confidence. He couldn't see his own face, but the man's reaction told him that all he exhibited was sheer terror at what was to come. The man swallowed, and both turned back to face forward towards that ominous door spanning the entire forward wall of the transport.

The man to his left bumped into him, and Torin stumbled slightly as the transport rocked. The man was shaking like a leaf, and in Torin's attempts to steady himself he felt a soft slap as his boot hit wetness on the floor.

Lovely.

The transport shook, and he had to push off of the soldier in front of him to steady himself. The dull, constant roar outside the ship changed in tone, signaling that the rockets had kicked in to slow their descent—they were almost there.

He may have been crammed into a box like livestock with a hundred other poor souls, standing in someone else's piss, and sweating bullets from the heat and stale air—but he wanted nothing more than for those bay doors at the front of the transport to stay shut.

The transport rocked a final time, heralding their arrival with a loud roar as the landing jets used up the last of their fuel.

"Weapons at the ready!"

The officer up front moved to a corner beside the door, and Torin finger his weapon anxiously—no matter how many times he played with it, it never felt quite right.

A harsh whine echoed around the compartment, and sunlight shone through a thin gap running across the center of the bay door. Sunlight, yes, but not like it was supposed to be—it was red.

The door fell open, slamming to the ground and sending up a cloud of yellow dust in front of the transport. The red light filtered through the dust, filling the transport with an alien orange glow.

"Go, go, go!" The officer yelled, waving his hand forcefully. Sirens within the transport blared, herding the soldiers out—out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Torin ran through the cloud of dust the transport had kicked up, boots beating on metal, then stone as his eyes seeked out any clue as to the direction of the rally point. That was all they'd given them—a strategic location to reach and hold. They'd never make it, of course—he knew better than that. Their only purpose was to sow some disarray in the enemy lines before they inevitably got annihilated by better trained, better equipped troops.

Coughing and rubbing his eyes with his free hand, he breached the cloud and looked ahead.

Not into the frying pan. Into hell.

The sky was on fire, a pastel painting of red, yellow, and orange as far as the eye could see. Aerial fighters flew over the battered ruins of a city that had been turned into a skeleton, dog fighting while a battle raged far overhead in space. Flashes of light pierced the clouds here and there, each one heralding the destruction of a vessel and the deaths of thousands of souls.

Swallowing, he cast his gaze downward and focused on what was in front of him, doing his best to block out the titanic battle raging overhead. He couldn't do anything about that—all he could do now was try to survive.

A group of soldiers ran past him, and Torin felt himself being carried forward by the sheer momentum of the group. There was safety in numbers, surely? Or would that just attract the attention of some keen-eyed artillery emplacement?

The squad funneled in between two multi-storied beige buildings, going two in a row to fit in the narrow alley. The battle had scarred the structures deeply, and one look upward had him wondering how long they would last.

The characteristic screech of a Sith fighter sounded out overhead, and the men leading the line stopped at the front of the alley. They could feel that cacophonous roar in their bones. Torin could only guess that the Sith designed them that way—like whistling arrows wrapped up in millions of credits worth of technology and destruction.

Tentatively, the two pairs of soldiers in front stepped out of the alley and onto a thoroughfare running in front of it. It must have looked lovely before all this. Fountains and trees lined islands in the center of the road lanes, though the fountains ran dry and the burnt-out trees smoldered faintly.

Another roar, then a crash—a fighter slid in front of the alley at an angle, killing four of the men immediately and striking the corner of one of the buildings. Debris shot up from the crash, falling onto the group as they shielded themselves. The building on the left started to shake, and more debris rained down from overhead.

Torin turned around, looking back down the long alley—it was too far to go back. Looking around wildly, his eyes landed on a small hole in the wall to his right, just large enough for someone to fit through.

"Through here!" He yelled, gesturing at the hole. None of the men moved a muscle, still frozen in shock at the sudden death of their four fellows. Torin grabbed the shoulder of the man directly in front of him and swiveled him about, then pointed at the hole. "Through here!" He yelled again, and pushed the man towards it. He stumbled, then ducked through the hole while he shouted at the rest of them to do the same. The group filtered through single file, pushing each other onward as the husk of a building finally collapsed, filling the alley with rubble and plugging the hole behind them.

Torin wanted to wait—to rest—but there was no respite here. The entire front facade of the building they'd fled into was sheared off, leaving the group exposed to the plaza ahead of them. Half a dozen empire soldiers were moving across the plaza parallel to them, alternately taking cover and firing at some unseen foe as they moved from barrier to barrier, navigating broken stonework structures and wrecked vehicles.

"Let's get em, boys!" Torin watched in horror as one of the men charged towards the imperials, beckoning the other conscripts forward. They shouted as they spilled forth from the building, sprinting across open ground to assault the hunkered-down imperial troops.

He wanted to yell out to them, to call them back, but it was too late. The imperials took cover behind whatever cover was nearest and began to pick off the reckless conscripts, only stopping when a dust cloud dense enough to obscure their line of sight drifted through the square. More men fell to the ground mid-charge, blaster holes sizzling in their chests. Each one was like a punch in the gut for Torin, and eventually he couldn't watch anymore. Clutching his rifle tightly, he ran down a pile of debris and out onto the plaza, joining the other conscripts.

If he was going to die, it was going to mean something. It might not be a good death, but it'd be good enough.

His voice was hoarse from the dry air and dehydration but he yelled anyway, though he could hardly hear himself over the blaster fire filling the square and the constant roar of fighters overhead.

Stopping to kneel down, he leveled his rifle at an imperial soldier and took aim as best he could despite his shaking arms. He squeezed the trigger and the rifle discharged, and through the sights he saw the man collapse behind the speeder he had been using for cover. Had he actually hit someone? He couldn't help but grin madly with a feverish exuberance that was quickly tempered with the realization that he'd just killed a man. Still kneeling, he swiveled about to find new targets and fired at the soldiers, some of the shots coming close enough to force them to stay in cover.

The Republic soldiers charged with renewed vigor, bearing down on the imperial soldiers. They leapt over cover and what was once a suicidal charge turned into a close-quarters melee. No longer able to get a clear shot, Torin watched as the numerous conscripts overwhelmed the Imperials. The sounds of battle grew silent—on the ground, at least—and the Republic soldiers looked around at each other, bewildered. Had they won?

One of the men laughed, followed by another, then more. The laughter turned to a cheer while the men gathered and began walking towards a broad set of stairs leading away from the plaza and towards an intact-looking government building. Torin wasn't sure if he was relieved or if he had simply gone insane, but he was grinning from ear to ear—he couldn't help but get caught up in the feeling of triumph. They had faced impossible odds, and they'd beat them. What if they could do it again, and then again, and then again? Could he actually live through this?

That's when Torin saw him.

He had told himself that he was in hell, but he had forgotten that hell had demons.

The Republic soldiers stopped at the bottom of the steps. At the top stood an imposing figure clad in a metallic battle suit of gray and black, face shadowed by the light behind him. Two gauntlets terminated in clawed fingers, and in one hand he clutched something small—a blaster?

With a flick of the wrist, a luminous red blade shot forth from the object. The soldiers at the bottom of the steps gasped and braced themselves, guns raised—but they didn't dare fire. The figure waited a moment, observing the cowed masses below him.

"Fire!" One of the men yelled, firing his blaster. The Sith leapt down the steps through the hail of blaster fire, blade moving about in front of him with a practiced ease that deflected the incoming projectiles. Two of the soldiers collapsed to the ground, killed by their own blaster fire. The rest stumbled backwards as the Sith landed at the bottom of the steps, shaking the ground with the immense weight of his suit.

Mouth agape and rifle held limply in front of him, Torin watched in awe as soldier after soldier fell to the ground, the Sith's blade making short work of plasteel and flesh alike. As the group thinned and the man turned, Torin caught a glimpse of the Sith's face. At first he thought he was seeing things—maybe the red sky and orange dust was playing tricks with the light—but there was no mistaking it. His skin was a deep shade of crimson, redder even than the blasted skies above.

Only a few soldiers remained, and the Sith turned away from Torin. Had he seen him? He could still run—away from all this.

To what, though? Into another squad of imperials? Another Sith?

Teeth clenched, he steeled himself and began running as fast as his tired legs would carry him—towards hell.

Close enough now to see that demonic face clearly, Torin slid to a stop in front of a collapsed column. Had he managed to acquire some tactical instincts in the single week of training they'd pushed him through? Probably not—cover wasn't going to stop a lightsaber, after all.

Hands shaking madly, he propped his rifle on top of the stone slab before him and looked through the sights. Between the Sith moving about like some possessed twi'lek and his own trembling body, he couldn't even keep his target in his sights.

One—breathe in.

Two—breathe out.

Amazingly, the gun steadied in his hands. He ignored his surprise to focus on his target. A week ago he'd never fired a gun before. An hour ago, he'd never killed someone before—now he was staring down the barrel of a blaster rifle, preparing to take down a Sith warrior. Torin let out a nervous chuckle, the gun shaking slightly in his hands again. With one final inhalation he filled his lungs, then held the air and braced his core as he centered the sights on the crimson-skinned alien that had finally come to a stop, standing in the miniature graveyard of Republic soldiers that he had made.

With a simple squeeze of the trigger his rifle discharged, and the green bolt of plasma sailed towards the Sith. There was a flash of light, and Torin instinctively flinched. The bolt shot back towards him, singing the stone blocks he was hunkered behind. Had he missed? Had the Sith deflected it? He hadn't even been looking in the right direction!

Heart beating through his chest, he stood to his feet and brought his gun to bear on the Sith's position. As he stood, he saw that his target was still in front of him—although now a mere two feet stood between the pair. Torin gasped and squeezed his rifle trigger, his reaction time beaten by that of the Sith. The lightsaber swung upward, slicing the rifle's barrel off at the moment of its discharge. The plasma that had built up within the rifle's core vented explosively, sending Torin sprawling backwards onto the ground and the Sith bringing his arms up to his exposed face protectively.

Ears ringing and eyes burning as he lay staring upward at the scorched sky, Torin saw a figure leap into his field of vision and fall from overhead. He scurried backward in a panic, narrowly avoiding a lightsaber through the abdomen. The Sith knelt in front of him for a moment, turning his face upward in what seemed like slow motion.

Her face.

It had been impossible to tell that the person contained in the battlesuit was a woman, but even through his hazy vision he could clearly make out that alien—but very feminine—face staring him down with a terrible intensity. Short, fleshy tendrils hung off of her jaw and chin, some of them adorned with golden jewelry. Her ridged, hairless eyebrows were lowered threateningly, shadowing two yellow eyes that burned like miniature suns in dark sockets.

She stood up, withdrawing her lightsaber from the cobbled ground. Torin shuffled backwards, and she extended a gauntlet-clad hand, as if beckoning him back towards her. She grew closer, and he realized that he wasn't moving backwards any more—she was pulling him towards her. He kept kicking his hands and feet in a desperate attempt to get away, but it was useless. How could he have hoped to kill someone like this? It was foolish, stupid—sacrilegious, almost. He was just a man—but this? This was something else entirely.

The woman raised her right hand and brought her elbow backwards, the tip of her lightsaber pointed at Torin's face as she dragged him towards it with some invisible force. Unable to gain any traction on the dusty ground, he flipped over and began scrambling on his side, fingers digging into any nook or cranny they could find. The pulling stopped, and he looked up to see the lightsaber held high above his head, poised to strike.

He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his hands up in front of his face—as if that were any protection. He waited... and waited, but death did not come. Easing open first one eye, then the other, he saw the glowing blade held mere inches from his outstretched palms. Had she taken pity on him?

No, that wouldn't be very Sith-like. More likely she didn't want to kill him without being able to watch the life drain from his eyes as she did so.

Forcing himself to look that fearsome, otherworldly woman in the eyes, he didn't find rage, or sadistic pleasure. He saw... surprise.

Confused, Torin followed her gaze downwards and looked at his open palms. The air rippled with force on all sides of his hands, barely perceptible save for the wisps of battle-born dust that drifted through the eddies of air. As they both stood there frozen, he began to become aware of a subtle vibration that traveled up his forearms and terminated in his fingertips, pulsing in time with the air before him. Was he doing that?

The woman withdrew a short distance, her naked surprise turning to cold calculation. She flipped the saber in her hand so that the blade pointed back away from Torin, then strode back towards him. Torin thrust his hands towards her, but whatever miracle had once saved him wouldn't work a second time. The Sith drove the pommel of her saber through his hands and into his forehead, sending him sprawling back onto the ground.

And everything was black

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Chapter 2: Out Of The Frying Pan​

The first thing he saw was a light. Not the kind you see when you become one with the Force—depending on what you believe—this one flickered and buzzed, running down the length of a dull brown ceiling. He squinted reflexively and then winced in pain, reaching a hand up to feel his swollen left eye, but found that his hands were bound tightly behind his back. His eye socket was tender and swollen, but at least he could still see out of it.

Above him the ceiling was moving, and he realized that he was being dragged down a hallway by the scruff of his shirt. He craned his head back and saw two helmeted guards, the red markings on their backs identifying them as Imperial soldiers. They talked to each other in short, robotic barks. Between the armor and the voice changers they had an inhuman presence designed to strike fear into their enemies. Torin had to admit—it worked.

The scrape of cold steel against his back stopped, and the soldiers pulled Torin to his knees, turning him around to face back down the hallway. One of them leaned behind him and pressed something on his manacles, and within seconds Torin was being violently pulled backwards, dragged on his shins and knees by some unseen force.

A vertical pole struck him in the back and he stopped, a click coming from his shackles. He looked to either side of him and saw a dozen men just like him, all shackled to tall metal poles in a large gray holding cell. The two guards left the room, the door slamming shut behind them, leaving an eerie silence in their wake.

None of the Republic soldiers spoke. Torin gave them another look over, and going by their uniforms counted two real soldiers. The rest were conscripts, like himself. As his eyes traveled up and down the line, he thought he recognized a face and quickly recalled the eager man beside him on the troop transport. The man's eyes flashed in mutual recognition, and despite the blaster scar running across the left side of his head, he gave Torin a defiant smile.

"Kill any Sith?"

Torin laughed, the laugh turning to a cough in his dry throat. "I got one."

The man nodded, and his eyes drifted to the ground.

"How about you?" Torin asked, unable to bear the oppressive silence that had returned.

He shook his head, eyes still fixed to the floor. "We got surrounded in minutes. Half our guys got slaughtered, the other half dropped their guns—so I did, too."

Torin felt the man's shame as his own. That very easily could have been him, had circumstances been even a little bit different.

"Means I get to live, I guess—whatever that's worth."

"It's not your fault," Torin assured him. "You shouldn't have been sent here. None of us should have," he said angrily, looking at the conscripts on either side of him.

The man nodded again, seeming to at least appreciate the sentiment. "How about you? You surrender too?"

The last few minutes before being knocked out replayed in Torin's mind. It seemed like a dream—or a nightmare.

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "I got knocked out."

One of the men to his right laughed. "You trip and hit your head or something?" He nodded at Torin's swollen eye.

Torin winced reflexively. "No. There was a woman... with a lightsaber."

The man's eyes went wide. Further down the line, a man with swarthy skin and a regulation haircut scoffed. On the shoulder of his tunic was a Republic insignia.

"Bullshit. Sith don't take no prisoners."

The other prisoners looked to the officer, then back to Torin. He just shrugged in response. Why bother trying to explain it? At this point, what did it even matter?

The first man—the one from the transport—spoke up again. "What's your name?"

"Torin," he replied, then paused for a moment. "Torin Val."

The man sniffed and nodded. "Nice to meet you, Torin. I'm Okins. I'd shake your hand, but..." He knocked his manacles against the post behind him, earning a few laughs from the prisoners.

"Do you know where we are?"

Okins shook his head. "Not really. I know we're still on Uracco, but they had us blindfolded—"

"I know where we are," one of the conscripts cut in. He was a young man, even younger than Torins—just a kid, really. "We're in the Aratech plant outside of Strath."

The rest of them eyed him uncertainly.

"I used to work shifts here," he added. "You know, before all this."

Torin's heart leapt in his chest. "So you know how to get out of here?"

The kid started to speak, then stopped. Torin immediately regretted asking him such a question, but he was desperate enough to latch onto any hope of salvation.

The officer down the line clicked his tongue. "There's no gettin' out of here. Soon as they come through those doors—" He nodded at the cell's exit. "—We're being shipped off to some gods forsaken prison camp other side of the galaxy."

They all felt their eyes drawn to that ominous threshold. It was the only way out, but Torin couldn't help but recall the transport bay doors. Right then, all he wanted was for them to stay shut.

Eyes squeezed tightly closed and fists clenched, he strained against his shackles and bit into his lip. Why did he have to be here? Why here? Why him?He wasn't supposed to be in a place like this. The worst thing he was supposed to deal with was a predator breaking into the nerf pens.

Yet here he was, condemned to end up a slave doing hard labor for who knew how long—assuming they didn't just kill him outright. It wasn't like the Republic was going to negotiate for his release. The officer? Maybe—but Torin was no one to them. He'd lived a nobody, and he'd die a nobody.

The post behind him began to shake as the thoughts swirled in his mind, a violent rattling that he at first attributed to his own trembling arms. As the clanking of metal on metal grew, all eyes in the room were drawn to it. The men watched, awestruck, as the metal began to fold and crumple. Shards of the pole dropped to the floor, stopping only when it powered down with a sharp whine, dropping a preoccupied Torin to the floor.

Without thinking, Torin pulled his hands in front of him to push himself to his knees, then remembered his bound wrists—but his hands came free anyway. He glanced down at the ground in surprise to see his mangled cuffs lying on the ground, split in two. The other prisoners gave him equally surprised looks.

"...A Jedi?" One of them wondered aloud. The others gasped and stared at Torin.

He stood there silently, looking from the pole to his cuffs and back to the reverent prisoners.

"N-no," Torin stammered. "I'm not—"

"Well I'll be damned," the grizzled Officer muttered. "Maybe we will get out of here."

Torin tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

"You gonna help the rest of us, or what?"

Torin ran over to the man and grabbed onto the pole he was shackled to, straining madly against the solid steel, but it wouldn't budge an inch.

"That's not gonna work," the officer said. "Do your Jedi thing."

Jedi thing?

He certainly wasn't a Jedi—and he had no idea what he'd done, or how he had done it.

A beep came from the door, drawing his attention.

"Shit! Hide!" The officer hissed. Torin looked around the featureless metal cell, then ran to the front of the room and pressed himself flat against the wall. As soon as he did so, he heard a whoosh as the door opened and an Imperial trooper stepped through. The soldier's head turned to the shattered pole that had once held Torin and the man spun about on his feet. Torin reached around the man and grabbed for his gun, pulling the rifle tight to his armored chest as the two of them smashed against the wall.

The wind knocked from his lungs, Torin grunted and pulled upward, dragging the rifle up the man's breastplate and onto his unarmored neck. Both men fell onto the ground on their sides and Torin pulled on the rifle with all of his might. The soldier kicked his legs, rocking back and forth as he tried to free himself. Eventually his legs slowed and his grip on the rifle loosened, then gave away completely. With a gasp Torin let the man go and rolled over onto his back, breathing rapidly.

Staggering to his feet, he picked up the blaster and pointed it at the unconscious Imperial soldier. His finger tensed against the trigger, he held the man in his sights for a few moments before sighing and letting the gun drop. He stumbled back over to the officer, then took aim at his cuffs.. He was still a bad shot, but at this distance it was hard to miss. The cuffs sparked wildly and the officer shook off the smoldering metal, standing to his feet and rubbing his wrists.

"Sergeant Picus," he said, nodding thankfully to Torin. "Seventh battalion. You in charge?"

Still catching his breath, Torin shook his head. "I'm just..."

He was just what, exactly? Certainly not a leader—not even a soldier, really.

"I'm just a private."

The man gave him a confused look, then walked in front of the other prisoners.

"You." He pointed to the kid. "You said you used to work here?"

He nodded.

"Can you get that door open?" Picus pointed at a door just past the one the unconscious soldier had opened.

"I... I think so."

"I didn't ask if you think you can, son. I asked if you can get that door open."

He nodded vigorously. "Yeah... Yeah, I can do it."

"Good." Picus turned to Torin. "Get him free first, then the others."

Torin hustled over to the kid, freeing him with a carefully placed shot. The young man ran to the door, yanking off a metal panel beside it and fiddling with the wires inside while Torin went to work on the other prisoners.

After a short time they were all gathered at the sealed doorway, watching with baited breath as their lock picker bit his lip and tapped two wires together. Sparks flew, and the doors before them lurched open, stopping after only opening a few inches. Two of the men stood on either side and dug their fingers into the crack, pulling open the doors with grunts and straining muscles.

The doors slid open with a grinding screech and the dozen men piled through into a long hallway that stretched far in either direction.

"Which way to the exit, kid?" Picus asked.

He rubbed his head and hummed to himself nervously before settling on a direction. "Right—the Imps will be using the loading docks, but we might be able to slip out the old staff exit."

"Then that's where we're going." Picus gestured for the men to follow and they began jogging down the hallway.

Even as he found himself following his orders, Torin envied the officer's composure. How did he manage to keep it together so well when faced with a situation like this? Did he not understand how dire their situation was? Did he not care?

No, he wasn't stupid—or crazy. He recognized the odds just as plainly as any of them—recognized them better, probably. He was keeping a strong front because that's what you did when faced with hell. That's all you could do.

Stopping at another sealed door, Torin kept watch behind them as the others worked on getting it open.

"Almost got it. After this it's the reception area, then one more door to the landing pad."

A few moments more and the young man had the door open. The group rushed out into a spacious, well-decorated office lobby, Picus at the front and Torin bringing up the rear. Potted plants lined the walls and a bright red carpet ran down the center of the room.

All eyes were on the sealed blast doors standing between them and sweet, sweet freedom. If the kid could get those open—

The group stopped in their tracks as the bulkheads at the front of the room began to open. Yellow light flooded in, forcing them to shield their eyes. A dozen figures spread evenly across the threshold of the doorway were illuminated by the low sun, casting long shadows into the rapidly brightening room. The centermost one was taller than the others, and Torin pointed the rifle in his hands at the figure. As the door opened further and their eyes adjusted to the daylight spilling in, Torin's stomach lurched.

No... not her. Not now.

The red woman, the Sith, stood in the center of the large doorway, flanked by a dozen soldiers. Her lightsaber hung at her side, unused, but he knew that she didn't need a weapon to kill every single one of them—she was the weapon.

"Drop it!" The man next to her shouted. Torin swallowed, looking at the firing line of Imperial soldiers, all of whom had their weapons trained on him. He glanced at Picus, who nodded to Torin. He lowered the blaster and knelt down slowly, placing the gun on the ground.

"What is my prisoner doing out of his cell, commander?" She turned her head ever so slightly to the uniformed officer standing to her right, though she kept her eyes fixed firmly on Torin.

The officer, a short, corpulent man wearing a cap marked with the imperial insignia, responded nervously. "We had so few, my lady. It seemed economical to keep them together—"

She rolled her eyes and raised her hand, cutting him off. "I wasn't asking about this other trash."

"You—" She pointed a clawed gauntlet at Torin. "Come over here."

The other men moved ever so slightly towards him, closing ranks—a futile gesture, but he felt his heart swell in his chest nonetheless.

Seeing that Torin wasn't moving, she narrowed her eyes and gestured at the soldiers beside her. "It seems numbers have made you feel brave. Do I need to have these soldiers thin the herd?"

He could almost hear his fellows' breath catch in their throats. Swallowing, he took a single, slow step forward, then broke into a steady walk towards the woman, fists clenched and eyes fixed on the ground before him.

"Very wise," she said as he reached her. He felt a metal glove on his shoulder, and the pressure grew until he was forced to his knees.

"Are you a Jedi?" She asked.

"W-what?" He stammered. Hard steel smacked him across the face in response. He tasted iron, and liquid pooled in his mouth.

"I asked you a question."

"No," he rasped, coughing up blood onto his shirt with his head hung low.

The woman tapped her chin, gilded chin tendrils shaking as she considered the man kneeling before her.

"You two." She gestured at a pair of soldiers. "Put him aboard my ship."

Torin felt hands grab him by the arms and drag him forward, carried behind the Sith woman as all four made their way through the doorway.

"And Commander..." The woman stopped and turned back to the Imperial officer. "Do dispose of the rest of them."

The man bowed to her, then directed his attention to the remaining prisoners. Torin craned his head back to look at them, and his eyes connected with those of Okins. He nodded at Torin, his face a stone mask of resignation. This time, there was no defiant grin to be had.

"Fire!" The commander shouted, followed by a hail of blaster fire from the Imperial troops.

"No!" Torin cried out, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the slaughter. He watched in horror as the last of the prisoners slumped to the ground, wisps of smoke trailing off of their freshly-charred corpses. His eyes remained transfixed on the horrible sight until the door behind him finally closed.

The woman cast a surreptitious glance back at Torin, smiling as she strode towards her waiting ship outside. She was going to enjoy this.