A Living Nightmare
Chapter 15: Short Negotiations
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"How does one find peace when walking among the broken, burning bodies? Can you stifle the emotions when the air chokes children to death? How long will you allow the Council to keep you ignorant of the truth?"
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Location: Bar Naval – Junvar Spire
For thousands of years, the Galactic Republic stood tall, resolute against galactic chaos. An alliance of systems meant to better the whole galaxy and its suffering citizens, it weathered war, famine, and unforeseen disasters. A beacon of life, and of living. Or so it was said within the halls of the Senate on Coruscant. Little did those who walked those halls know that the Republic’s foundation was slowly crumbling. Their freedoms and rights were being systematically stripped away by an infection at the core. Now, the Republic was something else entirely—an Empire that ruled through brute force and coercion rather than cooperation and negotiation. In just over a decade since its formation, the Empire’s ruthless tactics had become all too familiar to the Bar Naval Planetary Council. There was no line the Empire would not cross, especially when they decided a line no longer existed.
Norwa Opi, a member of that very council, believed this was the reality behind their latest “visit.” Darkness had descended upon the planet when the Empire’s new envoy arrived. Norwa and his colleagues—six of them in total—were awaiting the representative in a private hangar set aside for such official landings. All wore their ceremonial garb of high-collared black robes hemmed with gold. Short-notice visits were rare; they usually had days to prepare for Moff Granzek or whoever might come in his stead. That they had only hours to gather tonight was highly unusual. The group exchanged nervous whispers, but Norwa kept silent, mindful of the Empire’s watchful eyes and ears.
“This is highly irregular!” bemoaned Gelden Moz, an aging human who should have retired a decade ago but whose experience was deemed indispensable. “We’ve kept within Granzek’s demands.”
“If they ask for another two percent of our profits—” began Jippa, a scientist with a brilliant mind but a shrill, impatient voice.
She was abruptly interrupted by a deeper rumble:
“—then they get it. And I can go back to sleep,” growled Drax Corgal, Head of Industries. He looked especially uncomfortable in his ceremonial robes, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric. The man was built from years of hard labor in the mines deep below the spire’s surface. He had only just finished his forty-eight-cycle annual inspection shift.
Jippa glared at him but did not argue. She had learned her lesson the last time she’d crossed him, losing precious funding for her medical research. Folding her arms, she simply settled for pouting in frustration.
Norwa let out a quiet sigh. Gelden was right—this was irregular. They had met all quotas, paid every extra fee demanded by the Empire, and yet this summons had come in the dead of night. Something was off. The shuttle descending from the cloudy atmosphere only deepened his unease.
An unfamiliar craft emerged from the gloom: a sleek, menacing vessel shaped like a two pronged fork, its black hull reflecting the harsh floodlights of the hangar. It set down with a heavy hiss of pressurized air. Norwa glanced around at the other council members; they all looked equally unnerved. This was not the standard Imperial shuttle they were used to seeing.
When the ramp lowered, two figures stepped out. The first was clad in the polished white armor of a stormtrooper, though with an officer’s pauldron marking his rank. The trooper surveyed the hangar before stepping aside to let a slightly taller, far more intimidating presence descend.
This second figure was garbed in glossy black armor with a dark grey under-robe. The helmet, featureless except for a single glowing red visor-like line, emitted a faint, eerie hum. Norwa’s heart hammered in his chest, and he saw similar dread mirrored in the eyes of his council peers. He had heard rumors of these agents—Imperial Inquisitors—though never had he imagined facing one in person.
The Inquisitor stopped at the base of the ramp, the red visor sweeping slowly across the six individuals.
“TK-421,” he said, his voice distorted by a vocoder. “Confirm their species.”
TK-421 made a swift scan with a handheld device. “All human, sir.”
The Inquisitor gave the barest incline of his helmet, then advanced. Without warning, a sickening wave of dread rippled through Norwa’s mind. A sudden, suffocating pressure stole the air from Norwa’s lungs, and before he realized it, his surroundings wavered, almost imperceptibly, as if time had skipped a beat. Then—crimson light, blood, and screams.
Gelden Moz reeled back, eyes bulging. Jippa shrieked and tore a tiny holdout blaster from her sleeve, firing wildly at a looming figure with a red blade. Drax let out a furious roar, hauling out his own hidden weapon as if his life depended on it. The rest of the council scrambled in terror, trying desperately to fight back against the unstoppable assailant who cut them down, one by one, in flashes of molten red light.
Norwa found himself screaming, but the sound was swallowed by the chaos. Each strike felt brutally final, leaving a council member in a broken heap, blood pooling around them. Every shot fired at the black-armored figure went wide or was effortlessly deflected. They had no chance.
And then, as quickly as the massacre began, it ended.
Norwa’s voice died in his throat—only to be replaced by real screams echoing around him. At first, he thought they were his own, but his lungs were empty. He was no longer screaming; the ones shrieking in horror were his colleagues, for they, too, had lived the same vision.
They were all still physically standing in the hangar—no bodies lay dead, no real blood had been spilled. Yet the traumatic echo of that shared vision had shaken them all to the core. Gelden Moz crouched on the floor, rocking back and forth, hands clamped over his ears.Jippa was scratching at her arms, as if trying to claw the sight of death from her mind. Another council member mumbled gibberish, eyes darting from corner to corner, as though the phantom attacker were still lurking.Drax tried to steady himself, patting at his sleeve where his blaster had been. Finding nothing, he let out a shaky half-growl, half-sob.
Norwa stood trembling, a ringing in his ears. His own breath rasped painfully. The Inquisitor stepped forward, the menacing red line of his visor leveled at Norwa with predatory calm.
“Stay with me, Mr. Opi,” the Inquisitor said, unmoved by the anguish around him. “I have not come for them…yet.”
Norwa swallowed, his throat so tight it felt like he might choke. The mad chorus of his colleagues’ screams made his insides twist with dread. “What…what did you do to us?” he managed, voice shaking. “What did you do to them?”
“I showed them what could happen,” the Inquisitor replied flatly, as though he were discussing the weather. “And what will happen if you do not cooperate.”
He gestured toward the writhing councilors. “I will kill them—all of them—if you do not take me to your son.”
Norwa’s mind spun. The entire operation here would collapse, the Empire’s stake in it would have been for nothing. Throwing it all away, for his son? But despite his own terror, he sensed something deeper in the Inquisitor’s unwavering stance—a certainty that no plea, no negotiation, could change his course.
“W-what are you?” he whispered, barely able to voice the question.
“I am what the Jedi fear,” the Inquisitor answered. “Now take me to him.”
Location: Bar Naval – Junvar Spire - Residential Module 55
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Within the hour, Norwa found himself leading the Inquisitor and TK-421 through the upper levels of Junvar Spire. They passed manicured walkways of exotic flora—small parks maintained to remind the populace of life beyond endless mining operations. The city’s brilliant overhead lights glowed in the artificial night, illuminating their path.
Though terrified, Norwa tried to maintain some semblance of diplomacy. “As you can see,” he said, gesturing to the greenery, “the council invests in agricultural research to ensure ecological balance—”
“A nice distraction from the mines,” the Inquisitor interrupted. He paused by a tall, purple-leafed plant. His black-gloved hand brushed lightly against one of its curling leaves, as though trying to discern its texture. “Captain, what color is this?”
“Purple, sir,” TK-421 answered promptly.
Norwa couldn’t hide his surprise. “You—you can’t see it yourself?”
“Not in the way you do,” the Inquisitor replied. If anything, his voice sounded almost…detached. “I am Miralukan. We see through the Force, not the visible spectrum.”
He lingered a moment longer, as if absorbing the plant’s presence through some unseen sense. Then he straightened, his gaze—or what passed for it—landing on Norwa.
“Do you enjoy your work, Norwa Opi?”
The question caught Norwa off-guard. “I—I serve the council and the people of Bar Naval. It is my duty.”
A soft scoff escaped through the vocoder. “Duty. A word that often disguises reluctance.” He tilted his helmeted head, and Norwa felt as if all his carefully constructed composure had been stripped away. “I am not fond of my own duties, either. Inquisitor…executioner…enforcer…these titles do little to inspire joy. But we do what we must to survive such times.”
He let the thought hang, then turned back to Norwa. “If possible, I’d like to secure your offspring without violence. If you cooperate, I won’t have to honor my promise to kill anyone tonight.”
The silence settled in as the Inquisitor walked along the path.
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Eventually, they arrived at a small, unassuming housing unit built into the spire’s mid-tier level. Despite its modest size, there were touches of comfort: warm lighting, polished metal trim, and a neat row of potted flora similar to those in the public garden. The door slid open at Norwa’s keycode, revealing a living area where his wife waited, dressed in a simple but elegant gown that flattered her lithe frame. She looked up sharply at the sight of the armored Inquisitor and the stormtrooper behind him.
“Linna,” Norwa said gently, mustering a reassuring smile he didn’t feel. “This is…an Imperial Inspector.”
Her eyes flicked over the black armor, then to the stormtrooper’s blaster rifle, and finally back to Norwa. Though fear shone in her gaze, she managed to keep her voice steady when she answered the question she feared most.
“Where is the boy?” the Inquisitor asked.
“Out on the patio,” Linna replied in a guarded tone. “He likes to look at the stars.”
The Inquisitor carefully removed his helmet. He was younger than Norwa had expected—short, neatly trimmed hair and smooth, pale skin. But his eyes were unsettling: they glowed with a faint, dull blue light, as if they belonged to something not entirely human. He placed the helmet on a nearby chair.
“TK-421, wait outside,” he ordered, and the stormtrooper stepped back, sealing the door behind him. The Inquisitor gave Linna a practiced, almost gentle nod. “I’d rather not frighten your son.”
Norwa led him through the living area to a modest patio out back, where a strip of synthetic grass separated the permacrete floor from a small heating unit. Four-year-old Galen was perched by the railing, wide-eyed at the dim skyline. He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and stared openly at the stranger.
“Galen,” Norwa began, his throat dry. “This man is…an Imperial inspector. He’s here for a short visit.”
The Inquisitor knelt, extending a gloved hand. “Hello, Galen.”
Galen looked from his father to the Inquisitor’s outstretched hand, then reached with his own tiny fingers for a cautious shake. The boy showed no fear—only curiosity.
Norwa and Linna hovered anxiously, unable to hide their trembling. The Inquisitor’s attention remained focused on the child. Something in the air felt tense, charged, like the calm before a storm. And though Galen seemed perfectly at ease, Norwa’s heart threatened to hammer its way out of his chest.
Galen examined the stranger’s gauntleted hand, then timidly reached out, his small fingers wrapping around the Inquisitor’s grip. There was a fleeting moment of pure silence, as though the night itself held its breath.
“Are you an alien?” Galen asked, peering curiously at the faint blue glow in the Inquisitor’s eyes. “They look so cool.”
For an instant, Norwa’s stomach dropped. He expected outrage—maybe anger—but to his surprise, the Inquisitor tipped his head back and let out a genuine, low laugh, a sound incongruous with the cold, mechanical edge of his vocoder he was used to hearing.
“You might call me that,” the Inquisitor replied. “I’ve traveled from very far away.”
Galen nodded thoughtfully, then pointed inside the house. “I have some toys in my room. Do you…wanna play?”
Still kneeling, the Inquisitor glanced at Norwa and Linna. Neither parent could hide their shock, but they remained rooted in place, uncertain how to intervene. Slowly, the Inquisitor rose to his full height with an amused grin.
“Show me,” he said simply.
Galen turned and trotted back toward the living area. The Inquisitor followed, each step echoing ominously against the polished floor. Norwa moved to intercept them, but Linna gently touched his arm, a silent plea for calm. They exchanged a worried glance before trailing behind.
Inside, Galen dashed over to a corner where a small chest was stuffed with plush creatures, simple holo-puzzles, and a variety of plastic action figures. He rummaged around, presenting each item to the Inquisitor as if showing off priceless treasures.
“This one’s a starfighter pilot,” Galen announced, holding up a scuffed figure with a removable helmet. “My dad got it for me.” “And this,” he said, retrieving a rubber ball from the box, “bounces really high if you throw it hard.” He looked expectantly at the Inquisitor, who regarded the toy in his gloved hand. The contrast between the childlike innocence of the bright red ball and the dark armor was stark. After a moment, the Inquisitor tossed it lightly in the air. Galen giggled and caught it on the way down.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Perhaps you’d like to see,” the Inquisitor said, voice lowering.
“See what?” Galen asked, tilting his head.
“How high it can truly go.” Before the boy could respond, Linna interjected, her voice trembling only slightly. “Shall I…prepare something to eat? It’s late, but we could find something for you, Inspector.”
The Inquisitor straightened, turning toward her. “Yes. Thank you.” Although polite, his tone carried the weight of expectation.
With a quick nod, Linna slipped past them into the kitchen area. Norwa followed, but he kept glancing over his shoulder, unable to shake the dread creeping into his veins. The Inquisitor stepped onto the patio, and Galen scampered after him, ball in hand.
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In the small kitchen, Linna opened a small cooler unit and retrieved a cut of cold meat alongside some fresh fruit. She added a few slices of plain bread from a basket on the counter, grimacing at its slightly stale texture. She had been meaning to replace it, but the day’s events—and Norwa’s delayed return—had thrown off her plans.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, more to herself than to Norwa. “I haven’t been to the shops. I thought you’d bring home supplies tonight.”
Norwa frowned, guilt mixing with his anxiety. “I didn’t expect all this,” he said quietly, nodding his head toward the patio. “I’m sorry. My mind wasn’t on errands.”
Linna quickly wiped her eyes and inhaled, as though summoning some measure of composure. She began arranging slices of fruit—some tangy and citrus-like, others soft and sweet—alongside the meat, then set out the bread. It wasn’t the most impressive spread, but it was the best she could do at a moment’s notice.
“We’ll make do,” she whispered, avoiding Norwa’s gaze. “He just needs…food.”
They both turned at the sound of Galen’s laughter drifting in from outside.
On the small patch of synthetic grass, the Inquisitor and Galen had begun floating the red rubber ball between them using the Force. The Inquisitor’s hand was raised, palm outstretched, while Galen, looking increasingly delighted, mirrored his movements.
“Focus,” the Inquisitor instructed quietly, an unexpected gentleness in his voice. “Reach out with your feelings.”
Galen scrunched up his face, brows knitted in fierce concentration. Slowly, the ball wobbled, then drifted a little closer to the boy. He let out a gasp of awe.
“I did it!” he exclaimed, voice full of joy. “Did you see?!”
“I did,” the Inquisitor replied, a faint hint of approval. “Again.”
Linna’s eyes clamped shut as a lump caught in her throat, tears threatening to spill. She had tried so hard to keep Galen’s abilities hidden, yet here he was, openly using them under the guidance of an Imperial Inquisitor. It was her worst fear realized.
“What do we do?” she whispered to Norwa, gripping his arm.
“I—” Norwa began, but he never finished.
At that moment, the ball—caught in an overzealous push from Galen—shot sideways through the open patio door. It streaked across the living area and ricocheted into the kitchen, striking one of the overhead cabinets with a dull thwack.
Linna yelped, nearly dropping the plate of food, and Norwa lurched backward to avoid the rebounding projectile. A second later, Galen skidded into the kitchen, breathless and red-faced.
“I’m sorry!” he cried, eyes darting worriedly between his parents. “ I didn’t mean to…”
He snatched up the still-bouncing ball, hugging it against his chest.
Norwa forced a strained smile for his son’s sake. “It’s all right, Galen,” he said softly, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No harm done.”
Linna nodded, trying her best to keep her voice calm. “We…just got startled.” She glanced toward the patio door to see the Inquisitor’s silhouette in the doorway, the faint glow of his eyes visible even in the shadows.
The Inquisitor stepped inside, looming over the modest kitchen. Norwa’s stomach lurched at the casual way this dark emissary from the Empire now filled their personal space.
“I apologize,” the Inquisitor said with calm politeness. “I did not anticipate how strong young Galen would be.”
“He’s…” Linna hesitated, carefully placing the tray of meat, fruit, and bread on the small table. “He’s just excited.”
Galen beamed at the praise, though he quickly fell silent under the Inquisitor’s unnerving stare. After a moment, Linna cleared her throat. “I’m afraid this is all we have to offer, Inspector. I didn’t get to the shops today, and I… I was expecting Norwa to bring home something.”
She cast her husband a pointed look, and Norwa dropped his gaze, unsure what to say. The Inquisitor, to their surprise, offered a slight bow of his head.
“No apologies needed,” he said, removing a glove before picking up a slice of bread. “I recall days when my own father would return home late…always with fresh chic-poultry and locally baked rolls. My mother coated them in a mild honey.” A faint wistfulness touched his tone, and his unsettling eyes seemed momentarily distant. “I can still remember the smell...”
Linna blinked, caught off-guard by this glimpse of humanity. For a moment, the ominous figure of the Inquisitor softened—less of a nightmare in black armor, more of a flesh-and-blood man with memories of simpler times.
“Well,” she managed, quietly. “I’m sorry we don’t have anything like that. We—”
“Truly, it is fine,” the Inquisitor cut in, though not unkindly. He took a tentative bite of bread and chewed with measured calm. It was better than he expected it to be.
Galen, who had been watching with bright, curious eyes, piped up, “Do you like it? I know it’s just plain bread.” He glanced over at the meager slices of fruit and cold meat. “Mom makes better dinners on normal days.”
“I can taste the care put into it,” the Inquisitor said. “And that is enough.”
He reached next for a piece of fruit, carefully turning it over in his hand. Norwa noticed the man’s demeanor had shifted—somehow less intense, if only by a fraction. Yet tension still crackled in the air; the threat to their family, and to the planet, remained all too real.
Norwa stood rigidly at the edge of the kitchen, one arm protectively around Galen’s shoulders. He exchanged a furtive glance with Linna, both of them painfully aware that her worst fear—the discovery of Galen’s gift—was now reality.
For now, though, they had something akin to a reprieve—no immediate violence, just a makeshift meal in a cramped kitchen. And if the Inquisitor’s distant gaze truly held any trace of fond memory, it was a reminder that even monsters sometimes recall being human.
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Unfortunately, fond memories can only hold the peaceful lie back for so long.
A subtle chill passed through the cramped kitchen as the Inquisitor finished his bread and fruit. He dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin—an almost gentlemanly gesture—and turned his unnerving gaze back to Linna and Norwa. Galen lingered at the threshold, drawn by curiosity and the novelty of having a dark-clad stranger in his home. Yet the tension coiling in the air kept him close to his parents.
The Inquisitor picked up the last slice of meat—somewhere between ham and turkey in flavor—and chewed with deliberate slowness. “Thank you for the meal,” he offered cordially. Then he regarded Linna with mild interest. “Tell me, Mrs. Opi, do you work outside the home?”
Linna stiffened, forcing a polite nod. “I’m a pediatrician,” she said softly, “at the pre-school where Galen attends.”
The Inquisitor tilted his head. “A droid could handle routine health checks and procedures. Why entrust something so critical to an organic caretaker?”
Linna’s jaw clenched a little. She could feel Norwa shift beside her, tense with concern. “Children,” she said, “need more than just someone to scan vitals and apply vaccines. They need warmth, reassurance…a mother’s touch.” She paused. “That’s not in any droid’s programming.”
For a long beat, the Inquisitor said nothing. Then a faint chuckle escaped him. “Yes, I suppose younglings benefit from gentle guidance. We forget how important that can be.”
He beckoned to Galen, who took a few tentative steps forward. “Do you enjoy school, Galen?”
The boy’s face lit up with the same enthusiasm he’d shown moments earlier on the patio. “Yes! We learn lots of stuff, and I get to play with my friends. Mom—uh, Dr. Linna—sometimes visits my class if I fall down or get sick. She’s the best.”
The Inquisitor’s lips curved in something akin to a smile. He placed a hand lightly on Galen’s shoulder, the gauntlet reflecting the overhead light. “What if,” he said in an almost coaxing tone, “you could go to an academy with children just like you? Children who share your…special talent.”
Instantly, Linna’s stomach dropped, and Norwa’s breath caught in his throat. The Inquisitor’s next words sealed their dread:
“One rather like the one your mother attended.”
He directed a cold smile at Linna, and every hair on her neck stood up. I am what Jedi fear, he had once told Norwa. That truth pressed down like a crushing weight, and through the strange bond Norwa always felt with Linna, he sensed her terror. Her face went ashen.
“Galen,” she blurted, voice shaky, “go to your room. Now.”
Galen blinked, suddenly uneasy. “B-But—”
Norwa quickly stepped in. “Listen to your mother.” He scooped the boy around the shoulders and gently guided him away. Galen cast a worried glance back, confused by his parents’ sudden change in demeanor. But Norwa kept them moving, down the hall and out of earshot.
In the kitchen, the Inquisitor finished off the last bite of meat. The savory taste lingered in his mouth, reminding him oddly of home—of simpler times that he insisted to himself were long buried. A certain satisfaction glimmered in his unsettling eyes as he regarded Linna, who stood rooted in place.
She swallowed hard, trying to think of what to say, how to stall. But the Inquisitor wore a smug, knowing smile, as though relishing the fear that rolled off her in waves.
Finally, she spoke one word. A name that trembled with grief and regret.
“Kento?”
The Inquisitor arched an eyebrow. “By now,” he said with almost clinical detachment, “most likely dead—if one of my Brothers disobeyed orders.”
Linna’s heart twisted. Kento Marek. The man who had been her fellow Jedi, her first love—her husband before she’d ever laid eyes on Norwa. They had left the Order together when the Council condemned their relationship. In the chaos that followed, they drifted into the galaxy at large, vowing secrecy. But old friends had reached out to Kento. He left for Kashyyyk, and she never saw him again.
“I simply want the boy to be reunited with his father,” the Inquisitor continued, sliding his empty plate aside and folding his hands. “No bloodshed, no tiresome fights. Negotiation and extortion is all I wish for tonight.”
Linna’s pulse hammered in her ears. She found herself unable to look away from his chilling gaze. Kento…still alive? Surely she would have felt him? It was too much, too soon. Her mind spun.
Just then, Norwa returned, shutting the door behind him. “He’s not happy about it,” he said curtly, “but Galen’s in his room.”
The Inquisitor shifted his attention to the man. “Did you know about Kento, Linna’s previous husband?”
Norwa let out a humorless laugh. “Of course. She told me they’d been…involved.” His eyes flicked accusingly to Linna. “We all worked together for years—Kento, Linna, and me—on and off. But I never knew she was a kriffing Jedi. That part was conveniently left out.”
He stepped closer to Linna, anger smoldering beneath his fear. “You let me marry you without telling me this? That you were—what, a traitor? A Jedi who didn’t stand with the rest of them when they betrayed the Republic?”
Linna’s face crumpled. “I left the Order long before any of this happened,” she protested, voice cracking. “They disapproved of us—Kento and me. We had no choice. And after we parted, after he left me and after I married you—” She struggled for words. “I just wanted a normal life.”
Norwa’s fists balled at his sides. “Normal? You lied to me.” He pressed an accusatory finger in her face and pointed to the hallway door. “And Galen…he’s not my son at all, is he?” He turned to the Inquisitor, voice thick with bitterness. “Take him. If he’s Kento’s child, then he isn’t mine.”
The Inquisitor’s expression remained dispassionate, though something flickered behind those glowing eyes—an echo of a memory he tried to keep buried. Still, he said nothing, content to let this drama play out.
Linna’s eyes darted between her husband and the Inquisitor, horror dawning on her. Norwa’s rejection stung more than any lightsaber wound ever could. He’s giving Galen away… She felt her heart drop like a stone into her stomach. My son…lost to me.
Grief and terror coalesced into a desperate resolve. Linna would not let her child disappear into the Empire’s clutches—nor would she allow Kento’s potential survival to be twisted into some bargaining chip.
With an abrupt motion of her hand, she called on the Force. The small kitchen table jolted forward, smashing into the Inquisitor and sending him sprawling across the floor. Plates and cutlery clattered onto the tiles; the vase on the corner table shattered as it toppled, shards scattering like glittering confetti.
Norwa gasped, stumbling back in alarm. The Inquisitor let out a guttural curse, more surprised than hurt, as he struggled to regain his footing.
But Linna wasn’t finished. She flung out her other hand, summoning a cylindrical hilt from where it had been hidden beneath a loose floorboard near the wall. The hilt soared into her grasp, and with a snap-hiss, a green blade ignited, bathing the cramped kitchen in emerald light.
Tears streaked her cheeks, and she placed herself squarely in front of Galen’s room, weapon held protectively. Her gaze flicked to Norwa—who stood stunned by the sink—and then back to the Inquisitor, who was already scrambling to his feet.
“You will not take him from me!” she cried, voice cracking with heartbreak. The trembling tip of her lightsaber pointed, for the briefest moment, at Norwa rather than the Inquisitor. Her husband froze, shock and betrayal etched into his features.
Still on the floor, the Inquisitor’s hands were pressed against his stomach as he rose, rattled but unbroken. Linna’s sudden display of power had caught him off guard, but the glint in his eyes said he would recover quickly.
A heavy silence settled over the kitchen. Shattered glass and scattered scraps of food littered the floor. Linna’s shoulders heaved, tears dropping onto the laminate. In her mind, there was no turning back now—no chance for a peaceful solution.
Linna stood trembling, green lightsaber buzzing with lethal intensity, its glow illuminating the pale fear on her face.
Norwa’s heart pounded like a war drum. He kept his hands raised in a gesture of placation. “Linna—listen—this is madness. He’ll kill you just like the rest. I saw what he can do!”
She scoffed, eyes blazing with fury. “But my son—our son—is not his plaything. I’m done with this façade.”
Norwa swallowed hard, stepping closer despite his terror. “We can work something out, run…anything. I love you. I always have.”
Linna’s lip curled bitterly. “Love?” she spat, taking a step toward him, lightsaber humming. “Where was that love when you offered Galen up to that monster?”
“Please…” He reached out, voice quavering. “Don’t do this. Think of Galen—”
A guttural cry tore from her throat as she lunged forward, green blade slicing toward Norwa’s midsection with speed that took him utterly by surprise. He barely had time to flinch, expecting to feel the burn of plasma shearing him in half.
But the blow never came.
Norwa opened his eyes to find Linna standing rigid, fingers clawing at her throat, lightsaber wavering in her grip. She gasped for air, her eyes rolling in fear and agony. The saber hissed as it dropped to the floor, extinguishing with a sputtering spark.
At first, Norwa could only stand there, blinking in confusion. Then he glanced down the corridor. The Inquisitor was standing at the far end, helmet cradled under his arm, right hand clenched into a fist. It took no imagination to guess what he was doing—he was choking Linna with the Force, slowly, cruelly.
“Stop!” Norwa yelled, stumbling forward. “Stop, please! I’ll—I’ll give you anything you want! Credits, Galen—just—don’t kill her!”
He fell to his hands and knees, chest heaving with desperation. “Please,” he begged. “She—she doesn’t know what she’s doing—she’s frightened—”
The Inquisitor’s icy gaze fixed on Linna as she sank to her knees, face mottled from lack of oxygen. His voice, devoid of warmth, resonated through the cramped hallway.
“You remind me too much of her,” he said, each word dripping with frost. “And your husband has no spine. You sicken me, both of you.”
Linna’s choking intensified for a final heartbeat; then, with a flick of the Inquisitor’s wrist, he released her. She slumped to the floor, gasping and clutching at her raw throat. Weakly, she reached for her lightsaber. Her fingers scrabbled against the tile until—
A sudden yank of the Force tore the hilt away, but not into the Inquisitor’s hand.
A brilliant snap-hiss lit the hallway in emerald green. Galen stood in the doorframe, both hands clutched around the saber’s grip, eyes wide with terror. The boy had crept out upon hearing the commotion, and now he held the humming blade aloft, a trembling imitation of what he must have seen his mother do.
“Mom? Dad?” he croaked, voice trembling with confusion and horror.
Linna tried to speak, but could only cough and sputter, one hand outstretched toward her son. Norwa remained on the floor, sweat beading his forehead, unsure whether to rush to Linna’s side or try to calm Galen.
The Inquisitor calmly set his helmet atop his head, sealing it with a faint hiss of pressurization. The vocoder’s synthesized voice echoed ominously off the walls.
“Galen,” he intoned, stepping past Norwa. “Would you like to meet your father—your real one?”
Silence fell, broken only by Linna’s labored wheezing. The green glow of the saber bathed all their faces in sickly, flickering light. The Inquisitor’s visor focused on the boy, reveling in the manipulative power he held. He was enjoying every second of their torment.
And with that question hanging in the air—like a knife poised to drop—the bizarre nightmare refused to end for Alonzo.