Fear filled the chamber, and the smirking sith pureblood seemed to revel in it.

She paced back and forth, suddenly blurring across the room. She appeared in front of Morgan, making him flinch.

“It seems our sleeping beauty has finally decided to join us.” No laughter filled the room, the silence filled with fear. She glanced down, smirking wider. Morgan knew what he looked like. His stomach bulged out of his uniform, doing a good job of showing his physique. He mentally shrugged, keeping his face blank and eyes down.

‘If you think being fat is my biggest problem, I’m Tenebrae.’

The Overseer sneered, then turned around to stalk across the room. Hands shook in fear, and one woman pissed herself. She blanched white with terror, looking at the smirking Overseer. ‘Why aren’t I that afraid? I should be. Must be shock. Yes, I’m simply in shock. Can you notice shock when you’re experiencing it?’

“Today we’re going to be training your endurance.” Her voice cracked across the large training room, hidden doors opening to reveal rows of droids. More people flinched. “You’ll be sparring against them, and they will keep attacking if you don’t defend yourself.”

With a dramatic clap the droids marched forth, Morgan only barely suppressing the urge to step back. The slaves, already lined up in two rows of fifty, were soon looking not at each other but faceless droids armed with sabers.

“Begin!”

The droids attacked, pain filling his hours. Pain, and ever so slowly, progress.

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“Soft Voice?” Morgan asked quietly. Quiet enough the people surrounding them couldn't hear, or so he hoped. The devaronian looks up from his datapad. “Why did you decide to help me?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you decide to help me?”

“When?”

“Last week, when I just woke up. Yesterday, today. All the time, really. You’re helping me, even though it doesn’t feel like help. Even though it doesn’t really benefit you.” And wasn’t that the truth. His body was filled with bruises, refreshed daily.

“No reason.” Soft Voice answered, turning his attention back to his lap.

“Oh? You mean that with a week of the Overseer preaching values of the strong and condemning the weak, you decided to help a complete stranger for no reason?” Morgan eyed the other man, sarcasm thick in his tone.

“Hmm.”

“Fuck that. The Overseer killed Weak Eye for helping his opponent correct his grip on day two, and she sure hasn’t been getting softer. You told me what happened before I woke up, too.” Weak Eye, a poor twi’lek with a lazy eye that never got corrected. Overseer shot him with lightning until he dropped dead. He could still smell it, days later.

‘Strange how little death affects me after only a week in this hellscape. Humanity's greatest super power has always been adaptation, I suppose. And self-delusion, but let’s not dwell on that.’ Morgan turned his attention back to Soft Voice when he felt the man’s eyes on him. The devaronion really had quite the intimidating stare.

“The Overseer didn’t kill Weak Eye for helping someone, you know this.” Morgan waved his hand dismissively. Soft Voice shrugged. “Fine. It was your eyes.”

When Soft Voice made no move to continue and looked back to his study material, Morgan sighed, “My eyes?”

“When you woke up. Your eyes were wild, mad,” Morgan twitched, blaming his friend for that nickname. Mad Mouse. Fucking ridiculous. “afraid and confused. But not defeated. All of us here, and I mean everyone, were slaves. Our parents were slaves. Our grandparents were slaves. Maybe not always to the empire, but we were slaves. We’re casting off those shackles now, true enough, but not you.” Soft Voice was quiet, speaking with purpose. “Whatever you were in your old life, you were no slave.”

The words ‘old life’ bounced in his head, bringing up memories he’d rather not think about.

“That is why I decided to help you. You’re an anomaly. You’re also not nearly as batshit insane as many of the others, so I chose well.” Soft Voice hummed, clearly pleased with himself. “And look at you now. You must have lost a few pounds at the very least. You almost never hit yourself with your own weapon anymore, and you can very nearly stop yourself from running away when we spar.”

Morgan scoffed. “Laugh it up. Not everyone can bend steel and ignore pain like a freak.” The thought, however, stuck with him.

Looking around he could almost see the lines drawn in the cube that served as their home. Three territories, carved with bloodshed and cruelty. Soft Voice noticed him looking. “We’re fractured. Stump and Spiky each build their own little armies and are half the reason our numbers dwindle so fast. The rest flock to us for safety, in case you forgot.”

Morgan would be hard pressed to, since their own - well, Soft Voice’s - faction made up the third territory. With some two dozen members, all of them weak in the force or with the saber, had joined with Soft Voice. As the third strongest of the ‘class’ - as the Overseer called them - it seemed almost natural for him to have his own ‘little army’. Unlike Stump and Spiky however, Soft Voice saw no need for cruelty or fear.

And he’d somehow roped Morgan into becoming his second. Not for lack of trying to refuse, but there he was. Truthfully, even with a week less training, he was fairly powerful in the Dark - when he could command it, which wasn’t often - and his saberwork, thanks to Soft Voice, wasn’t half bad. The combination was enough to place him above the rest of their faction. Not that that put him very high in the ranking.

The legion of weakness, Stump had dubbed them. Soft Voice was the only reason they still existed at all.

‘Ahh, the rankings. Such lovely cruelty by the Overseer.’ Morgan reflected darkly. ‘Simply have the system watch our every move, and rank us in a nice big list. And each week, every week, kill the lowest ranked.’

Only two people were killed that way, but both had been from their faction. It made them seem weak - because they were - but Soft Voice was strong enough it didn’t matter overly much. Strong enough to hold off or kill anyone that tried anything, anyway. Not that killing was allowed, but crippling someone sure was. And if you get crippled, well, you spend some time in kolto. Time that you should spend training. And when you get out? You might be mighty close to the bottom of that list.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Shouting filled the room and he didn’t need to look to know that Stump was at it again. Him and his speeches. Disgusting.

Stump, nicknamed for only having one arm, was the first to figure out that the Overseer didn’t only not care, she encouraged us to build our own ‘power bases’. With power over your followers it twisted the strong to rule and the weak to serve. How fast society breaks into tribalism.

Spiky wasn’t much better. He used to be Stump’s lieutenant, before he - in true sith fashion - betrayed and tried to kill him. He failed, but didn’t die. Now he commands nearly half the remaining acolytes. A sadistic bastard, he likes to reward his loyal followers by passing around women like playthings. Those not strong enough to resist. The desperate. The ones that didn’t, for one reason or another, want sign up with them.

When the betrayal - as they called it - happened, those not involved, or smart enough to get out when it happened, signed up with Soft Voice and Mad Mouse. Madness, all of it.

‘Well, they signed up with Soft Voice. He was the one that made our little sad attempt at a faction in the first place. Trained them. Trained me.’

More shouting drifted over, the room not nearly big enough to dampen the noise. ‘Lucky the room’s so small, really. Means fighting isn’t really an option here, so we at least have a semi secure place to sleep. Most of the fighting happens in the hallways or training rooms.’

“That idiot won’t shut up for a while, so study time’s over. But before we go train with the saber, pop quiz time.” The other acolytes of their faction put down their datapads and gave Soft Voice their full attention. Mild mannered he may be, when he commands, they obey.

“Mirla, cite the sith code.” She startled, twitchy as usual.

“Peace is a lie, there is only passion.

Through passion, I gain strength.

Through strength, I gain power.

Through power, I gain victory.

Through victory, my chains are broken.

The Force shall set me free.”

A bitter smile briefly touched Mirla’s face. “Not that I would call this freedom.”

Some laughed, but it was quiet and awkward. Soft Voice looked at her, Mirla visibly composing herself. “Apologies, my lord.”

Soft Voice nodded. “We will feel how we feel, think what we think. That we do not control. But what we show, what we say, what we do. That we have control over. Show no weakness, no hesitation. Even if you feel it. Especially when you feel it.” He briefly looked around, the acolytes around them straightening.

“Mad Mouse.” Morgan blinked, not expecting to be called on.

“What does the sith code mean?”

“It means that we control the force, and are not controlled by it. It is freedom because we command it, and are not commanded by it.” He replied. He’d had some time to think about it, even before he came to this place. When he was still happy, and death didn’t loom around every corner, he’d been a nerd.

Soft Voice nodded, pleased again. He called upon a few more, correcting or scolding those that hesitated or answered wrong. After that it was off to the training rooms, walking in the formation Soft Voice had drilled them in.

No blind spots. No easy angles of attack. Close enough to assist, but not too close to get in each other's way. Pack tactics. The hallways were big, closer to a street than a path, and the Overseer didn't care if they fought. Killing between acolytes was forbidden and so far no one had tested that rule. Morgan wondered how long that would last.

Maiming, crippling and enslaving was common already, the strong reveling in the power they possessed.

‘Power. Command. A master and slave. That’s the real difference between the sith and jedi. One holds the whip, the other submits to it.’ He shook his head, his mind spiraling down dark paths again. ‘Still. Dark and Light, Good and Evil. People are never pure good or all evil. The Force isn’t something you can put in a nice little box, labeling it as you wish. The Voss aren’t jedi or sith, nor are the Knights of Zakuul. There must be thousands of cults, groups and sects using the Force. They’re using it just fine, no sith or jedi dogma to be seen.’

Something stirred. Something his nascent, unreliable, command over the force barely detected. He shook his head again, already putting it out of his mind. ‘Might be worth meditating some more. God knows the Dark isn’t getting me anywhere.’

They arrived at one of the larger training rooms, Soft Voice starting to direct people around. Some he ordered to practice with the saber, others to call upon strong emotion and practice enforcing their body with it.

Morgan sparred against his fellows. Kripaa the sith pureblood, a former hutt slave and all around nervous wreck. Maco, a human with dead, lifeless eyes just going through the motions. Bastra, a former trandoshan slave gladiator. A man yet to display Force powers but good enough with the saber to survive.

On and on the list went. Morgan tried to give good advice, and as Soft Voice’s second in command, he was listened to. But he was no trainer. No instructor. He barely knew what he was doing himself, unlike their glorious leader.

Soft Voice called a halt after a few hours, the group turning to him. He had everyone sit in a wide circle, sparring with them one by one. Give them pointers, advice. Had people critique the fights, ask what they learned from observing.

And saved for last was Morgan. He steeled himself. Told himself this was nothing next to what the Overseer did to him every morning. But Soft Voice was a natural with the saber, a natural with the force. He was not. Pain became his life, progress in its wake.

----------------------------------------

Days turned into weeks. People died, others becoming husks and cracking under the pressure. They didn’t last long.

He meditated daily, either under Soft Voice’s guidance or alone. He tried to find balance. To neither submit nor command. It wasn’t going very well.

It was a good thing he had his extra training, for, day after day, he fell further in the rankings. Without the Dark’s aggression he lost more battles. Without the ability to enforce his body, strengthening it, he was taking more losses.

Failure meant pain. A great, great deal of pain.

If it wasn’t for Soft Voice he would be dead by now, of that he was certain. He trained him, as he trained the others. Pushed his skill with the saber high enough that he could survive without the Force. Never triumph, but survive.

Spiky’s favorite pet was at the bottom of the ranking that week, and the Overseer killed her. His tantrum nearly started an all out war. Then, without warning, Spiky was dead. Stabbed through the skull with a shiv by another of his pets. Then she died, killed by a loyalist.

He and their faction had huddled around Soft Voice as the room devolved into chaos, five more dead before morning came. Morgan hadn’t slept well since then.

The Overseer did nothing.

After nearly a month of failure, of pain, it clicked. He didn’t know how, or why. He hadn’t been trying anything new. He’d just breathed, letting the brief moments of peace sooth his mind.

Then the Force flowed, filling his body. Not the biting, stinging Dark. Nor the soothing, insistent Light. Both he had felt before, and he had been so sure the Overseer was going to storm into the dorm and blast him into a million pieces when he had felt the Light flow through him.

But she hadn’t. And now the force moved like a puppy through his body. Excited. Nervous. Curious.

Morgan smiled. For the first time in his new life, it was a smile of joy.