“Up you get, Mad Mouse. The Overseer won’t be kind to latecomers.” Soft Voice insisted.

Morgan didn’t move, slumped against the wall. His friend had dragged him here early for duelling, earlier even than the Overseer’s training. It was just the two of them, dangerous as that was.

He hadn't fought well. Not very well at all. The Overseer would have punished him most harshly for his failure, had she been here.

His mind turned to their warden, flinching.

His friend caught it. “I know it hurts, Mad Mouse. You can’t give up. You know what happens when you give up.”

“Death is better than this.”

Soft Voice grunted harshly, Morgan’s eyes focusing by reflex. “No it isn’t.”

He looked at his friend, his mind flashing to the deceptive peace he had felt before he had died. He nodded reluctantly. “Maybe not. But I can’t keep doing this. It's been three weeks, Soft Voice. Three weeks of that mad bitch torturing us. Three weeks of insisting we must ‘let the Dark feed on our fear’. Three fucking weeks.”

“You can overcome this, my friend. You must.” Soft Voice stepped to the side, blocking Morgan from being seen on the camera. Morgan might have better precognition in battle, but Soft Voice knew him, could predict him the old fashion way. The devaronian knew him better than either would like to admit.

So when Morgan started crying, the camera didn’t see it. The Overseer wouldn't witness a moment of weakness, a moment she could exploit. “No I can’t. I can’t do this. She wants us to feed the Dark. And I can’t. I just can’t.”

He’d tried. He’d really tried. Tried to draw on the Dark. To use it, to feed it. Anything to make the pain stop.

And he couldn't. It wouldn't let him. The Dark shied away from him like a frightened deer. Even the Light seemed reluctant, and he knew that drawing on it was more of a death sentence than doing nothing at all. Only his own way of drawing on the Force worked, now. He cursed himself for it.

It wouldn't take his pain. Wouldn't take his fear or desperation. He couldn't let go of his emotions. Couldn't let go of anything. It wouldn't let him.

The Dark feeds off them, the Light mutes them. He couldn't do either, trapped as the walls caved in all around. Alone.

Soft Voice’s face flickered through emotions, settling on understanding after a moment. “You literally can’t, can you? Whatever method to draw on the Force you use, and it’s not the Dark, it won’t take your emotions. Your pain.”

Morgan nodded, his friend's face grim. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have started to work on something weeks ago.”

“Why would you have cared?” Morgan looked away. “Why do you care?”

Soft Voice laughed, a bitter, hard sound. “Why do I care? Because this is hell, my friend. Hell itself.”

Morgan blinked away tears, the devaronian’s eyes piercing. “So let me tell you a story. I told you I grew up a slave, yes? Well, where I’m from, so did everyone else. Corporate slaves, chained and worked in one quarry or another. Generation after generation, until even the elders could scarcely remember a time when we hadn't.”

Soft Voice sat, still looming over Morgan. “I was big. Always have been. Strong too, very strong. Even before I learned to harness the Force to strengthen me further. So when I was a child, my elders bade me to protect the others. ‘Your strength can do the work of ten men.’ They told me. So I did. I worked hard, so others; the old, the weak, would not have to. Fought harder, to keep everyone equal.‘That is how we survive, child.’ They insisted. ‘Cooperation. Help those that struggle so they may help you in turn.’ Soft Voice smiled, reminiscing as his eyes unfocussed. “So we prospered, for a time. We helped each other, and lived better lives for it.”

“Nothing lasts forever, of course. We prospered a little too well. So our master, a mining outfit owned by the Czerka Corporation, sent more guards to oppress us. And more still, when I led a rebellion for our freedom.” Soft Voice’s smile turned grim. “And they killed us all for it. I fought them like I never knew I could. Screamed until their soldiers flew like tin puppets. Hit them until their armour dented and crumbled. But in the end I was defeated, imprisoned. Because I stood alone, you see. Because no one else could fight quite like me. Kill like me. And in the end, I was all there was left of my family. My tribe. Hundreds of years of history, gone in four days.”

“So that is the lesson the sith taught me. Before even their soldiers took me from prison and brought me to this place. Before I ever knew what the Force was. United we stand strong, my friend. Because we all make mistakes. Sooner or later, we all stumble.”

Soft Voice drew himself up, determination, purpose, etched into his very skin. “I will not stumble alone again. I will not take every burden, so others may live easy. Unity made my tribe prosper, but being their protector made them weak. It took their strength, their potential.”

“And only the strong can choose, Mad Mouse. They can make a thousand choices a day. What to eat, what to do. Who to love, and who to hate.” Soft Voice shook his head, gesturing around. “The weak, the slave, have one choice only. To fight, or to submit.”

“Remember that. The strong have a choice about everything. The weak have only one.”

Soft Voice nodded to himself, Morgan lost in thought. “That is why I help you, my friend. In hell, you either stand together,” The devaronian shrugged, standing, “or you die alone.”

Morgan flinched when his friend towered over him. “Now come, we dally any longer and we’ll be late.”

He dragged his friend up with him, but Morgan wasn’t really paying attention.

‘Only one choice. Only one.’ His mind kept repeating.

‘Choice.’

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

“Kybas.” The Overseer sneered. “You truly are the most pathetic acolyte this academy has ever trained.”

Kybas shook in terror, the Overseer sighing deeply. “There is no point in teaching you anything. Away with you.”

He hesitated, for practice normally lasts an hour more. “Away I said. All of you. Away!”

Acolytes scrambled for the door, Morgan almost joining them. But he knew she wouldn't let him go. So did the others, the ones who had earned the Overseer’s private lessons.

Of the seven that started weeks ago, four remained. The other three were husks, broken. Dead, or playthings to the strong. Sometimes Morgan wondered which would be worse.

“Now then, my special little acolytes,” She purred when the others had left. “Have you meditated on the Dark? Have you finally learned how to feed it without being consumed whole? Our lessons could end today, you know. If you’ve learned.”

Her eyes locked with Morgan. He flinched away. “Or maybe not. Either way, we will continue.”

She delighted in picking victim’s at random, never quite knowing when your world would be consumed by pain. Delighted in seeing them crumble, seeing them break.

He built his shield, the promise of pain unending motivating him to action. Despide what Soft Voice had said, the man had helped. They’d thought up dozens of modifications for his shield, of ways to strengthen it. To deflect, or push away. To spin, so attacks would glide off.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Most didn’t work, some did. His shield was likely the most efficient in the facility, barring the Overseer’s.

Not that it mattered. Lightning flashed against it, crawling and twisting. Probing for weakness, ever searching for an easy way in.

It was a grim sort of pride he had felt, making the Overseer overwhelm his shield instead of being able to bypass it. Now he didn’t feel much except for the fear. The terror.

There had been anger, at first. Desperation after that. Begging and bargaining. Denial and avoidance.

None of it had changed a thing. His anger had burned out a week ago and the Overseer couldn't be bargained with. Laughed when he begged. Hunted him when he avoided her.

The power spiked, his shield starting to crack. Desperation ebbed, taking the fear with it.

A strange calm took its place, slowing his racing heart.‘This will never end, will it? Not until my mind shatters or death claims me again.’ The realisation made him strangely giddy, wondering if he’d gone mad. His shield broke like so much glass, the pain consuming him.

When the peak passed and his soul was a touch away from cracking, he heard laughter.

‘Must be the Overseer crackling like a mad bitch again.’ He thought. But the sound didn't fit. Too masculine, too wounded. ‘One of the others must have cracked, then.’ He reasoned. That had happened before, a sound much like the one he was hearing now. But that felt wrong, too.

The laughter abruptly stopped when he realised where it was coming from.

‘Oh, that was me.’ Morgan realised. ‘I must have cracked.’ He laughed again, finding that hilarious for reasons he couldn’t name.

He opened his eyes, seeing the others stare at him blankly. Uncaringly. Only his own faction still operated with some basic human decency. With cooperation. The rest stabbed, lied and betrayed for the slightest gain.

He laughed harder, then abruptly fell silent when his eyes locked with the Overseer’s. A smile was playing on her lips, widening when he didn’t flinch from her gaze.

It faded as he kept staring, fear failing to take root. ‘Must have reached today’s capacity for terror.’ He barked out a laugh again, the Overseer’s eyes narrowing.

He found that amusing like nothing else. ‘Oh come off it, you mad bitch. What are you gonna do, torture me? Kill me, maybe? I’m dead already.’

Gasps of fear echoed as the other acolytes stepped back, Morgan realising he had spoken out loud.

He shrugged after a moment, deciding it didn't matter. The Overseer scowled.

Light flashed and he raised his shield out of reflex, wondering a moment later why he’d bothered. It wasn't stronger, or more able to spare him from the pain. He observed it, those few heartbeats where lightning splashed harmlessly against his shield, and found it beautiful.

The moment passed, the pain consuming him. Yet his mind clung on a little longer.

‘I’m dead already, and pain matters little to the dead.’ He forced his eyes to lock with the Overseer’s, focussing through the pain for just a moment. ‘I will have a choice in this, you wretched woman.’

He laughed when her eyes widened, just a little. Laughed when his conscious mind was consumed by pain. He was still laughing when the pain ebbed, a hair's breadth away from death.

‘And I choose defiance.’

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Soft Voice waited for Morgan’s return, same as he’d been doing for weeks. His friend needed someone that wouldn't take advantage of his vulnerability. His pain.

He suppressed the small stab of guilt for failing to help his friend, for Morgan hadn't asked for any. ‘You can only help those that want to help themselves.’ He reminded himself sternly. ‘And it’s not like I could have done much, anyway.’

He knew Morgan’s relationship with the Force was fundamentally different from his own. Colder, more flowing. Like the wind shaving a mountain, or a river taking its course. Not stronger, perhaps, but inevitable. Not like the Dark, which often feels like a forest on fire. His friend was weaker too, but had more control for it.

Still, he felt for his friend.

His escort leaned away from him as he started pacing, regarding them silently. Watching their muted fear, ever vigilant for the moment he would prove to be like the others.

Mad. Cruel. Someone to be feared, not respected. To be obeyed, but never inspired by.

He was no fool, for he knew he was one of the strongest here. He picked up the saber forms quickly, could flow them together like he once had with the songs of his tribe. Others said the Dark felt like a rabid hound, yet for him it seemed a tame wolf. Dangerous, to be sure. To be treated with respect.

But tame all the same.

So he knew why others treated him with deference. Why they regarded him from a distance. To be set above them, alone. It felt good to have a simple friendship again.

The door opened, and his escort - those acolytes he trusted most - tightened their semi circle around him.

‘Help them, teach them, but don’t take every burden.’ He reminded himself, stifling the urge to step forward. ‘You brought them for a reason. Let them do what you trained them for.’

The three others shuffled out first, walking as if in great pain. Soft Voice had never felt the Overseer's special lightning and he didn't much care to. No visible wounds, yet in more pain than seemed possible. He knew they would feel it for hours, for he had helped Morgan through it for weeks.

Slow stretches helped. Reminded the brain that the body was fine, that it was not broken. Low conversation distracted from the pain, and after a while simple exercise did the same.

When he spotted Morgan, he seemed like he normally did. Broken, head down and walking with a limp. Shoulder held stiff, as if dislocated. Soft Voice knew his friend's body was physically fine. That it was his soul in pain.

‘You wouldn't know it looking at him, though.’ Soft Voice suppressed a shudder, waving his escort forward.

To his surprise it wasn’t him that noticed something wrong with Morgan, but Mirla. She stuttered a step, recoiling slightly before correcting herself.

His friend looked away from Mirla, looking at him instead. Soft Voice had to resist the urge to sigh.

‘I’m sorry, my friend. I truly wish I could have stopped it.’

Morgan looked fine, at first glance. And that was his mistake. His friend should be a nervous wreck, trying desperately to not show weakness in front of the other acolytes. He should have a blank face, defeated eyes.

Yet his eyes glazed with humour, lips playing a small smile. It was a stark contrast, Soft Voice admitted to himself, and profoundly creepy.

Logically, he knew his friend was in no state to fight. That he was broken, and needed hours of care before he was able to function normally again.

‘So why do you feel more dangerous than ever?’

Soft Voice realised he had let the silence drag on a touch too long, but before he could break it, Morgan spoke first.

“Soft Voice. Mirla.” He greeted. “My thanks for waiting.”

The devaronian had to suppress a startle at his friend's voice. Calm, lazed with a touch of the same humour as in his eye.

His friend's gaze pierced him. “It's high time I dragged myself out of this pity party, don't you think?”

Morgan strode forwards, Soft Voice’s acolytes parted with fear they hadn’t shown him before. The fear that something had changed, and not knowing what. “Time to apply myself properly.”

Soft Voice said nothing, but allowed himself the slight kindness of laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Morgan looked at him, petting the hand softly. “Thank you, my friend. For everything.”

They strode forth, Soft Voice wondering if the Overseer was as curious about this development as he was.

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

Weeks turned to months, Soft Voice admitting to himself this new Morgan was a dangerous one. It wasn’t that he had changed so drastically. He still had the same dark humour. He walked the same, and - at the start - fought the same.

Nearly three months in this place changed everyone. Some broke, others hardened. He had lamented that his friend had been more likely to break than temper.

Soft Voice contemplated if maybe he had underestimated him.

Gone was the hesitation before the strike, costing him valuable time. Gone was the fear, the flinch before being struck.

Now Soft Voice watched his friend fight with a lazy confidence, if in a still too small uniform. He watched as the acolytes treated Morgan not with fear of Soft Voice’s reprisal, but of his own. Watched as he climbed the rankings, one step after the other, until he was placed ninth.

He watched as Morgan’s control over the Force grew, until he could worm his way past most defences. Soft Voice had that happen to him, before Morgan had shown him how to improve his shield, and it was none too pleasant. His shoulder had locked, like being clamped, with his friend ruthlessly taking advantage. It filled him with as much pride as it did pain. Usually pain, because Morgan struck hard.

The Overseer had kept the special lessons a week after his friend’s change, before scrapping them entirely. It had confirmed his private belief that the whole thing was set up for Morgan from the start, after his astonishing speed at learning Force shield.

He and his faction - the largest remaining, even if most of their members were deemed weak - watched Morgan drop his opponent with a chop to the neck. He left the ring without further injuring his opponent, even knowing the Overseer would not only allow it, but approve of it. He was happy to see his friend took his talks of being a gracious victor to heart.

He clapped his friend on the back, a silent applause. ‘And the thing that brings me the most pride?’ He thought as they observed the other acolytes spar under the watchful gaze of the Overseer.

‘I’m pretty sure he’s holding back.’