Droids barred the entrance to the main hall, the hall where the Overseer had been training them for months now, and confusion was in the air.

“Only the ten highest ranked acolytes are permitted.” They droned, uncaring about the increasing panic from the crowd gathered before them.

Soft Voice nudged him when he stopped, even though they both knew Morgan had felt him coming. “What’s going on?”

“Overseer changed the rules again. See the people sighing in relief?” Some acolytes were panicking, trying not to look like it. Others, the fools, were happy. His friend nodded, scanning the crowd. “They won’t be so happy in a few weeks. The powergap is about to widen, and that won’t be good for their health.”

Up until now the various leaders of the factions had to keep treating their followers somewhat fairly, or at least their stronger members. If people have nothing to lose, well, they become desperate. And the desperate are dangerous. The tragic and brutal death of Spiky, all those weeks ago, had made that quite clear.

The leaders may be the strongest, but stronger than two? Five, or ten? Numbers could bury superior skill or power, and so the powerful were somewhat kept in check.

“But now?” He told his friend. “Now everyone but the top ten will fall behind. Cruelty will rise, my friend.”

Soft Voice sighed, nodding. “So it will. We must step up the training of the others to ensure they do not stagnate.”

He motioned forward. “Let us enter together. Best to not show even imaginary weakness. Crowds tend to be stupid, and dangerous.”

The lesson that followed involved far more personal attention from the Overseer. More painful, to be sure. But also more targeted, more educational.

And Morgan had stopped caring about such a silly little thing as pain weeks ago.

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

He sidestepped a thrust, lightly deflecting the next few attacks. He’d been stepping up Mirla’s training for a few days now, so he knew that soon she would take a step back. Attempt to make space, to assess and plan.

When she did he smoothly stepped in after her, surprised to find a solid block waiting for him. She smirked, and he felt his opponent's satisfaction distract her from her shield. Just for a second, before Mirla realised her mistake and corrected it.

A second, however, was more than enough for him. With a flex of will he slipped past her now static soul defences and froze her feet in place. Mirla tried to compensate, to regain balance, but before she could his saber was a hair’s breadth from her temple.

“Dammit.” she swore. “And here the Overseer told us that the shield, once readied, needed no attention.”

Morgan tilted his head, turned off the lightning crawling along the blade, and tapped his saber against her head. “Against most, maybe. But not me, nor our glorious leader.” He looked over at Soft Voice, who was handily training - beating - four other acolytes and lecturing them while doing so. “For those like us, we fight two battles. One with the saber, and another with will. Inattention from either is a good way to lose your head. If you wish to take my place as second, you must learn.”

He felt a spike of fear from Mirla, looking back at her. “I apologise if I offended, my lord. I had no desire to usurp your place.” Morgan suppressed a frown, pretending that being addressed as lord wasn’t making him uncomfortable.

‘The strong are venerated, the sith more than most. Learn to live with it, because telling them to stop won’t accomplish anything.’ His friend had told him. He’d been right, too, as he usually was. Asking them to drop the honorifics had done nothing but make the others of their faction more nervous, not less.

“You think he appointed you without me knowing?” Morgan asked. “He came to me with it, we discussed it, and we agreed that you fit the position better.”

Mirla’s head was still bowed, body radiating submission.

“Look at me.” He commanded, and her head shot up. “We are not petty tyrants. I do not take revenge for things I consented to. I will not punish you for things outside your control.”

“You will take my place in a few weeks, so you must be ready for it. Do you understand?” She nodded, squaring her shoulders.

“Good. Again, and make sure to keep the defences around your soul under strict control.”

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

Weeks passed, and what Morgan had predicted came to pass. The ones still allowed training under the Overseer kept growing, faster than ever. The rest slowed, only those being trained by Soft Voice or himself steadily improving.

He had jumped three ranks, number nine being far too close for comfort in his opinion, and he had been right to do so. The last few spots were fiercely fought over, endlessly switching between five or so acolytes all around the same skill level. They knew the consequences of missing the Overseer’s lessons, doing anything to join.

Violence reigned, spilling over into the sleeping quarters before long. He, Mirla and Soft Voice agreed change was needed.

So they dismantled some two dozen beds, taking permanent residence in one of the isolated training rooms. They reinforced the entrance, and divided the rest into quarters. Space for sleeping, training and relaxing. Space for storage and eating. All neatly divided, as per Soft Voice’s wishes.

“A clean, well ordered home is good for the soul.” Soft Voice had lectured, the poor acolyte he’d overheard complaining wilting as he listened. The acolytes of their faction were coming to dread his friend’s lectures almost as much as his training.

Mirla’s first real leadership test came, he and Soft Voice leaving the security of their new territory to her. She excelled, to her own surprise, showing the signs of potential Soft Voice had seen before any other.

She always felt nervous to Morgan, but she’d been growing out of it. Stern and confident, she appointed guard duty, organised patrols and cracked down on any slacking. Not that, he admitted, slacking happened very often.

She even took over training of the acolytes, in those times when he or Soft Voice were otherwise engaged. Morgan was glad to see that her training with him had paid off, and seeing her train others with what he had taught her inspired a strange sense of pride.

A sentry interrupted his thoughts, looking over. “Sir, we found this one approaching the perimeter, sir!” The guard saluted, a togruta woman beside him. Kripaa was holding both her saber and his own, and she didn’t appear armed beside it.

He spared some thought to the sith pureblood, marvelling at how much the man had changed. Once a nervous wreck, he now seemed a competent - if not overly powerful - acolyte. His youth as a slave had stripped him of any arrogance he might have had, and Morgan made a mental note to talk with Soft Voice and Mirla about giving him more responsibility. He might very well turn into a solid squad leader.

‘Well, if they agree. I wasn’t lying when I told Mirla she was better suited to command than me.’

He turned his attention fully to the woman, seeing she somehow managed to alter the standard issue acolyte gear to fit her physique. It looked good on her, he admitted. “I was wondering if I might speak with you privately, my lord.” She murmured.

Morgan snorted. “Denied. Acolyte Kripaa, did she state her business?”

“She did not, sir!”

“Then don’t let her in next time.” Kripaa saluted again, turning that light shade of red signalled embarrassment in the sith species. “But she’s here now, so I might as well hear what she has to say.”

The woman took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. It had the side effect of pushing out her chest, but Morgan easily suppressed the urge to look down.

He felt a flash of displeasure going through the woman, the exact moment he didn’t look down, and Morgan already regretted not ordering Kripaa to kick her out. Before he could rectify that mistake, however, she was speaking.

“My name is Astara, my lord. And I have a proposal.” She fidgeted, looking nervous but excited. Morgan knew better, as he felt nothing but iron resolve and little in the way of excitement.

“My faction, as you may know, isn’t doing very well. Our leader dropped down to twelfth place, and his second is looking to take his head.”

Morgan almost rolled his eyes, bored with the endless betrayals of the sith before ever setting foot in the academy proper. “The second hates me, and I haven’t the skills to stop him.”

Astara fell silent, a breathless look on her face and her lips slightly parted.

“Get to the point.” Morgan ordered, having to hide some discomfort. He’d never been the best at dealing with pretty people, nevermind one wearing that.

She took another deep breath, and this time he felt actual nerves in her. “I wish to serve you, my lord, if you’ll have me. Become your pet, should you wish for it.”

Morgan was silent for a second, thinking.

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” He nodded, and imagined what his past selves would have thought about that.

‘So, hold up. A beautiful, sexy, crazy hot alien woman is all but throwing her clothes off and screaming ‘take me’, and what exactly are we waiting for again?’ The old him, the happy and unhardened him, would have stammered and blushed, but accepted..

‘Sure, great fucking idea. Let’s trust the sith stranger whose motivations are completely unknown into our bed, you know, where we’re most vulnerable.’ The scared and confused him, the man that had found himself in a different world, would have protested.

‘She is bargaining, playing any card she has to to get what she wants. She’s scared, desperate.’ Morgan, as he was now, decided.

“I am quite skilled, my lord.” She pressed. ”I had many years of training before I came to Korriban, and my old master was quite pleased with me. You could have me, whole and completely.” Her voice screamed allure. Her body insisted on desire. Even her eyes told him that she wanted this. Needed this.

But now Morgan could feel her fear, the rising terror as he failed to give the response she wanted. The Force was useful for a lot of things, but the high degree of control it gave him over his own body was amazing even in the most mundane of circumstances. Or maybe that was just his particular way of using the Force.

Either way, no more awkward boners. No more annoying blushing or panic sweat.

His uniform was still quite tight, and his excitement would have shown quite clearly.

“I think not. No offence to you, Astara, but had that been what I wanted I could have taken it by now.” A lie, but one steeped in truth. He could have taken it, yes, but even broken and reforged he had not yet forgotten all his morals.

Just the ones that interfered with survival. The fear of pain, or hurting others. The fear of being judged, or being caught in a lie.

Astara pouted, not showing even a hint of her mounting panic. “Are you sure, my lord? I would be most willing. Willing to do anything, even. Those fantasies you have? We could play them out. One by one, until I’m yours completely.”

‘Now what would you know about my fantasies, I wonder?’

“We’re done here. Kripaa, escort her out.” He said, a part of his mind displaying all those fantasies without his permission.

He frowned. ‘I should meditate on those. Once properly examined, that part of me can have its place.’ He looked at the togruta woman. ‘But not with her. Not with someone I don’t trust.’

Astara’s face had gone blank, her eyes hinting at desperation. “I have something else to trade.” She spoke quickly, taking a half step forward. Kripaa mirrored her, hand going to his saber.

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

Morgan readied for a hidden knife, a sudden spike in the Force, but no attack came. Still, being here had taught him to be ready for the unlikely.

“I developed a version of the soul shield to protect the mind. It greatly weakens or even blocks any attack on it. I offer that in trade for protection.”

He paused. ‘Alright, didn’t see that coming.'

He raised a hand to stop Kirpaa, the man taking a step back but keeping his weapon close. “Why not lead with that?” Morgan asked. “Surely trading a technique would be better than offering to become someone's pet?”

She shrugged, the seduction act dropped completely. “You’d be surprised. How about it?”

“Not so fast. How did you develop this mental shield, and how come no one else has?” He’d tried, so had Soft Voice. They likely weren’t the only one, but if anyone had figured it out they weren't telling. Mental attacks were few, but dangerous. Soft Voice knew one, preferring to not use it against other Force users. Something about being wasteful.

Astara hesitated. “It's based on meditation exercises I learned as a kid. The Dark gives them weight, and I learned to form a shield out of them.”

He mulled on that, then called Soft Voice over. After filling him in his friend looked at Astara much like a hungry wolf, shaking her hand eagerly. “That would be an acceptable trade, acolyte Astara. Should we be able to learn it, of course, but afterwards I will personally extend you my protection.”

Soft Voice smiled at her, trying to be assuring. Astara radiated more fear now than ever.

‘Serves her right, putting those thoughts in my head.’ He shook his head in mock sadness, confusing Kripaa as the man looked on. The guard was the only one still paying him any attention. He waved the sith back to his duties, following Soft Voice as he escorted their new - temporary - teacher to the training rooms.

‘At least we got something out of that rollercoaster of a conversation.’ He cracked his knuckles, an old habit. ‘Let’s see how long it takes me to learn this one.’

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

It took him the rest of the day to get it down. Most of that was learning the togruta’s meditation exercise, different from anything he’d learned or heard about.

He had marvelled when the mental shield had snapped into place. Dozens of ways to adapt it had started flowing through his head, experimentation beginning soon after. He theorised a way to break down the meditation into patterns, so he could construct it much like a soul shield.

Holding two shields would be harder, but worth it. He could use the practice, since he had mostly ran out of ways to increase his control in any meaningful capacity.

So there he was, Soft Voice screaming until the walls shook, practising his new shield. It had taken Soft Voice a week to adapt the base principles to work better with the Dark, improving the work that Astara had already done. When he was satisfied he had taken Morgan to practise with him, as eager as he had ever seen him.

That had turned into finding a way for Morgan to do mental attacks, and, to Soft Voice’s credit, he had. But mental attack was less about skill and more about power, at least the ones they knew. The mind tended to reject outside influences, Morgan finding his lighter attacks doing not very much at all.

‘But maybe in the future I learn something that I can do, and then getting skilled at breaking mental defences wouldn’t be quite as wasteful.’ He told himself. ‘Besides, learning how to defend my mind is a high priority. I do not want to be caught in a Force scream without it, that’s for sure.’

Force scream was a wasteful way to attack, even for Soft Voice. It bled power, and while it might stun those weaker of mind, or those that couldn't use the Force, that wasn’t the kind of opponent they were fighting. But now that Soft Voice understood more about how to protect the mind, he had told Morgan about all the ideas he had to improve it.

And so they practised, finding little variations and twists that strengthened the shield. They found ways to get a little more effective power for the same amount of Force, increasing their pool's capacity. Like a mana pool, but not.

‘The Force isn’t mana, or magic, but it kinda is.’ Morgan contemplated one evening, laying in bed and trying to ignore the two acolytes quietly having sex a few feet away. ‘Like, yes, the Force isn’t infinite. You use it to do stuff, then it takes some energy from somewhere to do that, and if you use enough you can’t draw on any more for a while. Then you sleep, or rest, and you can do it again.’

He frowned. ‘Like mana. No mana per second or anything silly like that, and no units or little numbers to represent them, but yes. Like mana.’ He turned around, falling half into meditation to tune out the outside world. Especially the fucking. ‘But also not really. Soft Voice can use a lot at the same time, while I can only use a little.’

In the end, he got nowhere with it. No great revelation, and no idea’s on how to improve power flow. It did slowly improve with use, and maybe some great jedi or sith had found ways to increase the amount of Force a person can use at once. But if they had, they hadn’t told Morgan.

So all that was left was to wait, improve those skills he could, and survive.

Except he was no longer content with merely surviving, so he pushed and pushed until he felt like dying. Then pushed some more, imagining being able to kick in the Overseer's teeth.

Time moved on, as it always did, and Morgan found himself building routines. Little things. Who he ate with or trained early in the morning, how long he showered or slept.

Humans always build routines, he knew, yet it crept up to him anyway. Taking him by surprise in little ways. Mild annoyance when he had to wait to shower, or that one dinner that tasted like wet cardboard yet everyone seemed to love.

The annoyance increased as his routine did, but at least he was still alive.

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

He strengthened his left leg, careful to not bring his full-body enforcement out of balance, and it blurred forward. His opponent, a would-be raider, went flying backwards into the wall. She didn’t get up.

“I’m honestly surprised they waited a full two months before trying to raid our new little slice of paradise!” He called over to Soft Voice, the devaronian currently slapping around a half dozen lesser acolyte raiders.

Morgan had taken out their leader, and he used that word for lack of a better one, by introducing her to the wall. With her disabled, if not dead, and the rest being scolded by his friend the raid was dead in the water.

The other acolytes decided discretion was the batter part of valour, turning to run. Soft Voice slapped the wall, laughing. “Aren’t you glad we trained proper guards, eh Mad Mouse.”

“They did well. Warned us before we had to fight this in our beds.” He walked over to the last acolyte remaining, surprised to find her still awake. ‘I suppose the other’s haven’t been standing completely still, even if they don’t get to be trained by the Overseer anymore.’

Two guards were standing next to her, one holding his training saber inches from her throat.

He grabbed the woman by the hair, forcing her to look at him. “So why did you raid us, then? Not only do we outnumber you two to one, two of the top five are here. You didn’t think you could win, did you?”

She tried to spit in his face, but his other hand clamped over her mouth before she could. ‘Precognition, handy for blocking, dodging and now apparently getting spit on.’ He thought cheerily. The battle had him in a good mood, especially with it failing so badly. It should stop others from trying something for at least a whole week!

“Now, I’m going to remove my hand, and if you spit on me, I’ll be taking your hands. Clear?” She nodded, so he let her go. “Now tell me why you tried something this stupid.”

She swallowed before answering, her throat not working very well after he had smashed his saber into it during their short fight. Right before he had kicked her into a wall, that is. “For the datapads. Rumour is you described techniques on them to help train your men.” She coughed, looking at the two guards warily.

He nodded amicably. “So we did. Of course, each pad is keyed to one acolyte. So unless you have a slicer with you, they’re less than useful.”

“Unless, of course, you planned to solve that problem some other way.” He looked at her, letting all emotion slide off his face. “Say, perhaps, by taking one of ours with you.”

Her face remained the same, but he felt a bell of alarm in her. She was well trained in keeping her emotions from the Force, but then he was hardly the average acolyte anymore.

“That, unfortunately, is not something we can forgive.” Soft Voice told her, coming to a stop next to Morgan.

“Mirla!” Morgan called, and the now proper second of their faction blurred to a stop beside him. “Take this one and dump her somewhere she won’t like. Greta’s territory, maybe. Dealer's choice.”

She looked at Soft Voice for a beat, then called over a few of her guards and dragged the would-be raider off.

When they were gone, Soft Voice chuckled. “How fast they grow. Even a month ago she would have done as you told her immediately. Now she at least hesitates before obeying someone not in the chain of command.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder, walking back into the highly modified training room that served as their home. “Come, I won’t be sleeping after that. Got my blood good and boiling, and you know what that means.”

Morgan shook his head, joining his friend. “Yes, yes. Sparring. That joke got old months ago."

‘I’ll have to take a better look at the other factions tomorrow. We might be the biggest, but let’s ensure they don’t band together to challenge us anyway.’

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

The mirror displayed the image of a stranger.

Oh, Morgan knew it was still him. Same general shape to his face, same short hair and dull brown eyes. His height hadn’t changed, nor had his arms lengthened.

But where before fat would have rolled off his stomach, now it was smooth. A six-pack could be seen, should he stop drinking water. Not that abs interested him much.

Broad shoulders, strong arms and muscled legs giving him the air of a warrior. Various scars covered his body, a year’s worth of mistakes and the consequences marrying his flesh.

He wasn’t particularly good looking, in his opinion. Fairly tall, but not overly so. Muscled, but meant for work, not show. Short hair, even before coming to this place, and little sense of style made him plain in all aspects.

‘At least the damned uniform fits properly now.’ He observed. With a training saber slung over his shoulder, he looked much like every other acolyte in this place.

“Mad Mouse,” His friend called, and he looked over at the same time he felt a strong sense of alarm and fear flow into the force. By the look of puzzlement on his friend’s face, he had felt the same.

Puzzlement morphed into understanding, Soft Voice grinning. “Mirla, Bastra and Astara with me!” He called. When he passed Morgan, he whispered; “You too, Morgan. That came from the Overseer, clear as day. With the five of us we have half the top ten. Maybe we’ll see if we can’t get some answers from her.”

Morgan smiled, a mean thing. “Now that would be something. That woman owes us an explanation, if not a maiming.”

They blurred through the hallways, acolytes flinching out of the way. Halfway to the main training room, where they suspected the Overseer’s quarters were somewhere behind, the speakers let out sound for the first time in weeks.

“Attention all acolytes.” An unfamiliar male voice called. “You are to report to the central training hall at once. I repeat, all acolytes are to report to the central training hall at once.”

Morgan said nothing, nor did his friend. When they finally got to the training hall the doors where the Overseer always disappeared through were open, showing little of interest. The training hall was still empty, only now one or two acolytes trickling in warily.

Unfamiliar hallways spread beyond them, but Soft Voice didn’t pause or slow. Together they sped past, homing in on the Overseer’s presence.

Strangely, no droids were to be found. Either as guards or servants. Everything was empty.

Some seconds later they arrived at a well appointed room, seeing the Overseer. The woman was rapidly packing clothes and other items into bags, using the Force liberally to clear the room faster.

“Overseer.” Soft Voice greeted, knocking on the open door. “We have some questions.”

“I don’t care.” She said without looking.

Soft Voice hummed, considering. “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.”

The Overseer turned, looking murderous.

Murderous and afraid.

‘She can’t take all of us.’ Morgan realised. ‘Not anymore. Not after a year of this place.’

She finally nodded curtly, looking none too pleased. “Fine then. Ask.”

“Thank you.” His friend said politely. “First, what is happening.”

“Darth Natra is dead. So are most of her apprentices.”

“I see. Who is Darth Natra?”

“The Darth that funded this whole project.”

Soft Voice was quiet, digesting the information. The Overseer returned to packing. “What will happen to us now?”

“You’ll be taken to the main academy, that’s all I know.”

Soft Voice nodded again. “Right. I suppose that’s all that matters.”

The devaronion took a step forward, and Morgan could feel the Overseer prepare for an attack. He could feel her draw the Force into her body, could see her considering who to go for first.

His friend bowed. “Thank you for training us this past year.” He said. ”You have taught us much, and it will serve us well.”

Morgan, personally, would have preferred to take her head. But he bowed too, thanking the woman that had broken and reforged him. Thanking the woman that was responsible for almost half the scars on his body.

One by one, the rest of their group bowed. When they were done, the Overseer said nothing. She looked much like she always had, cold and cruel. But Morgan could feel her surprise, could feel she hadn't expected gratitude.

She watched them leave, knowing they could have killed her.

And had chosen not to.

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

“Why didn’t we kill that bitch?” Astara demanded.

They were currently escorting the rest of their faction, twenty one of the remaining thirty six acolytes, to the main training hall.

Soft Voice looked at her, and she shrunk back. “Because while I feel confident we could have killed her, she would have taken some of us with her. It would have won us nothing, save the pleasure of revenge and likely the ire of the people coming to take us away from this place.”

Astara argued some more, but in the end bowed to Soft Voice’s reasoning. They usually did.

Mirla was ensuring their faction was safe from last minute suicidal acolytes, Morgan internalized that Soft Voice had been very correct to have her take his place.

Over the last six or so months he had grown out of the chain of command Mirla and Soft Voice had set up. They obeyed him, to be sure, but he only trained them. It suited him better, being somewhat apart.

An ally, to be sure. A treasured one. Soft Voice was his friend, and he liked the rest well enough. But there was distance, one he didn’t know how to bridge. One he didn’t want to bridge.

In the end, he was more their champion than leader.

Soft Voice was his friend. The rest were his allies. That was good enough.

Enormous doors opened, revealing one side of the training hall to be a door.

The sun touched his skin for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, shuttles flanked by soldiers and an unknown Overseer standing to take them to the academy proper. The woman that had been their Overseer was nowhere to be seen.

He swept his Force sight through them, pausing when he felt the new Overseer.

‘Wait, what?’