Morgan woke up feeling strangely rested, finding himself lying on the cold ground of a tomb.

It took him a few seconds to remember, until the memory of whatever that had been resurfaced. A shiver went through him, having little to do with the cold stone.

He stood up, looking around to find the corpse of the Beast gone. ‘Alright. Yes. Completely normal for lovecraftian entities to wave at me and giant bodies to randomly disappear without a trace. No fuckery beyond human comprehension going on here, no sir!’

He backtracked through the tomb with little issue, finding himself at peace despite probably having met the ghost of Marka Ragnos himself.

Walking out of the tomb found him catching the sun as it rose, and he realised he must have slept for nearly fifteen hours. He checked his datapad to see he had, in fact, slept for a little over fourteen. ‘No wonder I feel so rested. Also, note to self, let’s not mention to Tremel or anyone else I may have met Marka Ragnos.’

Groans reached his ear, and he looked to the ground to find the soldiers he had knocked out stirring. “If you are still unconscious after fourteen hours, it’s not my fault. I didn’t hit you lot that hard.”

Silence answered his joke, so he sighed and slapped the only corporal among them awake. Strangely enough, not the same soldier that had blown his inspection before.

“Wake up time. Unless you’re still inflicted with Dark induced madness. In that case, better if you stay asleep.”

The effect that had held part of the valley in its clutches disappeared when he had killed the Beast, but he had no idea if the madness it had induced was permanent.

“Wha… What’s going on? Who are you?”

Morgan smiled reassuringly, but the corporal blanched. ‘Right, still covered in blood.’

“At ease, corporal. I’m acolyte Morgan.” He made sure to use his name, as much to humanise himself as to make sure he remembered it. “I killed the source of the madness, and it seems its effects are not permanent.”

The corporal looked around, noting her squad around her. She frowned. “I… I remember some of it. Something about an….” She squinted at Morgan, trying to remember. “Yes. You walked up, shouting about a surprise inspection.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You remember? Well, that’s gonna make for some good laughs between your soldiers.”

She looked at him questioningly. He shrugged. “Most of the troopers in the valley weren't dutifully guarding something.”

Morgan clapped his hands. “Now then, wake up the rest of your squad and let’s move out. We have strays to collect, and I have other things to do today.”

‘Like killing Tremel. How fun that will be.’ He thought dryly.

The corporal woke up her squad, introduced herself formally as Shera, and they set out at a brisk pace.

The first troopers they came across were already awake themselves, and consisted of only privates. They joined them without issue, and so did the next two groups they came across.

It was the third that proved to be troublesome, and Morgan returned to the small army of nineteen soldiers to find corporal Shera arguing with a sergeant.

‘I was only gone for ten minutes.’ He groused. ‘At least the puppies are sleeping now.’

“I don’t care about your opinion, corporal.” The sergeant barked. “We will collect the artefact me and my men have been sent for. That’s an order.”

Shera looked at him helplessly as he returned, and the sergeant snapped around. “Ah, the acolyte that freed us from that nasty curse. Well done.”

The sergeant pulled out his datapad, flashing a sith identification order in Morgan’s face. “This states I am allowed to conscript acolytes to assist with my task as necessary. Consider yourself under my authority until we complete my assignment.”

The sergeant, who still hadn’t introduced himself, turned to walk away. Morgan froze his foot in place, causing him to fall on his face.

“First of all, don’t turn away from me.” Morgan spoke calmly. “Secondly, who was the sith that gave you that order, given that you entrust your life to a piece of paper?”

The man pulled himself up, red faced. “That order came from Lord Renning himself. Fall in, or I will have you executed for treason.”

Morgan walked up to him, and to the man's credit he stood his ground. “You do not have the authority to have me executed, sergeant, Lord Renning does. You are not him.”

He Force pulled the datapad out of the hands of the sergeant, reading from it. The man flinched. “This states that you are allowed to conscript any acolyte already under the authority of Lord Renning, which I am not.”

“But perhaps most important, sergeant, look around.” The man did, finding the troopers around them standing ramrod straight. “Who do you think, if forced to choose, they will support? The sergeant that wishes them, underequipped and just freed from madness, to delve into another tomb? Or the sith that wants them back at base, eating, sleeping and laughing at the dumb shit they did while affected?”

He clapped the man on the shoulder, watching as he tried very hard to keep his face blank. “Pick your battles, sergeant. Now let’s move, we have more soldiers to collect.”

The man relented, if with a great deal of internal anger, and the troopers around them relaxed slightly.

They swept the valley clean of any stragglers, Morgan putting any tuk’ata they came across to sleep. Before long, all troopers were collected. Four sergeants took command of the near hundred remaining men, and they marched up to the research station near noon.

Lord Renning greeted them at the barricade. “The Force told me you would return, acolyte.”

Morgan bowed, and the soldiers behind him saluted. “And it seems you have gathered the weak-minded after completing your trial. How conscientious.”

The Lord waved dismissively, and the soldiers moved into the station. It left Morgan to speak with Lord Renning alone, until a certain sergeant broke in.

“Apologies, my Lord.” The man spoke. “But I must inform you that the mission you assigned to me has failed.”

Morgan could feel the Lord’s surprise at being interrupted, but the sergeant continued charging to his certain death.

“Regrettably me and my men succumbed to the curse before we could complete it, but I wished to continue the second it was lifted! To rally the remaining soldiers and complete the mission no matter the cost!”

Surprise turned to irritation, but the Lord displayed none of it on his face. Morgan took a step away from the sergeant.

“Then this low acolyte waylaid my orders. Threatened me when I insisted my work was on your orders, and forced me to return to you empty handed.”

Morgan took another step away from the idiot, not a second too late. Lord Renning’s hand shot up, lightning shooting at the man.

He smelled the sergeant's hair burning, but kept his eyes on Lord Renning as he heard the man’s body drop silently.

“Well met, acolyte.” Lord Renning continued, as if never interrupted. “I am Sith Lord Renning, master of this outpost.”

He bowed again, introducing himself. Both the Sith Lord and Morgan ignored the body on the floor. He informed the Lord about his exploits in the tomb when asked, the Sith listening intently.

Morgan was careful not to utter a direct lie, or mention even a hint about what he had seen.

“Fascinating. I do believe the whole world has felt the death of that Beast, such a worthy specimen. Alas, some places acolytes can go that Sith Lords cannot.”

Before Morgan could ask why, the Lord chuckled. “Look at me, prattling like an old man. Go back to your Overseer, I’m sure he will be impressed with your deeds.”

The Sith stuck out his hand, and Morgan shook it. “With how much growing you still have to do, I look forward to your exploits.”

The man nodded goodbye, and left. Morgan stood still a few seconds, seeing a couple troopers walk his way with a stretcher.

‘Well, that was creepy.’ He walked to the speeder platforms, flagging down a ride.

The speeder rose into the air. ‘I’m sure the rest of my day will be a breeze.’ He thought sarcastically.

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

“Well, look who’s here. Remember me?” Slab asked hoarsely, a kolto patch clearly visible on his throat.

Morgan sighed, something he had been doing a lot of recently. ‘Well, at least I got to shower before getting blood all over me again. He doesn’t seem to be in a ‘here to apologise’ kinda mood. And he’s blocking me from seeing Tremel. Again.’

“Get to the point, Slab.”

Slab’s face scrunched in confusion, then scowled. “You’re trying to trick me again. My name’s Dol-”

“Don’t care.” Morgan interrupted. “And I’m really not trying to trick you.”

Slab kept scowling, but continued. “Vemrin thought I should follow up on our earlier discussion.” He made a show of looking around. “Notice anything interesting? No witnesses. No witnesses means no rules.”

The giant wall of muscle took out a syringe, jabbing it into his own neck. “No more shortcuts. No more special treatment. You’re just gonna be another dead failure on Korriban.”

Morgan felt Slab’s presence in the Force go wild, rushing through his body. His muscles seemed to throb, and the acolyte jumped at Morgan with enough speed he was briefly taken by surprise.

Briefly being the operative word, because after dodging and blocking the first few wild swings, Morgan noticed that while Slab’s speed and strength had greatly increased, his saber skills had not.

He also wasn’t quite used to it, judging by the way even slightly messing with his balance had him tripping like a drunkard.

The fight ended after six seconds, with Morgan’s blade cutting into Slab’s achilles tendon. The giant toppled, screaming.

“No! Hold up, hold up. Look, I was wrong. What they’re saying about you, totally true. So… Strong. I don’t wanna die!”

Morgan sheathed his blade, feeling Slab’s body out with the Force. “I’m not going to kill you.” He reassured the giant. “But whatever it is you took, will. I’d say it’s about twenty seconds away from getting to your heart.”

Slab’s face scrunched. “But Vemrin sai-” He gasped, grabbing at his chest.

‘Or less.’ Morgan corrected. He looked on as Slab died, frowning. “Ruthless with no real point. Is that the kind of man you are, Vemrin?”

He shook his head and walked over Slab’s corpse, stepping into the Overseer’s office.

Tremel was pacing, looking stressed. “Ah, good. We must speak quickly, acolyte, there isn’t much time. I may have made a slight miscalculation.”

The Overseer looked to the door, as if expecting someone. “The beast of Marka Ragnos was a great source of Dark energy here on Korriban. When it was slain, there was a tremor in the Force.”

Morgan breathed evenly, observing the Overseer as closely as he could. ‘In good shape, walks like a predator. Weapon always close, and it’s a proper lightsaber. I’ll need to take that from him, and quickly. Can’t judge his shield without him feeling it, but safe bet it’s strong and well made.’

“Darth Baras felt that tremor and has become aware of you. He demands an audience.”

Tremel looked at the door again. “Baras is a serious man, and a master of deception. Everything he does and says is calculated. He will attempt to trip you up, test your nature, get to the heart of who you are. Always take him seriously. And I mean always.”

“We might not speak again, acolyte.” The Overseer said gravely. “You’re the best chance of stopping Vemrin. If you fail, I doubt there will be another strong enough. Good luck.”

Morgan gave a shallow bow, turning to leave. ‘See you soon, Overseer.’

He stepped over Slab’s body again, and walked through the academy shaping and reshaping his shields. A nervous tick, he realised.

‘It’s a while since I’ve been nervous.’ He thought. ‘Not since the facility reforged me. So what’s going on then?’ He turned his attention inward, feeling for his emotions. Letting emotions go into the force wasn’t something he was capable of, but examining them was something he did near daily.

‘Fear of death?’ He nearly giggled in the halls of the academy. ‘Death would be a nice vacation. No. Of failure?’ He frowned. ‘Not quite. What then? Why am I nervous?’

He continued walking through the halls, and he still had no answer when he came to the chamber of Dark Lord Baras.

“There Teeno, I believe that’s the one.” Astara said.

“All right.” The large acolyte responded. “Hey, you!”

Astara shook her head in disappointment, and Morgan looked at her for a second. ‘Now what is she doing here?’

“Come on, I’m antsy for some action. You there! Are you the big shot they’re all talking about? The one who’s been personally summoned by Darth Baras himself?”

Morgan swept his scan over the lot of them, noting relative their strength. ‘Still, nothing Astara should be surrounding herself with.’

“Out. All of you.” Morgan commanded. The acolytes hesitated, surprised. “Don’t care what you want, just go.”

They left, Teeno frowning as he went. His ally stayed. ‘That was easy.’

Astara sighed. “Really, my lord?”

“I’m short on time, Astara. Don’t really feel like participating in more dick measuring.”

He looked at her, noting she hadn't changed much. ‘Right. It’s only been what? Two days? Three? Feels longer.’

“So what have you been up to, then?” He asked.

She pouted, and Morgan felt her push sadness at him. “Way to ruin my fun. Took me like, all morning to find acolytes strong enough to not be completely worthless but dumb enough to follow me.”

Morgan gave her a look, and she straightened. “Alright, fine. Me and the rest of the crew have been assigned to some military unit, clearing out the more dangerous tombs. Lord Zethix dove in with his usual eagerness, but he tasked us with keeping an ear out for you.”

She looked at him, observing. “And in the three days we have been clearing out dusty tombs filled with self assembling droids and more monsters than you can shake a stick at, you’ve been rather busy.”

Astara held up a hand, ticking off fingers. “Found a warblade most acolytes would give a hand for, rescuing doomed soldiers while doing so. Killed a sith champion with decades of experience, terrifying the jailer so much he’s been drinking and blabbering about you in the cantina. Went to a valley most acolytes go to die, then not only thrived but killed a beast that they stopped using as a trial because it killed so many acolytes. And then, as if you’ve not been showing off enough, you have been getting attention from not one, but two Sith Lords.”

“Did I miss anything? Oh right, now one of the Sith Lords that noticed you maybe wants you for an apprentice.”

Morgan looked at her dryly. “I do know what I’ve been up to, seeing as I am the one having done all that. Now, why are you here, and why are Soft Voice and the rest of you clearing tombs like soldiers?”

Astara frowned. “Because that’s what we're going to be, apparently. Someone pulled strings to keep us together, and we’ve been working with the military constantly. Lord Zethix thinks we’re being trained as some sort of special forces platoon, and I don’t disagree.”

“As to why I’m here. Things are moving quickly, for you more than most. There’s been talk that we’ll be leaving Korriban in a few weeks, and you might be gone without warning.”

She turned serious, unusual for her. “So Zethix sent me to tell you that you haven’t been forgotten. That while he might not be able to do much now, he wants you to know you still have allies in the sith.”

“He says he is your friend, now and always.” Astara hesitated, and Morgan felt her wrestle with her emotions for a second. “Zethix trained us. Protected us. We owe him everything, from our lives to our sanity.”

She looked Morgan in the eye. “But we owe you too. Without you, Zethix would have been forced to spend much of his time protecting us instead of teaching us. Without you stealing every technique you came across, we wouldn't know half the tricks we do.”

Astara turned, and Morgan felt embarrassment in her. Embarrassment and determination. “One day, Morgan, one day we will repay you. And when that day comes, it won’t be mere acolytes standing with you. It won’t be twenty sith.”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

She looked back briefly. “We will come with legions so many we will darken the sun.”

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

“Most of you will not return from this endeavour.” Baras lectured. “If you die, you will be forgotten. If you give up, you will be killed. Now, out of my sight.”

He saw his late summon ignore both Vemrin and one of the worthless as they tried to talk to him, walking straight to his desk and bowing deeply.

“Are you having trouble with acolyte Vemrin, supplicant?” He asked when the bowing acolyte before him stayed silent.

“Competition breeds strength, my Lord.”

Baras couldn't feel his emotions, his lightest scan running into a barrier. He could crush it in an instant, but he left his newest toy to the illusion of control. He could read the nervousness from his face without the Force easily enough.

“Vemrin has paid his dues. He’s fought a deck stacked against him to get here. You, on the other hand…”

He scrutinised the acolyte. “If you think the training Overseer Sasha has given you will make you sith, you are sorely mistaken. Her little project was not completed, and you would not have survived it if it had been. Then Overseer Tremel got his claws in you. Yes, as I suspected. He has done you and this academy a great disservice.”

“Your warblade came early, prisoners flown in for your convenience, even a beast here on Korriban instead of offworld in the wild.”

Baras could read little from his newest acolyte. He still spoke of mute nerves, as he should, but the rest of him was calm. Controlled. He narrowed his eyes behind his mask. ‘Not born of fear. And not nervous because of me.’

He continued. “The pacing of the trials is deliberate. Only full immersion over time produces results. Your mind is soft, unhoned, undisciplined.”

Baras regretted not shattering his shield earlier, as doing it now would be giving in to base desire. This acolyte cared little for his opinions, that much he could see clearly. ‘He disagrees. And if even half of what I’ve read about project Culling is true, he will care even less for any pain I inflict him.’

“The first month of the trials should be dedicated to philosophy, conceptual tactics, understanding of the Sith Code.” He kept needling. ‘Best to treat him as any fresh upstart, lest he thinks himself special.’

“Recite the Sith Code for me, acolyte, and explain its meaning in battle, war and politics.” He ordered.

His acolyte recited the Sith Code from memory, pausing afterward to collect his thoughts. Baras waited.

“It means that we choose. We choose to follow our passions. We choose what to do with our strength. With the Dark, our chains are broken, and we are free to choose.”

Baras hummed. “A novice and lacklustre explanation, but not incorrect.”

“The truly correct answer is passion, acolyte Morgan. Passion is what pushes us. What sustains us. Your passion clearly stems from slave roots.”

He ran his sight along his acolytes shield, looking at it deeply. He saw Morgan tense slightly, but otherwise show no reaction. ‘How strangely unpathetic. Almost as skillful as an Overseer’s, if weaker.’

“What will you do, when your passion is fulfilled? Will you languish, I wonder, ambitions fulfilled?” He watched Morgan, but his acolyte seemed a servile supplicant. Head slightly bowed, pose carefully relaxed.

“In any case,” He continued as his acolyte stayed silent, “I am your master now. Tremel was becoming lax before you ever arrived. His unwillingness to adapt to the evolving sith paradigm has become a liability. These are the actions of a traitor. Traitors are executed. I grant you immunity from punishment. Kill Tremel, and bring back his hand as proof.”

Baras waved, dismissing his new acolyte. “Now, leave. I’m sure Tremel is still in his chambers. Don’t return until you’ve killed him.”

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

Morgan walked back to Overseer Tremel’s office, mentally naming beasts and as much information as he knew each as he walked. He arrived, walking inside and very very carefully not thinking about what he was about to do.

“I didn’t expect to see you agai-” Tremel began. Morgan interrupted him by grabbing near half his reserves and enveloping the Overseer’s shield with it.

Tremel jumped out of his chair, grabbing for his lightsaber.

Morgan ran his perception over his shield, finding it near perfect. Until he saw a crack, a tiny weakness that he would not have noticed before the holocron had tested his control. Had improved upon it.

He poured his power against it, grinding and twisting until it tore a hole straight through the shield. He lost power while doing so, but with what remained he summoned the only lightsaber in the room to his hand.

Tremel grabbed after it with the Force, and his power was greater than Morgan’s by a wide margin. He cursed, letting go of the lightsaber and finding his opening in the man’s shield rapidly close.

He pulled back, instead using what power remained in his attack to fling a vase at the Overseer’s head. He dodged.

‘Well, fuck.’ He thought as Tremels lightsaber ignited. ‘I really hoped that would work.’

Power cracked against his shield, but here the Overseer was outmatched. It surrounded his defences, strangling his shield like a snake. Unfortunately for Tremel, that was what almost any other sith did too, and Morgan had long since found a counter.

As long as the power gap wasn’t overwhelmingly large, Morgan simply let them. He built his shield larger for a purpose, slowly shrinking and repairing it as it got damaged. Tremel was losing more power attacking than he was defending, by a large margin, and the Dark withdrew soon after he noticed.

Tremel might have even won, if he had kept it up. ‘But you don't know that, do you? Not for sure. You spend too long behind a desk, Overseer. Forgot what it's like to take risks.’

Morgan drew his own saber, enforcing his body.

Strength rippled through him, the old sith from the cells having been very helpful in refining his technique. ‘Shame I couldn't copy it wholesale.’ He thought as the Overseer looked at him. ‘But it's not like I use the Dark exclusively, unlike what apparently everyone but Soft Voice thinks.’

A lightsaber cut through the air, the crackling of plasma filling the room.

The Overseer jumped at him, and Morgan dodged a blow that would have taken his head.

To his surprise, they were even in speed, the champion he had fought - and stolen from - more able an enforcer than either of them. ‘Not too surprising. That sith had spent his life on the battlefield, while Tremel has been behind a desk for decades now.’

Unfortunately, and unlike the champion, Tremel wielded an actual lightsaber. Morgan was under no illusion what it would do to his warblade if he tried to block.

He jerked his leg back, nearly losing it to a sweep, and pressured the Overseer with a quick jab to his throat. The man backpedalled, Morgan feeling the man shake the rust from his frame as they fought.

‘I need to end this, now.’ Morgan decided.

So when the Overseer made a sweep to force his wrist back, or risk losing it, he continued the attack.

He grabbed his warblade with the Force, pushing it forward as quickly as he could at the same time the lightsaber shaved cleanly through his wrist. Tremel tried to jump out of the way, but wasn’t quite fast enough.

Morgan’s warblade entered just below the chin, and the Dark fled from the Overseer in torrents.

The Dark, as always, was a fickle mistress.

He heard the sound of his hand hitting the floor, pain flooding his mind. He breathed through it, finding it as easy to ignore as ever. Tremel was clutching at the saber in his neck, dying.

“Come to me, B-84,” he called to the hallways, “my right hand was cleaved by a lightsaber, no other injuries.”

The medical droid he had dragged here from the med-bay beeped softly as it entered, walking to his hand. It picked it up, a scalpel folding out of its other hand.

It held it close to Morgan’s stump. “Please keep still. I must remove the cauterised skin before reattachment is possible.”

With enforcement still flowing through his body, that wouldn't be a problem. He told the droid as much, and it started scraping even as it protested. “I must advise the use of a sedative. This will be very painful.”

“It is.” Morgan confirmed. “Keep working.”

He looked to the Overseer, who was looking at the droid in confusion. “No offence, Overseer. I figured B-84 can treat the wounds of the winner. Quite glad I brought him, actually.”

The man died as the droid was reattaching his hand, dozens of small tools Morgan had no knowledge about poking and prodding at his wrist.

When it was finished B-84 applied a kolto-cast. “I advise limited to no use of the right hand for at least one week, preferably two. Loss of feeling or stiffness is normal, and can be permanent. Additional surgeries can be performed when the wound has properly healed.”

Morgan nodded, unconcerned. “Not if I master fleshcrafting anytime soon. Thank you, B-84, you can return to your normal duties.”

It left, and Morgan looked down at the body of the Overseer.

He was alone for maybe ten seconds.

“You!” Eskella shouted as she stormed inside. “What have you done to him? Where is he?”

She looked at the body of her father, freezing in place. Morgan bowed his head. “My condolences. Darth Baras ordered me to kill him, but I took no pleasure from it.”

Morgan felt the Dark consume her whole. Felt how it clawed at her, how it feasted on her anger. Her grief.

He frowned. “Don’t be rash. You can leave here. Have a life, a future.”

She screamed, jumping at him blade first. He bypassed her shield entirely, the excess Dark leaving her shield in shambles. He took the drags of his power and grasped her neck.

A snap echoed through the room as she dropped, her head facing upward while her chest was pointed to the floor.

Morgan sighed. ‘I really need to get off this godforsaken planet.’

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

Vette watched the walls as she waited, growing less and less sure of her prediction. ‘That acolyte has done the judging thing. That means he’s an apprentice of Tremal something. Soon he’ll need my help in the tombs, and I can finally get out of this damned cage.‘

She saw the jailer fiddle with the remote to her collar from the corner of her eye, and braced for the pain.

It never came, instead she heard a strangled cry.

“I’ve been having a shitty day, Knash.” She heard the acolyte she had been waiting for say. “Do you want to hear about it? No? Too bad, since you appear to be lacking the ability to have a choice.”

Vette turned, seeing the jailer that had been tormenting her for months on his knees. The acolyte from the judgement was towering over him, holding the remote to her collar in one hand.

“I woke up, you see, with my right hand being stiff and less responsive. Why?” The man on the floor gasped, but Vette saw the acolyte hadn’t done anything to him. ‘Must be that Force stuff.’

“Well, yesterday, my former Overseer cut it off. And when I killed him, I didn’t even get to keep his lightsaber. Then, when reporting to Darth Baras this morning, he sent me on a fetch quest. Making copies in the tomb of Tulak Hord from ancient inscriptions. Copies written by hand, mind you.”

Vette saw some acolytes make a break for it, stalking out the jails as quietly as they could. “Not the easiest task, when your fingers will barely hold a damned pen. I do think that was rather the point. Wanted to teach me a lesson, you see. Unnecessary risks.”

She looked around, not seeing anyone else even remotely nearby. “Then I returned, and good news!” Knash gasped again, clutching at his throat. “I’ve been made his apprentice. Beating Vemrin to the punch, as they say. I’m sure he won’t mind at all, and the thought of killing me to take my place surely hasn’t even crossed his mind.”

She saw the jailer turn even whiter, and the petty part of her rejoiced. “Now, I have to go into another ancient tomb, collect a lightsaber that may or may not even still be there, and is also very very hard to find. But, luckily, there is someone who knows how to get to it. Someone who, just as I walked in, you where about to torture again.”

“I need her, you see.” The acolyte said. “And I need her with the damned ability to THINK!”

Vette, dozens of feet away, flinched at the sound of the scream. She felt something about it. Something more than just sound. The jailer on the ground started crying, collapsing entirely.

The acolyte sighed, walking her way. She put a smile on her face, stamping down on her fear.

“Apologies.” He began. “He irked me. I don’t normally lose my temper like that.”

She nodded, making her lekku bob behind her. “He is rather irksome.”

“Indeed.” He opened the cage. “I’m the newest apprentice of Darth Baras, Morgan.”

Vette took her first full steps in weeks, feeling how weak her legs had become. “I’m Vette!” She bubbled.

“Pleasure to meet you, Vette. Walk with me?”

He started walking away, and Vette noted with some concern he clipped the remote to his belt. “As you might have heard, I’ve been sent on a task to collect a lightsaber. A lightsaber that only you know how to get to, in the tomb that you were caught in.”

“I suppose I can play tomb tour guide. A lot of work went into cracking that nut, but I did it once, I can do it again.” She said cheerily.

They came to a counter, and Vette watched as her new - boss, owner? - requested a backpack and supplies. She noted with approval he was thorough with it, rope, lights and plenty of food and water all being loaded into the pack.

He shouldered it, and he started walking down the stairs. Vette hesitated for a split second, but started moving down after him. She made sure to show none of the pain her ankle was radiating.

Halfway down the flight of steps, which were rather large, he stopped. She was so focused on appearing normal she didn’t notice until he turned around.

“You,” he said, “are very good at hiding pain and emotions.”

A flash of panic went through her, but she put a smile on her face.

He sighed. “I can only imagine what has been done to you, so I won’t ask for trust. But having your mobility hindered will get us both killed, so I would appreciate it if you would tell me when you are hurt.”

‘Never show weakness, never show fear.’ The mantra raced through her head. She tried to play it off, make some joke, but before she could something enveloped her foot. She yelped.

“It’s just a crutch, of sorts. Come, we’ll get you to the med-bay.”

Vette tried to put her foot down, but to her surprise her leg was fixed in place. She put her other foot forward, frowning. Then she tried to move her injured left foot, and it moved without issue. She swung her injured foot, feeling very little pain. Then she swung her right foot, feeling the other lock into place.

She looked up, seeing Morgan stare at her blankly. “Done playing?”

Vette flushed, nodding.

She hobbled into the med-bay with increasing skill, and sat on a bed when Morgan pointed to it. The strange non-weight around her foot disappeared, and she realised he must have been doing that manually. She frowned thoughtfully when Morgan turned away to talk to a droid.

‘What kind of game are you playing?’ She wondered.

A droid that was quickly replaced by an older looking sith, one who Vette didn’t know.

‘Not that the list of sith I do know is very long.’

“The med-bay and its resources are only for acolytes or sith, not for slaves.” The sith said coldly. Vette noted a touch of strain in her neck.

“I need her for the trial that Darth Baras has assigned me.”

She saw the sith lose a touch of colour, but she remained stubborn. “Nevertheless, you may request basic first aid material from the quartermaster. She cannot be here.”

Vette heard Morgan sigh. He looked at a droid. “You, give her a full checkup. Everything you can fix in a few hours, and make a list of what you can’t. No stims or other mind altering drugs. And no combat enhancements.”

The sith woman scowled, pointing to the droid. “Hold where you are.”

The droid stopped. Vette didn’t like the increasing tension in the room. She saw many of the other occupants didn’t much either.

“You don’t give orders here, acolyte.” She sneered at Morgan. “I am the Overseer of the medical division, not you. No filthy alien slave will be treated here, no matter who your master is.”

Morgan looked at the woman, then looked back at her. He muttered something she couldn't quite hear.

The Overseer doubled over, seemingly out of nowhere. Vette saw blood leak from her nose. “I wonder how long it’s been since you’ve held a blade. How long since you fought for your right to live.”

Vette snapped her head back to Morgan, who was suddenly not looking much like the tired acolyte from the jails.

“From the state of your shield, it must have been a long while.” He chuckled, a dark sound. “So since you so rudely decline to heal someone I need for a task assigned to me by a Dark Lord of the Sith, I shall remember you. I’ve already killed one Overseer this week, and I'm pretty sure I crippled another. Three would be too much, even for Darth Baras.”

The woman got up on shaky legs, breathing deeply. Morgan turned to the same droid again. “Take what supplies you need for a checkup, then come with me.”

This time, the woman said nothing as the droid did as ordered, trying to not look afraid. Vette didn’t think she did a very good job.

The strange feeling snapped around her foot again, and she stood. She saw Morgan turn to the Overseer before they left.

“Remember your spine, when I walk these halls a Lord myself.”

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

‘That was stupid.’ Morgan berated himself as he walked into the library. ‘Making enemies so quickly is foolish, and you know it.’

Half his mind was on operating the semi-cast he had around Vette’s foot, feeling her hobble behind him. The droid walked after her, beeping to itself.

‘So why was I so angry?’

“Here is good.” He said to both Vette and the droid. “How long will this take?”

Vette sat down on the bench, the droid bending over her. “Approximately three hours. I have all I need, and from my preliminary examination she does not need invasive surgery. Dehydration, malnutrition and various flesh wounds will be healed quickly, while I can apply a kolto-cast for her ankle. It will heal in half a day, should the bone not be stressed.”

Vette piped up before he could. “Well, we are going into an ancient tomb filled with many many nasties. I think combat is not unlikely.”

The droid whirred. “A strengthening sleeve over the kolto-cast should decrease the risk of rebreaking the bone significantly as it reattaches. It will limit the application of kolto, and increase healing time to over twenty four hours.”

“That’s fine.” Vette answered. ”Can I run with it?”

“Yes.”

Morgan turned, walking away. “It seems you have this under control. I will be over there a ways, studying. Collect me when you are finished.”

He came to the holocron, opening it in a few minutes. The pathways had changed since last he opened it.

“Ah, acolyte. Back for another lesson, are we?”

Morgan gave a shallow bow, taking a seat. “Of a sort. I was wondering if you could help me with a problem.”

The voice paused, and to Morgan it seemed surprised. “You do remember that I am not, in fact, a person? Nor have any influence outside of this holocron?”

“I do. The problem is flesh related.” He noted to never use that phrase again. “In the course of my trials, I was ordered to kill my Overseer. He had a lightsaber, while I did not. Sacrifices where necessary to achieve victory. I had a medical droid nearby, and my hand was reattached within sixty seconds of removal.”

The voice broke in. “And now your hand is stiff and unresponsive. Hard to write, or otherwise perform dexterous tasks with?”

Morgan nodded, a gesture the voice could see in ways it had not told him. “Indeed.”

“The hand is otherwise properly reattached? No major loss of function, or complete lack of sensation?”

“No.”

The voice hmmed, seeming less tired now than last time he had spoken to it. “I suppose we can start your first exercise early. Your control should be good enough, if only just.”

It cleared its non-existent throat. “Now then, a way to fix your hand, and indeed to start your practice on fleshcrafting proper, is to achieve awareness over the body. Close your eyes.”

Morgan did so. “Turn inwards, and feel for your blood. Feel your heartbeat, and with every drum how it pushes the blood through your body.”

He felt for it, and after some ten minutes he thought he had it. He told the voice so. “Good. Now, ever so carefully, infuse your blood with the Force. Not to act, just to follow. It should feel close to how enforcement feels, only contained to your blood.”

Morgan tried, and failed, for nearly three hours. Every failure taught him something. Every success exciting the voice immensely. It told him to attempt it in all kinds of ways, until it finally clicked when Morgan infused his blood between heartbeats.

The voice hummed, pleased. “Good. For now, only flow it through your injured arm. From your heart to your hand, doing nothing more than following. Start slow, we have no practitioner nearby to reverse any true mistakes.”

It took him fifteen minutes until he had a completed loop, slowly speeding up. “How does this help my hand, exactly?”

“Because the Force is life, my acolyte. It is everything, everywhere. Always. When you infuse your blood with the Force, it enriches it. Oxygen strengthens the muscles better. Stronger white blood cells to fight disease. Red blood cells work faster, and can make jumps where they couldn’t before. Thus, increased healing. Or rather the ability to heal what it could not before.”

Morgan focused on his hand, noticing a tingle in his pinky where before he had felt nothing. “You make it sound like this is a common problem.”

The voice laughed. “There was a time we trained new acolytes with proper lightsabers. You can imagine the number of times we had to reattach limbs. You are lucky we did, we nearly mastered the practice. Having a medical droid nearby was smart. Reattachment in less than a minute was once considered a miracle.”

“So this will heal my hand fully?” He asked.

“It will, and more. When you get used to it, increase to both arms. Then all your limbs, before following the entire circulatory structure. In time, it will feel as natural as breathing. You will heal faster, get sick less, and become slightly stronger.

The voice laughed merrily. “This is only the start, the least of the abilities afforded to a fleshcrafter. Now, I do think we made the twi’lek wait long enough.”

Morgan’s head shot up, seeing Vette had snuck up on him. ‘Fuck me. How long has she been there?’

“I’m all healed, boss. Ready to steal some treasure.” She said happily, flexing her arms. “Feels great to not starve again. Thanks for that.”

“Of course.” He replied automatically, standing up. He closed the holocron, putting away his datapad as Vette giggled creepily while doing jumping jacks.

‘Why, by all the gods, didn’t the Force warn me Vette was sneaking up on me?’