KOTOR 2 - Tevano: The Rakatan

WEAK WARNING: If you have not played KOTOR II, you may want to read this, as it doesn't give away the main plot. It just lays out in a coherent narrative a bunch of backstory that you otherwise have to pick up from bits and pieces of dialog throughout the game. If you want a pure experience, stop reading now. If you instead want even more more elaboration on the events between games, you might prefer my mirror fanfic, KOTOR 2 - Dark Meetra: A Terrible Night, which goes into quite a bit more detail (still without revealing the main KOTOR II plot). In that KOTOR II playthrough, I wanted my Exile to have more complete knowledge about the state of the Jedi Order. But in the playthrough that this fanfic was written for, I wanted my Exile to be less well informed. So I cut out many of the details.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this was written in preparation for a 2023 playthrough of KOTOR I and KOTOR II. For this playthrough, I carried the same head canon story all the way through from before the beginning of KOTOR I to a conclusion after KOTOR II. Here are the associated main character builds for KOTOR 1 and KOTOR 2. I try to stick to the spirit of the builds and playthrough in the fanfics, but I do not necessarily follow them exactly.

DISCLAIMER: the core premise of this fan fiction deviates wildly from canon, as do many of the events. If this sort of speculative writing bothers you, then you might want to stop now and not waste your time. If, on the other hand, you're interested in a just-for-fun story that doesn't fit anywhere into the official Star Wars timeline, then read on!

It was a good night for Edar Kran, owner and operator of the Blind Alley Cantina. There hadn't been a lot of business, but the patrons that had braved the roaring rainstorm had tipped well and hadn't caused any trouble. Edar had spent years pouring drinks and mopping up blood in the spaceport city of Desprar. He'd worked one dive after another, and then finally, through hard work, a little luck, and a few less-than-legal deals, gotten his own place. Desprar wasn't a huge city, even by Wild Space standards, but it wasn't small either. There were upscale neighborhoods where local security maintained order and the well-to-do could pretend that the rest of the city didn't exist. Edar's establishment, however, was not in one of those areas. The Blind Alley wasn't in the roughest part of Desprar, to be sure. But when trouble arose, as it did more often than he'd have liked, Edar didn't have the luxury of security officers restoring the peace. He'd replaced more furniture than he could remember, and even tossed more than one body out the back door after a particularly rough night. Tonight, however, had been calm and reasonably profitable, and Edar had learned to appreciate such things. But that wasn't really what made tonight special.

She'd arrived hours ago, and Edar had felt an instant connection. He had a standing personal rule not to get involved with customers, but this woman was special. She was physically attractive, athletic and lean with a smooth grace to her movements. But it was more than that. She carried herself with an easy confidence that spoke of a complete comfort with herself, gained through years of challenge. She was a clever conversationalist, effortlessly mixing humor, wisdom, and more than a few compliments. And she had eyes only for Edar. Customers sometimes flirted with the barkeep, but generally just to fill time until their friends or date arrived. The ones who might have gone home with him were almost always better avoided. He'd made that mistake enough times to know. But this woman was different. She had no discernible major flaw, no apparent agenda. She was not just desirable, she was interesting, captivating. She had the cutest habits of glancing slightly to the side or tugging at her earlobe when the conversation became especially intense, and it was all Edar could do to not rush the final patrons out and close up now. Although several sets of customers had come and gone, she seemed to have not even noticed. Her focus had never left Edar.

Only one table remained, three men in the corner who had stopped ordering drinks some time ago and whose conversation appeared to be slowing. It was a bit early, but Edar fully intended to close the bar as soon as they left. Tonight might be a very good night indeed.

Meetra Surik was considering her options. Her intel was good, but it had taken hours for her target to show. And then the right moment to make her move hadn't yet arisen. So she'd spent the evening talking to the bartender. At first, she'd occupied herself with studying the various patrons as they arrived and left. After all, who knew when someone worth either taking in or taking down might unexpectedly turn up? She carefully categorized each person. She noted heights, weights, various tendencies, and how they carried themselves. She noticed weapons, especially concealed ones. The left handed man with the knife hidden in his boot and the blaster with the filed-off sight had not only had military training, but plenty of real battle experience. He might have been difficult. But he wasn't wanted for anything she was aware of, so she simply observed until he left. She kept making just enough conversation and eye contact with the barkeep to keep him engaged. And somewhere along the way, she'd started to get a little interested. Meetra's line of work was often lonely, and he didn't seem a bad sort. Maybe after her work was done, she'd spend a little more time in Desprar after all.

First, though, there was work to do. Her target had finally come in about an hour ago, with two companions. They'd sat at a table in the corner behind her, which made visually observing them a small challenge. But the mirror behind the bar let her see everything she needed to while still continuing her conversation with the barkeep. Fortunately, the hidden miniature earpiece she was wearing allowed her to hear every word of their conversation. They were at the edge of its range, so she had to keep adjusting its balance to filter out the rainstorm while still picking up their discussion. But that was easy enough to do subtly. As it turned out, the eavesdropping was almost worthless. They talked at length about various schemes and heists that they were planning, but all that was irrelevant. None of them were walking out of the bar tonight under their own power, if they left alive at all.

Meetra wasn't sure from day to day whether she was a warrant officer or a bounty hunter. And she honestly wasn't sure it made much difference. The distinction between those two professions was mostly how much color of law she could pretend to have. Well, and whether the local authorities would attempt to arrest her or not. Here in Wild Space, which local government controlled which piece of territory was often very fluid, and citizens of various continents or even entire planets might find themselves under different governments without notice. It wasn't unheard of, in disputed areas, to owe taxes to multiple opposing governments at the same time. The only constant was that the taxes were always exhorbitant, which only encouraged people to became adept at avoiding them. If the locals didn't even know what entity they were citizens of, how much harder was it for an off-world freelancer to know who to deliver captured criminals to. Still, there was generally someone willing to pay for an apprehended thug, especially one of sufficient reputation. Worst case, their enemies would usually come up with some currency, just for revenge's sake. Meetra did her best to only capture the ones who really deserved it. What happened to them afterward was less of her concern.

She wondered for a moment if this was really the best use of her time. She'd once had a real purpose, served a real cause under a real leader. As both Jedi and General, she'd commanded armies, defended the Republic against existential threats. But that was before Malachor V, before her exile, before everything changed. Taking out the trash here beyond the Outer Rim was an enormous step down. But it paid reasonably well, and kept her sharp. And she had to have something to do with her time. She might spend the weekend with the bartender, but she knew she'd never be happy in traditional domestic life, and it would be unfair to any decent partner for her to try. She'd have to make sure he understood that first. Maybe it'd be better to just leave him be. She hadn't been good for anyone in what seemed like a really long time.

At last, her targets seemed to be concluding. While discussing their plans, they'd been alert, careful to make sure no one was paying attention to them. As they left the bar, they'd be equally alert, concerned that an enemy, former mark, or even security officer might be coming for them. But there would be a few seconds between the end of their conversation and the beginning of their exit when they'd relax, and be off guard. That was her moment, and it was almost here. Soon, she'd be able to get this over with and decide what was going to happen next.

Meetra took one last moment to finalize her plan, checking all the relevant details. A row of pegs hung on the wall next to the door. Most of the patrons throughout the night had removed and hung their outer garments there, allowing them to drip into a small floor drain. Now, only four cloaks hung on the pegs: hers, and the three belonging to her targets. The path between her and the door was mostly clear, but one chair sat partially in the walkway. Good. She'd significantly increased her alcohol intake as she had sensed the men's conversation nearing its conclusion, and had made certain her empty glasses would be visible to them. Best to check her physical condition. She lifted one of her hands slightly and confirmed it was steady. She focused on the label of a liquor bottle behind the bartender, at the far end of the shelf behind the bar, and confirmed she could read it clearly. She listened carefully to her own voice as she replied to the bartender's latest comment, but detected no trace of a slur. The alcohol inhibitor she'd taken before entering the bar was still in effect.

She reminded herself of observations she'd made about her targets throughout the evening. One of the men wore no defensive gear that she could see. His shirt was partially open, exposing a sliver of his chest and confirming that there was no body armor hidden underneath. The second man wore protective attire of thick leather. It wouldn't stop a blaster bolt, but it might deflect a knife if the thrust was not true. It would certainly be a barrier to the attack Meetra expected to employ. His head and neck, she noted, were exposed. The one in the middle was harder to quantify. He had hung a water-repellent poncho on a peg by the door when he had entered, but had kept on a long sleeved trenchcoat that did an adequate job of hiding anything underneath. His upper body, she noticed, moved somewhat stiffly. That might indicate an issue. Meetra herself had chosen to wear a leather bodysuit. Her background research indicated that her target would find her attractive in it, which would be to her advantage. But it had other purposes as well.

Meetra no longer felt the Force, but she had forgotten none of her Jedi training. Teaching a Force-sensitive child to use the Force was easy, like teaching a fish to swim. It was therefore only a minor part of what the Jedi taught younglings. The bulk of the training centered around mental discipline. Sending a Force-sensitive person with a fully awakened connection to the Force out into the galaxy with no mental discipline would have been like sending someone into battle blindfolded and armed with a repeating heavy blaster. They'd likely do as much damage to their friends as their foes. Most of the Jedi training focused on emotional control, awareness, and control of physical responses that most people found to be fully autonomic. Meetra had come to doubt, or even outright reject, much of the Jedi's spiritual dogma. But certain parts of the training were still of great use to her.

Meetra cleared her thoughts and flipped a switch in her mind. All her emotions drained away. She was going into a battle against a formidable opponent, and she might not survive. But she felt no fear, no anxiety, not the slightest concern. There was no anger, no malice, no hate toward her opponent. But neither was there mercy, regret, compassion, or empathy. She was an empty vessel, filled only with purpose.

"I'm not that kind of girl!" Meetra said loudly, with a distinct slur. Whether she was in fact that kind of girl was still in question, but for the moment she had put aside any such distractions. She stood suddenly, spilling her glass and clumsily knocking the barstool to the floor. Ignoring the confused look on the barkeep's face, she stumbled toward the door, putting one foot in front of the other with apparent difficulty. Halfway across the room, she walked into the askew chair and nearly fell. Using the nearest table to steady herself, she regained some measure of balance and managed to make it to the row of pegs by the door. She pulled her cloak from its peg, dropped it on the floor, cursed, then picked it up and flailed about, unable to find the openings for her arms.

Her timing had been perfect. Her quarry was preparing to stand when she began her performance, but had not yet moved. Because she had moved first, she had aroused no suspicion. The three men had apparently been completely convinced, because they made no effort to mask their footsteps or position themselves strategically as they approached her from behind. The moment of vulnerability she'd anticipated had extended and heightened. The impression she'd presented as a defenseless victim had led them deeper into a false confidence that they were in control. It was almost time to disabuse them of that misconception, but she needed them to come slightly closer. So she fumbled for a few more seconds with the cloak.

As the men approached, Meetra employed the physical aspects of her Jedi training. With her emotions suppressed, her mind and body were completely in tune and under her control in ways most people would have found impossible. She willed her adrenal glands to secrete exactly the right amount of adrenaline to increase her heart rate, expand the air passages in her lungs, dilate her pupils just enough to enhance her vision, release glucose for a burst of energy, and redistribute blood to her muscles for action. As she expected to need fine motor control, she stopped just short of the point where her fingers would have trembled and accurate small movements would have become clumsy. She subtly increased her breathing to maximize her oxygenation, bringing herself just short of hyperventilation. Her mind inventoried every joint, every muscle, uniting her physical and mental selves into one undifferentiated whole. There would be no distinction between thought and action. Without the Force, she could no longer proactively sense events ahead of time, robbing her of the illusion of impossibly fast reflexes that Jedi often presented. However, her reactions would approach the limits of human possibility. She was as ready as she could be.

Meetra hadn't been certain whether the three men would merely harass her for a moment, or if they intended worse. A driving rainstorm wasn't exactly conducive to an assault in the alley, so she'd suspected the former. But it now appeared they intended to relocate her to somewhere of their choosing, which almost certainly meant the worst. If she'd had any remaining reservations regarding what she was about to do, this would have eliminated them.

"Hey, let's not-" she heard the bartender start to say from across the room. An unexpected feeling of affection threated to break through Meetra's emotional control. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken up for her. While the bartender's intentions may not have been exactly pure, they had at least been consensual, and he had to know he was risking his life by saying something. Fortunately, she'd make certain he didn't pay a price for it. And she was now pretty sure she was going home with him, if he was still interested after what he was about to witness.

Meetra turned clockwise to face the man on her right. Her feet tangled as she turned, and she fell against him, grabbing his shirt to prevent herself from falling. "Thank you so much," she mumbled almost incoherently. He was completely unprepared for the small stun baton that Meetra thrust into his ribs. The device's sharp prongs pierced his skin and discharged a powerful energy blast. Jedi training included extensive studies on anatomical details of every species common to the Core. Meetra had encountered numerous species in Wild Space that she had no anatomical knowledge of, which sometimes complicated things. But all three of these men were human, and she knew their vulnerable spots. While fumbling with her cloak, Meetra had adjusted the device's energy output settings to just below the level that would be lethal to the man. His eyes snapped back and he began convulsing, thrashing as he fell to the floor.

Before the other two men could react, Meetra had already smoothly spun counterclockwise, reversing the device in her hand. She plunged it into the neck of the man on her left. He gave an inarticulate yell as he began flailing and falling, wrenching the device from Meetra's grasp.

The spin had exposed Meetra's back to the center man, her true target. He pushed her roughly in the back, hoping to knock her to the floor while he drew his blaster. She'd anticipated this, and used his push to roll away and create distance between them, drawing her concealed blaster as she rolled. Certain that he was already raising his blaster by now, she fired a wild shot as she completed the roll, hoping to throw off his aim. Her strategy worked. The shot he was in the process of firing went wide.

Meetra was back on her feet now, firing again. She put two blaster bolts into the man's chest. It was a risk, as she really wanted to take him alive. She was not surprised when the shots deflected off the body armor he wore under his trenchcoat, ricocheting into the walls of the bar and starting small fires. They did, however, knock him a few steps backward.

Meetra attempted to target the man's knees while he recovered his aim. But instead of retargeting his blaster, he flung something from his belt toward Meetra. Too late, she realized what it was. The magneto-grenade activated barely a foot from the hand holding her blaster. Every metal item in the bar shook under the influence of its powerful magnetic field. But Meetra's blaster was the closest metal item, and the grenade was instantly drawn to it. Meetra dropped the blaster just as the grenade made contact with it and released a powerful ionic charge, deactivating it. Had she been even slightly slower, she would have suffered a disabling shock.

The man was already firing his blaster again. His first shot hit her squarely in the shoulder. The cortosis fibers woven throughout her leather bodysuit absorbed most of the impact and protected her from serious injury, but didn't provide anywhere close to as much protection as the man's body armor. She was knocked backward and thrown off balance. His second shot hit her directly in the chest, knocking the breath from her and throwing her backward again. If she hadn't preoxygenated, it likely would have knocked her unconscious. As it was, it left her gasping and reeling. Through watering eyes, she looked down the barrel of the man's blaster.

The front door of the Blind Alley Cantina opened, and an alien stepped inside. It was of a species unfamiliar to even Meetra, who had by now traveled much of the galaxy. It was bipedal and humanoid in shape, but had an amphibian appearance, hairless with smooth grayish skin. Lean but muscular, its hands ended in three clawed fingers. Most notable were its eyestalks, which extended some distance to either side of its tall, cone-shaped cranium. They appeared capable of rotating in any direction, which must give the creature both excellent depth perception and an enhanced ability to scan its surroundings. Since losing her Force connection and its associated heightened awareness, Meetra had often wished for eyes in the back of her head. She felt a brief flash of jealousy as she realized this alien had the equivalent. And was its species really unfamiliar? Meetra had a vague memory of an ancient, crumbling statue on a faraway world that she'd visited years prior.

Meetra's suspicions about the alien's ability to see in all directions was confirmed as it rotated one eye directly backwards, just in time to see the man with the raised blaster fire the shot that had been intended for Meetra. It caught the alien between the shoulder blades, toppling it into Meetra.

Black blood oozed out of its mouth as it tried to speak. Although Meetra was naturally gifted in languages, she could understand nothing of the croaking words the dying creature uttered in its native tongue. But mixed among them was one word in almost-unrecognizable Basic: "Revan."

Had she heard that correctly? Who was this alien, and how could it know Revan? Serving under Revan during the Mandalorian Wars had been Meetra's greatest achievement. His tactical abilities had completely changed the Republic's fortunes. Before Revan defied the Jedi Council and joined the war, the Republic had been sliding towards defeat. Afterward, through both his leadership and formidible personal combat skills, the situation reversed and the Mandalorians saw their victory slipping away. Meetra had been proud to join the many Jedi who had followed Revan, proud to lead his armies as his most trusted General, proud to command them in the final battle at Malachor V. But their victory had come at unspeakable cost. Meetra had ordered activation of the Mass Shadow Generator superweapon, which destroyed virtually the entire Mandalorian Fleet, winning the war for the Republic. But how many Republic ships had also been caught by the weapon's effects? How many of her own people had her order also killed? She could still feel their screams, still carried their pain. Had Revan known what was going to happen?

And now, a mysterious alien had uttered Revan's name with its dying breath. There was no time to think about that now, though. Meetra's adversary had recovered from the surprise of the alien's interruption, retargeted Meetra, and was lining up his killshot. Meetra needed a weapon. Then she realized that she had one.

As the red blade sprung to life, Meetra was momentarily transfixed. The last lightsaber she'd held was her own, at her exile. A Jedi's lightsaber was an extension of themselves. Not merely a weapon, a lightsaber had its own identity in the Force, its own luminous voice. It was as close to a living thing as an inanimate object could be. She had LOVED her lightsaber. It had been more than part of her, it had been an essential component of her very identity. Meetra had no children, and probably never would. But she wondered if her feelings for her lightsaber had resembled what a mother felt for her child. She supposed that level of attachment had been a violation of the Jedi Code. But even when she still served the Order, that particular transgression had never much bothered her. There was only so much detachment a person could manage. As she felt the hum of the alien's lightsaber in her hand, powerful feelings threatened to break through her emotional control. She felt the edges of bitterness, anger, resentment, and grief.

She forced herself to regain focus. There was a man in front of her still trying to kill her. In fact, her heightened senses registered the contraction of his muscles as he pulled the trigger. Once, deflecting blaster bolts with a lightsaber had been effortless. Her Jedi precognition had allowed her to place her blade in front of the incoming shot before it was even fired. The lightsaber had moved in tune with her thoughts, seemingly desiring of its own accord to jump into position. But now, with her connection to the Force severed, the lightsaber in her hand was a dead thing, merely a device. She had only her reflexes to rely on, and she knew her chances of success were slim.

As the man fired, she raised the lightsaber. Perhaps her skill was greater than she'd thought, perhaps it was just luck, or perhaps the Force did have a will and wasn't done with her yet. Whatever the case, the shot deflected off the lightsaber. She heard Edar cry out as the bolt shattered something behind the bar.

Meetra wanted to close to melee range, where she could finish the man off quickly with the lightsaber. But there was too much distance between them. He'd be able to fire several shots during her approach, and she knew her good fortune at deflecting blaster bolts without the aid of the Force wouldn't hold, especially while she was running. She had one last chance, and she took it. She slid the lightsaber's control button, locking it into place to keep the blade activated without being pressed. Then she threw the lightsaber. Her aim was true, and it buried itself in the man's chest, stopping only when the hilt struck his body armor. The red blade protruded several feet behind him. His blaster clattered to the floor as his strength drained from him.

Meetra strode across the room toward the man, who was standing unsteadily, looking in surprise and disbelief at the lightsaber hilt protruding from his chest. As she reached him, his eyes raised and met hers. He tried to speak, but was unable to make an intelligible sound. She held his gaze until his eyes lost focus, then she deactivated the lightsaber. He fell silently to the floor.

The battle now over, Meetra allowed her natural feelings to flood back into her. As a Jedi, she could have called on the Force to ease this part, but now she had to process it on her own. Her first sensation was pain. The blaster bolts she'd taken had only been partially absorbed by her cortosis-embued bodysuit. She might have some broken ribs. At a minimum, her entire upper torso was going to be purple. By tomorrow she'd have difficulty even breathing, much less moving. She'd have to find some kolto to counteract those effects. And a romantic evening was now out of the question. The next thing she felt was panic. All the fear she'd suppressed during the battle briefly overwhelmed her, and she dropped to one knee to gather herself. She'd come far closer to dying than she'd anticipated. Her life hadn't been much to speak of lately, but she wasn't ready to surrender it quite yet. Especially now that she had a mystery to solve. Finally, she felt an odd mix of nostalgia and bitterness. Revan? A lightsaber? These were artifacts from her past, and they raised feelings that she'd never completely dealt with. She needed answers. But first, she had to finish the job.

A quick examination proved that it was indeed dead. Meetra quickly inventoried its few belongings: a coin purse with some local currency, some rations, and a datacron. Like Meetra, the alien apparently liked to travel light. Grabbing the lightsaber that now lay on the floor, Meetra considered her situation. It was never advisable to linger at a scene like this. However, leaving the alien's body among her targets didn't seem like a good idea either. This was going to hurt. She tucked the lightsaber and datacron into her waistband, considered a moment, then tossed the coin pouch to the bartender.

"Sorry about the mess," she said. Then she knelt down and, with great effort, threw the alien's body over her good shoulder. The stabbing fire from her wounded chest and midsection almost dropped her to her knees, but she pushed through it and stood to her feet. Her injured shoulder, despite not directly bearing the load, still burned with pain. Once, she could have used the Force to aid her in lifting the alien's weight. But now, she had only her own conditioning and determination. She tried to suppress a scream, and managed only to transform it into a strangled cry. Through watery eyes, she was vaguely aware that the bartender was trapped between a desire to come to her aid, and an opposing impluse to run out the back door. She saved him the decision by staggering to the front door of the bar, yanking it open, and stumbling out into the storm.

Meetra's feet slid under her in the mud, and she knew she wouldn't make it far. As a matter of course, she had surveyed the nearby buildings before entering the cantina. One building in particular had seemed abandoned. She made her way across the street, splashing through puddles and almost falling several times before she reached the building's front door. Realizing she was at the limits of her endurance, she snatched the lightsaber from her belt and cut through the lock. She had just enough time to consider the red lightsaber in her hand - the color of the Sith - before her knees buckled. She fell forward, throwing the alien into the building as she extinguished the lightsaber and collapsed on the floor. She kicked the door closed and rolled against it, holding it shut with her prone body as she whimpered and panted. She'd fallen on her bad shoulder and had almost blacked out from the pain.

Meetra lay in the dark a long time, and was never sure if at some point she slipped into unconsciousness. Finally, she registered the sounds of activity. A speeder. Voices. What passed for local law enforcement must be collecting her targets from the bar. They'd almost certainly take the stunned men, claim they hadn't, and refuse to pay her for them. No matter. She had more important concerns right now. Meetra remained motionless for some time after the sounds ceased, then performed another search of the alien's body. There was nothing more to be found. Leaving it this close to the Blind Alley Cantina wasn't her first choice, but she knew she was incapable of lifting it again. It might be baseless worry, but Meetra valued her anonymity, and she didn't want anyone connecting the alien with her, at least until she was off-planet. With a grunt, Meetra rose to her knees and rolled the alien's body against the door to hold it closed. She then forced herself to her feet, found a back door, and stepped again into the storm.

It wasn't far to the small room that Meetra was currently staying in, but the journey seemed to take forever. She cut through alleys, small passages, and an occasional abandoned building, ensuring that no one was following her. After several blocks, she entered the back door of an unremarkable building, awkwardly climbed a flight of poorly lit stairs, and practically fell into a small one-room apartment. The only piece of furnishing was an uncomfortable-looking cot. A few bags of supplies and clothing lay about. It was temporary lodging, meant to be abandoned quickly, but it served her purpose. She found her small medkit and, as best as she was able, dressed her wounds. The medkit's painkillers would only help temporarily, but they dulled her discomfort enough for her to focus on the question at hand. Who was the alien, and what did all this have to do with Revan?

Meetra again took out the alien's lightsaber and turned it over and over in her hands. Its color should have been no surprise. When Meetra had left the Core, Revan had already turned against the Republic and, as Darth Revan, was well on his way to conquering it. Presumably, he had completed the job by now. The alien must have been one of his Sith servants. But what what it doing here? Had it been hunting her? Was Revan cleaning up loose ends, killing anyone who might oppose him? Perhaps even preparing for an invasion of Wild Space? But the red lightsaber had been a surprise, in part because she had never completely let go of the Revan she had known at first, the defender of the Republic. And in part because Meetra had never held a Sith lightsaber before. She wondered how it would have felt if she were still connected to the Force. Did a Sith's lightsaber speak to its owner as Meetra's had to her? Or was it merely a device for them? Holding the Sith saber had felt unfamiliar to Meetra, but it hadn't felt wrong. What did that say about her?

Her decision to activate the Mass Shadow Generator at Malachor V had been the pivotal moment of her life. It had won the war and saved the Republic. But how many had died because of it? How many loyal Republic soliders and Jedi had been caught in its pull, their lives crushed from them, at her command? And had Revan known? Had he orchastrated that moment? There was the center of the puzzle, the fear that still sometimes kept her awake long into the night. When had Revan turned to the Dark Side? Was it after the war, after his disappearance? Or had it happened earlier? He certainly hadn't been the same person at the end that he had been at the beginning. By the war's conclusion, had Meetra been operating under the orders of a Sith Lord without even knowing it? And if so, what did that say about her?

Meetra set aside the lightsaber and picked up the datacron. An interactive recording device with an integrated hologrammatic projector, it would, if properly programmed, be capable of not only displaying a three-dimensional projection of its creator reciting a recorded message, but also capable of carrying on a coversation within the bounds of the information it contained. Unsure what to expect, Meetra activated the datacron.

An image flickered to life. Revan. He wore dark robes, with the hood down. For the latter part of the war, he was never seen publicly without his customary mask, and Meetra supposed she was one of the few people still alive who had personally seen his face. He looked younger than she expected, with no evidence of Dark Side corruption. Then again, it would be trivial for someone of Revan's skill to alter a hologram's appearance. For a moment, a flood of complicated emotions threatened to overwhelm Meetra, and she had to remind herself that this was simply a datacron, a sophisticated recording, and not Revan himself. But she also couldn't ignore the fact that seeing Revan brought back even more unresolved feelings than she had expected. She'd been pushing those aside for years now, though, so what was a few more minutes? With an effort, she forced herself to refocus on the datacron as merely a messaging device.

Meetra waited a moment to see if the hologram would speak. If it contained a directive for the alien in the bar, she wanted to hear it. But the image of Revan simply stood in silence. Apparently, the datacron was waiting for voice input. If she'd had an opportunity for a conversation with the creature, she would have tried surreptitiously recording its voice, as was her habit with any potential enemy, and could have tried triggering the datacron by playing back that recording. Failing that, she might have picked up enough of its language to mimic it, although she wasn't sure human vocal cords would be up to the task. But the middle of a firefight hadn't been the time for any of that, so if the datacron contained a special voiceprint-triggered message for the alien, she had no way to activate it. Instead, she did the obvious.

"Meetra? Is it really you?" said the image of Revan. This confirmed Meetra's suspicions about a voiceprint. It also meant that Revan had either retained or obtained a sufficent recording of Meetra's voice to program the datacron. He was nothing if not thorough.

"Yes, Revan, it's me. I'm surprised to hear from you after all this time. You look well. What do you have to tell me?" Meetra intentionally spoke enough words for the datacron's algorithms to confirm her identity. And as Core-style datacrons were not common in this part of Wild Space, it also helped ease her back into the old habit of speaking to a datacron as if the person it was projecting was actually there, which was generally the most productive way to interact with it.

"Good," Revan said. "I do not know how much news from the Core has reached you. I expect very little, and things here are quite different than you probably assume. When you left, after your unjust exile, I was ... in a very dark place. I did horrible things, Meetra. There were reasons, but I cannot share them by datacron. Suffice to say, Darth Revan is no more. I was fortunate that my plans were interrupted before I was able to defeat the Republic. But nevertheless there were consequences to my actions, echoes that still ripple.

So the Jedi had cut her off from the Force? Meetra had long wondered exactly what had happened. She knew things had been different since Malachor. She had returned to face the Jedi Council afterwards on behalf of all the loyal Jedi who had died under her command in the Mandalorian Wars, especially those who had perished because of Meetra's order to activate the Mass Shadow Generator. But part of her had also hoped the Jedi Council would help her, heal whatever had happened to her, or at least put her on the path to healing. Instead, she had been met with judgement and rejection. To think that they had also actively severed her from the Force was not something she had previously considered. Was Revan correct about that? It made a lot of sense, and would fit with the attitude the Jedi Council had exhibited at her trial. But this was all something she'd have to think about later. The holographic Revan hadn't paused, and if she became distracted she might miss something important.

"This is not the open military conflict of the Mandalorian Wars," Revan continued, "but a stealthy war of hidden assassins. The Jedi Council has dissolved the Order and abandoned its duty, the Masters going into hiding. The remaining Jedi have all either been killed or have scattered. None remain to defend the Republic. Take care, even now. There are some who wish to see any trace of the Jedi eliminated, who are aware of you, are already looking for you, and want to see you dead. It would not suprise me if some of them were already in Wild Space, so you may no longer be safe even where you are."

"I am trying to assemble a resistance against these Sith, but as you can imagine there are many who no longer trust me, and allies are few. I need your help, Meetra. Your leadership skills are needed now more than ever. There is more, things I can only share in person. Meet me on Dantooine, at the old Jedi Enclave, and we can discuss the situation more fully. Please ask this datacron any questions you may have."

Finally faced with Revan, or at least his image, after all these years, Meetra found herself awash in a sea of conflicting emotions, and hardly knew where to start. If there really was a new threat to the Republic, and if Revan really was trying to counter it, there was no one more qualified. But Revan had also proven to be a betrayer. Could she trust him? She knew what she really wanted to ask, but wasn't sure she could form her thoughts as a question and not an accusation. So she started with something less confrontational.

"They are called the Rakata, a once-Force-sensitive species that lost their connection to the Force many millenia ago, but are now regaining it. Their 'Infinite Empire' melded the Force and technology using techniques that have been long-forgotten, but which I am now again uncovering. I am particularly interested in how such technologies might be helpful to someone like you, who had the Force severed from them. All that aside, they recognize the veiled threat we face and are assisting me in the resistance."

That wasn't really an answer, which meant that the datacron contained nothing more specific to say about that question. Meetra took a deep breath, and again reminded herself that this was a recording, not Revan himself, so there was no point in yelling at it. Still, her voice shook when she asked the question she really wanted answered: "What really happened at Malachor V, Revan?"

"That's still not what I mean," Meetra said, even more sharply. She took another deep breath, and reminded herself for a third time that this was simply a datacron. "Did you know that the very people who would die would be the ones who would have opposed what you became? Did you use me to destroy the Mandalorians? Or did you use me to destroy Darth Revan's enemies? Was Malachor V the last battle of the Mandalorian Wars? Or was it the first battle of your attack on the Republic?"

At this, the image of Revan said nothing. Meetra considered smashing it against the floor, thought better of it, and deactivated it. Ignoring the pain of her injuries, she grabbed her few belongings and headed for the spaceport. Maybe the holographic Revan wouldn't answer her questions, but the real one would. One way or another.

If you have read my previous fanfics, you're probably getting tired of these cut-and-paste barfights. Sorry, I've just been having fun tweaking them for the different dark/light/gray playthroughs. I'll probably start Meetra in the same bar for the next one too, but I promise to make it radically different. I have some ideas...

The capabilities of datacrons and holocrons, and the distinction between them, is not terribly consistent in Star Wars. I just made up what I wanted to for this fanfic, and don't even feel bad about it. That seems to be what the actual paid authors do anyway.