Chapter Text
It had been surprisingly easy for them to get a flat on Zakuul. Between the slicing skills of one ex-SIS agent and the surprising amount of internal damage one little T7 unit could accomplish to the city’s security measures, the acquisition of a comfortable apartment in enemy territory was taken care of with hardly a murdered Zakuulian in sight. Seran wasn’t used to this level of non-violent approaches, but if she was really going to be working with spies, she probably should get there. Eventually.
Zakuul itself reminded her of a sunnier version of Drohmund Kaas--or perhaps a love child between it and Coruscant, but with more droids. Seran could admire the view from the tall, tall tower they’d made a miniature base of operations out of, so long as she made sure nobody could see her from down there. Turns out that Theron had no issues walking around Zakuul not because he was just that good a spy, but because there were next to zero aliens on Zakuul. Give or take a Trandoshain in the fighting pits or whispers of a Nautolan working in the criminal underground, “human” was the default species. Even though she was of a human-alike race, Seran couldn’t really pass as one with her pure white skin and purple markings on her face. Not to mention the brilliant red glow of her eyes.
There weren’t even Red Sith on this planet. She would have expected the once Emperor of the Sith to at least keep his native (according to myth) species around, if nothing else. But no. Humans as far as the eye could see. That made her staying here all the more risky.
But with Lana busy securing alliances in the Core Worlds, Theron was their best shot at getting on Zakuul itself and running intel--and Seran refused to let him do that alone. Not after last time.
At present, the apartment was empty of everybody except for herself and a deeply sleeping Ginx on the couch. Seran gave the amphibian a gentle stroke between the eyestalks as she kept her eyes out the window. Theron was strolling around the city with T7-01, the galaxy’s most adorably deviant droid in her opinion, gathering intel. She could have gone too, but she would have had to mask her appearance the entire time. And, unfortunately, the one thing Zakuul had in no short supply was Force users.
If they were any good, they would be able to feel her pull of the Force around her, shrouding her from sight, and pointing a big obvious “THERE’S A SITH HERE” sign at her visible companions.
So that was a bad idea.
But usually a “bad idea” didn’t stop Seran in itself. The former Dark Council member had made plenty of those in her career--hell, her life as a whole, really. So why be taking precautions now?
In truth, she wasn’t sure; something about this morning had made her want to stay here in this apartment. A feeling that had rippled through her body, through her blood and marrow and skin, in a way that was both forgein and familiar. Close to her, but indeterminately far away.
The Force was calling out to her. But not her Force. A different ribbon of it, a different strand that was controlled by somebody else; not unlike the way she felt the Knights of Zakuul use it, in their strange non-Jedi, non-Sith ways.
(Really, were the Voss not irritating enough being the “third option” that the galaxy had needed a fourth?)
Seran sighed and placed the cup of caf she had been holding onto the low table that was in front of the couch she was sitting on. Her darling Ginx let out a trilling snore as it dozed on. If the Force was going to tell her that today was a good day to stay home, then it should hurry up and get to getting on with whatever she was staying home for. She didn’t like waiting for so long.
At that moment--as things were apt to do, of course--her holoterminal began to beep from the bedroom. Seran waved a hand and caught onto a ribbon of Force energy, wrapping it carefully around the electronic device, and pulling it into her hand rather than standing up to fetch it from her bedside table. She set it on the arm of the couch and pressed the button to answer.
“Line secure?” A familiar female voice said over the holo’s speakers, though her image was obscured for a moment. Care was taken in communicating on and off of Zakuul, of course.
“That’s not the passphrase, Ashara,” Seran scolded lightly, smiling fondly even at her apprentice’s slip up, “I know you know that. Come on now.”
“But you made it so embarrassing to repeat!” Ashara protested, the pitch of her voice increasing. After a moment of no doubt intense internal frustration, she grumbled out, “Loth-kitten to mama Loth-cat. Are you there...m-meow, meow?”
Seran’s grin tripped in size, delighted at Ashara’s discomfort. She could tease the serious little not-Jedi until the end of her life--and probably well into the next, too, given she planned on haunting those she knew once she inevitably became a spirit. “Meow meow, little Loth-kitten! I missed you,” Seran snickered, “You should call more often! Theron didn’t set up this line for just business calls, you know.”
“Maybe if he had picked the passphrase instead...” Ashara mumbled again, and her image appeared on the holoterminal as she dropped the protective program that hid her from view. The once young and naive Togruta girl that Seran had dragged into her madness all those years ago had grown up. The influence of the dark side--and the stress of working with Darth Nox, naturally--had gotten rid of some of the fullness of her face and given her eyes the faintest of golden glows. She was still very naive, and a little thick headed in Seran’s opinion, but she was without a doubt a grown woman now.
Then again, Ashara had always been three years Seran’s senior, regardless of their status as master and apprentice. When that reveal had come out the look on Ashara’s face had been priceless.
Oh well. Experience and skill made up for their difference in age.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your embarrassment, Ash?” Seran hummed, leaning an elbow onto the arm of the couch so she could lounge and respond at the same time; like a very skinny, pale, boney Hutt.
Ashara coughed once into her hand to gather her composure, then launched into a report on the happenings on Drohumnd Kaas in the absence of Darth Nox. A second-hand account--as Ashara was getting information from one of their agents, whom Seran didn’t trust to know this line--but still better than nothing. It was important that they be keeping an eye on Acina. The Empress had already proved to be more dangerous than Seran had anticipated her to be, and she wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. She only had one other arm to lose, after all. Next time she might lose her head.
Was this why she’d been compelled to stay behind, though? Seran tried to look like she was listening, but her mind was wandering away. If it was just Ashara thinking of her that triggered that strange feeling, then Seran would have been more used to that by now. Almost a decade of working with Ashara meant the two were very well aware of each other’s presence in the Force. So, no, that feeling couldn’t have just been her connection to her apprentice.
“--and I have received more news of Malavai Quinn’s location,” Ashara continued on strong, though Seran was only half paying attention, “Empress Acina has pardoned him, and has taken him on as an advisor. Unfortunately, I don’t think he’ll be willing to work with us. The last agent we sent to speak with him didn’t come back.”
Seran’s lips pursed together into a small pout. “That doesn’t sound like Quincey. I know he hasn’t given up. Maybe it was Acina...we could always kidnap him?” She considered it briefly. “Well, have them keep an eye on him. If he gets too--”
--haah?
Seran drew in a sharp breath and her entire body shuddered, like she’d been suddenly doused in ice water. The feeling that pulsed through her at that moment wasn’t too far from that comparison. Cold, strong, and now that it had returned to her she realized that she knew it. She knew it, and it was definitely not a welcome feeling.
The last time she had felt this presence was three years ago, standing on the bridge of a ship overlooking wild space--though that instance had nothing on the time before then, standing on a station floating over the planet Ziost as all the life was snuffed out on the surface below.
The Emperor. He was here. And she could feel him.
Seran jerked her body up from the couch and to her feet, her head swiveling around the living room of the Zakuulian apartment. Ashara’s voice called out from the holoterminal--concerned, surprised, and rich with fear--but Seran didn’t answer her as she stepped out of range of the holoterminal and into the center of the room. Her red eyes were narrowed, hardened and filled with hatred, as she extended herself past her body into the ribbons of Force around her. She wove them carefully through the air like an extension of her hands, her eyes, her senses. She knew he was here. She just couldn’t see him.
Over her shoulder, a ribbon caught on something. No, some one .
Seran turned sharply toward the presence in the apartment, and the sparks that had begun to fray off of her fingers suddenly fizzled out.
The figure in the Force was barely an outline. She had literally seen ghosts with more to them, physically, than the person that was standing before her. They were little more than a whisper in the Force, a shadow of a shadow, and their essence was steeped in the cold, wretched feeling of the Emperor. But it wasn’t Vitiate that she was seeing standing in front of her. She could feel their presence through the cold, weak as it was. One she hadn’t felt in three years. Not since Marr’s flagship was destroyed.
But it couldn’t be, could it?
“Praetor...?” Seran breathed his name, a question and a hope in a single word.
The shape shifted, straightening like their back had gone rigid. Then a voice came from somewhere that Seran didn’t really hear so much as felt through the ribbons wrapped between them. Also familiar.
Nox? You can see me?
An unusually shaky laugh escaped her. “You look like a--are you dead?” Without waiting for a response Seran started to reach for the presence with her flesh and blood arm. “Did Arcann really kill you?”
Anger slid between the weave of the Force. She took it into herself. It felt like his anger--burning like fresh embers pushed under the skin, righteous and wrathful, but comparatively subtle to the bursts of lightning that was her own rage. He was furious, but not at her.
Probably wasn’t the sanest thought that feeling his fury gave her comfort, but Seran would never call herself “sane” to begin with.
Of course not. I’m not dead. His voice echoed through her head like her own thoughts. As if he could kill me.
“You look pretty dead to me,” Seran teased with a surprising amount of ease. She felt irritation bleed through the Force, this time definitely directed at her. That was familiar, too. Her fingers traced over the front--the chest--of the presence, and felt something solid there. That wasn’t like how it was with the Force ghosts she’d known. Even incorporeal, she would feel something when her hand passed through them, like she was pushing her hand through cobwebs. The whatever-is-was that was Xisath was here, present in the Force, and yet it was empty of anything. Like a shell. “Doesn't feel like you’re dead, though. What the brix happened to you Xi?”
What happened to me ...? Xisath trailed off into silence, and Seran remembered what she was wearing. The short-cut top and shorts left little to the imagination--she was alone in her apartment, what did she care about modesty--but they also showed just how much of her was still her. Or, rather, how little. After the ship had burned through most of her from below her waist and Acina had taken her arm, she had needed to turn to the Sith tradition of repairing oneself with machinery.
Even though she of all people knew how much weaker such a change made you.
Xisath definitely didn’t care about how much skin she was showing, so he was probably focused on the missing limbs. “Yeah. Zash would be rolling in her grave, if I ever actually buried the woman.” Seran laughed again and stepped closer to the phantom. His hand rose up towards her bionic arm and she didn’t move it away. He was one of the few who could see her like this, or touch her without her armor on, and wouldn’t end up crisped. “Would you believe me if I said I was one of the lucky ones? Barely anybody survived the ram. All thanks to Horak-mul...” Her eyes lowered, thoughtful and somber for the briefest of moments. “He kept me alive through the ship’s destruction.”
She didn’t have to tell Xisath what had become of the old Sith spirit. He was smart. He would know.
“Forget about me,” she cut in and looked back up at his face--or where his face should have been if she could see it clearly, “How are you here? Where are you? Everyone thought you were dead! Arcann said you killed his father. And...why do you feel like that bastard, Vitiate??”
It’s difficult to explain, Xisath raised his hand, and Seran could picture him grasping the bridge of his nose, even all these years later. One doesn’t travel with another for seven years without learning their faces. But she wished she could actually see it. The Emperor brought me here, after the ship was destroyed. Valkorion is what he calls himself here. And he’s not dead. He’s--
Ice dripped into Seran’s veins again, from the spot she was “touching” Xisath on his chest, and she yanked her hand back like she had been scalded. Xisath’s form shuddered--not him, but the whatever-it-was that was keeping him here wavered for a brief moment.
The feeling of the Emperor had made itself known, again. Seran suddenly felt too vulnerable.
He’s with me. He’s inside of me. Like one of your spirits. I am frozen in carbonite, and he is here, with me. Xisath’s fury and desperation bled into her senses, bringing sparks to the tips of her fingers. Had she ever felt his emotions so strongly before? Not that she could remember. But she didn’t even try to reign the bond in--or to stop him as he reached for her shoulders. I do not beg, but--Nox--Seran, you need to get me out of here. You need to free me, or bind him. Something .
“I--” Seran gasped as a branch of lightning jumped from her hand and struck the screen on the wall. It exploded in a cascade of sparks. “I don’t know if I can bind him. I can’t see him. I just feel him on you--if you were a spirit or something maybe I could--” No, he wasn’t a spirit. It was like a projection. It was all wrong, and hollow, but that was the closest thing she could compare it to. “You said carbonite?”
Her thoughts started racing through maps of Zakuul, rumors among the citizens and knights; things she and Theron and Lana had been collecting in the hope--the hope --that any of it would reveal the fate of Darth Praetor. Arcann was said to have a hobby of collecting prized possessions from the worlds he conquered, and it was rumored that some of those possessions had once been living people, now encased in carbonite. It had been a possible lead, but not enough to start to plan around.
This was straight from the source itself. Couldn’t get much more accurate than that, right?
“Okay. Okay! I think I know where you are,” Seran laughed beneath a smile that was growing more manic by the instant. She reached up with both hands and caught the phantom of her friend by the face, cupping his jaw in her palms. She felt him beneath her hands, or at least the shell of him, and he was tall enough that he had to lean into her somewhat for her to accomplish that. But he let her. “I’ll get people, okay? My team. Your crew. We’ll get you out of there. We’ll get you out and back to the Empire and then we can burn this planet to the ground!”
For the briefest flash, the sparks of lightning bouncing between her hands seemed to light up the empty outline that was Xisath’s figure, and she could have sworn she saw the details of his face. Dry, drained eyes and cracked lips, heavy dark veins on the edges of his eyes and mouth; he looked ill, diseased, and not just in the ways that the dark side of the Force changed one’s appearance. His eyes closed as she pulled him in, closing the very small gap between their heads to press her forehead against his.
It was just a small gesture, and it didn’t feel like his skin was really there against hers; but it was him, and she had to help him. She had to. Not just for the sake of the galaxy, not for Lana’s plans, but for the only other Sith in the galaxy who she actually trusted. For her friend.
And whether or not he agreed with that title, he had come to her .
She closed her eyes as well, and felt the crackle of lightning between her hands lessen. Calm. “You’ll be okay, Xi,” Seran spoke a little softer, as she was talking right into his face--sort of, “I promise.”
How sentimental.
Seran’s eyes snapped open. The voice wasn’t Xisath’s. Nor was that him, now, standing in front of her. She hadn’t felt him move away physically or in the Force, but without any warning the person she had been holding was gone--and in his place, in the space where his jaw had been held in her hands, an arm was extended so a pair of fingers were pressed against her forehead. The body the limb was attached to was obscured, blurry, even to her senses. If Xisath was only an outline of a projection, this was just a shadow of that. Little more than empty space, save what was immediately touching her.
But it was cold. Cold as death itself, in the same way the spirits she had once caged inside her had been, and then somehow worse than that. Worse than death? A hungry, freezing entity in the Force.
And it was familiar.
The last thing she felt was Xisath’s voice somewhere farther away, screaming--
Don’t touch her!!
--before coldness filled her body, and she dropped into darkness.