Let It Come Down

[Neology]

Novus waited in the hall, trim and vaguely predatory in a gray roll neck sweater and black pencil skirt, matching black kitten heels. A vanilla folder rested beneath one arm, clasped loosely to her chest. Her long white hair was worn up in a loose bun, a few reckless strands escaping to curl about her pointed ears. The subterranean temple dripped and mouldered around her, offensive to her senses. An unfortunate place to keep a prisoner, truly, but secrecy had been paramount. One did not keep things from Overlord Iniquitous lightly.

Still, it could be done, and she had been very busy these last months. The ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. This little chunk of nowhere would be found out soon enough. Her presence more or less guaranteed it.

A durasteel door swung open, admitting a zabrak in dark robes and a white coated physician. Lord Dulvaar bowed deeply, a gesture of deference that Novus had always found somewhat insincere. Straightening, he clasped his hands and flashed her a toothy smile.

”We are ready for you, my Lady.”

Novus glanced past, taking in the drab stone cell, the cable restraints, the heavy door and Dulvaar's grin. What could hold a Jedi could hold a Sith ...

“Thank you. Bring him to my ship. I will conduct the interrogation there. Take whatever precautions you deem suitable.”

The zabrak's face fell, then settled once more into a mask of neutrality.

”Yes. Yes, of course. Right away.”

–

The NZT-331 was a courier ship, and as such possessed only two modestly sized cargo bays. Novus waited in one of them, having had it cleared for this purpose. Two chairs, a table, and her physician's medical cart were the only items that remained. The loading ramp was deployed, trading the cool recycled air of a starship for dense jungle humidity.

The Jedi walked between two guards, hobbled by cuffs on his wrists and ankles. As they brought him up, she could make out a neural inhibitor clamped his neck. A cruelty or a blessing, depending on one's outlook; the temple had a certain blight to it, ancient horrors perceptible only through the Force. One of the guards bent to fasten the Jedi's chains to a cargo anchor beneath the second chair, then they both backed off to flank the doorway to the ship's interior. The loading ramp began to close, a low mechanical whir.

“Please, for the record, state your name, rank and ID number.” Novus raised her palm, showing a small, commercial holorecorder. She flicked it on.

[Rugs]

Cosciouness swirled around Locke. Weariness clawed at his perception, dulling the fact that he had little idea where he was or how long he’d been here. Hands, strong and unyielding, gripped his arms ‘round the biceps and shuffled him along, his faltering footsteps clank-clonking unevenly on the rough metal floor.

Captured. The word popped unwelcomed into his mind, a guest barging without warning into his home. That’s right. I’ve been captured.

Locke willed his mind to focus, trying not to think on how he’d been cut from the Force. He’d discovered that earlier, oh yes, to his great distress. A finger of panic still lurked in the deep recesses of his mind, but there was some small comfort — if it he could call it that — in knowing the restraint from the Force came from the inhibitor clamped on him than from… something he preferred not to think about.

An inhibitor, after all, could be removed.

He was on a ship. Where the ship was, he did not know. Two guards flanked him, pushing him toward a well-lit table in an otherwise dim cargo bay. A woman sat at the table, waiting, presumably, for him.

Memories flooded Locke’s mind. The Sith woman at the port. A flash of steel, a line of fire biting across his arm. Dizziness. An explosion. His vision going white as his shoulder slammed against pillar…

More than captured, he realized, lips pressing into a thin line as the guards tethered his shackles to a chair and sat him down across from the woman. A prisoner of war.

“Please, for the record, state your name, rank and ID number.” She said, as the guards retreated.

Locke remained silent. What did she want? Information, obviously. But how far was she willing to go to get it? Was he to be tortured, or simply interrogated?

His jaw clenched. Resistance would likely only make his life harder, but he wasn’t willing to give in so easily, either. Especially not to the woman who’d taken his neat little plan and torn it all to shreds.

But his limbs were about as useful to him as tree trunks, and he was cut off from the Force. So he turned to the only thing he had.

“Generalissimo Tyrvas Ricost,” he said, smirking stupidly at her. The cables didn’t afford much room for him to move, but he adjusted himself as best he could, taking up an air of confidence—Locke’s training, his work, had made him an actor, if nothing else. “Though you may call me Commandant, if you prefer. I won’t be too upset. As for my ID number, well, just make something up. Who's gonna know anyway?"

[Neology]

Novus shook her head, a smile turning up one corner of her mouth as the man spoke. It seemed isolation had not dulled her prisoner's wit, much to the Dark Lady's pleasure. Tame things forget how to fight, but I can remind you.

“You wound me, Commandant. Accountability is something I hold very near and dear to my heart.” Pale fingers took up the holorecorder again, deftly ejecting the memory card. She held that in the air a moment, suspended between them, before letting it fall abruptly. “You are right, though. The Republic denies it's involvement with the tragedy at Vincenco Renz. 'Farazen, who?,' indeed. As if they weren't salivating at the thought … But, you!” She grinned, resting her chin in her palm, blue eyes seeming huge within the frame of her face. “Points for effort.”

“So, shall I do you a kindness? Bring you up to speed? I know time gets very funny in a cell.” The Sith leaned back in her chair, as if requiring a moment to entertain the consequences of her whim. An act, of course; a bit of gloating to fit the part of eccentric villain. As much a show for the other Sith as for the Jedi prisoner. “I think I shall.”

“It's been nearly three months – how is the arm, if you don't mind me asking?” Idly, she tapped the holorecorder against the table, a tuneless rhythm picked out in the clink of cheap plastic against metal. “You are being held for your association with events at Vincenco Renz Central Spaceport. Really, the list of charges is quite long. I have a copy of the documentation for you here.”

She slid the vanilla folder across to him, stilling her idle tapping. Slowly, she inserted the memory card back into the device.

“Ah. Yes, if you look, you'll also find there's a selection of stills from that evening, courtesy of starport security. Twenty-two dead. My, the Jedi have grown remarkably bloodthirsty in recent years.”

She toggled the device back on. A wave of her hand summoned the physician to the table's halo of illumination, silver tray in hand. Novus selected a roll of adhesive strips, pulling one off the waxy paper.

“I need to confirm that you are not allergic, in the event that chemical interrogation becomes necessary. Your arm, please. Again, may I have your name, rank, and ID?”

[Rugs]

Locke smiled a little at Novus as she finished speaking, channeling his irritation into an air of aloofness, of unwillingness to play her little game. That last bit, at least wasn’t an act.

He was well aware of the hot water he faced — was already in for that matter, as a Jedi prisoner to Sith captors. The bombing at the spaceport, he imagined, wouldn’t change much, depending on how badly hi captor really wanted to hurt or kill him. Small miracle that I’m not dead yet.

The list of charges was impressive. Conspiracy, arson, terrorism, kidnapping, destruction of property, disruption of the peace, amusingly, and on and on…

Locke read them, made a point of making sure the woman knew his gaze lingered over each and every charge. When he raised them, they were hard. Resolute. You will not break me, they said, not with this.

“That is an… unfortunate, situation,” he said, stressing the word as he adjusted himself as much as the restraints would allow. “I admit that. The loss of civilian life is never something I’ll celebrate, no matter how bloodthirsty you think I am.

“Though I admit, you must have been crushed when your people attacked R. Delspoden Stadium,” he went on, voice turning just ever-so-slightly acidic. “Weren’t you? I'm sure you remember it. Druckenwell, a year-and-a-half, two years or so back. More than a hundred thousand people, gathered together for unthinkable act of hearing their Supreme Chancellor speak. Then you all decided to try killing her — unsuccessfully, I might add.”

Locke smiled that smile again, a grim, unsatisfied little half-smile that didn’t come close to touching his eyes. “Do you know what happens when thousands of people try to leave one place at one time in a panic, while foreign operatives try to kill their leader?” He paused, letting the question hang. “I do. I was there. Again, I’m sure the losses devastated you.

“Shoulder’s fine by the way,” he went on, voice growing aloof, almost cheery again. “I mean, it still hurts, from time to time, but at least it isn’t broken.”

Locke paused again, pointedly ignoring the doctor and Novus’ request for his information. He could refuse it again, but doing the same thing the same way over and over again grew boring. Besides, there was something he wanted to know…

“What happened to Farazen, anyway, hm?” he asked. “Did the old man slip away? Like you said, time grows funny in a cell, and news reports have a funny way of not making their ways to prisoners.”

[Neology]

She waited as he flipped through the file, watching him read. When he looked up, she caught a glint of resolve in those gray eyes. Interesting … A palpable hit, though in the wrong direction by the look of things. She wanted anger, not one of its bitter cousins.

“I'm sorry, but what do you want me to say? That I'd have done it better, faster, or quieter than your alleged foreign operatives?” Silver brows drew down and her free hand rose, tucking a loose strand of silver-white hair behind her ear. She could recall a few reports on the event he spoke of – a mess, by all accounts, muddled by the involvement of several prominent Sith. They never did like to be reminded of a failure, after all.

“Don't make this about trading atrocities, Jedi. That's not a game you want to play.” Novus reached out, taking his right arm gently by the wrist, his skin warm beneath her cool fingertips. “Maybe I would blink first, but it's not just me, is it?” She shook her head, gaze dipping to her work as she turned his arm over. Carefully, she swabbed a space clean with an alcohol pad, then applied the test patch itself.

“Besides, I have it on good authority that your people thought I was dead for well … A year and a half, maybe two.” She smirked, letting go of his arm and leaning back.

“There. Your refusal to cooperate has been noted. Now, if that starts to turn red please do speak up.” She folded her hands in her lap, prepared to spend the two minute wait in prickly silence. Instead, the Jedi ventured a question, his concern engaging her interest. Worry for the old man, framed by his current predicament, seemed an overestimation of even a Jedi's selflessness. Fishing for information about the missing padawan?

“Dead. Shot down by our orbital defenses after the Starport shutdown.”

[Rugs]

“Don’t I?” Locke said, arching a brow at Novus’ cool dismissal of his irritation. He smirked a little as she took his wrist, fingers cold to the touch, to prepare for whatever it was she was going to do to him. He was hardly in any position to stop her, even beyond the obvious disadvantage of being a prisoner in her lair.

Cut off from the Force as he was, any confrontation would likely go about as well as an ant challenging the boot that suddenly blocked the light above it.

“That is a shame, though I must admit I’d never even heard of you until… wheneverver it was I met you at the spaceport. So I can’t say much to that,” he went on as she cleaned a space on his wrist and applied a patch of some sort. His brow arched again. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t smoke…” he said, voice drifting away as he lifted his arm to inspect his wrist. The patch hugged his skin neatly, and other than a perhaps natural itch of anticipation from not knowing what she’d stuck to him, he didn’t feel anything. It was tempting to lie, just to see how far he could get with his asinine resistance, but surely that wouldn’t go far.

No, you don’t seem the sort I could have that sort of fun with he thought, grey eyes flicking to her face as he lowered his hand again. Not stupid enough, unfortunately.

Unnervingly.

A heartbeat of silence passed after he asked into Jazen and Farazen’s fate. Locke braced himself for the words that met him. Dead, Novus claimed. They had, if she were to be believed, shot out of the sky shortly after blasting off from the spaceport’s ruins.

He kept his reaction muted, but distress surged briefly in his stomach. His jaw tightened for half a moment, then his control kicked back in.

And here’s the fun, he thought, searching her face for any clues, any indication of truth of fiction. But her mask was solid, and he couldn’t crack her words from a look alone. And without the Force… You know this game as well as I, but I’m flying blind as a damn bat here.

“That’s a shame…” he said, allowing a shade of burden, of grief, into his voice. “I suppose I will mourn them, when I have a chance. The boy was...” Locke paused briefly, trying to decide how far he wanted to go, “overeager at times, but had a good heart.

“But that won’t do me much good now, will it?” He adjusted again in the uncomfortable chair, searching for some position to ease his back. “So what do you intend to do with me, hm? You know I didn’t cause that explosion, and seems you’ve had your payback, if my student’s really dead. But, ah information, I know. And I’d imagine this,” he moved the wrist with the test patch on it, “plays some role, no?”

[Fromikeable]

It was a wide-spread saying across the galaxy known from the halls of the Temple to the alleys of the slums that "curiosity killed the cat." It was a simple lesson meant to serve as a basic building block of mature intrigue; be wary of where you stuck your nose, lest it be bitten.

Apparently no one had ever bothered to tell it to Vance. Or at least, he had never taken it to heart.

The young man walked as quietly as he could down the corridor of the ship, cursing his lumbering figure for making such heavy footfalls. For once, he had no urge to scratch; indeed, he'd elected to wear an astoundingly normal outfit comprised of a deep blue T-shirt, jeans, and even sneakers. His hair, albeit a little longer than as he'd kept it on Coruscant, was still its usual, poofy afro self. The only obvious sign that he was a Jedi was the platinum lightsaber dangling from one of the belt rungs along the waist of his pants.

But the wardrobe change was a big sign in the form of a little change. Up until that point, he had stuck religiously to his robes. He had managed to find some in his size of a very dark brown color, which had been acceptable for his role but otherwise didn't quite make him feel so... so...

... bah, he didn't know. He wasn't about to start thinking about it at this particular moment, either. There was a Jedi down the hall!

Beyond the man's allegiance and a quick glance he'd managed to steal as the guards had taken him out of the cell, Vance knew little about the prisoner. The only things he had learned were from Novus, who had claimed that he was responsible for murder, kidnapping, and apparently a pretty big act of terrorism. As the months had gone by, Vance hadn't known her to lie blatantly, but... still. She was a Sith, after all; it wasn't like she was going to give this Jedi the benefit of the doubt (certainly not before she got whatever she wanted from him, anyway).

But his heavy footfalls brought him to the door of the hangar. Pausing, he reached out with the Force, sensing which presences lingered. Two guards outside of the ramp, no doubt guarding. Novus inside... and one other person. Male. Vance guessed somewhere in his 30's. Definitely Force-sensitive, though... a bit off. Probably dampened or cut-off somehow. Physically a bit off too. He was guessing that cell-life probably wasn't being kind to the man's body. Mind flush with a usual assortment of emotion, but all being kept subtle and controlled, almost like he was off on a Sunday walk and not in an interrogation with a Sith Lady. A small part of Vance was happy that he could still sense things that well. It was a skill he'd been practicing; he knew he had some affinity for it, and it was wickedly useful.

But... what now? Uhhhhhhhhhhh... He couldn't very well go barging in. But he had to know, to at least see the man. This was one of the first Jedi he'd been within talking distance to since Novus had found him on Taris, and he would be damned if he couldn't just... just...

Ask a question. Exchange a glance. Let someone on the other side know that he wasn't dead, at least.

So, after a moment's pondering for a decent excuse, the ex-padawan smoothed out his shirt, evened out his hair, and knocked a few times on the door lightly. C'mon Novus... he repressed a small shiver of worry, his backbone being strengthened enough not to walk away now by a small shred of determination... Maybe he was greedy or ungrateful or whatever adjective she could sling at him, but...

She at least owed him a look. If so pressed, so he would say, anyway.

[Neology]

”That's a shame ...”

Novus peered at the Jedi from beneath the shadow of her lashes, eyes half-closed in feigned relaxation. His reaction to her lie was … strange. Not quite grief, not quite stoicism, not quite disbelief.

And then right back to business, no anger for his padawan's murderer. He didn't believe her. Ah, well. It had been a bit of a wild stab, too quickly said. After all, the man believed her a monster, a sadist. She should savor such tidings. Still, something had changed. The Jedi's speech had shifted, subtly, from the collective, your people, to the personal, you. Delightful.

“That is the question now, isn't it?” She sat up, elbows resting against the table. “Though I can't be that serious about your information, hmm? I mean, you've been rotting in a cell for three months; anything you know will be terribly out of date.” Novus shrugged her shoulders and flashed a smile. Reaching across the table, she took his wrist back and peeled away the test strip. A tiny raised bump was the only evidence of its presence.

“Congratulations. You're not allergic. Roll up your sleeve for me?” The Sith stood and selected one of two loaded hyposprays from the tray. Novus rounded the small table and injected the drug into the muscle of the Jedi's shoulder with a professional's impersonal grace.

She looked up at knocking from the interior door. Vance, all nervous energy at the knife's edge of patience. It would be worse to deny him, in the long run.

“Count backwards from ten.” She instructed, stepping away from the halo of lamplight. Her fingers on the keypad unlocked the door, heavy sheet of plasteel sliding aside on pneumatic hinges. She studied the teen for half a second, biting back a sigh. One hand rose to comb through her hair, pulling it loose from it's bun.

“You can come in, but you have to be quiet. I'll answer any questions you have later.” Novus spoke quietly, motioning him into the room. She returned to her seat, watching the Jedi with undisguised interest.

“What is your name?”

[Rugs]

“Oh, I dunno,” Locke said, forcing a coy smile, “you’d be surprised at how long some things can keep.” Outwardly he was cool, all dry wit and flashing white teeth. Internally, though, he squelched a tinge of vexation that rose up at her words like bile in the back of his throat. There was some truth to what she said, and it drove him mad that she was so quick to point it out.

For the last however long — she said three months and he, at the moment, had no way to challenge the statement — he’d had the joy of watching the world go by from the inside of a cell on some rock somewhere in Force only knew which part of the Galaxy.

As it turned out, watching the world go by from the inside of a cell on some rock somewhere in Force only knew which part of the Galaxy was remarkably similar from day to day. Wonderful for feelings of loneliness, irritation and occasional hints of crushing sorrow at his lot in life; but much, much less useful for keeping up with the outside world.

Worse, he was slightly more out of the loop than even Novus let on. He’d not cut him off completely from the Galaxy’s goings on in the weeks leading up to Farazen’s midnight getaway, but research and planning consumed a significant portion of his time. What little wasn’t used on that went to Jazen’s continued training and education.

Troop movements, the status of the front lines, Republic covert operational plans… Locke knew about as much as what was happening now as he did the Sith’s plans.

And you knowing that, he thought, masking his worry behind that steady false face as she stood and circled around to inject him with something, that’s concerning.

Novus asked him to roll up his sleeve. Locke did so, forcing a sigh that was loud enough to seem petulant. He glanced her readying the injection, though, and a tinge of concern flitted through him.

Locke hated doctors and doctor-related procedures. He’d been hiding from Levin in the Temple for the past few weeks because he was, as always, well overdue for a checkup. She turned to face him and he looked away, telling himself to stay calm even as he tensed against the injection.

“Could’ve asked if I was ready or somethin’,” he muttered through gritted teeth as the needle left his person. He let his sleeve fall, only glancing briefly at the door, as far as the way he was seated would allow.

Novus told him to count down from ten. Locke thought about muttering something pithy, but let that go as the Sith’s attention drifted from him to whoever was at the door. The Jedi busied himself with drumming his fingers on the tabletop, nails clacking loudly against the smooth metal surface. Something felt off, the longer he did that, but he couldn’t say what, exactly.

The medicine? he wondered as Novus resumed her seat across from him. The focus in her eyes, on him no less, set some alarm blaring in the back of his mind, but it was muted, distant. Nah. It’s only been a few seconds.

“What is your name?”

Locke chuckled a little. “Aren’t you getting bored with that question?” He smirked confidently, leaning back in his seat. “Besides, not even gonna introduce the new guest? What kind of manners…”

His words slowed, then died as he glanced again over his shoulder.

Locke had expected to see some underling, some random guard or doctor or something Sithish watching them in the room there. That was not what greeted him as he looked back, posture frozen with one arm looped awkwardly over the back of his chair. His mouth hung slightly agape. Something slipped within him. The mask fell away as he reeled mentally, feeling like he’d been hit in the stomach.

“Vance?” Locke choked, stunned by the padawan’s arrival. “What are…” He looked to Novus, open shock sprawling plainly across his face. “What is he doing here?”

[Fromikeable]

"Locke?!"

The look on Vance’s face must have been all too telling. In retrospect, he really should have expected anyone to be in that chair; Novus was far from inept and most any Jedi that ran into her had a better chance than not of being bound to a chair and brought to the edge of insanity. But… he hadn’t imagined that it would be someone he would recognize, much less know, much less know well.

Much less have shared his first drink with.

His eyes, wide with a rather pure strain of shock, stared at the Jedi for a second, then darted at Novus for half a second, and then back to the Jedi. For an additional second, his mind was blank before devolving into a harrowing realization.

I just said his name! A hand smacked up to his open mouth, forcing it closed and covering it in a vain attempt at discretion. He’d just walked in on an interrogation with a host of information on a silver platter, and as much as he vowed that he wouldn’t sell out the Order, that he wouldn’t help put Locke’s head on a stick outside the Temple walls, he’d already signed the man’s death warrant.

So, that left him with three options. Lie and fail, only tell a reserved truth, or run for it and get shot on his way out the door. Neither of the first two sounded particularly appealing. The last was just a fantasy.

And so he did his best to hide his expression, his hand still clapped over his mouth, as he took a few steps away from the bound Knight so as to be out of the light, nearer to the corner of the room where (hopefully) he wouldn’t cause any more damage.

Force, please don’t kill him. Please don’t rip my tongue out. Please let her have gone deaf ten seconds ago...

[Neology]

The Jedi, the prisoner, actually had the temerity to laugh at her. A tiny little thing, hardly a chuckle, lingering with his refusal. Her grip on the armrest of of her chair tightened, bleaching her knuckles.

Had the dose been too small? She'd measured it herself, erring on the side of caution, perhaps, after taking into account weight lost in captivity. The overdose effects of Thalizine-4 ranged from inconvenient to deadly. Poisoning-by-accident: a terribly sloppy way to kill someone. Her gaze flicked to the tray, the second ampule.

He could stand a bit more, yet he was no longer watching her. She tilted her head, following the exchange. His name, finally, though from the wrong lips. Genuine, judging from her apprentice's reaction. It confirmed what she'd already guessed, filling her mind with scattered details.

“Ah.” Novus smiled, their mutual acquaintance bringing her unexpected mirth. She ran a hand through her hair, shaking loose the last snag of curl. “I expect my manners are every bit as terrible as you imagine, Mr. Nemsee, but this is a surprise to us both.”

Most interesting, and most irregular. She knew that she should not entertain the Jedi's question; a proper interrogation would lead the subject through simple questions until a rhythm was established, then strike toward the heart. Yet what then? There was no heart to this, only her own amusement and a smattering of forensic bureaucracy. Let the record show, and so on.

Two murderers sit across from each other in a tiny, metal room ...

“He is my prisoner. Like you.” Half a lie, meant to absolve the boy of responsibility for his predicament – not out of kindness, but because the notion could prove useful. Her hand raised briefly, a gesture that bid the young man closer.

“I've changed my mind, Vance. Speak. How do you know my starport killer?”

[Rugs]

“What are you doing here?” Locke repeated, voice head swinging back to Vance almost as soon as he’d demanded the same from Novus. The padawan spoke his name in shock, though Locke was so stunned by the turn of events he hardly noticed the slip.

He felt the cool, aloof mask slipping away as his stomach twisted in knots. Slowly his gaze returned to Novus, who seemed to gain, and readily accept, the upper hand from Vance’s unexpected appearance.

“I expect my manners are every bit as terrible as you imagine, Mr. Nemsee, but this is a surprise to us both,” she said. And surprise though it may have been, Locke felt his emotional control stripping away. The irritation that, to that point, had been neatly packed away and hidden in the deep, detached recesses of his mind came boiling to the surface.

“You lie,” he growled before he wrestled his emotions back under control.

Come on, Nemsee, gotta stay calm, a voice said. It was distressingly quiet. Can’t let things get out of hand. Locke was no stranger to interrogation. He’d sat through many, though always in Novus’ chair, rather than the one her men had strapped him to now. There was an art to it, once you knew what to look for.

Some people responded to force and shows of strength. Others were more likely to react to a gentle touch. Still others would break to protect their friends, while their counterparts would only crack if they could be convinced they were saving their own necks.

Through it all, Locke found one truth more less fit across the spectrum: the first crack was always the most difficult to make. But get a finger in that crack, and well…

He’d once compared it to shelling clams on Tibrin.

“Your spaceport killer,” he muttered, twisting the words with acid as he spoke them. “And where did you find him? Or are you blaming him for something he didn’t do too?”

[Fromikeable]

Vance had never considered finding work as a living statue, but between his death-like silence, paling skin, and absolute lack of movement beyond breathing that was halfway between anxious and nonexistent, he might’ve actually done pretty well. Maybe he’d make enough for a beach house on a nice Mid-Rim world.

… or maybe he’d make enough to not get killed by one of the two people sitting in front of him. Either way.

Novus, unsurprisingly, waved him closer, her tone not angry or happy or… anything beyond simply intrigued. That was just about the most dangerous tone it could have at the moment, as far as he was concerned; he had something she wanted, and they both knew damn well that she’d drive him to the edge of his mortal coils to get it (what he did to try and stop her was immaterial).

And Locke… dear Force, just look at him. Vance was hardly an expert on the finer points of interrogation and terse negotiating, but he was certain that he hadn’t just helped. He liked Locke. He’d liked to think that Locke had liked him. Hell, they’d gone out drinking (admittedly one of the ex-padawan’s less-than-fine hours). They’d talked about… Jediism, and the Force, and morality, and the galaxy at large.

How did he apologize? How did he help? How could he? Was his neck on the line now? Was it selfish to worry about his own neck? Was Novus going to force it out of him if he didn’t talk? Was Locke halfway through some elaborate lie that he’d just spoiled?

... shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhi- Okay, okayokayokayokay… lie? Now that was a bold plan. Lie to the Darth assassin whose only obligation to keep him alive was her own (one he still didn’t really get, but had come to question less out of a desire to not test it). Beyond that… well… couldn’t they all go home happy?

… maybe? No? Screw it, he wasn’t about to pick a side. If sitting on the fence meant being impaled by it, so be it.

Of course, that whole thought process was sped through in the matter of about a minute. The human’s mind was racing like a speeder in the desert, and with another second’s thought as to what he actually knew about lying and truth-telling and hitting the nail on the head somewhere in between, he spoke almost like a mouse, his eyes still darting from Novus to Locke, his hand still covering his mouth as he did not, in fact, move closer.

“He’s, uh… just some, uh...” He blinked, the hand dropping a little as Novus's choice of words hit him. “... ’starport killer’?” His mind, now temporarily freed of its immediate need to think of something to say, finally caught the term she’d used. It only added to his confusion. That… wasn’t Locke. Starport usurper, maybe, and definitely a starport trouble-maker, and undoubtedly a starport rabble-rouser…

… but a killer? What in the hells had happened these past weeks?

“... what do you mean?” His curiosity, unchecked by his confused and now-cluttered mind, seeped through with its usual tone despite his appearance. His head cocked ever so little at them both, his brow raising just a hair.

That’s why he’d come, wasn’t it? For answers.

[Neology]

”You lie.” The accusation came out as an angry growl, free of the Jedi's sarcastic humor. Novus sat up straight, fascinated, watching as his composure wavered, attempted to reassert itself, and failed.

Peace is a lie. She felt that was never more true then during an interrogation. Everyone was afraid when the knives came out, no matter their illusions. You just had to find the right knife. Vance, unwitting, had placed a scalpel in her hand. Now, what could she find if she put it to use?

His information was garbage of course, but his anger … That felt genuine. Something to encourage, if she could. Even if it was all directed at her.

“Ah. No, I know you didn't cause the explosion.” Her brows drew down, mild irritation playing across her features. She took a deep breath, voicing a quick explanation that was more for Vance's sake than the Jedi's. “I asked for your surrender. You responded with violence, shooting the officer I sent to detain you twice. He died as a result of those injuries, making you a killer in the simplest of terms.”

“Throw that in with some of your other talents – that bodyguard impersonation was really good, by the way – and I think we're a lot alike. Interesting, right?”

“It's all here.” Novus tapped her fingers against the folder, still open on the table, then slid it toward Vance, nodding acquiescence. She knew by now that the young man would draw his own conclusions (and that arguing with the drugged and belligerent Jedi would earn her little ground.)

“I don't blame Vance for anything, Locke. I saved his life. Now, he masquerades as my apprentice because it pleases me. Had you the means to free yourself, he might go along with you quite happily.” Her gaze flickered away, a note of self-depreciation in her voice.

[Rugs]

Locke’s focus shifted away from Vance. Actively, at least; the Padawan’s (or former Padawan’s?) presence in the room consumed a solid chunk of Locke’s mind as those wheels continued to whirl. He didn’t believe the woman’s lies — that Vance was a prisoner, as he was. Prisoners weren’t given the free reign to wander about as Vance apparently was.

Then what is he? Locke clenched his jaw, turning his gaze to the polished metal tabletop between them. If not a prisoner, then what is he?

No, no, he couldn’t worry about that now. He was a remarkably creative, resourceful man when he had to be, but even Locke Nemsee could only do so much in certain situations. When said situations involved him strapped to a chair in Force only knew where, well, his options were more or less limited to riding things out and hoping for the best.

Locke sneered at Novus’ account of his actions on Muunilisnt. He thought to argue, to point out that the guard had swung at his head but what point would that serve? The end result was the same, intended or not. The mission went awry, and here he was, a captive.

The second bit needled him far more, anyway.

“No,” he said, battling back the heat in his voice. “I’m not at all like you.”

Still, the woman spoke on, confirming Locke’s earlier suspicion that Vance wasn’t, in fact a prisoner, but something more. Not quite a student, it seemed, but the young man seemed to have found himself in far better graces than Locke.

Can you blame him? some voice asked as Locke looked at the padawan. Would you trade that cell for it, if you had the chance?

“So there’s the truth,” he said. His words came slow, almost as though he was searching for them, as he looked at Novus. His gaze lingered there for a moment, then abruptly returned to Vance.

“And what would you do, kid?” he asked. “Would you flee, if the Republic came breaking through that door?”