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Author	Topic: Exile's End (KOTOR2; updated 7/16)
Frostfyre Registered: Oct '99	Date Posted: 5/17/05 7:46am Subject: Exile's End (KOTOR2; updated 7/16) - Date Edited: 7/16/05 9:39pm (3 edits total) Edited By: Frostfyre
	Y'know, I swore I wouldn't post another fic until I had the whole thing finished, and yet, here I am, jumping the gun. Ah, well. I am also posting this fic over at kotorfanmedia.com, but figured that since all my loyal friends are mostly here I'd make things easier. This is quite a change from "Elementary", but I'm having fun so far. If you've played the game or if you haven't, I think you'll enjoy this story. It is NOT going to be a word for word reproduction of the game, but rather my take on the events and storyline of KOTOR 2 (which is just as well, since so much got cut...dang LucasArts, anyway.) So, here you are: Exile's End ____________________________________________________ Chapter One: Rude Awakenings Cold metal grating, digging into the palms of her hands, her forearms, the soft flesh of her cheek...belatedly, she realized she was shivering. And that a Wookiee had done the Corellian two-step over every muscle in her body and was continuing the gallop inside her skull. Urgh...I didn’t let Halfwit talk me into a drinking contest again, did I? She’d sworn never to fall for that one again; it was a sad but true fact that, ex-Jedi and tough Rimrunner or no, Dagen Walker couldn’t hold her liquor. The last time she’d let her sometime-partner talk her into ‘having just a few drinks’ she’d woken up on a plascrete floor in a filthy warehouse, sans clothes, dignity, and most of her hair. And surrounded by four unconscious sentients who looked worse than she felt. She still couldn’t remember just what had happened–and to be honest, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. This has disturbing resemblances to that Other Time , she thought muzzily. Cold floor, missing clothes–Thank the Force I’m still wearing...what am I wearing? Something, anyway –and a rancor-mother of a hangover. Or something. She made an effort to push herself up and felt something liquid trickle from her sinuses down into her nasal cavity and the back of her throat. She sneezed, choked, and spit out...kolto ? It took some doing, but Dagen focused her bleary eyes on the area around her. Huh. A medbay...wait a minute. She’d spent enough time in kolto tanks to know that, while one might not feel precisely chipper after slogging out of one, neither did they leave you feeling like something scraped off the bottom of a bantha’s foot. Memory, such as it was, returned to her sluggish brain in fits and starts. I booked passage at Idrian III, on a Republic ship. The Harbinger. Then what? She could remember some of her time on the ship, spent largely in the solitude of her own cabin, wondering desperately if she was doing the right thing or if her years past the Rim had finally sent her starkers. But after that...nothing. How had she gotten from the Harbinger’s Point A to this most bizarre and unsettling Point B? Ignoring protesting muscles and splitting skull, Dagen hauled herself to her feet. She gave herself a once over. Everything seemed to be in working order, if excessively sore, and her modesty was inadequately preserved by the most gods-awful looking bodysuit she’d ever seen. What the hell happened to my clothes? There were five other kolto tanks beside the one she’d been dumped out of–and where the hell is the medtech?–and all were occupied. Looked as though everyone was having a bad day. She started to turn to the door, then stopped. The occupant of the tank nearest her looked...off. Frowning and scrubbing at her still-tearing eyes with the back of one hand Dagen leaned closer for a better look. The man had clearly been in an accident involving fire; raw-looking burns covered large swatches of exposed skin. He was very pale under the burns...almost grey, in fact... Biting back a curse, Dagen stumbled back, her gaze flying wildly to the next tank. Same thing. They were all dead. Fingers trembling, she tapped the buttons on the nearest tank’s readout, a chill coursing through her body as information scrolled onto the small screen. Each and every tank had been flooded with enough sedatives to kill a rancor beast. The fragile human forms floating in the kolto had not stood a chance. By the Force...who would do something like this? Sudden sneaking suspicion drove her to check her own tank. She’d received the same dose of sedative. By all rights, I should be dead. Dagen hugged herself, shivering. Why wasn’t she dead, then? Back when she was a Jedi, she might have survived such a dose by dropping into a healing trance...but she hadn’t been a Jedi for nearly ten years. Hadn’t felt–or wanted to feel, be honest now –glimmer nor whisper of the Force in that long. She was dead to the Force...or so she had thought. Perhaps some lingering trace of her training had kicked in, allowing her body to fight off the poison, worked its way across the severed ends of her Force sensitivity? It would certainly explain why she felt like hell on two feet. She reached out to touch one of the kolto tanks turned coffin. Surely you deserved to live more than I. She vowed to discover what had gone wrong. She owed them that much. I am an inadequate mourner, stranger that I am...and so I mourn a loss I did not know. I am sorry. Shivering, Dagen made her way on unsteady legs toward the medbay door. The air had the dry, stale smell of recycled oxygen, but there was no suggestion of movement her inner ear could detect that would be present on a ship. A space station, then? Had to be. Questing fingers found the door controls, and she pressed it. The door hissed open to reveal...an empty hallway. It was silent. Even the usual hum of buried machinery common to a ship or space station was almost absent. Silent as the grave... Swallowing a near-overwhelming urge to scream–if for no other reason than to break the deathly silence–Dagen inched toward the nearest door. She had many fears. Some of them she even acknowledged. Finding herself utterly alone on an apparently dead space station, with no idea how she got there and only corpses for company...was a fear she hadn’t ever considered. It was like a horror-holo, but far, far worse for its inescapable reality. It didn’t help that the door she opened next was the morgue. It seemed strangely full, with most of the plasteel slabs occupied. Dagen shivered violently in the blast of freezing air, but as she started to back out her eye was caught by the two corpses nearest the door. Neither was covered. One, the badly burned corpse of a man, had its sheet crumpled on the floor next to the slab, as if he had been placed there hurriedly and the covering tossed inadequately over his ravaged form. Dagen hastily averted her eyes from the ruins of the corpse’s face. The other body was in much better shape: an old woman, heavily robed, her hands clasped neatly upon her chest. She looked as though she’d been laid out for a funeral. Her face was half covered by the deep hood of her robes, leaving only the harsh, wrinkled lines of nose and mouth and jaw exposed. Seized by a sudden desire to see the rest of the dead woman’s face, Dagen edged closer to the slab. She looked....peaceful, with no marks of violence upon her. Curious, she reached for the hood... And the corpse sat up. “YAAAAGH!” Dagen leapt backward, her feet tangling in themselves and dropping her hard on her rump. She scrambled back as the old woman swung her legs over the side of the slab and stood. Dagen grasped a last thread of courage and came to a stop, heart racing. “You–I thought you were dead!” The old woman tugged the cowl of her hood down over her eyes, but not before Dagen caught a glimpse of milky, blind orbs. There was a brief silence as the old woman considered this statement. “No,” she said at last. “Merely...wandering. It was, I suppose, understandable that the fools on this station thought me dead. I feared I would be lost until I felt you.” Her voice was deep and a little raspy, pleasant to the ear but for the heavy undertones of arrogance. Dagen bristled instinctively at it, but said only: “What station is this?” “Peragus Mining Station, I believe. I wonder how the ship got here, though?” The woman seemed to be half-talking to herself. “I remember little after we left the Harbinger...” “Wait...you were on the Harbinger ?” Something the woman had said before wandered across Dagen’s kolto-and-sedative fogged brain and connected with another thought. “Hold on...you felt me?” Apparently pleased at her understanding, her battered consciousness held up another vague memory like a placard. “I...heard something. In the tank...a voice? Yours?” ::Awaken:: Dagen blinked as the memory became clearer. Had that been what pulled her from the brink of death by sedative? It was weird, sure, but if this old woman was a Force Adept... “I wondered if you would hear me.” Faint amusement colored the other woman’s deep voice. “I feared you were too...dead.” Dead to the Force, that is. Dagen’s lips thinned. In another place and situation, she might have lost her temper with this strange woman for so much as suggesting that Dagen Walker was, had been, or ever would be, a Force sensitive. Now, though–well, I doubt the situation could get any freakier. I’ll take what I can get, my aversion to the Force aside, so long as it’s living, breathing company. “Apparently not,” was all Dagen managed. Then, frowning, she added, “Do you know anything about all the kolto tanks in there getting flooded with a lethal dose of sedatives?” Normally, Dagen read emotions in the tilt of eyebrow or wrinkle of forehead, in the glint or dulling of an eye. It was astonishing how much could be read in the shiver of a nostril or curl of a lip. The old woman was puzzled. “No, I’ve been in here since our arrival. You...received that dose?” “Me and five poor souls who are now dead.” “Yet you survived. I have heard of Jedi techniques, to purge the body of poisons, to shield it from further corruption. You’ve had such training.” No question, merely statement. Dagen felt her hackles rise. “I am not a Jedi,” she said flatly. “I did not say you were,” the woman replied cooly. “Merely that you had once received such training. Sheathe your claws, youngling. I mean you no harm.” I wonder. Something seemed...off []...about the old woman. Nothing definite, though, and despite a certain element of creepiness–[i]perhaps directly related to you thinking her a corpse not five minutes ago –Dagen felt herself warming to the woman. “I’m sorry,” she said, allowing some of the newborn warmth to creep into her voice. “It’s a bit unsettling to wake up in the company of corpses.” “Indeed,” the other replied. Her voice was very dry as she tilted her hooded head at the room full of corpses. “Not a method I would choose.” Dagen felt a smile creep onto her face for the first time in...hours? Months? Years, maybe. She hadn’t done it much this past decade, that was certain sure. “My name is Dagen Walker,” she offered. The old woman let out a soft sigh. “Ah.” After a brief, strange pause, she added, “I am called Kreia.” “I’m glad to meet you,” Dagen said, with real sincerity. A thin smile curved the withered lips. “Because I am not a corpse, or for my own sake?” “...yes.” The tiny smile broadened, just a bit, then vanished. “We must leave this place,” Kreia said curtly. “Uh...okay. Somehow, I don’t think you mean the morgue.” “No. This place, this station. We must leave as quickly as possible.” “Um...why? I mean, it’s pretty creepy so far, since you’re the only other breathing body I’ve seen, but I’m all for giving it a chance...” Kreia let what could only be described as an exasperated sigh. “Because those who sought to kill you will not be so easily deterred. It is only a matter of time before they track us here.” “I’m sorry, but did you just say someone is trying to kill me?” “You don’t think you ended up in that kolto tank by mistake, do you?” Kreia asked dryly. “Well, no. But...why?” “Because they believe you to be the last of the Jedi.” Dagen paused for a moment while her brain had a small convulsion. Her gut reaction–But I’m not a fracking Jedi!–didn’t quite make it past the word ‘last.’ Whoa. The Order really has gone to hell in the past decade. But that was hardly a surprise, if she stopped to consider. They’d been doing a damned fine job of it, by her reckoning, for the past twenty years or so. “I’m not a Jedi!” she grated finally. Great. Brilliant piece of logic, there, Dagen. They–whoever the hell they are–belive you are, and therefore... “They believe you to be,” Kreia said simply. “And therefore they seek to kill you.” Yes, indeed, Logic 101: How to construct a syllogism. With an effort, Dagen wrenched her unruly mind back to the problem at hand. “And...who are they?” Some small voice in her back brain timidly pointed out that the morgue was freezing and she wasn’t wearing much...it was shouted down by the rest of her brain, more interested in information. “They call themselves Sith, but they are not like the Sith who previously plagued the galaxy.” Oh. Yeah. Those Sith. The ones who had just started making themselves felt when she turned her back on Republic governed space ten years ago. The Sith who had once been her friends, her allies, her comrades-in-arms...Her sense of betrayal had been muted, overwhelmed in the agony of Malachor V, but it had been there. Those ex-Jedi who now called themselves Sith and who were rampaging their way back across a Republic they’d just defied authority and tradition to bloody well save ... So far as she could recall, the strongest condemnation she’d managed to summon at the time had been along the lines of ‘Idiots, all of them’, by which she lumped the Jedi Order, the Republic, and the newborn Sith into one mass sum and walked away from. I gave you my soul to save this Republic, and you turn around and break it again. Later she’d felt it more keenly, but the effort of survival at the Rim and beyond had proved a nice distraction. But these Sith were not those Sith–so what happened to those Sith, I wonder?–and for some reason these Sith wanted to kill her? “But...why?” she asked again. “I believe I already answered that.” Dagen felt sure that, underneath the cowl, Kreia was quirking a mocking eyebrow at her. “Yes, I know that. But not really. I mean...” She stopped, shifted gears, and tried again. “Fine. So it seems the Order has at last managed to wipe itself out? Or sufficiently provoke someone else into doing it for them?” A startled bark of laughter escaped the old woman’s lips. “I had expected a certain amount of resentment from the Exile, Dagen Walker, but nothing quite so...pithy.” The old anger stirred in Dagen’s breast. “Huh. Exile? I left them, sister. They called it exile, sure, to maintain their delusions of authority, but make no mistake: I exiled myself from the Order.” “Someday I must ask you about your reasoning in that,” Kreia said, her tone musing, “but now is not the time or place. Someone is trying to kill you, Dagen Walker, and has nearly succeeded once before. We must leave this station quickly.” “I’m still a little puzzled as the why of that, but as you said: this isn’t the time or the place. Fine. I’ll go see if there’s someone else alive on this station or, barring that, find a functioning ship.” “You might extend your search to some clothes,” Kreia suggested, amusement again coloring her deep voice. “If only for the sake of first impression.” “I don’t know...if they’re male, it might do better to stay as is. Ugly as this piece of clothing is, I guarantee it will get any human or near-human male’s attention real fast.” Another chuckle escaped the old woman. It sounded somewhat involuntary to Dagen’s ears, as if Kreia were as unused to laughter as Dagen was. She made the witty comments; she didn’t laugh at them. “You are a profoundly irreverent person, Dagen Walker. I do not approve of frivolity as a general rule, but in you it is somehow...refreshing.” “Frivolity is underrated. You should try it sometime.” Dagen rolled her stiff shoulders and sighed. “Right, then. Escape is the new number one priority, followed very closely by the acquisition of clothes.” She eyed the old woman speculatively, wondering if Kreia could be induced to loan her the outer robe. Probably not, she decided. It wouldn’t fit her anyway. “I imagine you want to stay here? Well, not here , precisely, being a morgue and all, but you’re not coming with me?” “No. I am still weak. I shall remain in the medbay and center myself. But do not worry, Dagen Walker–I will remain in contact.” “Hm. Forgive my obtuseness, but we haven’t got a comlink. And while you are undoubtedly a Force Adept–though if you’re a Jedi I’ll eat my...ugly underwear–you must recall that I am not. I haven’t been for ten years, and I can’t see this Force-amputee suddenly regrowing her connection.” “I think you may be surprised, Dagen Walker. As I said, do not worry.” “And stop addressing me by my full name. That’s weird.” “Time is wasting, Dagen Walker. I suggest you get moving.” Dagen sighed. “Yes, Kreia.” She had the feeling she was going to be saying that a lot in days to come. -----signature----- "What's a horse doin' on a spaceship?!" "Mickey, what's pre-Revolutionary France doing on a spaceship? Get a little persepective!" --The Doctor and Mickey, "Girl in the Fireplace"
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Frostfyre Registered: Oct '99	Date Posted: 5/17/05 10:48pm Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation)
	Sheesh, these things sink so fast they're gone before anyone reads 'em... -----signature----- "What's a horse doin' on a spaceship?!" "Mickey, what's pre-Revolutionary France doing on a spaceship? Get a little persepective!" --The Doctor and Mickey, "Girl in the Fireplace"
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Deyla_Heren Registered: Mar '05	Date Posted: 5/18/05 12:16am Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation)
	I played KotOR II and I and I think they are both great games, so I'll be reading this one. Good start! -----signature----- Jedi Master in the SWC Jedi Trials Former Padawan to Axle-Starweilder Current Padawan: (Awaiting a new Padawan) Previous Padawan's: pucifur27, Darth_Vaderous, Adm_Thrawn, Darklord07 \|-Member of the official Obi-Wan Kenobi fanclub-\|
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Frostfyre Registered: Oct '99	Date Posted: 5/18/05 11:22pm Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation)
	Frankly, I think any game by Bioware is a great game. (Granted, Bioware didn't do KOTOR2, Obsidian did, but it was built on what Bioware began, so...) -----signature----- "What's a horse doin' on a spaceship?!" "Mickey, what's pre-Revolutionary France doing on a spaceship? Get a little persepective!" --The Doctor and Mickey, "Girl in the Fireplace"
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Deyla_Heren Registered: Mar '05	Date Posted: 5/19/05 2:54am Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation)
	Lol, but the game was good either way. Continue please -----signature----- Jedi Master in the SWC Jedi Trials Former Padawan to Axle-Starweilder Current Padawan: (Awaiting a new Padawan) Previous Padawan's: pucifur27, Darth_Vaderous, Adm_Thrawn, Darklord07 \|-Member of the official Obi-Wan Kenobi fanclub-\|
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Senator_Leia73 Registered: Dec '03	Date Posted: 5/19/05 7:35pm Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation)
	Very nice! I like this you must continue! I think KOTOR was better than II. But that is my opinion. -----signature----- Yeah I'm back. After a year I'm back.
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Frostfyre Registered: Oct '99	Date Posted: 5/20/05 3:39pm Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation) - Date Edited: 5/20/05 3:41pm (1 edits total) Edited By: Frostfyre
	Well, yeah, if only because a.) It was Bioware and b.) Unlike KOTOR2, KOTOR wasn't rushed to the shelves and so had a number of important plot things cut and/or left unaddressed... But that makes for more freedom in fic writing, in a way... Here's the next chapter. I'm going out of town next week, though I do have the next post ready. I'll post it before I leave, but then it might be a bit while I play catch-up. _______________________________________________________ Chapter Two: Of Pocket Lint and Crazy Droids He’d never been so bored in his life. One might think that, in a situation like this, he’d be more worried about the very real possibility of dying of thirst or starvation. In point of fact, he was worried about it, but it was the boredom that was nearly unbearable. After three days of absolute solitude, of no sound but the hum of the force cage and the sound of his own breathing (and, occasionally, voice, shouting for someone’s attention), even mental pazaak was starting to pall. He’d tried other things, but frying bits of lint from his pockets against the force field ceased to be entertaining after a few hours. Usually, when he got locked up, there were all sorts of folk interested in interrogating him, roughing him up, or otherwise keeping him entertained that he’d never really had time to get bored. This was a whole new experience, and he didn’t much like it. He always saw himself as a loner, a man apart. An invisible blip on the navicomputer of life. It had never occurred to him before that in order to be an invisible blip there had to be lots of other blips around to get lost in. A loner in an empty room was a man who had nowhere to hide from himself. All he had as companions right now were his own thoughts. They weren’t very good company. Something had to have gone wrong. There had been a great deal of panicked noise three days ago, muffled outside the walls of force cage and detention room, but he’d guessed that some sort of emergency had occurred. An explosion, on the volatile asteroid, seemed most likely...but surely it couldn’t have been really serious? The station was still intact...Surely not everyone was dead. For every single sentient on it to have died in the past three days without actually blowing up the station itself required either great stupidity or great planning. Maybe both. Of course, there had been the rumors about that Jedi. That would be explanation enough. Jedi were trouble. Walking bombs. Targets. Prey. 5 +10 + 6 - 1... The man who called himself Atton Rand dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, banishing thoughts and pazaak numbers alike. The force cage was too small for him to do other than stand or sit with his knees drawn up; he had barely slept since they stuffed him in here. It had been built largely for miners who’d hit the juma a bit too hard and needed a detox, not for prolonged incarceration. Damn it, what’s going on out there? Sleep was a nearly forgotten luxury from some distant past... His survival sense, worn down by dehydration, lack of sleep, and boredom, suddenly perked up. Something Different was going on outside the security room. The rooms of Peragus station were pretty well soundproofed, but he strained his ears to hear something–anything–over the incessant hum of the force cage. There came to his ears the faint sound of...blaster fire? So, someone was alive. Several someones, and they weren’t getting along. Atton sent up a feeble prayer that whoever won wouldn’t be inclined to shoot him. He wasn’t hopeful, though. He was pretty certain the gods hated him as much as he did them, but he was also a great believer in covering all the angles–just in case. Although, he reflected, he wasn’t so certain getting shot was a bad thing... But he wasn’t quite ready to die. Not here, anyway, and not like some gizka in a cage. He’d always imagined something a bit more spectacular, loud and messy, taking out as many innocent bystanders as possible. It fit well with the rest of his sordid life, and whatever else might be said of him, it could not be said that Atton Rand did things in half measure. It was all useless speculation, anyway, until whoever it was out there clued in to his existence. With a weary sigh, he slumped back against the bar supporting the cage’s upper generator to wait. He hated waiting. * Dagen switched the vibrosword to her left hand, scrubbing the sweaty palm of her right on her thigh. She felt more than a little silly, traipsing through the empty, corpse-and-droid strewn hallways in her underwear, with a sword harness strapped to her back. Still, she doubted the corpses minded too much and the droids were more interested in attacking than in making comment on her ludicrous state of dress. It was silly to feel...well, silly. It took her mind off the horror around her, though. The droids of Peragus Mining Station had, it seemed, gone utterly mad. In the short time since she’d left the medbay, Dagen had fought off six of the damned things, armed with mining lasers and big, blunt appendages. She’d found five corpses, all badly burnt or beaten–the remains of some poor miners who hadn’t gotten out of the way fast enough. It was from one of those corpses she’d filched vibrosword and harness. She’d found a mining laser, too, but even after ten years of exile she still felt more comfortable with a blade in her hand. Two, if she could get them. With every passing minute, the whole situation shaped up more like something out of a very bad, very gory holovid, of the sort that Dagen had seen far too many of, thanks to Halfwit’s deplorable taste in entertainment. Droids gone bad...Well, speaking practically, it simply meant that someone had done some serious jinking with the protocol programming; at a guess, by switching their behavior patterns to ‘mine’ organics instead of rock. Mining droids did not have particularly advanced A.I. systems; it would not be a difficult task to reprogram if you were good enough to get around their strict security measures. So who on Peragus Station was good enough, and had a big enough grudge to do such a nasty thing? Dagen vowed to find the sentient responsible and have a nice, long chat with him/her/it, preferably with the aid of a plasma torch. Provided, of course, the idiot hadn’t got himself/herself/itself killed along with everyone else. That scenario was entirely likely, and appealed to Dagen’s sense of irony, though it would do little for her hunger for answers. The exit hatch to the station sublevels was sealed. Dagen frowned at the door. Such things were designed to shut in the event of an explosion...but so far as she could tell, there had been no explosion. She ran her fingers over the door. Out on the Rim and beyond, she had picked up a number of skills the Jedi Order would have frowned on. Slicing locks was one of them...but did her no good, she realized after a moment. Emergency doors were not designed to be picked; if she wanted it open, she would have to find whatever system controlled it and slice it that way. So much for easy. ::Strange, Kreia’s voice echoed in Dagen’s skull. Dagen did her utmost not to crawl right out of her skin at the unexpected (and supposedly impossible) intrusion. ::In my visions, the door was open...:: “Dammit, Kreia,” Dagen snarled aloud peevishly, “don’t do that!” She paused. “How are you doing that, anyway? I can’t hear things through the Force anymore...Kreia? Kreia? Hellooo...?” But Kreia did not answer. And Dagen, standing alone and shivering in the corridor, suddenly realized that the strange echo she was hearing was not, as she had first thought, a side-effect of the massive drug-dose... It was the Force. Dagen shuddered. Ten years, she had felt nothing. In the aftermath of Malachor V she’d realized she could no longer hear the Force, or see it, or touch it. At first she had believed it temporary, and later she’d wondered if the Council had reached out to cut her off for defying them. She’d dismissed that one almost immediately, tempting as it was to blame the Council. None of the others who had followed Revan were Force-dead. She was just like them...except that she was the only Jedi survivor of Malachor V... Bewilderment had given way to fear, then relief. Malachor V had broken her, shattered the few illusions she had left about Revan and the war. She walked away, a Jedi no longer and profoundly grateful for it. She never wanted to feel the Force again, not if it meant being open to such agony, such bitter, ceaseless pain. And now...The Force shivered across the edges of her awareness, like a feather over the raw edges of a wound. Part of her, the lingering traces of the Jedi she had once been, wanted to grab at it like water in a desert. The rest of her shied back in revulsion. She didn’t want this. Sorrow beyond bearing awaited her there. Maybe, if she ignored it, it would give up and go away. Yeah, right. And Tatooine was a beach resort. Dagen shook herself mentally, the practicality that had carried her through the Mandalorian Wars and ten years of voluntary exile reasserting itself. Dithering over her apparent Force-resurrection was not getting them off this station any faster. Giving the sealed door a spiteful whack with the flat of her blade (since she couldn’t whack the Force, or Kreia) Dagen turned and trudged deeper into the administration level. * Dagen leaned her head against the cool plasteel of the door, trying to bring her racing pulse under control. Cold sweat prickled on her scalp, trickled down the back of her neck. Her hands, even steadied against the door, were trembling. Life. So long since she had felt it. She’d forgotten, remembered only the pain. Remembered only death. There was a living soul on the other side of the door, and she had sensed him. Sensed the jumble of thought and emotion, physical discomfort and sheer fire that comprised a living being. It had been a brief touch, no more, before her reeling senses shied away from the Force once again. Gods, can I bear this? Was this how it felt to one who woke to the Force late in life? It was like a drug, intoxicating and terrifying all at once. She wanted more, wanted it to pour through her as once it had...and she wanted nothing to do with it. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Dagen pushed herself away from the door. She wasn’t going to live very long if she let every little twitch from the Force incapacitate her like this. With her slowly reviving abilities came a sense of urgency; they were running out of time. Grimly, Dagen drew her sword and opened the door. It was a security room, with force cages to keep rowdy miners well-behaved. One of the cages was occupied. Dagen had a brief, confused impression of unruly dark hair and long-lashed brown eyes before the Force washed over her again in a tidal wave of emotion and image. Impatience, irritation...guilt, regret...surprise...and another emotion buried so swiftly under the rest that she sensed only its existence but not its identity. The whirlpool steadied, settled into wry amusement and not a little lust. “Nice outfit. What, the miners issue a new uniform while I’ve been in here?” Annoyance–and embarrassment–allowed her to get a grip on herself, and long-forgotten training asserted itself to block out the onslaught of sense. It seemed as though her Force sensitivity was resurrecting itself in exponential leaps. Dammit, I don’t want this! It was the implied leer, mixed with awe, in his voice that grounded her. She might not look her best just at the moment, with her hair stringy from kolto and smudges all over her too-exposed skin, but she had gotten that very expression from nearly every human or near-human male she’d ever encountered on the Rim. Truth was, she stood out in most crowds like a perambulating obelisk, standing nearly six foot three and built, as Halfwit had once remarked, ‘like a permacrete refresher unit.’ She hadn’t found the comparison particularly appealing, but he’d assured her that it was flattering. Her response had been to twist his arm halfway up his back and make him swear never to refer to her in that fashion again. Nevertheless, for reasons she often wondered at, an extremely tall woman with a figure she preferred to think of as ‘generous’ drew the strangest mixture of admiration, awe, and outright terror she’d ever seen. They all stared, but most of them kept a careful distance, as if they well knew she could break them in half. Dagen had always found it both amusing and frustrating. And she had long ago learned the best way to deal with it was humor and the occasional well-placed elbow. Cocking one hip out provocatively, Dagen folded her arms underneath her breasts–the vibrosword still gripped in one hand–and looked the man in the force cage up and down with great deliberation, checking him out as blatantly as he was her. He was about her age, thirty-three or thirty-four. Not an unattractive man, though he was a few inches shorter (hardly unusual), with a lean, wiry build and arched, sardonic brows showing through the unruly dark hair. His eyes were absolutely beautiful, though, a deep, liquid brown and fringed with long, curling lashes Dagen would have given her eyeteeth for. His face, though, was hard, sharp features marked with old anger and...sorrow? He was plenty quick, too, and caught on to what she was doing almost immediately. The leer vanished into a sharp, swift smile and a wry chuckle. He was infinitely better looking when he smiled, Dagen decided, and was a little disappointed when it vanished as swiftly as it had come. “All right, all right,” he said, raising his hands. “Let’s call it a draw. I won’t apologize for staring, though. I’ve always wanted to be rescued by a woman in her underwear.” Her lips twitched at this. Yeah, I’ll bet you have. She resisted the urge to say it aloud, however. Given opportunity, she would exchange snide banter all day, and this man seemed like he’d be up to the challenge. It really wasn’t the time, however, not with killer droids on the rampage and possible assassins on their way. “Name’s Dagen Walker. Who are you?” “Atton. Atton Rand. Uh...I don’t suppose I could talk you into letting me out of here?” “Depends. What are you in for?” He grimaced. “A misunderstanding. Didn’t seem like such a big deal, until they stopped feeding me.” A misunderstanding, my arse. And if I believe that, he has some nice lakefront property on Tatooine he’d like to sell me. “Right. Listen–you know anything about what happened here?” He shrugged. “Can’t see much from in here, but since you’re the first sentient I’ve seen in almost three days I assumed it was pretty serious.” He eyed her again, but this time there was shrewd speculation in his gaze rather than a leer. “Seems to me trouble started when they brought that Jedi in.” “I wouldn’t know. I was unconscious at the time,” Dagen replied dryly. A man would have to be a lot stupider than Atton Rand appeared to be to not guess she wasn’t a miner. And if she wasn’t a miner...Again with the basic logic, yes? “Yeah. Lot of argument over what to do with her,” he continued. “Overheard quite a bit even in here. Seems the Exchange has placed a huge bounty on Jedi Knights, and some of the miners wanted to sell her out. The rest weren’t so hot on the idea.” “I’m not–what? The Exchange?” “Yeah, you know: big crime syndicate, nasty bosses, unlimited supply of thugs. Don’t tell me you never heard of them.” “Of course I have. But why would they put a bounty on Jedi?” He shrugged again. “Beats me, sister. Guess one of them pissed off the wrong sentient.” Atton cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Jedi are real good at that,” he added provocatively. “Tell me about it.” Dagen smiled at the brief spasm of surprise that crossed his narrow features. “However, I am not a Jedi.” “Really.” His voice was very neutral. “Really, really.” She smiled even more broadly at him, and had the satisfaction of watching him scowl in frustration. “Look,” he said peevishly, “much as I’m enjoying your half-naked interrogation here, d’you think we might hurry things up a bit? I don’t know about you, but I really want off this station.” She decided to let the ‘half-naked’ remark slide. It was true, after all. She really needed to find some better clothing. “This level is locked down,” she told him. “Do you know another way off the administration level?” “I’m not sure,” he replied frankly. “This is my first visit to Peragus. Let me out, and I’ll see what I can do.” “You still haven’t told me what you’re locked up for.” He let out a growl of exasperation. “I told you it was a misunderstanding. Something to do with my ship’s i.d. signature. Not a big deal.” “Uh-huh.” Atton’s lips drew back from his teeth in what might loosely be called a smile. “I’m in here for a misunderstanding same as you’re not a Jedi...or ex-Jedi. Right?” Ooh, score one for him, dammit. He’s more perceptive than he looks. “All right. Fine. Whatever.” She crossed to the security panel and thumbed off the force field. “I’ll trust you so long as–what in space are you doing?!” No sooner had she deactivated the force cage than Atton flung himself out of it and stretched full length on the floor, arms and legs spreadeagled. “You try spending five days in a one meter by one meter force cage and see how bad you want to stretch out at the end of it,” he replied, letting out a relieved sigh and closing his eyes. Well, she couldn’t argue with that. “I think I spotted a break room back there,” she offered, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “There should be some water–and some food, if I know techs.” He cracked open one brown orb at her. “Really?” “I’d be happy to get some for you,” she added. He sat up, looking mildly stunned. “You really mean that,” he said. “Well, if you haven’t eaten or had anything to drink for three days...” Atton waved a hand, cutting her off. “No, I’m fine. I can get it. It’s just...are you always this nice to complete strangers you meet in a jail?” Dagen raised an eyebrow. Why was he so surprised at her offer? It wasn’t as if she’d offered him the access codes to her bank account or anything... “No, just ones with big, pretty brown eyes,” she cooed, batting her own at him. He flushed slightly, still regarding her with bemusement. “Do you always blow hot and cold like this?” “Absolutely. Now, do you want me to get you some water or not?” He got his own water. -----signature----- "What's a horse doin' on a spaceship?!" "Mickey, what's pre-Revolutionary France doing on a spaceship? Get a little persepective!" --The Doctor and Mickey, "Girl in the Fireplace"
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Deyla_Heren Registered: Mar '05	Date Posted: 5/20/05 11:02pm Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation)
	lol, good chapter...funny. -----signature----- Jedi Master in the SWC Jedi Trials Former Padawan to Axle-Starweilder Current Padawan: (Awaiting a new Padawan) Previous Padawan's: pucifur27, Darth_Vaderous, Adm_Thrawn, Darklord07 \|-Member of the official Obi-Wan Kenobi fanclub-\|
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Senator_Leia73 Registered: Dec '03	Date Posted: 5/29/05 9:25pm Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation)
	LOL nice chappie! I love Atton -----signature----- Yeah I'm back. After a year I'm back.
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DarkMan77 Registered: Mar '05	Date Posted: 5/30/05 9:51am Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation)
	Good, another KOTOR fic! There are too few of them. There are enough fans of KOTOR but not enough authors. Keep up the good work Frost! -----signature----- My Fics: Star Wars: Journey of a Jedi http://boards.theforce.net/before_the_saga/b10475/22409024/p1/?3 Love and War http://boards.theforce.net/before_the_saga/b10475/22834413/p1/?1 The Future is a shifting thing, and he cuts like a blade through it!
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Frostfyre Registered: Oct '99	Date Posted: 6/5/05 3:48pm Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation) - Date Edited: 6/5/05 3:52pm (1 edits total) Edited By: Frostfyre
	Sorry about the delay, folks, I was out of town over Memorial Day, and then had to wait til I got phone service at the new apartment... Glad to see I have a new reader! That makes me all sorts of happy. ___________________________________________ Chapter Three: Walk Softly and Carry a Megawatt Laser “Damned if I’ve ever seen such a fine job of sabotage in my life,” Dagen grumbled. Flat on her back, staring up at the mess that was the console’s underside, she began to wonder just which of the gods she had pissed off. Maybe she should have taken Halfwit up on that offer of a half-share in his moon-colony cantina instead of heading back to Republic space... “That bad, huh?” Atton was a pair of scuffed boots hovering on the edge of her vision. She tried not to think too hard about just what view she was offering him at the moment. “Can you fix it?” “...think so. At least enough to get us some information. Hand me that hydrospanner, would you?” The boots shuffled off for a moment, returned, and Atton crouched down to hand her the tool. “You seem pretty multi-talented,” he remarked. “Slicing open force-cages, hacking hostile droids into bits, fixing sabotaged consoles...And nary a sign of a lightsaber.” “Yeah, well, when you kick around off the edges of civilized space for a decade or so you pick up some pretty handy tricks,” Dagen replied, then clenched her lower lip between her teeth as the exposed wiring over her head sparked and made threatening noises. Atton remained where he was, squatting next to her prone form, head cocked slightly as he watched her work. “So...can’t have been easy, being a Jedi. No family, no freedom, no husband...” Husband? Where did that come from? She wondered why he hadn’t said ‘lover.’ Some deep-buried kernel of morality? Odd thought. Repeating for the nth time that she wasn’t a Jedi seemed futile. No one seemed to believe her...“No more difficult than enduring your false sympathy while you stare at my chest,” she said instead. There was a brief pause. Then, “It’s a very nice chest.” It didn’t take her feeble Force abilities to hear the sly here’s-hoping-you’ll-start-an-argument tone in his voice. He must have been really bored in that cage... “Why, thank you,” she said calmly. “Hand me the plasma torch.” Another pause. Then he let out a soft huff of laughter. “You don’t get flustered too easily, do you, darlin’?” “Not too easily. Although, if you call me ‘darlin’ again I might have to break your neck. Give me that replacement chip. No, the other one.” “So what made you leave the Order?” he persisted. “That whole ‘no husband’ thing?” Gods, is he obsessed with the subject of a spouse? “Something like that,” she said, in a profoundly unencouraging tone. He did not miss it. “Right. None of my business. Got it. How’s that console comin’?” “It’s coming.” Dagen grabbed the console’s rim and pushed herself out from under it. “Let’s see if that helped any.” To her surprise, Atton extended a hand to help her up. She wondered briefly if he meant to try anything, then decided that, if he did, she would simply break his nose. He didn’t try anything, releasing her hand almost immediately and stepping back so she could reach the console controls. This time, the text scrolling across the screen was not gibberish. “Eureka,” she said softly. “Basic systems are up and running.” “Great. Wonderful. What does that mean? Can we get off this level?” “I’m not...damn. No. Auxiliary controls to the fuel station proper are still down. I can’t access them from here...You know anything about comm systems?” “Some. Move over.” Atton’s fingers danced briefly across the control board. “Huh. I think...no, that’s not...” He shook his head and shoved his hair out of his face. “Comm system’s straightforward, but the main outbound grid has been cut. All we can get is the basic drift charts for the asteroid field–which will do us no kind of good unless we have a ship to upload the charts to.” “Thought that might be the case. So sending out a screech for help isn’t an option.” Dagen frowned, tapping one finger against her lips. “Hang on...what about the comm system to the rest of station? Maybe someone is still alive, but stuck on the sublevels like we’re stuck up here.” “Doesn’t seem likely,” Atton said, “but you’re welcome to try.” “I’ll try the dormitories first–seems to me that if something went wrong any survivors would hole up there and wait for relief.” “Yeah,” Atton muttered, “like herding gizka...” He paused, and frowned. “Wait a minute...” Dagen barely heard him. “Peragus Dormitories, this is Admin level. What’s your situation?” Static. She tried again. Still nothing. Venting a soft sigh of frustration, Dagen leaned back from the console, the sense of eerie horror settling over her once more. Well, maybe there would be someone down in the tunnels. This time, a querying string of beeps answered her. Dagen started. “Is that an astromech droid? Hello? What’s your designation?” A whistle, followed by a series of beeps, answered. “T3-M3? And your status...? Functional. Great. Listen, T3, we’re stuck on the administration level. Is there some way you can override the controls from your position? Yeah, I can wait a minute.” She glanced over at Atton, who was scowling ferociously at the floor, apparently thinking very hard about something. “Keep your eyes crossed,” she said. “We might get out of here yet.” Atton blinked, and looked up at her. “Huh?” “Found an astromech powered up down there. It might be able to get us off this level.” “You’re gonna trust our lives to a droid? You nuts?” “Don’t see that we’ve got much choice. He certainly didn’t sound as hostile as the rest of the circuit breakers around here.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t like droids.” “Not so much. They’re unreliable.” “Well, maybe so, but it’s the best chance we’ve got right now.” A splatter of beeps erupted from the comm. “Yeah, T3, I copy. What...? Oh. Are you sure? Well, what about the entrance into the tunnels themselves? Can you do that? Yeah, yeah, I’ll wait.” She turned back to Atton. “System for the doors to the sublevels has been sabotaged down there, too.” Atton rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Someone’s done a pretty thorough job of jinking this place.” “Why, though?” His gaze was faintly amused. “You honestly can’t guess?” “Hey, I just got here.” “I told you before, there’s a frackin’ huge bounty on Jedi. Some of the miners wanted to sell you out, others weren’t so keen about it. Seems to me that the argument escalated.” “I’m not a...dammit. Do I need to get it tattooed on my forehead? I can’t even–” Dagen broke off. She couldn’t exactly claim she didn’t feel the Force, not anymore. “What I want to know,” she growled, “is who out there decided I was a Jedi. I was unconscious when they brought me in, and I haven’t been...I mean, I left the Order a decade ago!” She gripped a stringy lock of hair in one fist and tugged in sheer annoyance. “I should have taken Halfwit up on his offer...” she muttered. “Probably,” Atton agreed unhelpfully. Then: “Who’s Halfwit?” “Nevermind.” Dagen let go of her hair and touched the comm. “T3, what’s your status?” A whistle came through, followed by a short blat of noise. “All right, all right,” Dagen said. “I’m not trying to rush you; I was just curious.” She stared off into the distance for a moment, letting her overworked mind spin its engines. Then she shook herself. “Sithspit! I forgot about Kreia!” “Who-a?” Atton frowned. “Kreia. An old woman I found in the medbay with me. Well, the morgue, actually. She...came in on the same ship as me.” And how that came about I still don’t know... “Wait a minute–I thought you were the only survivor! That’s what I heard, anyway!” “They thought she was dead,” Dagen admitted. “But she...well, I think she’s a Force Adept, and was so deep in a healing trance they thought she’d bought it.” “A Force...? What, you guys start breeding when I wasn’t lookin’ or something? There’s another fracking Jedi on this station?!” “Settle down. She isn’t a Jedi. She’s just...strange. Anyway, I should check on her–” Dagen broke off as the hatchway to the mining tunnels suddenly hissed open. “What–? She touched the comm. “T3? Did you do that?” There was no reply. She frowned. “How strange.” Atton eyed the gaping doorway. “You had him open the blast doors down into the tunnels? Why?” “Should be a way into the rest of the station through there.” “Through the...Now I know you’re crazy. There was an explosion down there–haven’t you been paying attention to the readouts? Sure, it wasn’t very big, but half those tunnels are gonna be full of superheated steam, enough to cook flesh right off the bone!” “Right. Which is why I’ll be going down there and you’ll stay up here to keep an eye on things.” Atton shoved both hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in agitated tufts. “Now, that makes no kind of sense.” “Why not? You volunteering to go down there instead?” “Uh...no. Chivalry is dead, sister. You want to go down there and get yourself cooked, that’s fine by me. Only I don’t much fancy trying to get off this rock by myself.” “Such a gentleman,” Dagen murmured. “You wouldn’t be alone. There’s always Kreia.” “Yeah, real comforting thought. And how much good would some old scow do me?” Dagen suppressed a surge of dislike. That he was a selfish sort of person didn’t particularly surprise her. She knew plenty of selfish people. Often, she was one of them; they just weren’t this open about it, typically. “So I go down there. Think you can handle keeping an eye on things, maybe give me some warning if you can?” He scowled. “Yeah. Got a comlink?” “Grabbed a set from the tech room earlier, while you were getting water. Here.” He tucked the earpiece over his ear. “Channel 2.” Dagen fitted on her own comlink and switched it on. “Got it. Wish me luck.” “I thought Jedi didn’t believe in luck.” “I’m not a Jedi, dammit!” That swift, elusive grin flitted across his face again. “Now I know what your button is.” “Can it, Rand.” Dagen adjusted the sword harness on her back and turned to go. Then she paused. “Say–can you check on Kreia for me? Just make sure she’s all right?” His frown deepened. “Do I have to?” “Unless you’d rather go down in the tunnels...” “Fine, fine. Just move that shapely rear of yours. I want off this rock.” “Oh, and I’d watch the mouth around Kreia. I don’t think she would appreciate your brand of humor. Come to think of it, I don’t much, either.” “I’ll keep it in mind. Now, shoo!” -----signature----- "What's a horse doin' on a spaceship?!" "Mickey, what's pre-Revolutionary France doing on a spaceship? Get a little persepective!" --The Doctor and Mickey, "Girl in the Fireplace"
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Frostfyre Registered: Oct '99	Date Posted: 6/8/05 9:53am Subject: RE: Exile's End (KOTOR2 original interpretation)
	I'm not one for kicking my own thread up, but I'm not sure anyone can see it... -----signature----- "What's a horse doin' on a spaceship?!" "Mickey, what's pre-Revolutionary France doing on a spaceship? Get a little persepective!" --The Doctor and Mickey, "Girl in the Fireplace"
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