Demons Aren't the Only Ones Scared of the Light

[Rossos Atrapes]

Imperial Centre - The Citadel - Cell 08-2342-11 High Security
Inquisitor Atrapes, as opposed to many others in his profession, didn't enjoy making others feel pain. He didn't dislike it either, but he found it...distasteful, to feel another's fear rolling off of them in waves, smelling their sweat, their bowels evacuating in distress. It wasn't out of a sense of humanity within him; oh no, it wasn't that. He could remember the last time he felt sympathy for a being in pain, and that was nearly five years ago.

The Inquisitor liked to... mould... his victims. Dreams, visions, voices...

He enjoyed feeling their realities shift around them until there was nothing but the realisation of a subjective psyche that was too fragmented to make its own world to protect itself. Then they would be ready to talk; almost eager, in fact. Anything, anything at all... for something real. Some would think that it would take some time to do this way.

They'd be right, if one didn't factor in the Force. Once inside a mind, time simply ceased to exist. But Rossos didn't merely play with minds. He played with souls. An infinitely more open playground than simple imagination, quite literally; and Rossos was skilled at being able to split his concentration between noting time outside of the consciousness, and inside it.

He looked through the transparisteel wall that separated the prisoner's cell from the observation room. This was a special kind; not only was it made to look like durasteel, anyone inside the cell would not be able to tell, either by taste, sense, smell, or touch that it was anything but what the other walls were made with, but it could, with a simple electric current, be made clear, blurred, and completely opaque as well. And the walls were all a nice, calming, cream-white colour.

Dasquian Belargic, drugged, lay motionless and still on the cot; the only thing in the room besides his own body and the patient's gown they had clothed him with; the cot was more comfortable than normal, with actual padding and blankets placed over him. Rossos stood, just as motionless, staring into the room, and through his own reflection, at the Rebel Spy and Operative. There was so much promise in this one. He could feel the possibilities unravel as they flitted out across his mind, ghosts of shadows of flies.

He noted that Belargic was beginning to ease out of the comatose state into a state of simple sleep. He grinned. This, this is where the fun began.

And into the room, walked a perfect replica of Inquisitor Atrapes; only he was wearing a Doctor's tunic, and had a datapad in his hand. And while the other Rossos Atrapes strode into the room, a subtle, but powerful tendril of the Force snaked its way into Belargic's consciousness. The Inquisitor didn't touch the memories of his time as a Rebel. Oh no, that would have repercussions. Men like Belargic were trained to compartmentalise, or so he'd heard, and could seal away memories by evoking other ones.

Instead, Rossos fabricated an impression of an entire life. There was no Empire; no Rebellion in these. Just a young man who'd taken his woman out for a ride through Coruscant, and both were hit by a drunk speeder-pilot as they were getting out and ready to enter the restaurant he'd made a reservation for. There were other impressions: a tank full of exotic alien fish swam by the mind's eye; the young man wanted to be a marine biologist. A pair of urns: dead parents; five years ago. He didn't make the fake memories sharp or clear. Just impressions, until he found Belargic's mind stopping at the woman. A face was appearing, but it always seemed turned away from Belargic. He knew the face that was slowly appearing though. Van Derveld.

With a grin, he sharpened the memory of the aquarium. He (friend/Jan Feskin/fencer/third place in Coruscant tourney) stood next to Belargic (student/marine biology/happy), while the fake Van Derveld (crush/date/unhappy secretary) stared into the waters of the huge tank.

"Dasq?" He murmured, grinning knowingly and nudging the other with an elbow. "Dasq, snap out of it, or Grace'll think you're weird."

And all the while, he was preparing the way for more illusions and dream-scapes; if Dasquian spoke with Grace, the illusion would feed off his memories of her, causing him to be fooled, unless he was sharp enough to catch his own perceptions feeding the illusion against the real woman's actions.

But, even so; this was only the beginning.

Oh yes. Only the beginning.

[Dasquian Belargic]

“...weird.”

Dasquian blinked. Focus returned to his vision, and he saw - through the floor to ceiling glass panel in front of him - the shimmering movement of a silver shoal of fish, light winking off their scales. They weaved left then right, turning suddenly, darting here and there as if avoiding some unseen pursuer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dasquian saw the dark shape that was – he knew – Jan Feskin. Grace was a few feet in front of both of them, her arms crossed over her chest and she watched the coming and going of the creatures in the tank. Some part of Dasquian's mind wanted to tell her what the fish was, that had just wound its way in front of her eyes, but he couldn't remember its name...

“She looks... bored,” he muttered, keeping his voice low and for Feskin's ears only.

[Rossos Atrapes]

'Jan' smirked, allowing the illusion to bolster some impressions and allow others to slide away. Despite the dark thoughts behind the smirk, none showed on Jan's face other than a slight widening of the eyes, raising of the eyebrows, and a shrug.

"You're the one who decided he liked older women," he replied just as quietly. "Though why take her to an aquarium like you're still in secondary is beyond me. And that's something, you know. Nothing should be beyond me; I'm famous now!"

Feskin's whispering voice, whether by design or mere nature, was horribly loud.

The fake Grace was taking cues from Belargic's memory now. She wasn't staring into the water, but back at the two whispering men behind her via their reflections in the transparisteel's glass-like covering. She didn't move or speak, though.

[Dasquian Belargic]

“Nothing should be beyond you,” Dasquian agreed. “Not even modesty,” he added, glancing sidelong at Jan with a smirk of his own. The humor made him feel a little more at ease, but the silence quickly returned. He wondered if Feskin's presence made Grace nervous, if she would have been more forthcoming if they were alone – but it was a moot point now. For some reason – why? – he had asked Jan to come along. He caught the reflection of her eyes and smiled.

“Let's go look at something else,” he suggested, to which she nodded, apparently content to lead the way on through the aquarium. Dasquian followed obediently.

“You two go on ahead, I want to take a closer look at this,” Feskin called after them, as he jabbed one finger at a small, wall-mounted tank, which seemed to conceal something within a curtain of thick reeds. Dasquian quickened his pace a little, to put himself back in step with Grace.

“Hey.. is everything alright? You're very quiet today.”

[Rossos Atrapes]

Grace gave him a small smile and grinned. "Just...work," she said with a sigh.

There was another moment of silence. "I always thought I'd be doing something...I don't know...more...important. I can make it on my own, but Vega's making things difficult for me. He's still mad."

She stopped, and smiled self-deprecatingly, shaking her head. Turning to face him, she reached out and touched his arm. "Sorry. I shouldn't be bringing my problems on our date, huh?"

Along the clear wall, the fish scattered in entrancing designs. A dark shape moved in the waters, getting closer, and closer. It was a huge fish (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d5/Dunkleosteus.JPG), seemingly on a collision course with the wall. Grace, her back to the tank, couldn't see it, but it already almost at the wall, and wasn't slowing down...

[Dasquian Belargic]

Vega. The name conjured memories of a distinctly sour individual, not someone Belargic would have looked to for encourage or direction in life. Still, he was Grace's brother and Dasquian always thought that she felt somehow beholden to him, since their parents had passed away. He was the only family she had, after all.

His mind began to stray, naturally, towards thoughts of his own kin, until a shadow ahead caught his eye. Something big was coming towards the tank wall - “What the...” - and it wasn't stopping. If anything, it was gaining momentum, and it seemed impossible that something so big, so fast, should be able to do anything other than crash through the dividing glass wall like a freight-train with fins.

On panicked reflex, and having no desire to end up inside the belly of the whale, Dasquian seized hold of Grace's forearm. “Look out!”

[Rossos Atrapes]

Rossos-in-the-Observation-Room grinned slightly as the "memories" flitted across Belargic's mind.


___________________________________

Meanwhile, stuck in the illusion, Dasquian's warning seemed to come too late. Grace looked at him oddly, and turned to see what had him so worried, but the Fish was already crashing through the tank wall (wasn't supposed to be impossible?), the sound deafening like a roar as the wall groaned and water gushed from the wall like blood from a giant's gaping wound. He tried to hold onto Grace as the water flooded over them, but the force was too sudden and swift and strong; Grace was pulled from his hands, the water keeping him from shouting her name. It wasn't a moment before he hit the far wall of the Aquarium, the impact causing him to go unconscious.

___________________________________

"...Director Belargic?" Dark was over his body, but his eyes were closed. There was a voice, low and gravelly voice running through his head. He was warm, with a blanket over him. He opened his eyes, to see the ceiling of a Lambda Shuttle cabin staring back.

"Ah. You're awake," the voice said again. This time, there were no impressions that Rossos subtly pushed into the Rebel's mind. The only one would be on sight of his form (enemy/fabled inquisitor/captured!/en route to base/personable?/push for information/long fight/all dead). The rest would be up to Belargic's own mind to come up with the details. From this exercise, the Inquisitor could lighten the load, or increase it, depending on his state after the first event.

The Inquisitor sat tied to a chair, his hands tied together and then to the chair separately behind himself, and his legs also tied together and then to the chair.

[Dasquian Belargic]

As if waking from a dream in which he was falling, Dasquian's body jerked upwards suddenly. A moments pause, as his heart beat began to slow with the realization that he was not drowning -

“Ah. You're awake.”

- and he was not alone. How could someone look so comfortable and at ease whilst being hand-cuffed and bound to a chair? Swinging his legs down from the bed-bunk he had been sleeping on (whilst in the presence of a prisoner?) Dasquian stood up. He frowned and brought one hand to his brow. It was warm and clammy. Not clammy – wet. He lowered his fingertips and saw they were stained with dark blood (my blood? That would explain the disorientation.)

His feet were carrying him out of the room, away from the prisoner and towards where his mind reasoned there would be some illuminating light, some explanation. There was an emergency med-pack, marked with an Imperial insignia strapped to one of the corridor walls. He tore it from its container and held it against where he had felt the warmth of blood, cradling his forehead in one hand as he walked (so quiet... strange).

The cockpit door hissed open. The dizzying blur of hyperspace filled the main view-port, covering everything in harsh white light. With his chair turned against the glare, the pilot sat slumped, dead, his eyes replaced with two blaster shot holes. The sight of it all caused Dasquian to stagger and grasp for the door frame, to steady himself, the light burning behind his eyes.

[Rossos Atrapes]

The Inquisitor grinned, though he could not have seen Dasquian's reaction. He looked slightly mad, as he was looking at the corner where the ceiling met the wall, and his mouth was contorted into a mocking smile.

"Ah, so you have found the unlucky pilot," he called out loudly. "You should look to the back; your only surviving compatriot expired back by the engines, looking for evidence of a tracking device if I'm not mistaken. Else he's been rather quiet, and what with the look he gave me after I woke tied up, I do believe he's dead. After he took such care of you as well."

His voice held a distinct note of mocking nonchalance.

[Dasquian Belargic]

The voice of the prisoner echoed down the corridors after Dasquian, like a wolf at his heels. An overpowering wave of nausea rose up inside of him and for an instant all he wanted to do was collapse to his knees and choke up everything that was inside of him, right down to his lungs and liver. It felt like someone had reached right inside of him, right into his gut, and shoved something rotten into the pit of it. It made no sense – he had seen death before, closer and worse – but something about the scene in the cockpit had thrown him. He had to be strong, had to keep a level head. If he didn't who would?

Lips shut tight against the smell of sour air that hung in a cloud around the pilot, Dasquian pulled at the mans body, trying to pull him free of the chair he had died in. His limbs were stiff, as if rigor mortis had already set it, but – it couldn't have. It hadn't been long enough, had it? How long had he been asleep, dreaming of tropical fish and the girl with sad eyes?

With one last heave, he sent the pilot spilling to the floor, his arms and legs splayed out like a spider crushed under foot. The seat was warm when he slid into it, spinning it quickly to turn his face into the light. Though he couldn't see it, his hands found a control panel and he fumbled blindly for the navigation computer controls.

[Rossos Atrapes]

It seemed as though the shooter had been a poor shot, or circumstances had been against him; there were scored marks from missed blaster shots across the hull. The nav-computer seemed to have taken a glanced shot. Half the co-ordinates were visible, but the blackened console hid some from view, and only the levers to take them in and out of hyperspace were in what looked like functional condition.

"No answer, Director?" the Inquisitor's voice voice seemed to whisper now, spreading like oil through water, leaving a filmy wake in the space inside the hull of the shuttle. He wasn't calling out, but was speaking in a normal voice; despite this, the waves of his sound reverbated clearly throughout the small ship. "I am disappointed, Director Belargic."

He remained quiet for a few moments, seemingly sitting comfortably in his obviously uncomfortable position. "How was your unconsciousness, Director?" he finally asked. "Was it enjoyable, spending your time outside of time with miss Grace? "

[Dasquian Belargic]

The controls were damaged, damaged beyond what limited repair capability Dasquian had. His head knocking back against the pilots chair, Belargic stared up into the cockpits roof, inhaling deeply to try and keep calm. That frantic impulse still wriggled beneath the surface though, more than just butterflies in his stomach- a nest of wasps, trying to eat their way from the inside out-

“I am disappointed, Director Belargic.”

The voice anchored him in the present once again, forcing his mind to acknowledge the external rather than delve deeper into himself. Strange, how every attempt to do that – to question himself – was met with a block, a terrifying lack of understanding, the feeling that there was something hidden inside of him that, if uncovered, would drive him far beyond the point of panic-

“Was it enjoyable, spending your time outside of time with miss Grace?”

Somehow, he was back in the room with the captured Inquisitor. He didn't remember leaving the cockpit, but he had done, somehow, at some point. He looked down at the prisoner, so smug and satisfied with himself, so comfortable and confident with his position. Then, in an instant, he had both hands locked on either side of the mans head, forcing Atrapes' eyes to see him and only him.

“Get out of my mind!”

[Rossos Atrapes]

"Do you know that you talk in your sleep, Director?" the Inquisitor said, his smile gone, but otherwise looking unperturbed by the Rebel's actions. "Some of the things you said were very interesting but of no real use to me, you see."

There was a hum through the air; if one looked hard enough the very atmosphere inside the ship seemed to be shaking, but the ship itself did not.

"But no, it's not as simple as talking in your sleep. It is more like you are throwing thoughts at me, Director Belargic, while you slept. Have you ever heard of Logismoi?" His eyes rooted Dasquian to the spot for the moment, intensifying his mental clarity with an anchor and at the same time adding to his confusion. "It's what thoughts are called by ancient philosophers and thinkers of some unknown planet. To them, thoughts are outside entities. Often, they are thrown by demons in order to distract someone from dwelling on the thing or circumstances that they need to in order to fulfil their life. An endless number of thoughts streaming by and through you--until one sticks."

His eyes turned back to the corner that he had been staring at. "Sit and talk with me a moment, Director. There are some things we must discuss whilst we can."

[Dasquian Belargic]

If he had any desire to act contrary to the Inquisitor's request, it was muted in that instant. He edged backwards, blinking to try and shake away the brief sensation that everything around him was trembling. As he moved away, he bumped into the bed he had awoken on and allowed himself to sag against it, one hand gripping the edge of the cot.

“What do you mean, whilst we can? None of this makes any sense.. what have you done to me?”

[Rossos Atrapes]

"...what have you done to me?”

"What I mean, Director, is that you must silence inane questions, for we do not have much time." This was stated firmly and with authority, an odd thing to come from a man quite securely tied to his seat. "Release your need for understanding; that will, as always, come later. Now we must discuss some things, namely my Empire and your Rebellion.

"I do not wish to see the Rebellion die, Director," the Inquisitor said. "Remember that. Without it, the Empire will slowly eat itself away from the inside."

The technique that Atrapes was using was very detailed. One of the "blaster shots" that had been made in the cockpit had hit upon the shield console, causing a slow energy leak in the shields. They would collapse, and following the science, Hyperspace would rip the ship apart.

[Dasquian Belargic]

As Dasquian listened, he tried to keep his focus on the Inquisitor's eyes. Something about his presence was, paradoxically, calming. Perhaps it was his even temper and inexplicably calm state of mind. Nonetheless, what Rossos had to say didn't go any way to easing Belargic's anxiety. If only he'd known what was going on in the cockpit...

“What do you expect me to say to that? Thank you for letting us all be part of your glorious master-plan?”

[Rossos Atrapes]

The Inquisitor laughed. "No, Director. Nothing like that. The Empire needs the Rebellion, you see, or the Moffs, and all the other elements within it will engage in power struggles without worry of attack from an outside source. Fear is unifying, Director. Without that fear of the Rebellion, without the Rebellion to draw in the Skywalkers and Organas and Solos, the Empire would have to deal with their internal machinations on top of the others.

"But it is a two way speeder lane, Director. The Rebellion needs the Empire as well. What would happen if the Empire was destroyed? It would be impossible to destroy all the elements of the Empire at once. That evil would spread through the Galaxy like the noxious ash and dust from explosives drifting down hallways. Soon it would get to the point where one couldn't distinguish between good and evil anymore, where one couldn't tell between friend and foe. Where would your principles and morals be then? Made in reference to an evil empire that doesn't exist anymore, they would be cast aside, as simple reactions to your circumstances."

[Dasquian Belargic]

“The Empire is the reason the Rebellion exists, I don't deny that, and when the Empire does fall – and it will some day – the Rebellion will cease to exist, but in it's place, from its ashes, will rise a new Republic.”

The words were so rarely spoken and yet they formed the crux of everything that Dasquian believed in. Rarely did they discuss their over-arching goal in the galactic civil war and as he vocalized what was in his heart, he felt it giving him strength, grounding him. Each victory was just a small step, a gradual inching towards the final destination, and Dasquian had no illusions that he would live to see the day when their dream was finally realized.

“What was it Tarkin used to say? Fear will keep the local systems in line... that's all the Empire has to offer: terror. In time, all the people of this galaxy will see through your so called law and order to the tyranny and exploitation that lies beneath.”

[Rossos Atrapes]

“What was it Tarkin used to say? Fear will keep the local systems in line... that's all the Empire has to offer: terror. In time, all the people of this galaxy will see through your so called law and order to the tyranny and exploitation that lies beneath.”

The Inquisitor grinned. "I make no defence against that argument. But beneath that idealism, Director, there is no answer the problem I have presented you. In the end, in this glorious New Republic, you will still have the squabbling factions, those exploiting others, those causing fear. The evil of the Empire will no longer be tangible; physical; dominating, and thus it will be stronger than ever. At that time, demons will not be the only ones scared of the light, Director; because then, no one will know who is a demon, and who is not.

"The key to life is perception, Belargic. Everything that you qualify as real may perhaps be nothing but smoke and ash. Do not be overly surprised when you find--"

The ship rocked, and alarms sounded, the blaring klaxons warning the two of them as the shields gave way, but the hyperdrive remained activated, and the ship struggled to retain integrity in its surroundings.

The Inquisitor remained nearly serene in all of this. "Our time is run out. Remember, Director. All life is perception."

[Dasquian Belargic]

At intervals, Belargic felt himself sitting forwards, words on the tip of his tongue ready to interject – but no pause was given. There was an almost hypnotic quality to the sound of the Inquisitors voice and whilst he was mindful of the fact that such men were known for their ability to manipulate and confuse, he listened nonetheless to his tales of demons and light. Smoke and ash... Warning klaxons screeched to life, lending some meaning to the disorientating trembling Dasquian had felt earlier. It hadn't been a delusion of his mind – something was pulling the ship apart.

“Krasst!”

He sprung to his feet, boots beating out a frantic rhythm on metal grating as he ran for the cockpit and the hyperspace exit controls...

[Rossos Atrapes]

The Inquisitor, for his part, merely sat in the chair, and watched the Rebel nearly fly out of the room for the cockpit. The ship's shuddering began to grow more violent each passing second.

"Perhaps this one should end this session," he murmured to himself quietly.

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

Belargic had made it into the cockpit, but the shields had already fallen offline. Just as his hand reached the hyperspace exit controls, there was a massive shudder; the ship reverted itself out of hyperspace, and for an agonizing moment, Dasquian Belargic knew what it was like to be inside a star.

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

"...it seems the nightmares are about over. He should be waking up soon."

The voice was familiar, but the information remained tantalizingly close, but too far away for him to grasp. There was a curious blankness. He knew his name, but everything else was jumbled, bits of errant noise that floated around in his skull.

"Agent Belargic, can you hear me?" the familiar voice asked. "Give him a small stim-shot; a cred should do. Just enough to allow him the energy to wake up. Anything else could be dangerous."

There was a whirring of servos and motors. Obviously a droid. A small wet feeling on his arm, and an equally small prick of the skin. A few moments of nothing, and then his eyes opened.

Inquisitor Atrapes? echoed through his mind for a moment. The man, dressed in a doctor's tunic, gave him a small smile. "You're still a bit groggy, and your memory will be a bit hazy for a few hours, Agent Belargic. It's what happens when you mix sedatives, a concussion, and several hours in a bacta tank. Welcome back. The Inquisitoriate is proud of you."

[Dasquian Belargic]

The world began to form before his eyes once more. Amorphous at first, but soon taking shape and color. Eyelids fluttered, trying to blink away the daze. His skull ached, throbbed. This was how the aftermath of a week-long ale binge felt, yet there was no tell-tale taste on his tongue to confirm for Dasquian that his pain was self-inflicted. Never the less, there was a blank in his memory, a gaping void that seemed to contain only blinding light. His heart fluttered with faint palpitations of anxiety, the remnants of a nightmare whose subject he could not recall...

“Where am I?” he managed, eyes tracking towards the familiar face, his voice a hoarse murmur.

[Rossos Atrapes]

"We have you in a special room in the med-bay, Agent," the Doctor said, making some notes on his data-pad. "You've been very deep undercover for some time."

The door slid open, revealing a droid pushing a small hover-tray of food. "Ah," the Doctor glanced at the droid and back to the data-pad. "Very good. Set it nearby. I don't quite think the Agent is hungry just yet."

Finally, the Doctor pocketed the data-pad and gave him a considering look.

"How do you feel, Agent? Nauseous? Pain or throbbing in the head? Any urgent need to urinate or defecate?" He grinned. "Embarrassed?"

[Dasquian Belargic]

“Confused, mostly,” he confessed. With an uncomfortable turn of the head, Dasquian saw the tray of food that had been produced for him. The sight of it didn't inspire any hunger pangs, though he suspected that might well have been because of the pain in his head drowning them out. Water, however, was appealing, if only to ease the rawness of his throat. The droid was happy to oblige, apparently sensing his desires; it held the cup to his lips until he coughed and spluttered, at which point it apologized flatly and took a step backwards.

“... I've been deep undercover? What happened to me? I.. can't remember anything.”

[Rossos Atrapes]

The Doctor looked a bit apologetic. "That's quite understandable. I only know so much, Agent, so I can only tell you so much. But that might be for the better, eh? Might end up saying something I wouldn't want to be said. We'll wait for someone to come and debrief you. There're some meds on the tray for your headache, and please try to eat something now to settle your stomach before the headache goes away."

He grinned again. "Wouldn't want you to eat everything in a few seconds and then retch it all up again, would we?"

[Dasquian Belargic]

Unquestioning, Dasquian fumbled for the pill bottle and popped open the cap with his thumb. The recommended dosage was two tabs but he took four, for good measure, and washed them down with another gulp of water.

Although he couldn't conjure any past meals to compare it to, the food did not look appetizing. It was a simple, spartan fare, the kind he imagined a military unit would eat whilst posted away from headquarters. Yet, just the act of considering it stirred something in his gut and within a matter of moments he was biting down on a large chunk of bread, praying with each bite that the next wouldn't bring the urge to wretch. As he ate, his eyes became glazed, staring into some indefinite point as he tried to uncover any memory – anything at all.

“How long until debriefing?”

[Rossos Atrapes]

The Doctor shrugged. "That's up to them now, isn't it?"

"The debriefing depends really on your state of health and memory when it happens. There're some things that you won't be told of course, but after that, depending on how you are holding up, we'll set you into a 'decompression' stage; get you back into normal routine and other things."

Here the Doctor looked quite serious. "Agent, we'll be giving you a data-pad. Write anything you remember down. Anything. From previous experiences, we know prolonged deep cover missions make for a rocky road on their own, but with your concussion and how you were recaptured..." he trailed off. "We need to know your state of mind. You'll be getting memories back slowly, but the order of which and whether they were dreams or hallucinations will be troublesome. We will help you with this though. Please remember that."

[Dasquian Belargic]

Dasquian nodded slowly, trying to internalize everything that was being said. Though his memory was indistinct, he had the firm impression that he was an undercover agent. Indeed, the way the Doctor spoke to him seemed familiar, the lingo registering as common with his subconscious mind. When the matters of concussion and recapture were mentioned, his brow furrowed somewhat. It was as if the two words had connected circuits inside his mind.

“I was discovered,” he muttered, the knot of this thought slowly beginning to unravel. His eyes jumped up to the Doctor's features, suddenly.

“Betrayed? I was betrayed...”

[Rossos Atrapes]

The Doctor nodded gravely. "Keep it up," he said. "The more you can remember, the easier the debriefing will go.

"And don't say too much while people like me are around. If I'm considered a security leak..." he trailed off again, looking uncomfortable. "It's understandable what with the need to keep secrets secrets, but I'd like to be alive for some time longer, hmm?" He grinned to take the bite out of the remark. The job was dangerous, and field work wasn't the only place debilitating mistakes could be made.

[Dasquian Belargic]

There was a grave seriousness to those words, at which Dasquian could only nod, his jaw firmly set. His eyes returned to the data-pad that the Doctor had provided, place into which he was supposed to divest his thoughts and memories, wherever they were. Thinking it was as good a beginning as any, he wrote: I was betrayed. The letters shone brightly on the screen, the keystroke which followed them blinking repeatedly, almost in time with his heart beat. The words continued to multiply and each syllable brought some clarity returning to the Agent's mind.

I was betrayed. I remember feelings of disappointment and shock, like an unshakable trust had been broken. I don't know why, or where.. or who. They wanted me dead, I think. Probably still do. Someone else died, I think. A colleague, perhaps? ...I don't remember.

[Rossos Atrapes]

The Doctor watched him for a bit, a half-smile on his face. "I can't impress this upon you enough, Agent; everything you remember must be written down, or we can't begin to deconstruct the process of rehabilition. Dreams, names, places, feelings... I'll be reading them directly and writing my own reports to the higher-ups, and some of them want certain things. What is important to me concerning getting you back on your feet will not be as important to the Administrating Inquisitor of Imperial Centre, or even the Grand Inquisitor, eh?"

His smile widened, but the grave tone of his next remark couldn't have been missed either. "And those aren't people we want to disappoint. Any questions--or, any questions that I can answer?"

This time his smile was more genuine.

[Dasquian Belargic]

“Grand Inquisitor?” There was no denying the anxiety those words put into him. The Doctor didn't have to say it out loud for Dasquian to understand that his superiors were people to be feared. If his captured had cost them a great deal – if blowing his cover had lost them a key mole in the field – he could only imagine what fruits their displeasure would bear.

“No questions,” he said finally, in a quiet voice that seemed somehow resigned to its fate. His attention returned to the data-pad, as thread by thread he pulled at the knot in his mind. Yet, it seemed that for every flicker of fragment remembered, there was a vast surrounding schema of memories that remained out of reach. He saw himself standing in an aquarium, the water rushing towards him, and yet he could not place where it was, much less when or why he had been there. He recalled a woman's face with surprising clarity – a co-worker perhaps, or someone he had been expected to gain the trust of. As the wave struck him, somehow it became pure energy and he became a collapsing star, scattered to the solar winds...

The train of thought became so engrossing that he scarcely even noticed when another figure entered the room.

[Karl Valten]

The man who entered the room donned only a simple black uniform. No name tag, no rank plate, no medals, only the crimson stripe trailing from the collars his tunic and down the seams of his legs gave any sort of character to the dark visage.

“Agent Belargic, it is good to see you awake and talking.” For being one of the most powerful people in the Imperium, the Grand Inquisitor looked fairly……..plain. Though it did not take a fool to notice that the few medical personnel recoiled at the man’s present.

Even within the towers of the Citadel it was a rare thing to happen upon an Inquisitor and in the more ‘public’ sections of the sprawling complex so same rumors of them floated on whispered breaths as did those outside the obsidian walls.

And as if to dispel all such dark musings, the Grand Inquisitor carried in a very much pleasant demeanor.

“You certainly have returned to us in the midst of good times. I am Grand Inquisitor Karl Valten.”

[Rossos Atrapes]

By this time, the Doctor had left the room. But he was still watching.

Behind the one-way wall, the Doctor and the Inquisitor stood and watched quietly as the Grand Inquisitor laid his own net for the captured Rebel. It might have seemed odd (to anyone other than Agent Crestmere, who most likely would have replied along the lines of 'talking to oneself allows lines of thought previously uncharted to be followed with precision'; depending on if the right personality was in control at the moment) that he hadn't dismissed the illusory Doctor, though no one would say anything to the Inquisitor about it.

"He is the key that will unlock the destruction of the Rebellion," the Inquisitor murmured.

"Perhaps. But do not allow yourself to grow complacent. He might be the one to unravel them, but his potential now may very well not exist when we need it. Always best to plan around it," the Doctor counselled. "Whatever happens, he will provide some use before his death. He is too dangerous to be kept alive for too long."

At this, the Inquisitor could only nod.

[Dasquian Belargic]

It wasn't until the words 'Grand Inquisitor' passed the newest arrivals lips that Dasquian felt a sudden hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Something about that phrase twisted inside of him, uncovering deep-seated feelings of apprehension and anxiety. For an instant, he felt the compulsion to be on his feet – whether to bow or run, he wasn't sure – but he fought it. His legs wouldn't have carried him far, anyway. He glanced up to meet Valten's eyes (so piercing), but after an instant let his gaze dip naturally back to the datapad in his hands.

“Good times, Grand Inquisitor? What.. has happened?”

[Karl Valten]

The Inquisitor smiled with energy, leaning easily against a medical cabinet. Valten seemed to exude an aura of pure anticipation and optimism normally only seen with the youngest Inquisitors....or those that were certifiably insane.

"A new age, Agent Belargic!" The Grand Inquisitor raised both hands with emphasis, his voice flowing with a zealous intensity. "An end to this strife and corruption we've had to endure these several dark years."

No more fighting a losing battle against heresy, no more struggle for the barest hold on order. No longer was the Inquisitoriate alone in their fight. Now they would have a government and a people to fight with.

"The Empire is no longer leaderless, an individual of just mind and enduring will sits on the throne! And when you are recovered, you will be able to help us sweep away terror and hoplessness from the citizens of the Imperium."

[Dasquian Belargic]

There was an intensity to the Grand Inquisitor's expression that made it difficult to hold her gaze for more than an instant. Belargic looked away, back to his datapad, and yet he still felt those manic eyes watching him, as if expecting some similar show of fervor. Where there should have been excitement and triumph, however, Dasquian only felt... uncertainty and a deepening sense of unease that grew with every minute spent in close proximity to Karl Valten.

“..I hope I can remember something useful,” he said, finding his voice once again. The Grand Inquisitors arrival had thrown his train of thought off its tracks and trying to get back on again, with Valten looming above him, was no easy feat. Mindful of the silence that had suddenly filled the room, Belargic ventured a cautious glance upwards.

[Karl Valten]

Behind the smile and fervor, the grin of a demon burned in the Inquisitor's mind. All this time chipping away at the rebellion, a group with no planets, no fleets, no government...absolutely nothing that could be smashed into dust as the Empire had grown used to.

But now the Inquisitoriate had a way to strike at the heart of the heretics without even having to fire a single weapon. And the chance had just fallen into their lap.

Still, Valten had learned in the most difficult ways imaginable not to take such seeming strokes of luck lightly. He would entrust Belargic to Inquisitor Atrapes for the time being, Valten wished to see how far Belargic could be molded.

"Do not worry to terribly about it, there are many tasks yet at hand. De-conditioning oneself takes time and patience. When the doctors are satisfied that you are in good health, you will be able to move to more comfortable quarters."

Valten stood upright, moving for the door. "Please let us know when you wish to debrief. I wish you well in the recovery of your memories, Agent Belargic"

[Rossos Atrapes]

It was silent in the observation room when Valten entered. Atrapes was alone, staring through the transparent wall and at Belargic.

"Belargic, even without a past or personality to rely on, seems to be fighting any indoctrination we are trying to put out," he murmured. His voice hummed lowly in the quiet air. "If we are given enough time, he will turn. That is undeniable, but relies on the if of time. We cannot rely on such insubstantial and fickle concepts."

He turned to give the Grand Inquisitor a neutral look. "We'll have to step up the schedule and debrief him soon; we must have him off balance by the time the memories arrive or he will stabilize, and we will get nothing but screams and what we can glean through the Force as he is drugged and tortured. It will be undoubtedly less than if this is successful."

[Dasquian Belargic]

With the Grand Inquisitor's departure, Dasquian was left alone, with only his thoughts. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, to be free from the gaze of Karl Valten. There was something about that man that set Dasquian completely on edge, put him in an inexplicable state of borderline panic. At first he had thought that perhaps it was a side-effect of knowing that Valten was his superior, that his livelihood depended on the Grand Inquisitor's approval of his status as an Agent – but something told him it was more than that. Some niggling in the back of his mind was telling him to be wary of Grand Inquisitor Valten...

His eyes fell once more on the datapad he held, returning his focus to the task at hand. It was a frustrating fact of life that whenever a fact was essential, it was out of reach. You could think on it as much as you wanted, trying to tease it out of the darkness of memory, but it would only come when it was ready – usually in the middle of the night, tearing you out of some pleasant dream with a sudden epiphany. Dream... dreams... Dasquian frowned, as he felt something creeping into his consciousness.

A starship. Violence. Death. Dead-eyes staring up at him. A body slumped over. His own panic. The memory.. was it a dream? It felt blurred, indistinct, and the more he thought about it the more it merged and blended with other new-blooming thoughts, until it was as if someone had spliced a film reel into his mind, all shots and scenes muddled into a non-linear stream of imagery. There was a connection to it all somehow, a unifying and underlying theme: fear. His heart-rate spiked suddenly, as the image of a white-clad Stormtrooper striking him to the ground with the barrel of a gun materialized before his eyes...

[Rossos Atrapes]

The door slid open with its customary small hiss. The Doctor entered looking at his datapad again.

"How are you feeling, Agent Belargic?" he said, walking over to the younger looking man. "How did the meeting with the Grand Inquisitor go? I'd heard he dropped in personally while I was out attending some training injuries."

The Doctor shivered a bit, but shook his head. He finally looked up from his datapad and his brow furrowed. "You're looking pale. Remember something bad?"

He'd wait until the man was fully intent on his own memories, before going through with what he had planned for the Rebel. He needed the man completely and totally distracted so he could push the small memories into his mind.

[Dasquian Belargic]

Was there any right way to answer that question? Paranoia – a deep, almost genetically ingrained paranoia – told him to keep his mouth shut, that revealing what he remembered (or at least what he thought he remembered) would lead him down a path he did not want to set foot on. Still, an answer was expected, and it had been made clear that he was to be shackled to his task, if not literally then at least metaphorically, until he had regained his lost memories.

“A botched mission. My cover was blown and...” he faltered. The Doctor met his eyes with an unwavering stare, that gaze reaching deep inside of him, shining like a torchlight into the darkness. “A platoon of Stormtroopers tried to gun me down.”

[Rossos Atrapes]

The Doctor nodded. "Very good," he murmured, gently pushing a few memories into his head that would surface while he slept. He'd needed to banish the Doctor illusion and meditate deeply in order to make sure that they were flawless in their execution; their design... well, that would be seen in due time.

"Do you know how long ago this occurred?" he asked. "This might have happened several times, for all we know. You did serve in deep cover, and sometimes there's accidental friendly fire in those situations, hmm?"

The Doctor shifted on his feet, making sure to keep a gentle but firm look on Belargic's person. What was about to happen next would undoubtedly unsettle him.

[Dasquian Belargic]

It hadn't felt like friendly fire. It had felt like running toward a firing squad. If they had genuinely believed that he, so deep undercover, was the enemy, then he in turn had almost certainly believed the same of them.

“It seems like a.. fresh memory. It all ends with a flash.. a grenade, perhaps.”

His eyes moved, not taking in anything they saw, over the text he had inputted to the datapad. It was a jumble of thoughts, an outpouring in a stream of consciousness fashion. It would have surprised him if they could glean anything from the account, but perhaps they were see the common thread which he could not.

[Rossos Atrapes]

"I've received an order, Agent," the Doctor said quietly. "You're wanted for a brief discussion with the Inquisitor-Administrator of Imperial Centre. He wishes to discuss something very close to this. I've advised him that you're still recovering, but it's very important, you see."

There was something not bending in Belargic, Atrapes could see it, though after hardly a day, one could hardly hope for him to be humming the Imperial Anthem. They needed to keep the man off-balance, and unfortunately they would have to be less subtle about it as well.

[Dasquian Belargic]

“The Administrator,” Dasquian repeated, as if forming the words with his own lips might give them some more meaning. As it was, they struck no chord in him- created none of the resonance that Karl Valten's presence had. Still, the thought of a discussion now, in this frame of mind, made him anxious to say the least.

“I'm afraid I don't remember the way to his office,” he confessed at last, the absence of memory continuing to make him feel vaguely incompetent.

[Rossos Atrapes]

The Doctor gave a friendly grin.

"I wouldn't worry about that. To tell the truth, if you did remember the way to his Office, I'd be a bit suspicious. He's only been Administrator for a month or so. Moved his office to a different room than the previous one."

He shrugged, moving forward and giving the screen at the foot of Belargic's bed a look.

"You seem to be doing alright. There'll be a Protocol droid coming by in a few moments. He'll have a cane. Then I'll lead you to Inquisitor Atrapes's office, once I'm sure that you can make it. He's pretty patient, and he only said that he wanted to see you as soon as you could walk."

The Doctor gave him another friendly look. "Patient first and all that," he said with a grin.

[Dasquian Belargic]

As optimistic as the Doctor was, Belargic couldn't must a grin to match his – though he did smile a little. Sure enough, a protocol 'droid arrived within a matter of minutes to act as his escort. It had the cheerful disposition that all 'droids of its model had (how do I know that... when have I met a droid like this before? remember...)

“This way, sir,” it said with a gesture towards the door it had arrived through. Dasquian rose to his feet and though he had wondered at first whether the cane would be necessary, he felt his body ache and shudder a little, so was thankful for the support. He glanced back to the Doctor, who nodded and, with his clipboard held to his chest, followed Belargic and the droid out into the hallway beyond the examination room...

[Rossos Atrapes]

The corridor outside Belargic's room was dark and black; a shiny, glossy matte black that seemed to somehow glow darkly in the little lighting that was shed. It was also silent, completely silent, save for the shuffle of his slippers on the smooth ground, the taps of the C-series protocol droid, and the doctor's own silent footwear.

It was a long way from Belargic's cell (though he was unaware of it being that, as opposed to a medic ward room) to the upper levels, where the Administrator's office was located. Occasionally they passed a number of other droids and personnel, but the silence was not broken, each person they passed, or who passed them, looked quite busy or was reading a datapad intently.

The ride in the turbolift was silent, save for the hiss of the machinery as it worked efficiently. The turbolift doors hissed open, and down the hall was a number of doors, much like the hall where Belargic was kept, but the air, or something just as intangible, was different about this floor; it was both more and less oppressive. Just as matte black, and just as quiet and coldly impersonal.

A door slid open at the far end of the hall, and what looked like a waiting room was revealed, with a small desk and a droid sitting there. It turned its mechanical face towards them, and asked in a tinny voice:

"Appointment?"

The Doctor nodded, but said nothing. Surprisingly, this reply was all that was needed, and the inner door slid open. The protocol droid helping Belargic began to shuffle slowly in, leading the tired man inside. It was only after the door slid closed behind him that he realised the Doctor had not entered with him.

Before him lay arrayed a large desk in a large office, with a few sparse pieces of art, some surprisingly not holographic pictures, but actual paintings, canvas and oil. Most were serene images of landscapes and motionless figures of people, all with a solemn gaze fixed onto the viewer.

Behind the desk was a large, high-backed chair that was facing away from him; it was facing toward the open window showing the City sprawled out before them, with it spires and buildings silhouetted by a setting sun.

"I would assume that you are quite tired, Agent," came a voice from somewhere within the embrace of the chair. It was difficult, but with effort, through the glare of the sunlight one could see a hologram before the speaker, notes and pictures and data flying across it almost too fast for someone to read.

"I won't be keeping you for too long, though I do assume that you'll need a seat."

Almost as if waiting for the implied command, a chair hovered out from a dark corner, placing itself somewhat to the front and side of the unwitting prisoner.

"Higher placed officials are clamouring for information, despite our arguments that it would take some time; apparently more time than they are willing to give us, and you. So, in order to make sure that what you remember is orderly and reflected through knowledge that you mightn't even know when you recover your memories, I am to brief you quickly on your very own history."

[Dasquian Belargic]

There was an oppressive orderliness to the corridors he was lead through. A sense of immaculate sterility, not only of bacteria and dirt but also any kind of character of emotion. There was nothing to distinguish one walk way from the next – at least nothing that Dasquian could discern – and had he not been guided to his destination, he thought he could have wandered those labyrinthine hallways for hours without success. Even the people they passed seemed plain and immediately forgettable.

The Administrator's office was another matter entirely. The evening sun, filtered through the vast floor to ceiling windows, fell upon all kinds of peculiarities that seemed out of place in such a sparse building – and yet at the same time Dasquian could not help but get the impression that there was an order here even, a design or pattern to the way each painting was positioned. His eyes lingered for a moment on one particular landscape: an oil painting in olive, goldenrod and sooty browns, depicting what looked like a castle...

“I would assume that you are quite tired, Agent.”

A chair arrived at his side and, unthinking, Dasquian sat down to listen to what the Administrator had to say. Without meaning to do so, his mind began to form a picture of how he imagined the Administrator to look, taking cues from everything from the decoration of his office, to the sound of his voice, to the way his chair creaked very faintly as he made some movement that remained unseen.

“I'd be grateful for anything you have to tell me, Administrator.”

[Rossos Atrapes]

Again, there was a silence in the room after Belargic made his remark for a short moment. If Belargic was Force-sensitive, he might have sensed a faint hint of amusement from the Administrator.

From the desk came up a hologram of data that would both seem very familiar and yet not to the muddled Rebel; a picture of him with a faint grin was prominent in the top right corner of the image, while arranged to the left and below were his vital information: name, age, date of birth (in galactic standard years), place of birth, hair, eye, and skin colour... all of it was present.

"You are Agent Dasquian Belargic, aged 29 galactic standard years. You are Hapan by birth, and through circumstances beyond your control, you fled the Cluster. You gained the interest of Imperial Intelligence, and were recruited around the fifteenth year past the inception of the Empire."

At this point, a picture of Belargic was shown in the dark colours of a Imperial Intelligence Cadet, with a number of other students. If Belargic had more control over his memories, he would have been grudgingly impressed with the detail in the faked images.

"The Office of the Inquisitoriate took over your training, moulding you into a spy, as befitted your abilities. You were a good student, your records show. After three years of training, you applied for and were accepted as the operative in the deep cover mission code-named Horizon. Selected parts of your memory were sealed to better allow your mission to succeed, and subconscious commands were placed to have significant information forwarded to a secure log station, which we had access to. It was in this that you aided the escape of one Grace Van-Derveld from the Imperial Academy of Carida, and through her, joined with the Alliance to Restore the Republic."

An image of Grace was now prominently displayed, in her Academy uniform.

"For some time, other than through short correspondences often months or years apart, we received no word from you, though some information was highly prized and useful. Finally, using a Rebel asset we had turned, Whill Shoashian, we chose to retrieve you from your mission."

Shoashian's picture, showing him in a group photo with COMPNOR, was shown, and his visage enlarged.

"With no way to contact you securely, and by all accounts having failed with the subconscious commands, we needed to get you as quickly as possible. Our capture of Van-Derveld was an added success."

There was a pause, and the last image remained, a picture of Van-Derveld, her arms bound behind her back and blindfolded, surrounded by Stormtroopers, remained.

"Do you have any questions? Remember, there are some things you should not know, and thus will not be told, even if you ask the question. It is better to be alive and ignorant with the chance of gaining knowledge later, than to be dead and unable to share what you have learned."

[Dasquian Belargic]

Each image triggered a new response. First, that of himself dressed as an Imperial cadet. Buried memories were struggling their way to the surface, recollections of a time when he had – without doubt – worn that uniform. He recalled a mountainous world (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Prakith) and somehow, as Grace Van-Derveld's image appeared, the two seemed congruous with one another, both symbolizing some kind of triumph. Whill Shoashian, on the other hand, inspired a vague feeling of... failure.

The final image, of Van-Derveld under arrest, continued to flicker and focus in silence as Dasquian weigh the Administrator's question. Could he tolerate ignorance? Some deep-seated part of him said no, but an equally instinctual feeling inside of him said that to challenge Rossos Atrapes then and there would have been suicidal. If he was going to learn what they didn't want him to know (what is he hiding? What am I hiding?), it would have to be by more subtle means.

“No questions, sir. If that's all...” His fingertips curled around the arms of his chair, tensing as he prepared to stand.

[Rossos Atrapes]

<meta http-equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 3.0 (Win32)"><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --> </style> The Administrator remained in his seat, silent for a few moments. “That will be all, Agent. Be sure to sleep well, as you will have a busy day tomorrow. The briefing has been put off until you demonstrate that your memories are clearer. Tomorrow, we shall do all we can to hasten the process. Understood?”


He did not turn to face the Rebel, even now. Belargic murmured his understanding, and the Inquisitor waved a hand idly, motioning the man away.