A Lesson in Responsibility

[Lúka Jibral]

"Weapons and electronics, in the box."

Lúka rose an indignant eyebrow at the security guard.

"Really?"

The only response was stoic silence from the man, safely sequestered behind blaster-proof transparisteel, and a reception desk that he seemed to believe made him untouchable. The sense of smug superiority was clearly well at home on the officer's portly shoulders, born from a level of comfort that, if his girth was anything to go by, was as much physical as it was about status. The Coruscant Security Force uniform clung a little more snugly than it was designed to, and it didn't take observation skills as honed as Lúka's to notice the slight remnant of jam and the few grains of sugar embedded into the woollen weave of his vertically ribbed sweater; collateral damage from a recently decimated doughnut, no doubt. Lúka could tell that the attitude was well-established, because clearly it wasn't reactive to his current situation. If it were, the CSF Captain would have realised that an inch or two of transparisteel would do precisely nothing to protect him from a man who could reach out with the Force to throttle him without so much as a gesture, or pierce a lightsaber through the barrier and the man's heart in less than a second.

Lúka offered a tight-lipped smile that was more grimace than anything pleasant, clenched jaw serving as a barricade against the deeply heartfelt sigh that wanted to erupt forth. He held it at bay as he detached his lightsaber from his belt, retrieved the slugthrower from the small of his back, and the concealed hold-out blaster tucked into his boot. His Knight-issued comlink and his code cylinders were added to the duraplast container and, with a brief sidelong glance at the scanner arch that loomed above the entranceway to his left, his unauthorised second comlink was added to the tray as well.

"Happy?"

The security gate beside Lúka provided an answer: a grating, electronic buzz of an alarm sounded as the locking mechanisms were disabled, the air cracking a moment later as the ray shield followed suit. A faint ghost of a sigh leaked out from behind Lúka's failing smile.

"Thanks, Captain. You're a real peach."

Wordlessly, the receptionist gestured to one of his subordinates on Lúka's side of the glass, and the Imperial Knight found himself subtly ushered past the security checkpoint, and into the maximum security wing. This one, a red headed Sergeant, lacked the complacent self-satisfaction of the Captain, replacing it instead with the familiar air of frustrated tiredness that belonged to a woman who hated every moment of her job and every single one of her colleagues, and badly needed to be left alone with a lap full of loth cat, and an unending supply of wine. Lúka communicated with her in the time-honoured tradition of disgruntled employees: a wordless upwards nod of the head, and then a descendance of silence where neither looked at the other.

The walk to the appropriate holding cell was blissfully short.

"I'll take it from here," Lúka uttered, just before the Sergeant could slide her code cylinder into the cell's lock.

Scepticism painted itself across her entire face.

"You sure? This frikkin' nutter is dangerous."

A hint of a smile curled at the corner of Lúka's mouth.

"Don't worry, Sergeant. So am I."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

The bracers were a specialty item, he had been told, something to prevent his kind from destroying and becoming free of. His kind, it felt vulgar to put it in such terms, as if the entirety of every person who had ever been touched in such a way could all be summed up in such a crude fashion. The boy had still tried a bit of resistance though, a tug here, a sudden jerk of his hands against the restraints there - all to be rewarded with a satisfactory shock that said he was well and truly fucked this time.

Oh this wasn't his first dalliance waiting in a holding cell with hands and feet bound to prevent him from finding a comfortable position to sit. This was however, the single longest he had spent in such a room. Usually the evidence against him was petty - much like the crimes committed themselves - and it was a quick speech from an over eager man in a suit or uniform before he was passed to a quick trial, and then a short stint in one of Coruscant's fine establishments meant for rehabilitation. Jensen knew this routine, was as familiar with it as a route to the store and back home again. This was off routine, however, and that has his curiosity piqued.

Not entirely. He had been a bit excessive in his getaway attempt this time. It explained the changeover in bracers, but not the over long wait. Maybe they wanted him to worry or begin to contemplate worst case scenarios. Idiots, didn't they realize he was already living that to full expectation?

He let out a sigh, not a meek one, but one that fully spoke of boredom and annoyance and a desire to Get the Frak ON WITH IT already. Jensen leaned his head back and starred up at the ceiling, watching an annoying scrap of something that was taped to the edge of the one of the duct vents just beyond his cell wave as the air moved into the semi-enclosed space. It wasn't the first indication that things were suddenly about to change, he had his feelings to thank for that, a small prickle at the back of his mind vied for attention before his external senses picked up on the fact someone was in the hallway; the piece of material he was eyeing swayed as someone came to a stop outside his cell and the tell-tale resonance of a lock being undone finished it off.

"Well, it's about time." The young man drawled, not quite a sigh in itself but close enough.

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but what met him was a sorry sight. A disappointing array of other sensations backed it up as well. The law enforcement reports had warned of a dangerous Force User. Dangerous. Lúka knew that seeing the seemingly impossible could be intimidating to the uninitiated, but Lúka had a hard time imagining this boy truly deserving it; not in this state, at least.

Angry. That was definitely an apt description, though as with so many humans his age, it lacked focus and definition. Perhaps annoyed was closer to the mark; or perhaps frustrated. Jensen Par'Vizal certainly wasn't phased by his incarceration, and why would he be? It was hardly the first time. It was the first time being detained for Unlawful Use of Unregistered Force Ability, however. Even towards that though, Lúka sensed no real reaction: mostly apathy, disinterest, and boredom. It was an inconvenience being here, and that seemed to be the extent of it.

But then, Jensen lacked so much of what made others vulnerable to the punishment of incarceration. He had no family to disappoint, or to leave neglected in his absence. His life had no real direction or purpose that jail time interrupted. Death, disappointment, and dismay draped across every sentence that Lúka had unearthed about the boy. He was listless; rudderless; a ship without a sail. The Imperial Knights had an armada of those; perhaps with a little work, and a little course correction, Jensen could be driven along by the same winds.

"I'm sorry," Lúka countered, injecting a healthy dose of indignant attitude into his words. "You got somewhere better to be?"

A dismissive chuckle breathed it's way out of Lúka's nose, his arms folding across his chest.

"Need me to take off those shackles so the big scary Force User can run on home to his mommy?"

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Jensen knew the comment was meant to anger him, even if the man in front of him wasn't aware of the full impact of what he had said. He wanted to just sit and play a round of verbal chess with this new face, but his body - and his ire - just didn't cooperate. Jensen was on his feet before the jolt from the bracers even registered, to the teen's credit he weathered the shock and let an aggressive roll of his shoulder try and brush it off; the effect only marginally worked. The sudden flare of pain and his earlier tests knew he couldn't fully lash out at the man, but he did manage to stand almost toe-to-toe with him.

It took a few deep breaths and a bit of staring down the taller individual before he could muster the ability to form a clear thought rather than just the instinct that had caused is initial reaction.

"I hate to dissolve that notion but I'm not exactly one of those perverts who goes tramping through cemeteries."

He let the comment air there for just a moment before he stepped back - well, shuffled back - away from the man. The tension in his body lessened, though didn't fully drain away, more like a serpent coiling inward yet still prepared to strike if necessary. The bench behind him was considered for a moment, but the young man didn't want to go into full retreat, not after his already traitorous advance well ahead of time.

"You're new. Let me guess, you're here to break me? Make sure I behave so they don't have to worry about getting hurt when they send me to whatever hole they drop people like me into?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka weathered the ire and the glare unflinching, meeting Jensen's angry stare with an impassive one of his own. His shoulders flexed as Par'Vizal made his paltry attempt at intimidation, but Lúka didn't capitalise it; didn't overstate their difference in height; didn't allow himself to give the impression that any effort whatsoever was required to underscore his refusal to back down. Jensen subsided, though that hardly diminished him as a hypothetical threat; Lúka let him make his remarks, let his tongue get in what must have felt like cutting remarks.

"Not exactly."

Those words, and a simple jerk of Lúka's chin was all that was offered outwardly. The rest was unseen, mind reaching out to the Force that surrounded them, willing it to form like a tidal wave behind him. Without so much as even the slightest gesture from his still folded arms, the wave surged forward, battering into Jensen Par'Vizal, shoving him backwards just enough to deposit him unceremoniously back on the bench he'd just abandoned.

Lúka offered a small, serpentine smile.

"I'm more of what you'd call a welcome wagon," he countered. His gaze lingered, and his voice picked up a new trait, a direct echo of the same infantile disinterest that was carried by Jensen's. "My associates seem to think you might actually be worth our time, but I don't see it."

His face rearranged into a grimace, another deliberately crafted emotional blow swinging itself at Jensen's vulnerable nerves.

"Like father like son, I suppose."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

The surprise from finding himself suddenly seated again without so much as any real movement from the man in front of him was held close in check, or about as much as could be through what Jensen hoped was a suitable glare and a deep breath. There was a game here, the comment regarding his father was only further proof of it, and he - even if rather petulantly - refused to become a pawn in it.

Another breath was taken and on the exhale the teen pushed his back against the cell wall behind him, he doubted it would be much support if the so called welcome wagon decided to continue to jab at him, but the cool duracrete provided a solidity that Jensen wished he could exhibit as well.

"My father was a good man," he replied and despite best effort to keep it calm, there was no hiding the razor's edge to his tone. "Until he wasn't."

His eyes moved away from the (what he could only guess was an) Imperial representative, down to his bracers and back again.

"I'm nothing like him."

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka shrugged, taking a step and a half backwards, heel finding the cell wall behind him. He settled himself into place, leaning against it, eyes never once deviating from Par'Vizal.

"You certainly seem to hang out in a lot of the same places," Lúka countered. "Police speeders, holding cells -"

He trailed off, letting his senses skim across Jensen's surface thoughts, as each emotional reaction to his deliberate probes and jabs played out. The reactions were different than what Lúka might have expected. There was anger, yes, and defiance; but the defensive layer of attitude seemed to work both ways, protecting Jensen against the emotions Lúka sought to provoke while at the same time holding back any outbursts that tried to unleash themselves. The bracers helped of course, technology adding an extra incentive for Jensen's emotions to remain under control. That mitigating factor was negated with a swipe of Lúka's hand, the bracers turning dark and silent, latches disengaging with a subtle click.

"Your father was a fool, and a coward."

Lúka injected a little extra heat into his next round of provocations.

"He asked the wrong questions, blamed the wrong people, and it undid him. He lost his way, and in the end he abandoned your mother to struggle with her grief alone. And she, in turn, abandoned you."

He shook his head, staging a laugh at the alleged irony of it all.

"It's funny, really. Your entire family, so eager to blame all the wrong people, when really?"

Ice crept into Lúka's voice and expression.

"You should be blaming your sister. She's the one who got herself killed."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Jesen's eyes had fallen back to the unlocked bracers as he weathered the verbal onslaught, letting the offending objects be fully shrugged off as he rubbed at his writs. He heard each word, felt the sting of each memory that was brought up. There was only one accusation this was leading to, one that his own mind had replayed over and over again. He was to blame, he wasn't good enough to be a reason for his parents to find an anchor in this world instead of losing themselves to their misery. But when his antagonizer reached his crescendo it was not Jensen that the blame was placed upon, but rather the one soul in the entire mess that was purely innocent.

And then something inside of him snapped.

His head shot back up so his eyes could bore into the man in font of him and a hand jolted forward, fingers splayed as tendons flexed. The bracers from his wrists that had his attention suddenly flew forward toward the man as Jensen only barely leaned into the motion from where he sat.

"She didn't get herself killed!"

Without thinking of consequences his second hand raised up before mimicking the movement of the right, sending the shackles that had kept his legs more or less restrained towards the man as well.

"She was murdered in cold blood!"

[Lúka Jibral]

There it was. There was the anger powerful enough to flip speeders end over end. Yet, while it was the emotional reaction he had sought, the presentation was utterly unexpected. Lúka would have predicted brutality, recklessness, a surge of raw emotion and power. Instead what Jensen unleashed was focused and controlled. Lúka had been sent here on behalf of the Citadel to evaluate the prisoner's potential as a candidate for training; Lúka had not quite expected that potential to be quite so advanced. It forced him to consider the boy differently: forced him to consider the kind of psyche that allowed him to channel his anger with such ease.

First though, there was the small matter of Jensen's crude projectiles to contend with as well. Moving more with disinterest than urgency, Lúka held out a hand, sending his own impulse through the Force to take control of the hurled shackles. His abilities practised into near instinct, Lúka compelled their momentum towards him to dissipate, shuddering slightly in the air before they clattered to the ground. Lúka's hand didn't abate however: it reached beyond the shackles, tendrils of Force beginning to reach outwards as his fingertips splayed, coiling their way around Par'Vizal.

"There it is."

Lúka took a step forward, his outward demeanour utterly calm again, despite the raging inferno of anger that churned away behind the carefully crafted dam in his mind. His hand rotated slowly, fingers beginning to curl as the invisible Force tendrils coiled around around Jensen's shoulders and throat. Tendons tightened and strained as the outstretched arm rose slowly upwards, the Force hoisting Jensen from his seat, constricting tighter around him with every tightening degree of Lúka's fingers.

"I was worried that coming out here would be a complete and utter waist of time."

He advanced another step, and channelled the Force away from his fingertips, feeling the tension flow up through his arm and into his shoulder, following the arteries up the side of his neck and into his mind. The arm fell slowly back to his side, the somatic aspect of focusing the Force set aside, the root of the Force energy that connecting him to Jensen settling into place between his brow.

He cocked his head to the side, watching Jensen's throat struggle against the coil of Force that squeezed against his windpipe. The faintest ghost of a smile tugged at Lúka's mouth.

"That hole that people like you get dropped into? It says hello."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

The instinct to grasp at his throat was strong, even knowing there was nothing there to pull away. There were a few moments where his hands raised to chest level before being forced back down to his sides. Of course he had heard all the stories growing up of the so-called Peace Keepers of the Republic, The Force and all it's mysticism, and the even more prolific propaganda that flooded the streets of the Empress' new Knights. Was that what this man was? Was that the associates that he was referring to? If that were the case then there was little Jensen could do to prevent the man from killing him... if he wished. He wasn't dead, though, and surely the Empire's new specialist soldiers had better things to do than play loth-cat and scrap mouse with some delinquent. Not that the teen considered himself special, but there was more to this. There had to be.

The sensation of being lifted from his neck screamed at him to fight against, to thrash and jerk, but rather he tried to keep the same calm that had held him so far. It wasn't peaceful, though. Far from it. When most others he had come across his age became angry they lashed out with fists and hatred. Jensen preferred to be silent, keeping it bottled up and rotting within him until the time was right. He'd struck too soon this time, however, and the ease with which his attack was ended was all together infuriating and intriguing.

"Salutations, then." The words came out half choked and struggled for.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the pressure on his throat being shoved away but no avail and a few more fought for breaths granted enough time to attempt once more. Still nothing. The pressure wasn't lethal...yet. Though Jensen was fully aware he couldn't remain like this for much longer and keep consciousness.

An eye cracked open and stared back down at his attacker.

"Afraid I haven't... quite figured out... how to counteract that one...Sorry to disappoint."

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka allowed the Force to hold Par'Vizal aloft a little longer, before depositing abruptly - but not violently - back onto the bench.

His arms made their way back towards their comfortable position folded across his chest, but not before a hand could scrub thoughtfully at his jaw for a moment. "Salutations? Really?"

A faint chuckle escaped from Lúka, and his demeanour settled back into the guise that had become his default: the balance of stern and approachable that most Cadets seemed to want to find in an instructor; someone who was both an ally, but also someone you knew wouldn't let you get away with it for long if you decided to screw around. It was strange, having a specific default to fall into. He supposed that back at the Archives his default had been professionalism and neutrality, but it didn't quite seem the same. It didn't feel the same as his other guises or performances either, not some cover story that he needed to carefully ensure that he adhered to: simply an incentive to be a certain version of himself, through action rather than illusion. It still felt like an act in some senses, but it felt less fraudulent somehow: something closer to how he observed others acting, when their social selves and private selves didn't quite align.

He contemplated the boy in front of him, his mind weighing Par'Vizal's choices and actions, scrutinising them for the clues and tells they revealed about his character. As expected, the boy could be provoked into an outburst: but it had been focused, not reckless, a trait that Lúka wished more of his Cadets possessed. When confronted with a no-win scenario, an opponent that he couldn't defeat, Par'Vizal had been conscious and accepting of that, not foolishly rebellious like some might have been; but he didn't merely surrender, he backed down on his own terms with a glimmer of defiance - and intellectual defiance at that, a sure sign that Par'Vizal possessed an ability to keep his wits about him. That was promising; more promising than Lúka could realistically have hoped for, given the circumstances.

A few promising indications however were a far cry from a viable candidate for the Imperial Knights, however.

"You're right," Lúka admitted, retreating back to the opposite wall once more, folded arms and leaning posture resumed. "About your sister, I mean. She was murdered."

His brow furrowed.

"But your parents had some problematic ideas about who deserved the blame. Your father blamed the Empire; your mother blamed herself; and now here you are, tossing speeders around and generally making a nuisance of yourself, setting all kinds of worrying precedents. Who you blame, and what you might do to them with those powers of yours, is more than a little concerning to my associates."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

It was only when the man took on a more relaxed position of his own that Jensen finally indulged in the urge to rub at his neck a bit. A wary eye was kept upon the intruder to his little cell, though. Now that he knew what the other was capable of and just how much he was out matched, he vowed to keep himself a bit more mindful of his reactions. As the other continued he settled back against the wall of the cell and let what the implied questions and accusations sink in.

"I suppose there's a lot of people that could be blamed," He began, his voice having lost most of it's previous venomous undercurrent. "I've probably gone through the entire gamut. The Rebellion for inciting the violence that day; the old Emperor and his regime for producing such an inefficient atmosphere of intolerance as to make his people want to rebel; my parents for not being able to overcome the fallout and appreciate what they still had..."

Jensen frowned as he trailed off and his posture followed; legs separating to shoulder width apart as he slumped forward, his elbows found their way to his knees and from there he interlaced his fingers in front of him. It wasn't entirely a look of defeat, though there was certainly an air of that in the unspoken admission that came with his last statement. Not that he didn't expect the man to have already made such an assumption - it seemed he knew enough of the story to be able to piece together such things.

"And of course myself, though not in the same way my mother fell into that. I'm not really sure what she blamed herself for, but it became pretty clear as time went on what I needed to shoulder."

He nodded to himself as if the list suddenly had ran through his mind at length. A small shrug of his shoulder had him sitting up a bit again, just enough to straighten his spine.

"As far as what I would do to the person actually responsible? I have a few... Creative ideas. Though sadly most of them leave the miserable bastard alive. They deserve to face actual justice, not just my own vengeance. My sister probably wasn't the only one to die from their reckless blaster fire that day."

[Lúka Jibral]

It was strange to hear the young man speak of something so emotional in such a way. It was not dispassionate, but his words did carry an objectivity that few were able to achieve. It was refreshing, and familiar, a mindset that Lúka recognised - though for Par'Vizal it had evolved far faster, and without the same external necessities. Lúka tried to compare their situations, but found it difficult: the concept of family was alien to him, but the notions of loss and betrayal by those you trusted and cared for was not. So much potential existed beneath the surface with Jensen, and though Lúka forced himself to remain detached and finish his assessment before arriving at any decisions, that effort was becoming increasingly difficult.

The notion of creative ideas though, that latched into Lúka's mind like a thorn. It spoke of a calculated ruthlessness, that some may have found unsettling. To Lúka, it only deepened his potential. Creative retribution had been more the forte of the Inquisitors, but the Imperial Knights still valued such traits. The distinction meanwhile, between vengeance and justice? That spoke of further promise: the sort of trait that would be invaluable for someone tasked with enforcing the will of the Empress. But there was a difference between stating it, and living up to that assertion. Jensen had been easy to provoke, and if the mere mention of his relatives could trigger such a response, how would he react when his sister's murderers were placed in front of him?

Quiet contemplation settled across Lúka's features. Such things could be probed and investigated in time. For now, there were more pressing queries.

"You speak of justice, and yet you regard the potential ramifications for your actions with a certain bitterness. What about justice against you, for your crimes and your recklessness? What about justice for the police officer floating in a bacta tank because you got reckless with your abilities?"

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Jensen untangled his forefingers and set the tips against each other, tapping as he mulled over the question. He knew there had been a certain amount of people who had been in the line of fire when he had over reached. The use of the airspeeder hadn't exactly been planned, after all. Truth was, when the impulse came he wasn't even sure it could be used; there had been an honest moment he could clearly recall when the surprise on the officer's face must have been reflected in his own features.

That wasn't the real question, though. Not why he had done it, or how; but what he thought of the ramifications of what he had done, the people that had been injured as a result.

"As a member of law enforcement, the officer knew the risks his job could have," Jensen began, trying to keep only the visual of the uniformed individual in his thoughts. "Granted, they perhaps do not expect to have to handle such a situation as he did, but I think it's foolish to say that they don't receive some sort of training. Force Users are hardly the strangest things that exist on Coruscant, I would think."

He paused and unlaced his fingers and brought up a hand to rest against his chin. The teen was still considering the situation, replaying it over and over again.

"Granted, I'm not trying to say what I did was right. But, I don't exactly feel guilty about it, either. The officer already accepted the possibility of injury or even death when he chose his profession. He is not dead, however. He will recover."

Even as he spoke his mind detoured from his desired recollection. The airspeeder he had used... There had been other problems with it. Problems he hadn't expected. When Jensen had walked down the street on the way to his intended target he couldn't help but take notice of the vehicles parked there, the timers on the meters reflecting the probability of their owners returning. He hadn't planned on using that information for anything, but it was there when he had needed it.

Two hours. The speeder in question had just shy two hours left on the meter. There shouldn't have been anyone else there. There shouldn't have been anyone inside.

Jensen slowly let his eyes meet those of his interrogator again.

"What happened to the other person?"

[Lúka Jibral]

"That's a bunch of Forceshit."

Lúka utterly denied the question that Jensen asked, and responded to his enquiring eyes with a flash of fire in his own, voice firing out between clenched teeth like a shot from a slugthrower.

"You're a smart kid, Par'Vizal, but that is the most idiotic piece of half-assed justification I have ever heard."

He didn't adjust his position, and his expression didn't change, not really; but aggressive condemnation radiated from him, thick in his voice, and rippling off him like angry waves through the Force. It wasn't an uncalculated response, but it wasn't staged either. His disappointment, dismay, and irritation at Par'Vizal's answer were entirely genuine: he merely shaped them into daggers, and glared them in the boy's direction.

"That innocent bystander is in a coma, thanks to you. His wife and daughter might loose him, because of you."

The muscles in Lúka's jaw bunched.

"And that officer? He took a job to protect people, to safeguard them from crime and from danger. Saying that he knew the risks? That's like justifying stealing by saying a shopkeep should have known it might happen when he opened his business. It's pathetic. Selfish. Pitiful. And I am damn sure your parents raised you better than that. You should be ashamed of yourself. They would be."

Lúka could have left it there, but he didn't. He straightened up from the wall, arms unfolding to fall by his sides. It wasn't aggressive, it wasn't threatening per se; but it was a challenge, daring Par'Vizal to continue down this avenue of idiocy.

"And you're wrong. Civilian law enforcement isn't trained to deal with shit like this, and little shits like you. That's why people like me exist, and it's why people like you end up in the ground more often than not. Not a hole, not a prison: just dead."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Jensen had realized what he was saying was the sort of thing that most people didn't agree with, but given the way the man had taken all his answers before that point in stride, he hadn't quite expected the anger that was being leveled at him. He made a mental note about the seeming unacceptability of his partial indifference; just another thing to work on, then.

To his credit, the boy didn't shy away, but weathered the other's rage, taking each point that was made - maybe not to heart - but certainly listening to them all the same. He wasn't entirely relieved to hear that the bystander wasn't dead because of him, though he knew he should have been. It was a weakness of some nature, but at least it was one that Jensen knew about himself. The only problem was getting anyone else to understand his view on that.

"I'm not proud of what I've done," He said softly, knowing full well it didn't absolve him. Trouble was he wasn't ashamed, either.

When he spoke again it was a bit more hurried than it had been, losing some of the calm he had been projecting. "But I'm not going to apologize, either. I can't fake remorse when I don't have any and doing so would be an even greater dishonor to those I've wronged than what's already happened."

Jensen stopped short and let out a huff of breath through his nose as he sat back on the bench and looked away. It was easy to understand those things about himself, consider them just another part of who he was and what the galaxy had made of him. Hearing it spoken, however, was something else entirely.

"Well, guess this means I've failed your little test, huh?"

There was no self pity in the comment as he returned to the calm measured way he had been speaking.

[Lúka Jibral]

An honest assessment of his emotional shortcomings. It was the kind of self diagnostic that one expected from a droid; not so much a human being.

Over the years, Lúka had analysed all different breeds of person. Science invented words like psychopath and sociopath, in an effort to neatly categorise people into particular boxes. Lúka appreciated the sentiment, seeking to find order within a chaotic world; but he knew that the reality was far more complex. Morality was not absolute. Each world, each culture, each cadre of sentients subscribed to their own set of values. Par'Vizal spoke of honour, but ask a Mandalorian for a definition, and you'd get a different answer than you got from a Wookiee. Ask a Jedi if they should dwell on remorse for past actions, and you'd get a different answer than you would from a Senator, or a soldier, or a spacer from the Outer Rim. Right and wrong was the greatest lie of modern times: not even the simplest thing, let alone something as complex as absolute morality, ever conformed to binary black and white. Everything was shades of grey: everything was a scale, nothing ever truly existing at the extremes.

Lúka considered Jensen's question. Had he failed the test? The Knight supposed that depended on what the test was; what, specifically, it was that he was looking for. For Lúka, such evaluations had always been about a feeling, a sense, an instinctive reaction to the person with whom you spoke. It was all a matter of potential. The potential to be trained. The potential to be formidable. The potential to be loyal. Par'Vizal certainly had all of those things, but something was not quite right. Something snagged in Lúka's mind, a nagging reluctance that he couldn't quite shake. If Jensen became a Knight of the Imperial Throne, then what? What fate befell the Empire, and the people that Jensen was expected to save, if you felt no sense of remorse? How did you learn from your mistakes, how did you place the fate of others before your own, if deep down you didn't really care?

"One final question."

He changed the narrative, reshaped the test, forged it into a spear that could stab at the very heart of the matter.

"You say that you have no remorse for your actions. If that is true, then how are you any better than the people who murdered your sister?"

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

"Because I remember."

The answer came far faster than Jensen had expected. It wasn't the sort that typically warranted a quick retort, but rather a thoughtful few seconds and some sort of inspired answer. He didn't feel betrayed by his mouth, though. It was the truth, after all. There was very very little about the experience he wouldn't recall in vivid detail at some point or another and the teen very much doubted that his sister's killer could even remember what the girl he had killed had looked like; if the individual in question was even aware of damage they had done. Jensen, however, could remember everything about the people he had hurt, recall every detail that lead up to that point and could relive the very seconds of recollection and realization that there had been a person in the skycar down to the surprised and horrified countenance that had overtaken that poor individual's face just before they had vanished from boy's sight.

The momentary lapse into memory left him staring back down at his hands, not exactly the portion of himself to blame, but through which he had channeled everything. Yes, they were quite blood soaked indeed, even if no one else could perceive it.

A heavy breath left the teen before he looked back up towards his accuser.

"In basics, I am no better than they are, that much is the truth. But I want to be. I choose to be, if I am able. To learn from my mistakes, to overcome my faults. That is where we differ and I believe that makes all the difference, does it not?"

[Lúka Jibral]

It was an interesting case; an interesting perspective on the world. It was also a childish one, or naive at least, but in an understandable way. Most people suffered from an inability to imagine others complexly. Everyone else was as simple a description as one could muster. Distill those who wronged you or offended you into a few choice insults, a simpke explanation, an easy justification to make the universe fit together in an understandable way. But no one was simple. No one was merely surface descriptors, or a sentence of insight. If they were, psychoanalysts would not be such a valuable asset to so many aspects of the Empire. The truth was, those responsible for killing Jensen's sister no doubt regarded thrmselves the same way, and no doubt saw themselves as equally capable and willing to be better. Rebels, freedom fighters, terrorists; whatever term applied, they believed themselves to be performing good deeds, and committing the right act. When you believed such a thing, all manner of losses, collateral, and moral ambiguity could be justified. Just ask Alderaan.

But the validity of Jensen's beliefs mattered far less than the substance of them. Jensen sought betterment; a chance to atone, in a way. Lúka could offer that. The Knights could provide that, if presented to him in the right way. In exchange, the Empire might gain a valuable asset, a potent Force wielder, and a keen mind. If on the other hand nothing could be salvaged from Jensen Par'Vizal, it woyld be easier to address that problem discretely in the privacy of the Citadel, rather than a civil prison.

"I'd like to take you somewhere, Jensen."

Lúka chose his tone carefully, letting the faintest hint of concealment and secrecy peek through his mental barriers, enough of a lure to hopefully bait and intrigue the young man.

"There's a chance you might be of use to my organisation. I'd like to bring you in for further assessment."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

It was a natural human response to be curious about such an offer, but it was equally as natural for Jensen to assume it was a trap. The ambiguous choice of words didn't do a whole lot to sway that impression. Further assessment, of use, they sounded like vague ways of referring to a future subject of suspect tests and dissection.

Still, there was an appeal to the unknown versus the rather boring cell that the boy found himself in currently. Trap or something more promising, at least it was a way out.

The young man's hands continued to twist on themselves and for another moment Jensen allowed his eyes to watch his fingers entwining and releasing each other as if pondering the decision he'd already come to. Slowly he looked up and despite himself he allowed a half smile to slowly tug at his lips.

"So, off to the hole, then?" His shoulders shrugged and his hands opened to finish the needlessly ostentatious gesture. "Who am I to argue?"

Another small measure of time was allowed to pass before he quickly followed up, "When do we leave?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka had to concede, that was a pretty solid comeback. It was certainly deserved, given the air of mystery that Lúka had presented; an air of mystery that was technically more by Force of habit than necessity. After so long with the Inquisitors, being frugal with details had become second nature, each revelation now needing to be carefully and deliberately crafted to seem as if it was done naturally. Even now, self-aware of the unnecessary reluctance, he still had trouble providing clarification: perhaps it was just something about this cell, and this facility, that made Lúka wary of who might be listening in.

In answer to Jensen's question, Lúka did not speak: instead he strode to the doorway, extending out a hand to rest against the duracrete. It was a technique that Lúka had witnessed in his youth, and one that his time at the Black Archives had given him the opportunity to examine close hand. Reaching out with the Force, he followed the pathways between microcracks in the wall, feeling out the conduits that weaved like roots towards the mag locks on the cell door. He felt the pulse within them, electrons drifting through metal like blood cells in a vein; and subtly he began to implore them into a different course, arcing across disengaged switches to trigger the lock with a satisfying thunk. It was not as graceful as when he'd seen others do it, but it got the job done.

"How about now?" he offered casually, turning out into the corridor and offering a polite smile at the startled face of the guard waiting beyond. "I'll be taking the prisoner from here. I'm sure you know where to forward his personal effects."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

If he managed to live through all this, the first thing Jensen would devote himself to learning was performing that little trick with the door lock. He didn't doubt he couldn't probably make it happen now if he had been properly motivated but it seemed like of those impossibly useful things that he would want to be able to perform without a second thought. He tried to keep his mind from wandering over all the possibilities that various types of locks there were and the possible challenges each would pose, no need to get entirely ahead of himself, after all.

Despite the very real knowledge he may have only escaped the proverbial frying pan to find himself now facing a very unfriendly inferno, the boy couldn't help but offer a satisfied and rather smug smile to the guard as he walked passed the individual in the wake of the one who had freed him from his captivity. He almost considered giving the other guard at the door a mock salute or other needless display, but no, that would just be uncouth at this point. It was pleasant enough to watch the rather annoyed expression they all had that he was no longer in their hold, and wasn't leaving in bracers guarded by several thuggish individuals to be taken some place far less pleasant. Well, at least not that they were aware of and Jensen sincerely hoped not.

"If you don't mind," He spoke with a soft, though not quite hushed tone. Clearly directing it at the man he'd been conversing with and making it clear the words were not for the peons that worked at the prison. "I think I will hold my pledges of gratitude until we arrive at your facility and I find out exactly what I have agreed to."

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka couldn't resist a smile as he led the way out of the detention center.

"So it's a facility now, not just an ominous hole?"

The Knight was enjoying this perhaps more than he should. The enigma he had constructed had transformed, no longer maintained as matter of secrecy but more as an effort to stretch out the anticipation and perhaps frustration from the newly acquired Cadet candidate. Perhaps it would have been easier to simply state the situation outright. Perhaps explaining that he was an Imperial Knight, and they were headed to the former Jedi Temple would have been just the amount of information that Jensen needed to be satisfied. On the other hand, it could just have easily led to a string of questions that would have dominated the journey from here to there. Lúka preferred the idea of waiting to witness Jensen's spontaneous reaction, and the opportunity to deflect and evade any inquiries that might spring to Par'Vizal's mind.

"Once we get to where we're going," he added eventually, carefully choosing his words to deepen the mystery still further, "Pledges of gratitude will probably be the last thing on your mind."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

It should have amused him, the fact that despite being born on Coruscant and technically growing up within the confines of Imperial City, Jensen had never found himself within the Federal District. At some level he knew the reasons largely rested with the ever shifting political atmosphere that had been occurring when he was younger, as the Emperor proved the Senate to be an unnecessary and superfluous remnant of the Republic. Still, it had prevented his class in particular from the often spoken of right of passage field trip to the Imperial Executive Building that his sister had spoken so highly of. The highlight, of course, never coming from the former seat of the Senate so much as the passing glimpse that all who attended got of the remnants of the Jedi Temple.

Now, as Jensen viewed the Core of Coruscant from above, he couldn't help but think that it looked much the same as anywhere else on Level 5127. The desire to impress was certainly there, but the boy simply found it... Lacking. This was where history had been made, where epics had been forged, and yet it all seemed so very ordinary. He willed the sentiment to shift as the speeder came to a halt just outside the glorious newly named Imperial Citadel. What once was home to Jedi for ages and the Emperor himself, a place where truly if the walls could speak they would have endless things to say and all them would prove invaluable.

Jensen, however, merely found his head canting to the side as he regarded the building, it's shape, and all the wealth of antiquity and it represented.

"To be perfectly honest," he mused. "I thought it would be..."

A hand circled in front of him, hinging at the wrist as if the circular motion could bring about the right word.

"Larger." He cast a sidelong glance towards the man who had brought him here. "More awe-inspiring at the very least. But this? This just seems... Mediocre."

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka threw the younger man a sidelong glance, trying to gauge the motivation behind his words. Were they genuine, the opinion of someone so jaded with life on Coruscant that the ground where, poetically speaking, the Republic had been slaughtered held no meaning? Was it an act, a deliberate effort to maintain some sort of mystique or aura by presenting himself as too cool for sites of historical importance? Was it an attempt to antagonise, to test just how much he could get away with in the Imperial Knight's presence?

Whatever the motives, Lúka did not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, privately and concealed behind a stoic mask and mental walls, he allowed himself to appreciate the significance for the both of them. Knightfall. That was the term that was used to describe the systematic extermination of the Jedi here at the Temple. Not Knights and Masters, of course. Those, for the most part, had been elsewhere in the galaxy, as Commanders and Generals waging war on behalf of the Republic, cut down instead by the troops they trusted and protected with all the ceremony of flipping a switch. No, save for a few tutors and stray others, those who had died here on the last night of the Republic were Padawans, and Younglings. The Jedi Temple was a mass grave upon which the Emperor had planted his throne, and now the Imperial Knights trained Younglings of their own atop the ashes and bones.

Lúka was not naive. There was power in symbols, and his belief in the Force softened the significance of graves and remains. Those Jedi dead were not here, they were everywhere. He had also had his eyes opened by the Empire, enough to understand that the downfall of the Jedi Order was a fate that they had brought upon themselves. But the Padawans, and the Younglings, gave him pause. He had been one of them, surviving through fluke and good fortune as much as anything else. He had known so many of the dead. Good people. Innocent people. Dead, purely because they were part of something that Sheev Palpatine decreed must end. There was no way to know what fate would have befallen the galaxy had he not acted. Had the Jedi Council succeeded in deposing the Supreme Chancellor, what then? How would the galaxy have evolved under the guidance of a Jedi Order who controlled both government and military without oversight or question? The Jedi in him wanted to believe that the light side might have led them all to a purer and better tomorrow, but the realist in him had seen the darkness and corruption in the hearts of the Jedi, and knew better than to be fooled by such naive hopes.

"Do you know what that means?"

His words came as a challenge, calmly, and out of nowhere. He turned a little towards Jensen, curious as much as confrontational.

"Mediocre. Do you actually know the definition of the word, or do you just think it makes you seem educated?"

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

"Medicore, adjective, meaning of ordinary or plain quality, neither good nor bad - merely adequate." Jensen shot back, his voice strangely level but far from merely reciting. "Or did you mistake my meaning towards the moderately alternate definition that further can be used to assess something as inferior or poor?"

He nodded towards the Citadel, a fully under prepared explanation forming that he let loose.

"I'm not an imbecile. I know the history of this place, of the honors and some-speculative horrors that have taken place within it's walls throughout the ages that it has stood. But as someone who has never seen but only heard of it's glories, you'd expect it to be far more demanding of your attention, to be verging on ostentatious - And yes. I know what that word means as well."

Despite the measured tone he had spoken with, the boy could feel that he had been guilty of a small tirade, a tantrum if you would. His expectations had been let down, fantasies that stories and culture had defined within him been shattered. Surely he was allowed a moment to mourn them in his own way? But ah, there it was, the reminder that perhaps to this man this was his home, of a sorts; a point of pride that Jensen didn't deem fit of the imposing nature it demanded upon all those whom looked upon it.

"It's just a building." The final assessment passed from him and Jensen knew it didn't exactly alleviate the case the more thoughtful portion of mind sought to scold him with. "Though I suppose it's hardly to blame for the expected impressiveness that others have demanded upon it. I'm guessing my opinion will change if I'm still allowed to see what lies within?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka weathered the precocious storm calmly, waiting for Jensen to complete his bluster before he spoke.

"Actually, mediocre is closer to 'middling'. Average, as opposed to ordinary. It carries other connotations, certainly, but it's a word that is often misapplied by people who have more interest in seeming like they know what they are talking about, than actually communicating anything of any value."

There was perhaps a slight sting in the tail of those words, but Lúka did not give Jensen's hackles the opportunity to raise in response.

"But no, let's address the word as you have chosen to use it. Look around, and what do you see? Just a building, yes, but clearly not an ordinary one. Structurally, it is entirely different from any other building within view. It is larger, a far simpler geometric shape, and a configuration that skews towards internal volume rather than vertical height. The styling is clearly old, not just in terms of literal age, but in terms of architectural implementation, and materials. In fact, if you know your history, as you boast, you'll realise that a temple has stood on this site for thousands of years."

The Knight took a step back, gesturing to their surroundings.

"But let's forget the history. You call it unimpressive, not as large as you expected; but look with your eyes, not your opinions. Look at how much space is here, how much of the structure is dedicated to external plazas, and gardens. This is Coruscant. Imperial Center. Imperial City. The most densely populated concentration of civilization in the known galaxy. Five thousand levels of citizens stacked on top of each other, stretching down so deep that sunlight doesn't even come close to reaching the bottom. Normally society waits until a civilization has faded before it builds atop the ruins, but Coruscant has neither the time nor the place: again and again, level after level, up and up. Where else on Coruscant can you find a building with this much open - wasted - space? There are Imperial officials who boast about having an empty room; this Citadel has entire empty plazas, not to mention the vast exclusion zone that surrounds it."

Lúka's arms clasped behind his back, intently focused on Jensen, peering past the shell of arrogance in the hopes of finding some viable spark of intelligence and reason beneath.

"The word you were actually looking for, Mister Par'Vizal, is 'underwhelming'. If that is your reaction to a building of this significance, then that is your problem, and frankly? No one gives a flying skrag. Your sense of entitlement and arrogance may make it feel like your opinion is important and valuable, but I assure you it is not; and if you are truly as smart as your attitude seems to believe you are? You'll learn quickly to look past your worthless opinions, and start noticing the useful reality that lays beyond."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

There was genuinely a part of him that took the explanation as challenging, as a point of contention and enough to make him feel a necessary amount of defensiveness. It quieted though, rationale mixing in to fully take stock of what he had been told, of the history and importance this place represented to many others. It may not have meant such things to him, but so seldom did anything.

It was a weakness Jensen had, one he had been working towards - not correcting - but disguising at the very least. And this? What the man who had brought him to this place had just said? That was knowledge, that was a resource and one he would be remiss to allow to be ignored in favor of pride.

He didn't entirely back down, his shoulders didn't slump in defeat nor did his expression become downcast. Instead, Jensen merely regarded his new mentor.

"Well," he conceded. "It does appear I have much to learn."

Jensen let his eyes wander back towards the building in front of them, attempting to place the new information at his disposal, to give it new consideration. He was only mildly successful. Another thing to practice at, then. Room to improve, as it were.

"I'd thank you for the opportunity for growth, but something tells me you wouldn't exactly appreciate the gesture."

[Lúka Jibral]

"Hmm."

He kept the response enigmatic, leaving Jensen to interpret it however he pleased. It could have been improving, impressed, satisfied at his willingness to back down, to accept new information, and to at least act as if he was grateful for it. Going further, it could have been surprise, pleasantly so, at the maturity that Jensen sought to display. It could just as easily have been disappointment, however, at a potential debate prematurely ended; or irritation at that last little twist of a phrase, just to nudge and remind that his concession didn't compromise how self-assured the boy felt in his own intelligence. Whether it would feed into Jensen's ego, or apathy, or ire, was up to him. Lúka had learned that with students, there was only so far that you could take them, before you had to step back and let them attempt to continue the rest of the way on their own.

With any luck, Lúka had at least instilled in the boy some concept of thinking before he opened his mouth: if not, then the lessons he would receive from Lúka's peers among the Knights would not be quite so painless.

Yet, there was something, a little spark in the back of Lúka's mind, that offered the very faintest hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth, and begged him not to leave those last words unaddressed. His arms folded across his chest, the weight seeming to force out a slow sigh. He allowed his smile to flourish, just the slightest bit more.

"Perhaps there's hope for you after all, Cadet."