The past is never where you left it (Cline)

[Zereth Lancer]

"Passport please. What's the nature of your visit, Mister...Lantner?"

"Pleasure. I'm want to play in the casinos."

"How nice. How long will your visit be?"

"One night."

"Everything looks in order. Welcome to Cloud City."

Stuffing the fake ID back into his pocket he carried on down the roped queue until he was once again stopped by another team of gentlemen with hand scanners who asked him to open his coat for inspection. Like the last time he pulled it open with both hands, revealing absolutely nothing but lint and black velvet. A thin tissue of illusion hid the weapons from sight that were tucked inside the coat. Smiling and waving, they welcome him into their city.

His trademark blacks and reds were gone, and in the place of a cloak a nice jacket. Shiny half-boots, a big belt buckle, too many bracelets, and silver earrings. His long hair was pulled back into a ponytail so as it not distract from the midnight blue scarf that was vaguely draped around his neck. It had taken some scrounging around his ship to find this particular ensemble. Something he had not worn since his undercover missions with the rebel alliance alongside Ashe. That felt like a lifetime ago, and whatever sentiment that had allowed him to hold on to it had long faded away.

Zereth was not here for pleasure, not really. Still, he wasted no time making a direct path for the Cumulus Casino. A place with a sordid reputation, located on a floating city with a equally sordid reputation. Cloud City. The Jewel Of Bespin. Nothing but beautiful cloudscapes viewed through immaculately clean viewports, but turning inward all he could see was rot. There was a sickness here, hidden behind white walls and clean faces. Like a wave of clawing rats it tried to crush him under it's filth. He might not even stay the night. The very thought of sleeping here...

That was far too much planning ahead for what was in store for him. He was here on Eleutheria business, as always. A man had been spotted frequenting the Cumulus Casino with a remarkable winstreak that bordered on the supernatural. As Lilaena suspected, the man could be using the force to influence the games. He would hardly be the first. However, it was a risky thing in a place like the Cumulus. If half the stories Zereth had heard were true, then the man was likely to end up tossed into several different refuse bins across the station, or if his force power uncovered turned over to the Imperial Garrison. No doubt they would enjoy getting their hands on such an adept; unless Zereth got to him first.

It didn't take long to find the Casino. There were signs all through the city. The main floor was a cacophony of noise as hundreds clawed desperately at machines hoping to win even a percentage of what they had put into it. Such a waste. He was not here to play, but he knew it was necessary for his cover. So he flitted about the floor, playing a slot here, a few rounds of a card game there, while keeping an eye out for the man he was looking for. He didn't even have a name. Only a holo to go off of. Eventually he found the man, an hour later and two hundred credits down. At the Sabaac tables, with a cluster of fans watching, the man played his cards against the rest of the table.

Zereth joined the crowd of onlookers. Clearly they had heard of the man's reputation for winning. It gave him something to blend into. Several games transpired, and the man won many hands, and lost with grace the others. This went on for some time, and Zereth watched with his eyes just as much as he felt with is heart. There was no force here, at least none that he could detect. There was be noise, interference. He even tried to disrupt any attempts himself, but there was no telepathy to jangle or telekinesis to resist. The man was just a good player. Nothing more.

Still likely to end up dead by tomorrow, Zereth thought to himself as he stepped back from the crowd, feeling the weight of wasted time, and looking across the floor as he turned, and catching a pair of eyes looking back. A young man, red hair, defiant look in his face. There was something familiar about it, and there was something uncomfortable about how the man was looking back at him.

Oh, no...

[Michael Cline]

It was always when he was off the clock when this frelling happened. The hooded one down at his local drinking establishment a few weeks ago, now this. He'd been just about to walk out for the night, find someplace to grab dinner. Maybe see a holoflick when he'd sensed it. Just a tickle in the back of his head. Weirdly familiar and filling him with an increasing rage. He couldn't take his eyes off the guy. There was something so damnably familiar about him, something that just made Cline unhappy in a way he hadn't been in a long time. He'd been watching him for a while now, saw him move from table to table, play a few hands, pull a few slots, never really sank into one location like most did.

The red-head had been doing this long enough to pick up some patterns. Addicts found their addiction and stuck at it through hell or high water. Those that weren't really here to gamble but just play about would do much like this guy had and pick at a little bit of everything, but never did it long. Always a distraction while they were waiting on a table to open up at the restaurant, or a show to start somewhere nearby. This one though, he seemed to be waiting for something that never came. Then he started watching Lucky.

Lucky, Mike hadn't bothered to remember his real name, was a damned good gambler. Drove Mr. Prent up the wall from the winning streak he'd been on all week. Mike had even checked up on him earlier, just in case he was cheating in a way that couldn't be spotted by security cameras. Something Mike would have sensed. Nothing. Dude was just good. Still, the moment the crowd started watching Lucky, like they had for the last few days, he fell in as well. He was watching Lucky, Cline was watching him. He'd made him for a force user shortly after that, the little tickle he'd felt early on. Nothing wrong with that as long as he wasn't cheating, which he wasn't.

Still. Mike rolled his neck, cracking it as tension continued to build. There was something about him he knew and didn't like. Something... something... Corellia. Mike's eyes widened in recognition as he stared at the man, who had finally noticed him and was staring back.

Son of a bantha blowing bastard. It was one of them.

Mike wanted to run him down immediately, to murder him in the middle of the damn casino floor and frelling bathe in it in front of all these eyes. Instead he breathed in... and out... in... and out. He slowed his anger, kept it at a simmer and started to stroll toward him. He'd be a damned fool to run in this casino, and if he did Cline would simply put a word in to security to hold him up. It was nice to work for the owner

[Zereth Lancer]

The man approached, like a black storm front rolling in from the horizon. Zereth could feel the emotional maelstrom within the man. It was terrifying to witness.

His eyes flickered around the room, taking in every potential conventional and unconventional exit. There were many, and even more that could be made through a soft wall there or a window here. With speed and illusions he could be gone in the blink of an eye and nobody would be any wiser for his passing. So many options, and still he remained rooted in place, meeting that gaze, and waiting. Like a child waiting in the corner for his parent to come to his room to discipline it. There was no running from what he had coming, and he was no longer a man who ran from his past. Now he met it head on. He knew who he was, and what he had been.

In this moment he felt nothing but hot, burning shame.

The man was almost on him now, and his shame only grew as he realized he did not even know his name. Hands hanging at his side, empty. His head bowed and his red eyes closed. He was ready to accept the consequences.

[Michael Cline]

The red continued to swell in the corners of his vision, his burning hatred for the man in front of him creating tunnel vision as he focused in on him, footsteps like the banging of a gavel in passing judgement, his pace slowed as he really took stock of the man, the lack of motion, the bowed head. Cline knew he'd been seen, had he accepted his fate? Did he think he was above it all? A flare of anger shot back through him at the notion of him thinking himself Cline's better still after all that had happened. But that hanging head. His open hands. Cline slowed a bit more until he was simply standing in front of him, at war with himself over what he should do next.

"Corellia." He said quietly, a low threat to his voice. "Do you remember Corellia?"

[Zereth Lancer]

Corellia. It was hard to forget a planet that he had so much history. That had not stopped him from trying. During the height of the reign of The Sith Order, Corellia had been their second home. It fell inside their small sphere of influence, and they had the run of it's cities. They ran through the night and fought in the rain. They killed indiscriminately, and whomever died at their hands had deserved it. The threat of harm and the passing of coin kept the right politicians and government officials greased. They let the Sith do whatever they wanted. That level of freedom can be... corrupting.

After the attack on the Temple, Corellia became their new home. A place to rebuild with the resources they had hidden away. But it was not enough. One by one they all left. With souls broken or heart seeking adventure, they all disappeared into the void until only Zereth remained, the last remnant of the Sith Order to hold on to the fragment of their once empire and await the promised return. It never came. He waited for so long. Years mounting on top of failure like snow upon a weak roof. Eventually it all came crashing in and he could take it no longer. Corellia became a prison, and with time he escaped it.

But only just.

"I will never forget Corellia. A lot of terrible things happened there. I did a lot of terrible things. I remember their faces, of the people I've wronged. All of their faces. Your face."

[Michael Cline]

Cline scoffed angrily at the confession, the confirmation, "It's nice to know we're remembered." he snapped low and violent as he leaned in. Take him. Snap him. Break him. He's not even trying to defend himself. Kill him. Cline could feel his muscles tense, his body ready for that fatal strike he so longed for, had so longed for. Nothing had ever been the same after Corellia. Corellia was where it all fell apart.

The Krew had ran free and happy and unbridled like a pack of wild animals across multiple planets. Kyashi Hatake - Darth Sudoku to those who knew him, his sister Leiko, Cline himself. Wil, Apollus, Andy, Skye. His friends. His family. Corellia was the last time they'd all be together. Before the Order descended on them, before they were rounded up like cattle for the taking by the Sith who saw them as little more than fodder to fill their ranks out with. Before Baralai Lotus would try again and again to manipulate and deceive Cline into swearing loyalty to the Sith, to the Order, to he himself. It was this man's fault, he freely admitted it. His role in it.

Kill him. Cline felt his hands raise an inch from his sides, sneer growing deeper on his face as he burned a hole through the man's forehead. He was... he was... Cline's vision cleared enough for him to feel the emotions around him. The red-head's empathetic gifts in the Force pushing back on him on his anger.

Shame. Disgust. Self-hatred.

The frell was this. He locked eyes on him again, looking at him, really looking at him. He looked like a man defeated. Kill him. He won't even fight back. Put him out of his, our, their memory. Just... he's right there, all you have to do is...

But he couldn't push out that emotional feedback, even with his promised revenge staring at him in the face it just felt... empty. This wasn't a challenge, it wasn't even a threat. It was someone who hated what they'd done. It made Cline all the angrier. Denied his revenge at the point of entry. His hands were up again, curled and gnarled in anger. His body at war with turning from the man, strangling the life from him or hugging him for the pain he could feel him suffer.

He let his arms fall back and the longest, weightiest sigh pass over his lips. "I need a frelling drink, now. You." He pointed at him expectantly. "You. You come with me. We need to talk."

[Zereth Lancer]

He could feel him; feel his warm breath on his face as he drew close, and feel the heat of his emotions as they pulsated off him like solar flares. He could see it in his eyes and feel it's toxic radiation in his bones. It was like a glass of dirty water to the parched. Zereth knew that feeling. That heat. That frenzy. It was so easy to give in, to let it empower you even as it blinds you to reason. Once drunk on it's dark promises there was no going back, and once it was gone it left you only exhausted and empty. His soul ached for that feeling, because it gave you a sense of singular purpose for a moment. An anchor in a galaxy of chaos and uncertainty.

With blackened lips it whispered... just one more time.

But that was how we got here in the first place.

No blow ever came. He was so sure it was coming. How could it not? Who had that self control, to tip back the scale after you were so far gone the other way. Zereth had spent years now practicing meditation and keeping himself reserved so that he might never put himself in that position again, and he doubted that even with all his newfound self awareness that he would be able to come back from the edge. Finally he brought his head up, to look his once victim in the eyes. It was still there, the seething rage. Like a tidal wave building in those eyes, already a mile tall, only held back by a whim. Ready to crash down.

"You. You come with me. We need to talk."

There was a brief moment, after the man turned away, that his eyes drifted to the doorway once more. There was nothing keeping him here, and doubtfully any force on Bespin that could keep him from going where he pleased. That thought, of fleeing, was abandoned in a moment before his eyes moved back to the redhead and his feet propelled him forward. There was no running from this. He had never been one to run from his responsibilities, and before him was a man in pain, and if there was even the smallest chance that he could affect that in a positive way he had an obligation to do so.

That was not the Eleutherian way. That was Zereth Lancer's promise; To give help, a way, a place, and a hope to those who don't or have lost it.

[Michael Cline]

Cline glanced back to see if the Sith had followed him, confident he'd judged the man's emotional condition right and that he would. He had. He turned his attention, certain they were walking together now, to the front of the casino as he walked them out and down the street. The pathways were busy as the working day was just ending for many folks, which meant the bars would fill up not too long from now. Good. He needed public eyes on him right now, at least on the surface, to keep his rage in check. If he were alone with this man for too long he wasn't actually sure what he would do.

He turned off into a small dive of a bar. Mike was pretty sure Ms. Sasseeri didn't own this place, the last thing he needed was her or Sanis in this particular bit of business. It wasn't that he wanted to hide it from them, it was simply... personal. Something from a past self. The place, Raindrops, was about a quarter full. Enough space between occupied tables and booths that you could still have a private conversation. Mike held up two fingers to the barkeep, a simple serving droid, and headed for a table. He didn't care what their house drink was, he wasn't here to enjoy this.

He sat down and let his new 'friend' find his seat as well, leaning in so he was certain the conversation would just be between the two of them. "Let's start with introductions." He offered, still holding back his rage and wanting, no at this point needing, to fill in the rest of what had happened. "My name is Michael Cline, maybe you knew that... maybe you didn't. You weren't my 'handler' after all." No, that task had fallen to Baralai Lotus and Tarsis. Tarsis was the one person from that experience he held an iota of respect for. He'd promised Leiko would be buried, and he'd made that happen. Even if the Inquistoriate had shown up and turned the whole thing into a nightmare.

"What do I call you?"

[Zereth Lancer]

Zereth followed, and was a little uncomfortable with leaving the casino but he kept his feelings to himself. A crowd of people meant less chance of a nasty scene. For all he knew he was being lead into a dark alley between two shops to be killed then and there. Not that he was really afraid that even a prepared ambush would be able to kill him, but it was a confrontation he did not want. Even during those years with the Sith Order he had thought he had honor, that those he killed deserved it or had brought it on themselves by engaging him. Not once had he thought to employ diplomacy or work out his differences with his enemies. Instead he cut them down. The only true honor he ever had was allowing his opponents to be armed and awake when he killed them.

And now that was something he avoided at all costs. There was no excuse for extinguishing life indiscriminately.

His fears were immediately soothed as the redhead took him on a path further along the concourse to what could only be described as a seedy bar. Zereth had been in many such establishments, sitting in a dark corner while waiting for or watching someone. Places like this existed almost exclusively for illicit activities. There would be a tough looking barkeep and a lot of patrons keeping to themselves, along with a few upstarts who had no idea what kind of establishment they were in. They would be allowed, but too many wrong steps would see them beat out the back. Perhaps that was assuming too much. He had no idea what this place was. Assumptions would get him no where in this situation. This was uncharted territory, off the map. Lost in dangerous waters.

Taking his seat he let his mottled red eyes return the man, Michael,'s gaze. When he finally felt confident enough to speak, he did so in slow, measured words. There could not be misunderstanding here, or a word left out of place. This conversation sat on the edge of a knife.

"If I had I have forgotten it. You can call me Zereth Lancer. You might not know that name. I was calling myself Darth Necross back then."

There were things he wanted to say, apologies to make, and questions to ask. He kept them to himself. He was not in control of this conversation. Instead he adjusted his scarf and waited for the inevitable next question.

[Michael Cline]

He watched the man carefully, his mannerisms his movements. He was also being watched. It was probably a smart decision, they should have been immediate enemies, or at least Michael should have considered them as such. Instead the situation was more complicated. The red-head hated that it was more complicated. Killing this man would be so much easier than this conversation. The droid limped its way over and delivered their drinks before hobbling back to the bar. He had to wonder just how many times that thing had been damaged in a place like this that whoever owned it decided it simply wasn't worth repairing whatever had busted on it's leg.

He pulled the top off the beer and turned it around to look at the label. Cline could have laughed. Corellian Ale. Of course it was Corellian Ale. That was the kind of day it was. He tipped it up and took a hard pull at nearly half the bottle before he felt at ease enough to set it back down on the table between them. Zereth Lancer. Darth Necross? He tried to recall if he'd ever heard the name while he was being held by the Order. He couldn't remember. So many other parts of that experience stood out, but that name was not one that he immediately recognized. He had been too focused on trying to keep Lotus out of his head to worry about any other Sith running about the joint.

"Zereth it is, then. You'll excuse me if I'm not fond of the Darth title." The old days. With Ky. With the rest of the crew. They'd chosen or been given by Ky, Darth Sudoku himself, their own 'doomsider' names. Wil, Darth Exquisitus. And of course, himself... Darth Jirettai. A shiver rolled through his spine at the name, an old ache that wanted to be sated. A future he wanted to avoid. He wasn't Jirettai. He was never going to be Jirettai and that was for the best. There were a million things he wanted to ask the man, a million more he wanted to angrily scream in his face. Ask about Leiko. Ask about Sudoku. Ask about any of your friends who you never saw again. The questions flooded his head and fought to come out. Finally a single solitary question managed to push its way through the blockade of thoughts.

"Why, man? We were just kids."

[Zereth Lancer]

"I don't care for that title either. Zereth is fine."

In similar fashion Zereth took his bottle in hand and inspected the label. Throughout his life he had drank a lot more Corellian Ale than he cared to. He preferred a more sophisticated beverage but this had always been quite popular among the masses. Especially back then. There was definitely a time, long ago, after Zanon and before the Juriaya, that he would have guzzled down any old slop. Anything to fill the void. Anything to hide the pain. Being a drunk had been better than being nothing. A sense of belonging filled that emptiness eventually, and had held on to it far harder than the staunchest alcoholic holds on to his spirits. Lifting the bottle to his lips, he took the faintest of sips, and let the flavor take him back through time.

"Why, man? We were just kids."

Leaning back in his seat, he set the bottle back down and went quiet. He looked down at his hands, around the room, forming words on his face only to abandon them. It was so simple and yet so complicated to answer. All his well spoken words and poetic strings failed him. There was no answer that would suffice except the truth, and no way to twist it to seem less horrible. The truth it was. Naked and ugly.

"The short answer, because it seemed the Sith thing to do. The long answer, because The Sith Order was dying out. It was stagnant. There had been so little new blood and all the old blood was dying out. It was only the few of us left, caught in the middle, desperate to continue the lineage. Leadership had fallen suddenly on to the shoulders of Jorshal as the Order crumbled from the sudden departure of many of the Order's cornerstones. In a moment we had no council, no one to tell us how to act, and in our desperation we made terrible choices. Jorshal decided that we needed to grow, to add strength, through any possible way. For my part, I blindly followed orders. I was equally desperate, to keep alive the only family I have ever had. It felt like the ends justified the means. It didn't change anything..."

He shook his head, curling his lips inward and looking away, feeling tears he didn't know existed suddenly threatening his eyes. He had never spoken of this to anyone. Not to Lilaena, not to Ashe, not to even his brief apprentice. The words had existed in his head for so long, never spoken. They strung together in the moments before sleep and haunted his dreams and moments of weakness.

"...they all died and left in the end. I couldn't save it. It was unnecessary cruelty, and for that I am so very sorry. I know those words don't mean anything, but know I feel nothing but regret for my part."

[Michael Cline]

Cline listened to him speak. An empty numbness growing inside as a dull ringing filled his ears. It was as simple as it had always seemed. Recruitment. Forced. What he hadn't expected is that it was the actions of a dying group. Lotus had presented the Order to him as if it were strong, helmed or at least guided by he himself as he taunted and laughed and called himself a 'God.' It just confirmed that there was no good thing to be found in the Sith. Cline had thrown away that part of himself after finally tracking down Kyashi and learning the truth. Mike wanted to hate the man, to despise him. But he just sounded sad, worse yet there was an odd camaraderie there wasn't there?

It had been one dying family, desperate to save itself however it could crashing upon another in the hopes of cannibalizing it. In the end both had died, instead. Now he sat here, quietly listening to this Zereth Lancer fill in a puzzle piece he'd been missing and apologizing. Actually apologizing. Cline reeled with seething rage, of wanting to believe it was all a lie or an act. But his damned empathy made it impossible. He couldn't even turn it off now, to hide in his frustration and loss. His anger flared for a moment, and he considered smashing his bottle over the other man's skull before it died out again. It all just... hurt.

"I lost my family." He sighed, head resting in the palm of his hands as he spoke into his palms, sound muffling to hide the emotion that caused his voice to crack. "Twice, actually." He admitted, "Both times the Sith took them from me." Ky had murdered his family to get Mike to a place where he could be manipulated, controlled and used. To a place where he'd willingly follow the boy to Hell and back if he asked him to. And Michael would have. Michael would have given anything to and for Sudoku.To the family that gathered around the charismatic young Sith.

He let the air sit between them for a few minutes, the apology lingering awkwardly like an unwanted visitor. "I cant forgive you." Michael finally said with a shake of his head. His empathy wanted him to, wanted to find some comfort in this man and how much his own story mirrored the red-head's. "But I'll accept that you regret what happened." He brought the ale to his lips again, drinking down the rest and raising his hand for another. He was calling in sick tomorrow, so he may as well work on getting to that point now. Another thought entered his head, he couldn't find his revenge here. Not with Lancer at least, but maybe he could point him in the right direction.

"I don't suppose you know where I could find Barai Lotus?" The anger returned to his vision, the focus of hatred on the Sith Alchemist instead. The man had tried so hard to convince Michael to become his apprentice. Even offered to restore Leiko to life - after having threatened to experiment on her beforehand. He had a measure of respect for his other handler, Tarsis, and he had pity for this man, Zereth.

Lotus though. Lotus he had nothing but contempt for. Perhaps he could get his pound of flesh from him still.

[Zereth Lancer]

Sith Master Baralai Lotus. That was a name, a man, that he tried to not think about. In short, he was a monster. A brilliantly depraved and beautifully skilled monster. There had never been a man in this galaxy that had made him so uncomfortable to be around. Back then he had convinced himself that Baralai was a necessary evil, one that they had to endure in order to keep the bloodline alive. Baralai was a scientist, a profession they had in short supply, and more so he was a capable Alchemist; a darkside art almost completely forgotten. His very presence was a boon to their enterprise. And yet Zereth disliked the man with every fiber of his being, and instead of doing what his heart told him he instead hid away and kept his distance.

Looking down at the bottle in his hand, he relaxed the muscles in his hand that were holding the bottle just a little too tightly. He had other a different reason for not liking that sadist.

"Baralai was the first to leave after the Sith Order fell. Before the blood was even dry he took his apprentice and left without a word. I've caught naught but whispers ever since, and in recent years his trail has gone completely cold. About three years ago I thought I had caught his scent but it lead me to that of his apprentice; Ezra Na'chtion. The apple has not fallen far from the tree. I found a trail of disturbing corpses in his wake. The trail went cold in the laboratory of an anthropologist that he had been interning under. He killed him." He paused to take a drink, to wash some of the foul taste out of his mouth. "And used his facility for Sith Alchemy. I know not what he made there or where he went, and it never lead me to Baralai."

Ezra Na'chtion. He was everything that was wrong with Balarai minus the depraved sexuality and black humor but with added emotionally detached malice and frightening precision. Baralai said and did things that made you uncomfortable. Ezra had only to look at you with those eyes; eyes that made you feel like he was stripping you down to your alchemic components, laying your soul bare, and then stitching you back together again. It left you a different person.

"If I knew where Baralai was I like to think I would have killed him myself. In truth, I don't know where any of them are. Everyone is gone. Disappeared or dead. I buried many of them myself. Entombed on Korriban."

He didn't need this. No. He had finally put this all behind him, finally gotten himself off Corellia after rotting there for years in the hopes that they would come back. Baralai and Ezra left first, and over time the others would follow. Not one stayed. Not Jorshal, Southstar, Tarsis, Hara Kiri, Je'gan. No one. They all abandoned him. The family could not survive after they lost their home on Korriban. It broke them in a way that never healed. He blamed himself for so long. Maybe they would still be here if he had protected them better, if he had fought better or harder. If he had been a better leader than Jorshal.

It was a black hole of reasoning that he could not let himself fall through again.

[Michael Cline]

Cline raised his bottle in salute to the man at the knowlege that he'd be just as likely to kill Lotus as Mike was. He was finding a surprising amount of common ground with the man, and it had finally let his fury wane, even if it still crashed on his mind like waves from an angry sea. He could feel the emotional toil roll off Lancer and knew the man suffered in ways that differed from his own but still had a familiar taste.

He committed the name Ezra Na'chtion to memory. That may be a lead he'd follow up on in the future if he could. If nothing else it was a poisonous root that had grown from Lotus and Cline would rather see it snipped if possible, especially with the discomfort he felt at the description of Baralai's apprentice. That could have been him or some form of himself if he had accepted Baralai's offer to take Cline under his wing and teach him. He finished his drink and leaned his head back thinking. The edge had been taken off and he'd wait before ordering another round.

"I'm sorry. About your friends." He mumbled out roughly, "...I'm not sorry that the Order is gone." He admitted. "Not after what happened, I can't be." He held his breath for a moment before letting it out. "So." He turned to look at him, felt the guilt around the man, thick and choking. "I guess I understand what happened now. But I'm pretty surprised to find just how much of a change of heart you've had." Cline weighed the next question before finally deciding it was one worth asking. "What happened? How did you go from seeing a bunch of kids as potentiel recruits, regardless of if we wanted it, to... this?"

[Zereth Lancer]

"No. You are right. The Sith Order is only worth remembering for the few decent souls."

They had not all been psychopaths like Baralai and Ezra. There had been a few noble souls to be found. Many were just people down on their luck trying to find something to hold on to. The lost and damaged looking for a semblance of home. A place that made sense. That's how Zereth ended up there. After what his Master did to him, what he made him do, he could never go back to the Juraiya. He had broken too many vows, committed too many unforgivable acts. Karn broke him in every way he could imagine, and when it was all done Karn was dead and Zereth went looking for a place to belong that was as broken and ruined as him.

"I got out. It is hard to see the boundaries of the forest while you are in the thick of the trees. I spent years on Corellia, hoping that they would come back. My faith was already waning after all that time. I started practicing Jedi meditation to soothe my mind. I had nothing but time. I studied a lot of their teachings. Well, what little dogma I could find. I found a lot that made sense, a lot I didn't agree with, but it still served to open my mind. A chance encounter caused me to leave Corellia unexpectedly. I don't think I would have ever made that choice otherwise. Once I was finally away, completely detached from the remnants of that toxic community, I was finally able to see myself for what I was. A slave to an idea. That blood and honor made me strong. That the sith gave me purpose. I hated myself. I hate what I've done. I almost committed seppuku, an honorable suicide for a dishonorable warrior. But. I thought maybe I could find atonement."

Pausing after that long monologue to catch his breath and finish off the rest of the ale, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slid the empty bottle aside.

"I don't believe that. Not anymore. I don't want atonement. I do not deserve it, like I do not deserve your forgiveness. All I want now, is to put some good back into the galaxy and maybe, just maybe, I can push that scale back in the other direction. That's where the force has guided me, to people and places that can use my help. To give help, a way, a place, and a hope to those who don't or have lost it."

[Michael Cline]

Cline felt his mouth grow dry as Zereth spoke. Of studying Jedi teachings, of trying to 'push the scales in the other direction.' He stared down at his bottle and rolled it from one palm to the other as he considered his own moral failings. His mouth tightened and he stiffened, fighting not to fidget in what suddenly seemed a lecture on his own actions, even if it wasn't intended to be so.

"Jedi stuff, huh? That's... that's real interesting, actually." He raised his empty bottle in the direction of the bar, suddenly feeling an intense need to have something to do with his mouth other than talk. As much as he worried about becoming what this man had once been, of surrendering himself fully to the darkside and it's trappings, to have someone talk about trying to atone, to do good and be a better person, even if they don't think they've earned that role made him uncomfortable. Michael Cline was not a good person, and he was aware of that fact. Just last week he'd broken 3 fingers of a man caught, for the second time in a week, attempting to hustle the Casino. It was meant to be a warning, but Michael knew that with the strength he'd channeled into hands with the Force that the guy was never going to be able to use them the same way again.

That didn't even take into consideration his role in the Black Sun itself, the illicit and illegal activities he was privy to or a part of. How much blood was on his hands at this point? Sith or not, Cline had gleefully used his gifts in the Force to hurt people and would continue to do so after this little rest stop in moral reflection. Because it was what was asked of him. Because it was what he knew. Because... because he enjoyed it.

As the droid brought over their drinks, Mike took a hard swallow and closed his eyes, sighing. "Good on you, man. Finding a way back from that stuff. Good on you." The caginess of the response was telling and Mike felt exposed, his previous anger giving way to his own guilt as a mirror was held up that he found difficult to look at.

[Zereth Lancer]

The sudden deflation in his companion did not go unnoticed. The onslaught of questions came to an end, and like a raging storm passing over it went as quickly as it came. For the first time in their encounter Zereth felt like he was standing on equal ground. No. He could see the look in the young man's eyes. Zereth had the upper hand now. Something he had said had put the man back in his seat, had him reflecting instead of raging. Anger had bled way to... shame? Guilt, maybe? It was hard to say. The wall between them may have unmanned battlements now but it was still thick, unyielding stone.

"I appreciate the sentiment. It is a difficult path to walk, especially in a galaxy predicated on violence. In the end, I do not believe there is a moral high ground to achieve. If you attempt to summit that mountain you will find yourself in a position to do nothing at it's peak lest you risk tumbling down it's sides. Nor are the pits of darkness sustainable. The hedonistic self-destruction of the Sith. The enlightened pacifism of the Jedi. Neither options are the correct piece to the puzzle. The strength of fury and the wisdom of meditation are both incredible tools, but they are not themselves anchored to one side or the other. I've pitched my tent in between the pit of darkness and the mountain of light. In the gray plains, if you will. There I am a farmer, toiling in the soil to find balance."

Pausing he took a drink from the fresh bottle. It seemed the correct social thing to do in this situation. The alcohol was barely registering within his modified biology, after all. It also gave him time to think, time to plan. He had come to Bespin to recruit, and maybe there was still a chance for that.

"Are you working at the Casino? That must be enterprising work for a man of your talents. I've never worked for a Casino myself, but I have lent my strength to similar organizations and groups in my youth. Before the Sith."

[Michael Cline]

The talk of balance, of light and dark rolled off him like rain. He took a sip and let Lancer talk. He didn't have a mind for those things, for teachings and studies and growth and all that yadda, yadda, yadda. He had never been a great student, at least not at anything that he couldn't put into practice. Mental manipulation of others, moving things with his mind. None of that had ever come easily to him. He'd tried to practice somewhat on his own, to varying degrees of failure. His best success had been in securing a table for dinner one time. Just the one time and that had fallen apart the moment the hostess had been faced with someone with any actual authority to throw around. If it weren't for his natural empathetic gifts he likely wouldn't have any talent in this field at all. He could already feel the shift in Zereth's emotions as he regarded Michael. He'd opened himself up to this by his own sudden shift.

Now he felt like a student in the principal's office. The man wasn't making any accusations, wasn't pointing any fingers, but Mike knew what he himself was. Who he worked for. What lives he'd taken. What people he'd ruined. The question of if he worked for the Casino hung on the air and Mike wondered how much Zereth knew. Was it more than small talk? He knew if someone was enterprising enough they'd have at least heard the rumors of who really ran the casinos. Of the organization that had their fingers in that and so many other pies.

So the question was, was Lancer asking if he worked for the Casino. Or if he worked for the Casino. He took another strong hit of his drink and popped his neck to one side and the other trying to consider his next move. Suddenly the whole thing had turned into a strange game of strategy.

"Yeah I work there." He said simply, keeping it curt then took a left turn to try and steer the conversation somewhere else. "I actually haven't had a lot of jobs myself. Before this I was with Ky and the rest of the crew... and I was just... you know... a student before that. Did stuff stuff for my dad and his transport company." That felt like a lifetime ago. Cline and Son. Technically he owned the company still, though it existed on paper and no where else. It was a shell company now. He felt his guilt flare a bit brighter at how immediately disrespectful that seemed in the moment, it had simply seemed like good business before. Now in the haze of a growing buzz and his own actions and past in reflection it seemed like an insult to his family's memory.

[Zereth Lancer]

"Are they treating you with respect?"

The bottle lifted to his lips, but his eyes stayed hard, looking into Michael's face to judge his response, only breaking for a moment to look sideways into the room of the bar. This was a dangerous place, and he worked for dangerous people. If half the rumors he'd heard about the Cumulus and it's ownership roots was true than Michael did indeed work for the kind of people who were known to do every dark and foul thing in the galaxy; and extorting their associates would not only not be a possibility but was more than likely.

All it would take was one word, one look in his eyes, and Zereth would burn that whole establishment to the ground. It would not be the first time nor the last. If he had only the time he would root out every den of unspeakable evil and institution of indoctrinated control from the face of the galaxy, whether or not they were exploited force users or not. It was never just about Force users, they were just one of the most rampantly oppressed minorities in this horrible, twisted galaxy the Empire had created.

[Michael Cline]

Michael smiled, it was only for a half second, catching himself and trying to return to a neutral facial expression that wouldn't give away his thoughts, but it happened and Cline wanted to kick himself for just how much that damn smile said in that instant. Michael liked his work. He enjoyed the sorts of things he was asked to do. It was a talent that had grown as he slipped farther and farther away from being a son, a student and into being whatever he was now. Whatever he was becoming, even if he tried desperately to arrest his slide into the darkside.

Mike looked away, breaking eye contact and taking another pull on his beer and rolled his teeth against one another. "Honestly? Yeah. They do." It was the truth. Michael was one of them, part of this. He wasn't some poor naive soul brought along and used. It was only because of this talk with Lancer he was even reflecting on his actions at all. Without this conversation he'd have simply enjoyed what he got to do without a second guess.

But was he happy being this way? Mike didn't know. This life was what he knew. It's what he'd known for years now. His life before the darkside, before Ky and then Ms. Sasseeri. It hadn't really even started. Who would he be if no one had ever interfered. He didn't know, he wasn't sure his younger self would even recognize the man he'd become. He debated the course of the conversation with his new... friend? No. They weren't friends, this wan't someone he could be friends with. Not after all that had happened, not with where they each still found themselves standing.

"Lancer, let me ask you a question." He finally turned, making eye contact again and steadied himself against the voice in his head that told him he didn't want an answer to what he was about to say. Didn't want the truth. "The darkside. Do you ever stop slipping deeper into it?" Lately it had felt like he had no traction, like every time he got mad he lost a little more of his ability to pull himself back up from the path it wanted to drag him toward. He needed something, some ground to grab purchase of. Maybe Zereth could offer some.

[Zereth Lancer]

Setting his drink down, Zereth let his eyes follow it to the tabletop where they remained for some time. The question was mulled over in his mind, and his own life experience was relived looking for the answer. He knew what he thought in his heart, but he also knew what existed in his soul. He knew those moments of absolute darkness, when all the light seemed to blur and fade, and all that he is was stripped away and he knew only fury. Many traumatic events, many lost comrades, and his response was always to fall back into that black pit. Once it was a weapon to be unleashed when his master commanded, and then it became a hidden blade to fall back on when he justified that the situation required it. When he felt that they deserved it.

"No." Was his answer in the end, and then another long pause as he scratched at the tabletop with a fingernail. "I don't believe anyone can rise above the darkside on their own. I could not. I thought I could. I always told myself that I would not end up like the others, that I could stop whenever I wanted. Michael, I am living the best, truest life I've ever known. I've risen above so much. Conquered my many demons. The darkside is still as much a part of me as it was all those years ago when I abducted your friends. I know moments of rage and unspeakable violence. The memories of which haunt me. The only difference now is that I also have the lightside, and I like to think it balances my soul. The darkside powers my heart but the light gives it direction; tempers it's hot edge. I do not think I could live without it, the darkside.

I did not get here on my own. I've had so much help. Friends and allies who helped me, shaped me. Many of them are gone now. I keep the lessons they taught me here." His hand slipped off the tabletop and connected with his breast, pressing the palm against his heart. "Once gone but never forgotten. In my darkest moments, when I am alone and vulnerable, the whispers of the darkside are ever present. Dark promises of power and stature and the cost is always blood. That is what the darkside is. It is incredible, lonely power that binds as much as it strengthens. Without perspective you cannot see the black waters have risen to your throat, and without help you will never pull yourself from the pool. You find purchase in moments of clarity, but the edge is slick and you inevitably slip back in. You need an anchor to pull on. A purpose, a mission; friends. Allies."

[Michael Cline]

Mike stared at the table, listening somberly as Lancer gave him the exact answer he'd been afraid of hearing. He'd known. Of course he'd known, it was obvious every time he got mad, every time he felt the thrill and rush of the darkside. Lonely. Lancer described it as lonely. Mike wasn't alone though, was he? He had the organization, Mr. Prent and Ms. Sasseeri. Hell Olorin if the old cuss ever stopped by for a visit. He pursed his lips and shrank into his shoulders a bit more, no. That's not what Lancer was saying though, and he knew it.

Michael's training had never been completed, more so he wasn't sure if it had he'd be anything better than what the Sith Order had been. Another 'Darth' whatever. Jirettai... He shook his head slightly, no. Not that. He wasn't going to become that. Those damn nightmares were not going to become real. It would have been so much easier to just stay mad, to just get his revenge on Zereth Lancer and feel better about it. But that wasn't what he'd gotten. Instead he'd gotten a repentant man with life experience he'd desperately needed to hear. Michael absolutely needed guidance, direction and... training. He wasn't going to go anywhere but down the longer he put that off.

He felt his jaw tighten and his brow knit. He liked his work. He liked working for Ms. Sasseeri. She'd been good to him when no one else ever had. He couldn't leave that. The confusion in his stomach sent the alcohol now coating it into turmoil and he lost any interest in continuing to drink as what he'd had so far threatened to come back up. He couldn't drop everything, but he also couldn't abandon his obligations here. A flicker of anger spurned in his chest at being forced into such a no win situation and he tried to snuff it out before it sparked into an inferno directed, unfairly, at Lancer for telling him the truth.

"I'll manage." He grumbled low and withdrawn, at war with the desire to storm out and the curiosity to ask more. He needed to get away from this man before he either destroyed what he'd made for himself here, or burnt him to the ground to try and pretend this conversation had never happened. "It's been fun." He said standing, his head an absolute mess of conflicting emotions and desires. He held a credit chit up to the barkeep and sat it on the table with a nod before turning for the door. The tension in his frame almost a dare for Lancer or anyone else for that matter to try and talk him out of going.

[Zereth Lancer]

There it was again. The anger. Wild and untamed, like a spark in a primeval forest. It could fizzle out and be gone with the right wind, or a sudden rain, but it could also burn down the entire secret forest where nobody would ever see it until it was too late. It was frightening to see. Zereth understood that sort of anger. That had been him once upon a time, after escaping from Zanon with no memory or direction. The only desire he had was to destroy. The Juraiya had taught him to better control that, and self-reflection and Jedi doctrine had further developed it. Michael had no such help.

It broke his heart to see the young man so lost.

Even as Michael stood up to leave, Zereth mimicked the motion in tune. There was a blur in the air, like a gasp of wind, and Zereth was back in front of Michael; this time holding his hand out; a simple flimsi card held between two fingers. There was nothing on the card save a single string of numbers. A comm number.

"It is not my place to tell you how to live your life, Michael, so I will not. Should you ever find yourself in need you can reach me at this number. I know of a safe place for our kind, and I have powerful allies that protect it. Whatever you need, I will be there for you."

Zereth had never had a lifeline in his life. He had always gone from one terrible situation to the next, and any level of peace he had ever found was immediately ruined by his own hand or the surfacing of his terrible past. He had been forced to sacrifice so much to keep those he loved safe. So many he had left behind in the middle of the night, never to see again, all so that whomever had come creeping on his doorway would trouble them no more, and some he had not left fast enough. Last he saw Ashe she was still recovering from that droid assassin. He could never see her again. Zanon would come again. He always did. Like a cockroach running up the drain. Not once had anyone offered him a safe place, a home, or a strong shoulder to lean on. Now it was his turn to be the very thing he had needed most.

He was not going to let Michael end up the same way as he did. Could not. Would not.

That's my promise...

[Michael Cline]

Mike's vision was clouded by anger and confusion to such a degree he'd nearly barreled right into Lancer when the man had used the Force to get in front of him. He stopped himself just before he stepped into his form and immediately took a step back defensively, instinct telling him to strike now while he had the chance. Cline pushed it down, forced it back, kept himself from making even more of a scene here than it had already become. Zereth wasn't trying to fight him he was holding out a slip of flimsi?

"...you can reach me at this number..."

Mike stared at the offered number like it might bite him if he reached for it and blinked in momentary confusion. A safe place, huh? Friends, allies... that's what Lancer had called them before. Maybe this was just the same damn attempt to recruit him the Order had tried before, maybe it was all an attempt to drag him back to... Mike closed his eyes and took a breath before he slipped down a path of paranoia that would only lead to violence. The emotions around Lancer were still the same as before, though a new one was coming through loudly now. Concern. Zereth... was concerned and it didn't seem to be for his own well-being.

Mike reached out a hand and hesitated in front of the slip, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together like he had to consider the action carefully. Finally he took it, a near snapping motion to grab it before he changed his mind. "Alright." He said far too quickly, his body still a mess of confused energy and adrenaline. "Alright, alright." He repeated looking at the number he now held. "Okay, alright." He tried to reel himself back in a long, drawn out breath releasing between tight lips as he put the flimsi into a pocket. "I'm not... Listen I'm not saying I'm going to call. You get that right? You UNDERSTAND that. I'm not saying that." He emphasized it to the man in front of him, locking eyes with him. "But I'll hold, yeah, okay, I'll hold onto this. right? Just in case. JUST IN CASE." He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Lancer or himself.

"Well..." He shook his head slightly, "Yeah, anyway." He couldn't say thank you. Knew he should at least out of politeness, but just couldn't make the words come. "We should stop mucking about. I got work tomorrow." Forget calling off sick, Mike needed to burn off this energy and the surest way would be finding someone cheating the casino who needed a good 'talking to.' He wasn't even sure he'd manage to get to sleep tonight.

[Zereth Lancer]

"I understand."

The faintest smile lifted the edges of his mouth. Even so little a movement would have been alien when he had been with the Sith Order. That had not been a place for smiles, and even since leaving it he found it a difficult emotion to reveal. Happiness. He was happy with where this encounter had gone. It was as good a result as he could ever hope for. Zereth could tell that Michael was far too proud, and much too angry, to ever ask for help or take it if it was offered directly. This was the best way. Indirect, an option, that allowed him the agency to choose to accept it or not. This fork in the road still saw them parting on to their own roads, but it left a door open should Michael ever take it.

He had done all that he could.

"May the force be with you, Michael."

He offered a single hand, held out, open and inviting. There are been no pleasantry on their meeting. Hopefully there could be some on the departure. Everything was different now. When they met they were as good as enemies poised on opposite ends of a battlefield so hazy they had not seen the other until they were right upon each other. Now the smoke was clearing and they could see each other for what they were. They left not as adversaries, certainly not as allies, but perhaps as just men trying to make their own in this chaotic galaxy.

[Michael Cline]

Michael considered the hand, what it meant. The terms they'd be leaving on. The situation had been much different than he'd expected. Lancer had been much different than he expected. A voice deep inside told him to smack that hand away, that Lancer was the blame for everything that had happened. But Cline knew that wasn't true, knew the man wasn't the source of all his pent up anger. And in the long run, he'd been helpful, hadn't he? He'd given you the first real update on that bastard Lotus you'd had since everything had fallen apart. Gave you leads to finally follow up on. He'd even offered advice and given you a way to contact him if you ever needed help.

Mike rubbed thumb and forefinger together as he stared at the hand before finally grasping it and giving it a single, terse shake. "Yeah. Force, with you as well, or however the saying goes." He considered it all, everything that happened, the new contact he'd made, the information he'd learned. It was a net positive. He'd gained from this, and that wasn't something Mike could say he'd had a ton of success with in a while. Everything always seemed to fall out from under him, so at least this one time things had worked out for the better.

He turned from the man and walked back to the door, glancing behind to the man as he went to leave. "Still. Probably not a good idea to hang around. No offense meant, but trouble loves company if you get my drift." Mike didn't need anymore attention drawn to him than he already feared there was, after someone had gone to the trouble of mucking up his connection to the Force with that Ysalamiri business. "See ya, Lancer." he walked out the door with a wave over his shoulder.

[Zereth Lancer]

Zereth watched him go, red eyes tracking the red head until he was out of sight. He wanted to follow, wanted to wrap the force around himself like a blanket and steal into the casino to make sure that things were as Michael said. He wanted to find even just one transgression for him to avenge, so that he could shatter this glass castle and let the galaxy see it's ugliness through uninhibited eyes. This was a bastion of the Empire, after all. Surely if he looked hard enough he would find some sin to burn away.

But Michael was right, and he had already been here too long. The Empire would not remain blind forever, and eventually they would catch on to his presence and send the Imperial Knights to come for him. He had yet to meet them in combat, preferring to leave long before they arrived, and he would be lying if he said he did not wish to fight them, to face such a challenge of clashing blades and ideology. Perhaps they could be swayed from their pedestals. He imagined they were not all bad. Still, that was for another time.

Stealing himself he stole back into the concourse, back to the transit center where he booked his return flight that would take him round about back to home. He looked forward to the long trip. It would give him time to meditate and think.