Demons Aren't the Only Ones Scared of the Light

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

“How long until debriefing?”

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

“Betrayed? I was betrayed...”

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

This time his smile was more genuine.

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

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

[Karl Valten]

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

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

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

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

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

At this, the Inquisitor could only nod.

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

[Karl Valten]

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

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

[Karl Valten]

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

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

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

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

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