Demons Aren't the Only Ones Scared of the Light

[Rossos Atrapes]

Imperial Centre - The Citadel - Cell 08-2342-11 High Security

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, even so; this was only the beginning.

Oh yes. Only the beginning.

[Dasquian Belargic]

“...weird.”

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

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

Along the clear wall, the fish scattered in entrancing designs. A dark shape moved in the waters, getting closer, and closer. It was a huge fish, seemingly on a collision course with the wall. Grace, her back to the tank, couldn't see it, but it already almost at the wall, and wasn't slowing down...

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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


___________________________________

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

___________________________________

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

“Ah. You're awake.”

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

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

His voice held a distinct note of mocking nonchalance.

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

“I am disappointed, Director Belargic.”

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

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

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

“Get out of my mind!”

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

"...what have you done to me?”

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

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

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

[Rossos Atrapes]

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

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

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

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

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

[Dasquian Belargic]

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

“Krasst!”

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