Clowns of the Old Republic

"Did you really think that you could kill me?!"

Malavai shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the ringing in his ears. The metal floor was cold beneath his palms as he tried to sit up, but his vision was spinning so rapidly that he wasn't even sure which way up was.

"Get up. Get up," Vesper snarled. The words around the bay and around Malavai's skull, banging against the dull ache building there. His head must have hit the floor; that was the only explanation for why he couldn't focus on the figure approaching him.

The room grew hot, hot enough that his eyes began to water as he looked out at the destruction. Flames licked the wrecked remains of battledroids, caressed the durasteel carcasses until they wept warped metal. He couldn't be sure if it was oil or blood beneath his palms that made his effort to stand slick. Limned by the halo of fire was Vesper, all ruin and wrath as he twisted through the wreckage with unnatural grace.

"I said get up!" Vesper shouted as he rushed forward in a sudden burst of speed. Malavai threw his hands up as if that would protect him. There was nothing between him and the man he had betrayed, and no hope of any rescue. There would be no vengeance if he died here. He could only think to himself how fitting that end would be before another blow to his face caused him to sprawl back again.

This is blood, he thought to himself as he tasted metal on his tongue. He felt it drip from his nose and his lip, but there was no time to ascertain how serious the injury was. He could still hear Vesper's footsteps rattle the floor.

Vesper laughed, but it was a wheezing, hollow sound, like air rushing over dry bones.

"I should kill you," he laughed. "I should kill you. I should tear you to pieces. I should make you an example."

Vesper's words bordered on madness, and yet Malavai felt himself flinch away from him all the same. All of that pure malevolence made it hard to breathe, and he reached up to make sure that there wasn't anything blocking his throat. He'd seen Sith Lords do more with less effort.

"Don't try to struggle." The sudden stillness in his tone made Quinn's blood run cold. "You'll only make it worse for yourself. Baras may have your loyalty, but I could will your heart to stop."

Dread. That was the only word for it. Dread that built relentlessly inside of him, blocked all of his senses until all that he could focus on was how still his pulse had become. Malavai looked up at him—was he pleading? He couldn't be sure—Vesper's face was twisted, some horrible visage that was both beautiful and terrible at once. There was no light in his eyes save that which the fire gave,

and then he could not breathe.

Hands, fingers, nails clawed at anything that might give release

ripped up his own clothes

his own skin

gasped for it

but Vesper did not relent, only twisted the knife—the Force—inside of him, made his blood boil

made it sing

until he was certain that he was going to die.

Until Vesper stopped, knelt over him as he panted for breath, and grabbed a fistful of Malavai's hair. He pulled back hard, and he limply fell back against the floor.

"Remember that," Vesper gasped above him, throat ragged and raw from the smoke. "You live only because I will it. Pray I do not change my mind, Malavai Quinn.