The Knight, Death, and the Devil

Chapter 2: Out Of The Frying Pan

The first thing he saw was a light. Not the kind you see when you become one with the Force—depending on what you believe—this one flickered and buzzed, running down the length of a dull brown ceiling. He squinted reflexively and then winced in pain, reaching a hand up to feel his swollen left eye, but found that his hands were bound tightly behind his back. His eye socket was tender and swollen, but at least he could still see out of it.

Above him the ceiling was moving, and he realized that he was being dragged down a hallway by the scruff of his shirt. He craned his head back and saw two helmeted guards, the red markings on their backs identifying them as Imperial soldiers. They talked to each other in short, robotic barks. Between the armor and the voice changers they had an inhuman presence designed to strike fear into their enemies. Torin had to admit—it worked.

The scrape of cold steel against his back stopped, and the soldiers pulled Torin to his knees, turning him around to face back down the hallway. One of them leaned behind him and pressed something on his manacles, and within seconds Torin was being violently pulled backwards, dragged on his shins and knees by some unseen force.

A vertical pole struck him in the back and he stopped, a click coming from his shackles. He looked to either side of him and saw a dozen men just like him, all shackled to tall metal poles in a large gray holding cell. The two guards left the room, the door slamming shut behind them, leaving an eerie silence in their wake.

None of the Republic soldiers spoke. Torin gave them another look over, and going by their uniforms counted two real soldiers. The rest were conscripts, like himself. As his eyes traveled up and down the line, he thought he recognized a face and quickly recalled the eager man beside him on the troop transport. The man's eyes flashed in mutual recognition, and despite the blaster scar running across the left side of his head, he gave Torin a defiant smile.

"Kill any Sith?"

Torin laughed, the laugh turning to a cough in his dry throat. "I got one."

The man nodded, and his eyes drifted to the ground.

"How about you?" Torin asked, unable to bear the oppressive silence that had returned.

He shook his head, eyes still fixed to the floor. "We got surrounded in minutes. Half our guys got slaughtered, the other half dropped their guns—so I did, too."

Torin felt the man's shame as his own. That very easily could have been him, had circumstances been even a little bit different.

"Means I get to live, I guess—whatever that's worth."

"It's not your fault," Torin assured him. "You shouldn't have been sent here. None of us should have," he said angrily, looking at the conscripts on either side of him.

The man nodded again, seeming to at least appreciate the sentiment. "How about you? You surrender too?"

The last few minutes before being knocked out replayed in Torin's mind. It seemed like a dream—or a nightmare.

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "I got knocked out."

One of the men to his right laughed. "You trip and hit your head or something?" He nodded at Torin's swollen eye.

Torin winced reflexively. "No. There was a woman... with a lightsaber."

The man's eyes went wide. Further down the line, a man with swarthy skin and a regulation haircut scoffed. On the shoulder of his tunic was a Republic insignia.

"Bullshit. Sith don't take no prisoners."

The other prisoners looked to the officer, then back to Torin. He just shrugged in response. Why bother trying to explain it? At this point, what did it even matter?