Mustafar is a planet steeped in a dark history, acting as a point of interest as far back as the Clone Wars themselves. At one point, the Black Sun constructed their headquarters upon its surface and later on even Darth Vader took up residence within his dark castle. The traces of this history are still found in the form of the remains left behind. Mining facilities are scattered across the lava-surface of the scorching planet, help up with gravity supports that keep them safe from the superheated material below.

Perhaps its most notable history came via a single uttered phrase: Mustafar is where Jedi go to die. The hidden interrogation facility built into the scorched stone is steeped in the dark side, providing a clue to its wicked purpose in a time not so long past. A large, single landing pad acts as the focal point of the structure from the outside. It is connected by a causeway that leads to a security door that has fallen into disuse. The facility itself is still functional, drawing power from the thermal energy of the planet itself.

Once within, one is confronted by the labyrinthine maze of corridors and offices that were clearly designed for a singular purpose. The holding cells are as spartan as any other Imperial construct, providing only a slab protruding from the wall as a bed and nothing more. Barracks can be found near the main control rooms with its shelving in various states of disarray. It is clear with only a glance that scavengers have already picked the inanimate corpse clean of its contents.

However, it is deeper still where the miasma of the dark side truly reaches its zenith. There one will find the interrogation chambers. Wickedly cruel in their singular purpose, stains can still be found caked into the durasteel panels themselves alongside various tools and instruments of the trade plied within.

To walk within Mustafar's Interrogation Facility is to tread through the ghosts of the planet's darkest past. It is a symphony for the wicked and a requiem for the pious.

He had known darkness all his life. It had been a constant companion. As an orphan, his parents were shrouded in darkness. As a young man, he learned to dance on its razor edge. In the lowest levels of Nar Shaddaa, he had seen it in the groundling gangs and ten-credit brothels. In the Brotherhood, it was honed to perfection, as both the way and the goal. Darkness took many forms. This was different. This was nothingness. This was a void, without light or life. As he reached out to the universe, it didn't reach back. There was only one thing in this void.

There was fear.

Wrapped in the fear, time was meaningless. He tried to fall into himself, to at least judge the time by the aches in his body, or the dry, swollen state of his parched tongue. But his body felt distant, disconnected like the universe itself. There was only the fear and the void.

And then there was a voice. It was soft, with a faint, lilting accent he knew he should be able to place. He tried to reach out for the memory, but the fear choked it off, and it died.

The voice spoke again, whispering through his synapses. He followed the voice, a tether in the darkness. The words were unimportant, but the voice filled the void. He clawed along its length with feverish abandon, and the fear receded. It wasn't gone. It stalked the edges of the void, waiting to strike with tooth and claw and rend his consciousness asunder. For now, that was enough.

"I asked a question." The voice was toneless. Neither impatient nor hurried. Neither caring or dismissive. It spoke, and it expected answers.

Terran's eyes flitted open and were met with the void. The fear lunged for him, but he fought it back, fought it down. He reached out again to the universe, and again it ignored his call.

That was fine.

He had spent years as a bounty hunter, more interested in fists and guns than lightsabers. He had been tortured and interrogated by the best. And he had broken. More than once. But he'd survived. He'd survive again, for her. So he asked himself the only three questions that mattered: who had you, where were you, and how to escape.

Kolot called them the Three W's. Neither Terran nor Isshwarr bothered to correct him.

Who was on the other end of that maddeningly soft voice. The voice's questions might have the answer.

Where was tougher. There were always clues - smells, sounds, tastes on the air. But he couldn't smell or taste a thing, and the only sound was the voice - and even that was muted and distant.

How was easy. In his previous life, it never changed. Kill the frakker before they killed you. Usually, you could find out "Who" and "Where" afterwards, if they even mattered then.

So he answered the voice.

"What question?"

His reply was soft, near inaudible, and his throat strained with the effort. That was good. He wouldn't have to act. She'd always told him he was a horrible liar.

There was a soft, distant screech. A few moments, then there was the sound of breathing. It too felt distant.

"Repeat yourself." The voice was closer, but still too distant and he suddenly knew he had a neural inhibitor on his neck. They didn't affect movement, since he could speak and open his eyes. But they did dampen sensory input. And they were perfect for sensory deprivation torture.

"What question?" It was barely more than a croak, and he grimaced internally at the thought of what waited when he removed the inhibitor.

"First Tarvitz. Then the Herald. The Grand Master would know what you are after."

The Kiffar's answer was unintelligible, and the breathing moved closer.

"Repeat yourself." The voice was insistent, despite the calm, and Terran bit back a smile.

"The usual. Jewels." Then his foot came up, slamming into the voice's crotch, and the universe rushed back.

He moved without thought, reaching out with his mind and ripping the manacles from the wall. He lunged in the darkness, his preternatural senses directing his movements as he crashed into the voice, carrying them both to the ground. Something solid and metallic slammed into his jaw, knocking him back, but he barely felt it. Then he felt the voice reach out with the Force and rip the inhibitor from his neck.

Feeling rushed back.

And pain rushed in.

Pain was a fickle thing. You could delay it, run from it, but it remained nonetheless. It just took longer for some to start to feel it.

Atra Ventus was not one of those.

The Umbaran groaned, one hand instinctively between his legs as the other sought purchase. His messy dark grey hair hung around his face as his black-gold eyes opened, the panels beneath him coming into clarity as his eyes focused.

Of course, Terran Koul's antics had reinforced at least one thing: interrogations weren't for Atra. They were a waste of time better spent on more fruitful endeavours. Like not getting kicked below the belt. As the gaze of the Grand Master's Praetor shifted back towards the Arconan, he found at least some solace in seeing Koul was in no better condition.

"Unfortunate," Atra grunted, referencing the pulsing ache he was still feeling.

Terran, meanwhile, focused on his breathing, or rather his panting. The Arconan's everything hurt and he didn't think that was going to change any time soon. His jaw especially ached as he used his forearm to wipe a crimson stain from his chin. Still, he was not unshaken from the fear that had wrapped so tightly around him not so long before. It hid in each shuddering breath and threatened to reclaim him. But that wasn't going to happen. Terran wouldn't allow it to. Not because he was stronger than it, no, nothing so noble as that. It was because he was too damned angry. His temper rushed in to fill his aching body with a fiery defiance...and he could feel the Force within his reach. The Arconan knew he had to act while he still could.

Before Atra could get back on his feet entirely—having shifted his attention to that task—he felt a surge of uneasiness. Like the galaxy itself was telling him to get moving. He looked up just in time to see Terran's hands outstretched. The instruments of the Arconan's own torment were floating earilly in front of him like a chambered shell, and the former Jensaarai gave a shove.

Atra was left with no recourse but to bend the Force beneath his will, crafting it into a wall between himself and the oncoming scattershot. The Kiffar didn't stick around, opting to flee the room and almost tripping over some of his gear piled just on the other side of the entrance. Must not have had time to stash it, Terran thought as he scooped up the familiar weight of his twin WESTAR-35 blaster pistols.

That gave him a confidence boost like no other.

Confidence was one thing, but piecing together the last however many hours of his life was another. That was what nagged at Terran as he made his way through the winding corridors of the facility. The lights—when they worked—flickered sporadically. Shapes formed and disappeared in the flashes, proving to be nothing more than distractions and remaining debris from the fully functioning interrogation facility it once had been. And it was hot. Really hot.

That jogged the Arconan's memory. He had come to Mustafar in search of...what, exactly?

Terran shook his head, trying to knock the memory free of whatever was holding it back. Then he was struck by double-vision. Before his eyes he saw both an empty corridor and the spinning shape of a lightsaber moving past him...no, through him.

The Arconan instantly threw himself towards the ground.

The premonition became reality as a humming crimson streaked through the center of the corridor, sparking as it sawed orange lines through the durasteel walls before returning to Atra's outstretched hand. Then it disappeared and so too did its ominous glow, plunging the corridor into darkness.

Terran grunted, having rolled onto his back, and pointed his blasters down the corridor. He squinted in a vain attempt to pierce the shadow's with his vision but had confidence in his accuracy nonetheless. He squeezed the triggers and brilliant flashes of light raced towards his attacker. The goldenrod bolts of plasma soared past Atra's silhouette, the taller man having sidestepped them, and revealed that he was casually stalking towards Terran with all the confidence of someone who believed they had already won.

"Running, eh?" Atra mused. His words remained carefully even and deliberate. "Is this how you handled your responsibilities as Proconsul? Running away and leaving it to the next in line?"

The Praetor didn't know the specifics of the situation, of course. It was merely a barb based on fragmented information. But, it was sharpened to hurt just like any other weapon. Instead of reacting, though, Terran found his footing and unleashed another barrage of surprisingly accurate blaster fire while backpedalling. If not for the Force, Atra would have been sorely mismatched. Instead, he engaged the crackling cerulean blade of his second lightsaber, swatting the bolts he couldn't dodge away to have them become scorching orange dots in the ceiling and walls.

"That's a laugh. What would someone like you know of responsibility?" Terran countered.

"Entirely too much," came the reply. Atra's monotone was broken by the faintest hint of regret. That caused the Arconan to almost pause, then the lights of the corridor lurched back to life

Atra's eyes squinted in discomfort as his lips curled ever so slightly as he focused. A broken down cart rose into the air—pulled by invisible threads—before the Praetor's extended hand sent it cascading down the corridor. Terran threw himself into a roll, taking a chance to fire a well-aimed shot.

The shot found its mark, ricocheting off a sequence of still visible reflective plates. The zig-zagging bolt carved its path and bit into Atra's shoulder. The Umbaran's nerves came alight, pain surging from the wound and staggering him just as the cart crashed into the far wall. Atra regained his focus just in time to see Terran turn the corner, unwilling to continue to engage in such tight quarters.

"Still haven't answered," the Praetor growled.

Terran moved with preternatural speed, navigating the labyrinth of corridors at random and trusting in the Force to choose his path. It's what she would have done.

He could feel the Umbaran following doggedly in his wake, a handful of twists and turns behind. He spotted a security door ahead, jerking open and closed at random intervals. He dove through it as it snapped shut, twisting in mid-air and firing at the control panel. The panel exploded in a shower of molten metal and sparks as the door locked closed, and Terran tucked into a roll as he hit the floor. He came to his feet and his eyes darted around the control room. Long-dead monitors and holographic displays filled the chamber, their control panels smashed and left to rust. There were two doors, the one he had blasted and one opposite of it on the other side of the control room. A bank of windows lined the wall, looking over the hellscape below. Rocky outcroppings jutted over rivers of molten lava and he could smell the burnt ozone stench that permeated the atmosphere.

Mustafar. Where Jedi go to die.

He remembered the temple at Malachor and the ruined mess of the Herald's face after he had slagged it. He remembered the temple at Dromund Kaas before that and Tarvitz's shocked expression as the yellow blaster bolt had torn through his throat. And he remembered the meeting on Gethsemane after becoming an Arconae. He remembered the fall of her silver hair, perfectly preserved, and the smell of Selenian moonflowers that surrounded her. He had followed her to the Dajorra system, an exile in search of a payday. He had followed her into battle against the O'reenians, defending Odan-Urr and hoping to get close enough to her to collect the bounty on her head. When he confessed, and she admitted that she'd known all along - that she forgave him, trusted him - he had known he would follow her even into death. So he had.

None of the Arconae knew where she had gone. The details of her sojourn on the eve of that Collective ambush had been shrouded in mystery. But he was a Kiffar and a Bounty Hunter. Tracking people was what he did. He had followed her for years. He wouldn't let a little thing like death stop him.

So how the hell did I end up here?

The sound of a lightsaber sizzling to life brought him out of his reverie, and he knew he didn't have long before Ventus broke through the security door. His blue eyes darted between the windows and the far door, then back again. With a mental shrug he flicked a switch on the pistol in his right hand and charged the plate glass, firing a hail of stun bolts at it. Rather than heating the glass to molten temperatures, the stun bolts arced along the crystalline structure of the material, weakening it. When the Kiffar lunged at it, it shattered on impact, and he tumbled through into the open air. Summoning the Force to strengthen his body, he fell two stories to the rocky ground below, landing in a crouch to help absorb the impact.

The Umbaran followed a moment later, his mismatched sabers glowing crimson and cerulean in the harsh, dusky light. The two men stood slowly, warily, as they faced each other. A dozen paces separated their bodies, but the gulf between their hearts could fill galaxies. Terran could feel himself tiring, a stark contrast to the Umbaran he faced. Atra looked unperturbed, unwinded, and entirely unconcerned. He raised an eyebrow questioningly and opened his mouth to speak, so Terran brought up his pistol and fired off a volley of yellow bolts. The Adept's lips pursed into a thin line and he raised his blades in a long, sweeping arc, easily batting aside the blaster fire. Terran strafed to the right, firing with both blasters as he circled the Umbaran. Atra intercepted them with contemptuous ease, studying the Arconan.

"At least you aren't running anymore." The words were said in a careful monotone, but Terran felt the undercurrent of derision.

"I wasn't running," Terran muttered, as much to himself as to the Praetor. "I was following."

The two men moved in unison, the Kiffar circling the Umbaran as if in a dance. Terran's blasters kept firing, an unending stream of yellow and blue bolts, while Atra's blue and red blades intercepted them. The Praetor could have redirected them back at Terran, but he was more interested in answers than endings.

"Who?" There was a lilt in the Umbaran's voice, and an unexpected earnestness in the question.

The stream of blaster fire slowed, then stopped, and the Arconan's shoulders seemed to sag under an incomprehensible weight. For the briefest of moments, Atra saw a glimpse of crushing guilt to balance Koul's brashness. "Does it matter? She's dead."

Something in the Kiffar's tone told Atra that he wasn't speaking of the slain Herald. Then Terran shrugged, and threw his blaster at him.

The Praetor's typically impassive eyes widened. His hands moved reflexively to block the blaster as it accelerated towards him. With a cocky grin, Terran aimed his remaining blaster and fired, a trio of yellow bolts lancing out and slamming into the blaster's grip, eating through the metal and rupturing the power pack. The WESTAR-35 exploded in a coruscating shower of sparks, stunning the Umbaran and knocking him backwards. The Kiffar was on him like a shot, gripping the blaster by the barrel and slamming the handle into Atra's jaw. The blow knocked the Umbaran back further and Terran spun the blaster again. He caught it by the handle, finger on the trigger, and aimed at the Praetor center mass. He thought of her, her silver tresses surrounded by moonflowers, and his finger flipped the switch on the blaster's side. He fired a half dozen stun blasts into the Umbaran, watching him collapse on the rocky, hellish ground.

Naturally, Terran had no intention of sticking around to give Atra any of the information he was looking for.

Answers.

The more Terran dwelled on it the more it came back to him, even as he still worked to put distance between himself and his captor, finding his way to an atrium. It was answers that had brought him to Mustafar and the—supposedly—abandoned interrogation facility. A trap within a trap. It was just as Atra had said, first Tarvitz and then the Herald. It put Terran on someone's radar and he meant to spring their trap with one of his own.

Yeah, that worked out real well. Not exactly the big payoff he had been hoping for.

Behind him, echoing through the winding corridors, he could hear Atra's rapid footsteps. Terran briefly wondered if he had managed to lose him, that Atra had taken just one wrong turn, but that illusion was shattered as he felt blood dripping from his chin.

He had left a trail.

The Arconan took a moment to breathe, finding himself only managing ragged gasps. He could feel his stamina beginning to wane. Time had become yet another enemy standing against him. Terran needed to refocus, and to do so he needed to fall back on teachings from so long ago. Those of the Jensaarai. First, he pushed the air out of his lungs and took another long clawing breath in. As he filled his lungs once more, he tapped into the Living Force and let it suffuse him entirely.

Through that connection, Terran could feel the pain and misery soaked into the very foundations of the facility. The Force itself had been tainted by its dark past. It left him feeling cold and alone...until he wasn't.

Atra slowed to a walk as he approached, stepping out of the shadows into the dull-orange hue of the atrium. His brow was furrowed in an expression resembling annoyance while the fingers of his left hand twitched in concert with the sparking wound in his shoulder. "This conversation is fast becoming a confrontation," the Praetor noted, stating the obvious.

Terran couldn't help but grin. "In that I'm happy to oblige."

The Arconan's blasters raised once more. The lack of hesitation, and the equal lacking from Ventus as he advanced while rolling under a volley, betrayed the reality of the situation. Terran had outlived his usefulness as far as the Umbaran was concerned and he knew it.

Atra came up into a crouch and brought his right arm sweeping across him. His will became reality as the unseen tendrils of the Force sent Terran crashing into a pile of debris. The Arconan hissed as he felt fragments carving through his skin and drawing yet more blood. He gave a grunt and pushed himself back up, ignoring the additional pangs as he did so. Terran squinted to reacquire his target, finding him to be fighting smarter and not harder, using as much cover as he could.

Terran gave a quick scan of the area, judging the angles around Atra's position. He took a deep breath and fought to keep his arms steady against the screaming burn of fatigue. The Arconan fired again, banking the shot around the atrium and timing a second shot directly towards Atra's cover. The Umbaran had to react quickly to the oncoming threats, the immediate danger of the second shot overriding the delayed first. He huddled deeper under the cover only to have the bouncing bolt find its mark, as confirmed by his sudden cry of pain.

The Arconan wondered if it had been a fatal hit, but somehow doubted he'd be so fortunate. Instead, he had only managed to cripple his target as Atra clutched at his now wounded shin. With that pain—combined by the distinct possibility of actually meeting his end—Atra found himself feeling true anger for the first time in as long as he could remember. He had almost forgotten the taste of it as it roiled within him, cold and hot in equal parts. Instead of allowing it to cloud his judgement, however, Atra steeled his resolve. He drove the rage under his grasp like a sword upon the anvil and hammered it with his will. Then he reached out with the Force.

At first it slipped through his grasp like so many silken strands, but at last he found purchase.

Terran slowly approached in a collapsing spiral. His blasters were at the ready but his muscles were already aching from the exertion. The barrels shook, barely, with strain. Even in the face of possible victory, the Arconan remained wary. Drawing closer still, he could see the Praetor's boots sticking out, judging that the man was now propped against the debris. He swallowed hard and continued, hoping to get off a proper kill shot. Even if the previous blow had been fatal, it never hurt to double tap. Unfortunately, Atra was the first to react.

Crackling energy streaked from the Praetor's single outstretched hand and struck the Arconan like a lance. The force of it pushed Terran against the wall behind him and continued to hold him there as he had no where else to go, the stream itself remaining unabated as Atra continued to fuel the lightning with all the power he could muster. The Arconan was left with no recourse but to scream. The pain scorched through him as he felt himself burning from within without any sense of relief until darkness claimed him. Only then did the power wane.

Atra's hand collapsed to the ground, his reserves utterly spent, and so to did Terran's crumpled form. The Praetor couldn't even muster the strength to raise a finger as his body was taken over with hacking, bloody coughs. His nostrils flared and Atra was left with only his fading will to push back at the darkness encroaching within his vision. "Dammit," he seethed through grit teeth. "This plan sucked..."

Then unconsciousness claimed him.