The second she'd woken that morning, Malice knew something was wrong. She sat up quickly in her bed, looking immediately around her own room. Everything seemed to be as she'd left it. Aiya was still sleeping where she had been the night before, and the sleepy Nexu twitched in her sleep. Still, Malice could still feel something was different, and she was determined to find out just what it was. Making sure not to wake Aiya, she got out of bed, quickly pulling on her normal outfit and clipping her lightsaber to her side. She opened her door, peeking her head out cautiously. Everything seemed to look the same outside her hallway. A few people she didn't know walked by, but that wasn't cause for alarm, there were many people she didn't know yet.

She walked around, glancing through different windows and doorways, trying to find what in the world could be throwing her off so badly this morning. Passing one of the training rooms, she had almost completely passed it, when she realized who it was inside. Kalon Entar sat, seemingly in meditation. That was odd by itself, as he wasn't one to find any use in the practice. She entered the room carefully, still fully on guard. The Savant seemed to sense her presence immediately, and a warm smile lit his face, making Malice freeze mid-step. Kalon was smiling? Actually and genuinely smiling? He opened his eyes, getting to his feet and coming over to her.

"Kaila, it's good to see you. Have you come to meditate as well?" He asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.She pushed it off, frowning.

"I told you not to call me that." She replied, her eyes filled with suspicion and a growing paranoia. Kalon's warm face turned to one of confusion.

"What do you mean? Why would I call you by anything but your name?" he questioned. He could see there was something wrong with her today, and he was starting to grow worried. "Kaila are you feeling alright?"

"What's going on, Kalon? Something is wrong and I can feel it, and now you're not acting like yourself." Malice shot at him, her voice starting to raise. Kalon didn't answer, but slowly pulled a holocommunicator out, speaking into it.

"Can we get Master Selika to training room C-74? Her apprentice is here and she's acting...out of character."

Perfect. If anyone knew what to do, It would be Selika. Leaving Kalon behind her, Malice approached one of the training dummies, deciding to take some of her frustration and anger out on the unsuspecting target. After a few well-placed kicks, the dummy's head ripped clean off, hitting the ground with a soft thump. She glanced over, not realizing Selika had already entered the room and was sharing a few worried glances with Kalon. They both looked at her, not saying anything at first until Selika raised her hand.

"Kaila. May we speak with you?" She called. Malice flinched. Even if Kalon calling her that had simply been a slip-up, there was no way in the galaxy that Selika ever would. Selika was the one that had given her the name Malice, telling her it was her new name and her old name was dead now. She approached the two slowly, eyeing each of them with suspicion.

"Kalon tells me you're feeling strange today." Selika started, her face painted with worry. "That was quite a bit of...aggression you displayed over there. Has something happened? Would you like to talk to us about it? You know anger and hate are not the Jedi way."

"Well, of course it's not, I'm not-" Malice cut herself off quickly, realizing it would be a short conversation if she'd finished her sentence the way she almost had.

"-feeling well. I'm not feeling well. Kalon was right. I just feel sick today."

Selika and Kalon's faces both relaxed instantly, their concern seeming to dissipate now that there was a believable reason for her behavior. They were both dripping with light side energy, and while Malice was still determined to get to the bottom of it, she was slowly beginning to wonder if perhaps she was dreaming. That would certainly make sense, and the more she thought about it, the more she began to relax.

"Would you like me to escort you back to your room?" Kalon asked, his warm smile returning. Malice nodded. Perhaps if she went back to sleep, she would wake up back in her actual body.

Kalon gave a small respectful bow to Selika before heading out of the training, room leading Malice back to her own quarters. She followed him silently, still trying to formulate how she was going to get out of this dream world. Currently, going back to sleep seemed like her best shot, and she was so busy concentrating, she almost didn't realize Kalon had stopped in front of her door.

"I hope you feel better tomorrow." Kalon said, inclining his head to her.

"Thanks. I hope I-" her sentence halted and she winced, looking down at her finger. Her hand had slipped reaching for the door code, and she'd somehow managed to cut her pointer finger. A small drop of blood beaded and dripped from her hand, falling to the floor. She looked at it in horror, her breathing starting to quicken.

"Kaila? What's wrong?" Kalon didn't get an answer. She just continued to stare at her finger. It was beginning to sting as she stuck it in her mouth, cleaning the blood off of it. After a short while, she muttered one sentence under her breath.

"You can't feel pain in dreams."

“If you’re not with us, then you are against us,” A’lora spat at Seridan. “You have served our purposes well in the past, Undesirable, but you no longer fit our ideals. We have lost everything - our income, our fleet, even our armies. We will have our revenge. We will rip the Grand Master’s regime down one asset at a time. And if you are not by our side while doing that, then you must be stopped before you can do damage. Expect to be detained.”

“Consul, plea--” Seridan pleaded, but the Togruta was having none of it. Two armed men stepped inside, gripping the Miraluka by the shoulders.

The day had started off so much better. A strong, sharp tea in the mess hall, a hot cross bun that was toasted just right, and a few juicy articles on the HoloNet had guaranteed a good mood. But then he’d started talking to other people. First it was just a few grumpy and clipped comments and looks, which Seridan assumed were just a result of the dissonance of their moods - they were moody for some given reason, and that clashed with his chipper attitude. But it had got progressively worse, with his closer friends glaring at him, intense dislike ebbing from their very beings.

He’d gone to the sparring chamber that had been requisitioned by Strike-team Ooroo first, expecting a buzzing atmosphere, as the SenNet techs worked and analysed data. But instead, there were the members of Ooroo, silently scrolling through their feeds, and a couple of tense, worried techs laboriously wiring up the terminals.

“You,” Aaleeshah shouted at the closest tech. “You’re too loud, and I can hear you clipping wires. Also, my datapad has stopped getting a signal - have you gone and frakked this thing up?”

The tech nodded, and hurried over to fix it, as if a servant. Seridan, sensing that he was quite unwelcome in such a room, continued to sip his tea whilst moving off to find somewhere else.

As he passed the Summit chambers, he heard raised voices within. “I don’t care how we destroy the Iron Legion, just that we do it!” Turr roared at Turel.

Turel didn’t blink as he backhanded the blue-skinned Pantoran in response, “You are nothing but a thieving lowlife, you wimp! The Iron Legion will be dealt with, after we dismantle the economies and livelihoods of the Clan capital planets. And then we will hunt down every damn Sith and Sith-sympathisers that has opposed us. That must be done first before we can even hope of taking on the Council. Just think, you dolt!”

Turr bolted back unright, following through with a cruelly covert uppercut. Turel was knocked back, but flipped himself and grabbed Turr by the neck. Turr struggled in his grasp, but the Proconsul held him steady. Behind him, Xantros stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. “If I may, sir, I will, ahem, talk to this delinquent and teach him some manners, whilst trying some… social experiments at the same time.”

As Turr was escorted out by the Duros, Seridan stepped inside. The Human turned on his heel, eyes fixing on the Miraluka as if he were another target. “Ah, Ranger,” he started, an evil snarl in his tone. “I have heard that you were, gods forbid it, happy.”

“I was when I woke up, sir. Now, I’m not so sure. Everyone seems closed-off and not-at-all like themselves.”

“They have a reason. They recently lost everything they owned. Every trophy, every bounty they ever collected, gone. We have a plan, but you don’t know it yet. You have no reason to be happy.”

“Your plan? To go up against every single clan and win? With a meagre fleet and limited soldiers? We will be trodden upon. What happened to secrecy? To a plan where we protect those under our care, and bring them to safety? What happened to Jedi values?”

“You are becoming perilously close to misconduct, boy.”

Behind Seridan, a shadowed Togruta cut off Seridan’s only exit. “You were once our greatest follower. Now it seems, you are our greatest opposition. We have a… method of dealing with opposition. We learnt the trick from the Grand Master. And after all, if you’re not with us, you’re against us…”

Quo woke feeling very strange. Not only did he feel like he was about five years younger than he had when he had lain down to rest, but there was a weird feeling about the place. Raising from his litter he showered and dressed, not able to shake this feeling of foreboding that was filling every part of his being.

Crossing the courtyard in front of his quarters it niggled at his awareness again. What was that? It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. Jedi! A lot of Jedi! Usually he could feel a couple of them, Sang and Malik, with all their light side goodness purveying his consciousness, but there were more than fifty of them here. His mind felt like it was covered in sickly sweetness, and it was not a feeling he liked at all. His mind was reeling with all the goodness that he was feeling.

Heading towards the training area the feeling got even more cloying than it had been in his accommodation. Entering it hit him like a wall of oddness that made him feel physically sick. The younglings inside the training quadrangle were concentrating on the drills that were being given by their instructor.

“Deflect the blows, and immobilise. We are not here to kill the enemy, remember we are guardians of justice throughout the Galaxy, we do not wantonly slay those that stand before us,” the instructor continued his mantra as the young trainees attempted to stop the bolts randomly generated by the drone from hitting their bodies, jolting them if it should do so. “We are negotiators, not executioners, we attempt to achieve a diplomatic solution to our problems, however the opponent may not, therefore we must be able to dissipate his attacks without bodily harm if at all possible”

Quo stood, bemused at the rhetoric that the instructor was spreading to his pupils. What in frell’s name was he talking about? The clan stood for domination. Domination of those that could not resist. It stood for gaining power through whichever means was the most practical. The Sons of Sadow were interrogators, torturers, inveiglers and infiltrators, they were not diplomats. Inside his head he knew what they were.........and they definitely were not this!

The instructor turned, and Quo finally got a look at the face behind the twisted monologue being delivered. Bentre? At least it looked like Bentre Stahoes, but there was a smile plastered over the Corellian’s face. What the.....? Ben was a Sith, through and through. What sort of warped power had caused this? Reaching out with his feelings Quo probed, only finding lightness and conscience inside the human.

“Sith!” Stahoes started making his way towards the Zabrak, his pace quickening with every stride. His blaster leapt from its holster into Bentre’s hand, the big paw folding around the grip precisely, muscle memory guiding his movement through years of repetitive exercise. As his arm came up in front of him he squeezed off a couple of shots, dead on target. Quo’s Lightsaber leapt from his belt a split second after Bentre’s blaster, igniting in a crimson flash as the pommel slapped into his hand. Reacting to the double blaster bolts his wrist and fingers guided the weapon in a short arc intercepting the shots, their paths deflecting away from his body. Almost immediately there were three more blasts, a single followed by a double zeroing in on his body. Rolling the first away over his shoulder Quo flipped to avoid the second volley. The gap between them had narrowed all the time as they both covered the open ground. With just a few yards left between them Bentre’s own saber replaced the blaster in his hand, the familiar ‘snap hiss’ of the blade’s inception in juxtaposition with Quo seeing the light blue blade, rather than the expected red.

The blades clattered together, the air around them smelling of ozone, each blade trying to interrupt the flow of the other. Quo had already softened the impact by letting his wrist be pushed back towards his own centre line, allowing Ben’s to slide down it slightly, the Jedi increasing his own push against the stasis. Quo snapped backwards half a step allowing Ben’s own press forwards to over extend the Jedi, the young Sith shifting his weight first to the right, pushing the azure beam of light downwards and away from his body as his blade slid in a curve over the top of it as he moved his centre of gravity to the left. Quo’s right hand whipped forwards, his wrist cocking, bringing the scarlet blade down towards the Corellian’s head. Even as the blade began it’s decent Bentre’s left hand gestured, shooting forwards in front of his body. As if struck by an invisible wrecking ball the Zabrak warrior was thrown backwards, landing on his feet mere inches from the perimeter wall.

A snarl of rage escaped Quo’s throat, guttural and animalistic. His feet gripped the floor as his muscles tensed powering him forwards with superhuman speed, Bentre only just able to adjust his position to meet the new attack. The savagery of the Zabrak’s attacks forced the Light Side Jedi back step by step, blow after blow raining down on the defence that was being offered. Quo’s own anger and confusion fuelled his grip on the Dark Side, his gold and red eyes gleaming with the intensity of the feelings surging through him. The sheer speed and fluidity of the attacks were breaking down the beleaguered fendings of the Jedi before him. Whirling like a dervish he drew out his vibro sword with his left hand as his right continued the hammering blows with his lightsaber, the doubling of the attacks wearing his opponent down even though Bentre was summoning every trick that he knew to avoid them.

A reverse strike with his vibro sword jarred the sapphire coloured blade to a standstill, preventing the parabola of it’s path. Quo’s arc continued, the red saber slicing through flesh and bone, decapitating the human warrior, the head falling to the tiled floor of the training yard, the eyes rolling into the back of their sockets. The body fell where it stood, crumpling backwards into a heap, separated from its cranium by a couple of feet.

Quo looked down at the corpse of Stahoes. Shutting down his saber, and returning his vibroblade to its scabbard, his eyes took in the sight. A single thought crossed his mind. Ben wouldn’t like to live like that, better to put him out of his misery. Turning he strode away. This was going to be a busy day.