The Jedi pressed pursed lips to a clenched fist while he gazed into the distance, the faint scratch of his untrimmed beard, a momentary sensation, recalled him to the present. The memory of Nar Shaddaa clawed within his mind, the innocents in the street caught in the blast of the Plagueian's grenade. The concourse had emptied which left Wolfe alone to sulk, something he preferred at this point. Wolfe stood with the weight of his heel upon his well-worn cloak which caught, held fast, and he stumbled to catch his balance afterward.

"Introspection never was your strong suit, was it, child?" The calloused voice rasped, a shiver to match traversed the Jedi's spine.

"You've wallowed in doubt quite long enough, child, much longer and the Jedi will begin to wonder. Aren't attachments forbidden, after all? Ever still, sentimental as you are, you couldn't pick a path to follow attack and throw yourself before your enemy to protect those you never knew he would dare to target, like a fool. Or accept risks and mitigate." The specter made a visible gesture of defeat and moved across the concourse, its face contorted in the devilish sneer he had always given the Acolyte when he had been his Master.

The air between them was filled with the silence that came before storms, Wolfe had grown used to this over the last several years, but now it only punctuated the severity of the moment. The projection of his Master crossed the concourse and the pallor of the Sith was clear now to his student. Still, in this moment Wolfe grasped for words but could find none, and his Master's ghost continued to overshadow him. The poltergeist spoke his innermost doubts aloud and shook him to his core.

"I wonder, how efficient was that grenade? What was the casualty rate? Two or three, perhaps a dozen civilians? How many did he wound because of your inaction, my pet?"

Wolfe looked into the ephemeral eyes of his long-dead master, rage boiled over and his hands shook with an unmitigated source. But he was given something he had an answer to at this point, a question with a solid, definitive answer.

"Eleven dead, thirty wounded from the detonator. Degrees of injury vary. Collapsed lungs, burns, falling injuries from the detonation. Multiple injuries stem from the panic we caused in our fight. Largely those are attributed to trampling and crushing injuries from people trying to escape the source of the blast and gunfire." The Jedi spoke with an almost obscene clarity to his voice, eyes locked with his Master, old habits died hard.

"It speaks."

"I wasn't finished," Wolfe cut his master off, eyes forward as he looked through him and to the city beyond, "I wanted to say you were right, but I was so intent back then on getting away from you I never could admit it. Nothing in this world is the way we see it, and everything can be altered to suit our purposes. We can even be broken down to suit the needs of others. At the same time, there are aspects of this world that do not change. We do have to choose a path and walk it, what we face on that path can be altered, but we choose how we get there, and we cannot change how got where we are. I'm forever stuck with what you did to me, but I get to choose now what I do with this gift."

The sound of the imploder played once more in the Jedi's mind and he sighed.

"People will die, it is an immutable fact of our world. I had to kill you to get to where I am, I cannot be so naive as to think people will not die where your ilk or mine are involved."