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Jedi Insurgency 088 (Interlude 10)
🕑 Added 2025-08-12 16:49:38 +0000 UTCAN: Everyone used in this chapter 100% existed in either Canon or Legends. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Glee. Excessive glee and relief. These were the emotions Darth Maul experienced at this moment.
Seated upon his throne within the ancient palace of Mandalore, the horned Zabrak's yellow eyes were glued to a dozen different monitors. The events of the galaxy were strumming a discordant note, one his Master did not orchestrate! A grin came unbidden as he witnessed clandestine recordings of Jedi fighting alongside droids. Of a certain masked man inspiring hope amongst the masses.
“Master, oh Master. So clever, so calculated. For decades you trained me, only to discard me as soon as your next best toy came running along.” Maul growled in bitterness. “But you did not foresee this, did you?!” Maul joyfully slammed a fist on his armrest.
“Oh no! For all that insight, for all the plans within plans, contingency within contingency, your grand scheme, your magnum opus…! It was all for naught. Foiled by a Jedi of all people. One that had lurked in the shadows this entire war, only to reveal himself at the most critical, crucial time. Your apprentice weeps for you.” Maul dramatically wiped a faux tear from the corner of his eye as his mockery could not be contained.
Clenching his fists, his smile morphed into a grin filled with schadenfreude.
His childhood. His hopes & dreams. His brother. All things to be played with, slaves to HIS whims! No more! Begging and cowering before his Master had struck his pride, but Maul was a survivor! His hatred and dedication saw him survive the loss of his legs, the fall into the pit, and the humiliation of lying in a trash heap.
Again and again, he was the tool.
But now?
Now he was the Master!
Looking out the window, Maul saw dozens of Mandalorian capital ships hovering in low orbit, and dozens of Mandalorians flying by on their jetpacks. Starfighters roared overhead, and a squad of crisp boots met his ears as a dozen of his faithful marched into his throne room.
“Mand'alor, the brothers and sisters are ready.”
Chaos was abundant, and lives were the currency for advancement!
‘Master, oh Master, you have taught me well. Dooku, Skywalker, they were already established, set in their own ways. You raised me, molded me in your own image. It is I who am your heir. And it is I who shall uphold the mantle of the Sith.’
“Very good, Commander. Prepare my ship.” Maul smiled, and rose from his throne.
“What shall be our first target?”
“I seem to be somewhat homesick. My people, much like yours, are strong, yet low in number. If we are to survive in this galaxy, we must assimilate those unique cultures, and absorb their strengths. Whilst the giants lumber, and quake, we shall set our sights on those independent powers, such as the Bothans, the Rodians, and other unaligned planets. Prideful, unwanted, ungrateful, they think themselves above the petty squabbles of the galaxy. We will educate them.
First, however? First, we shall set sail for Dathomir.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On one of the moons of Coruscant, deep within the crust was a secret research facility.
The sound of machines whirring, and people screaming was a constant. Various tubes full of liquid containing numerous lifeforms lined a 10 mile wall. Upwards of 100,000 unfortunate souls had been captured, and were awaiting experimentation.
One of the operators of this macabre installation, a purple alien of the Faust species, Dr. Nuvo Vindi, was dressed in a labcoat, and wore large, bloodstained, black rubber gloves.
Within the operating room that Vindi found himself in, was a brain attached to several probes. Typing away at a keyboard, the purple alien was editing memories, and adding new skills such as those possessed by a clone trooper.
Walking into the room, a man with a disfigured ugly face, he was sparse of hair, had a pig-like nose, and dried blood crusted under his fingernails. His name was Cornelius Evazan.
“The deadline is by the end of the month. We have three days left.” Evazan stated in a rough voice.
“Do not rush genius. You saw the results of the Tarkin clone. For Project G, we must be even more careful, Kaleesh brains are very delicate organisms.” Vindi replied in a weedily tone, his words were high pitched and dismissive, the Faust continued to clack away, not bothering to turn around.
“The Emperor is not to be trifled with. We must be on time. There cannot be a delay!” Evazan gripped the back of Vindi's chair so tightly, his knuckles turned white, the way he gazed at the alien, it was almost as if he imagined his hand around Vindi's neck.
“Oh so dull, so droll. Go back to your cybersuit research. Palpatine was pleased with your first creation, this time, you must only improve that which has already been done. One of your talents can do that much.” Vindi mocked.
Evazan grit his teeth so hard, something cracked. “Prison is the least of our worries if our quota is not met. Our competitors in the Inquisitorios have begun to show results. Without the Emperor’s favor, we lose funding. Without funding, our pet projects will be cut.” Evazan replied, his breaths were heavy, each word a struggle to get out.
“Such a simpleton. Why worry over failure? Those mystics are but idiots praying to an invisible force. We scientists shall be the ones to carry the Empire, nay, the universe into the next great beyond!” Vindi proclaimed, his eyes were alight with madness as he inputted lightsaber combat modules into the cloned brain that he was working upon.
“...you had better hope so, xenos scum.” Evazan spat before marching away.
Vindi wore an insane grin across his face as his fingers never stopped clicking away. The edited memories then began their upload. At the same time, a dozen other brains-those belonging to high ranking CEO's and business conglomerates-received editing as well before they were then placed inside clone bodies.
It was a shame that these clones weren't produced by Kaminoan's, and only had a shelf life of three months, requiring constant replacement. But the benefits well outweighed the cost.
‘For the Empire? Heh. For science!’
Vindi's eyes went wide with madness, and he smiled from ear to ear.
Whilst he provided enhanced soldiers for Palpatine, and pretended to insert moles into various industries, the cloned businessmen would be loyal to him! Before long, he would find ways to insert cloned officers, and public officials across all aspects of life.
Then he, Vindi, would be Emperor of all!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Within the core of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, deep at its lowest point, a massive chamber covered in ancient inert runes was the room that once housed every captured darkside or Sith artifact.
Darkside energies permeated this place, and filled the air with a nasty musk. This perfume coated the room in a sort of wispy haze, any who were caught unaware would find themselves lost in an illusion, one in which their greatest fantasies turned into horrible nightmares.
Additionally, this place was a slowly awakening Force Nexus. A Nexus that breathed the dark into the universe. The Temple had been built by the Jedi upon this location precisely because of this font of power, to both contain it, and transform shadows into sunrays, creating balance in the Force.
Now, however, an ever increasing torrent of foulness was permeating the Temple as rune after rune failed, and the corruption of the Sith ruined these once hallowed halls.
Gathering in this place were some of the foremost experts of the darkside. Palpatine had never heeded the Rule of Two, and had long scoffed at anything that would tie him down. Ever since he had become a Sith, he had used his greatest ability-his mouth-to poison the ears of Jedi, and Force Sensitives alike.
As such, over the years, many had fallen under the sway of his sweet lies, and become Dark Adepts.
Within this unholy hall, the newly birthed Inquisitorious called it home.
Among those notables present were: Hydra, a pale skinned, black haired Selphi (space elf) female, Tr'Son a pale skinned, bald Pau’an male, Jerec a middle-aged bald, blind Miraluka male, and lastly, was the unhealthily pale, impossibly lithe man, Cronal.
“I am fortunate not to have been born as a man.” Hydra mocked as she pointedly stared at their shining, bald heads. “Who knew the Darkside targeted men like that. One wonders if there is another area that has shrunk?”
“Clearly you have been affected by this curse too, my dear.” Tr'Son tersely stated, glancing at Hydra's flat chest.
Hydra didn't erupt in a rage, but her cruel smile said it all.
“Let us dispense with the threats, and jockeying for power. The Emperor has commanded us to achieve results. The Apothecarium has already unveiled their new killing machine, whilst we are lagging behind. Hydra, your failure to contain Revan at the Inspectorate is what has placed us under such strain. Unless you have anything constructive to offer, please kindly see yourself out.” The blind Miraluka, Jerec coldly intoned. The air around him was taught with tension, neither Hydra, nor Tr'Son dared look into his empty sockets, afraid that they would be sucked into an illusion from which they could not escape.
“Ah. Yes. Ahem.” Cronal muttered, and coughed into his hand, his shadow seemed to move with him, the image of a nightmare beast briefly formed then reformed into a proper human appearance all within a microsecond.
The other three looked at Cronal, and saw that where Jerec's eyesockets lacked anything at all, Cronal's glowed a pervasive black. His frail frame, and sluggish movements made him appear weak, yet the Darkside snuggled across him like a blanket. Of the four important figures that had gathered in this room, his aura carried with it the greatest density.
“Wars need Heroes, they also need bodies to fall into the meat grinder.” Cronal spoke slowly and softly, blood dripped down his nose, and he sniffed it back in during his explanation. “You, Hydra, and Tr'Son, can train the weaker Dark Acolytes, and lead strike teams to counteract the Jedi. Be the face of the Inquisitorious.”
“And you would leave all the credit to us?” Hydra asked in a skeptical tone. She crossed, her arms, and an eyebrow was raised.
“Heh heh.” Cronal coughed bloodflakes, but that didn’t stop him from laughing. “What do you know of Sithspawn? What do you know of alchemy? I can make monsters from flesh, I can make each of you more powerful than you could possibly imagine. What's a little pain? What's the cost of a soul? What does any of it matter when in the pursuit of power?” Cronal tempted.
Tr'Son gulped, and Hydra was looking at Cronal fervently. Their eyes were blazing and their ambitions were laid bare. Glancing at one another, thoughts of murder ran rampant. Although they acted as a collective now, the Emperor had issued a decree. Whosoever took Revan’s head would claim the title of Grand Inquisitor!
As for Jerec? His blind eyes stared at the ‘blackhole’ that was Cronal's aura, and he grimly smiled. Knowledge was power. One day, he would take it from him.
“Heh heh. Come, my friends. Come.” Cronal drily chuckled, and held out his palm. “Won't you shake a poor sinner's hand?”
~~~~~~~~~~
The steady hum of the Venator-class Star Destroyer Steadfast's engines formed a low, unceasing rhythm beneath the subtle sounds of the ship’s command deck. Distant footsteps, and the occasional clipped voice of a clone officer, and the flickering of dozens of screens were subject to the scrutiny of many men as the plan for Eriadu's siege was being formed.
Away from the chaotic and fervent officers eager to claim credit, in the dimly lit analysis chamber just off the main strategy room, Lieutenant Mitth'raw'nuruodo-a young Chiss male, one who was hastily commissioned due to the Empire's need for soldiers-sat alone, his crimson eyes focused on the projection before him. (Just listen to Thrawn’s theme during this segment, trust).
It was not a map or tactical readout. No, it was something much more mundane, it was the image of a mask!
A jagged, battered thing, it was coated in bronze and scarlet. Shaped for war, the item invoked emotions of battle. This was the iconic visage of Revan, one of the Old Republic’s most enigmatic warriors. Jedi. Sith. Exile. Legend. He held many titles, and was a figure of myth, a legend made manifest.
Thrawn leaned forward slightly, arms folded behind his back in calculated posture, his gaze absorbed every asymmetry, every engraving along the mask’s faded surface. The holoprojection spun slowly, catching the low light as it turned.
“Function.” He murmured to himself, “Is seldom the sole purpose of design.”
He tapped a control on the console, bringing up side panes of text. These footnotes included historical excerpts, translations of fragmented Mandalorian war songs, and Jedi Order transcripts that had been sealed for millennia. From his analysis, Thrawn gathered that Revan had worn the mask first as an act of mourning. According to the records, he had taken it from a fallen Mandalorian, to honor the civilians massacred on Cathar. He had donned it not as a means of protection, or even as a war trophy to show his bravery. No, it was deliberately taken as a symbol, one that represented justice, remembrance, and defiance.
In that chaotic era of the Mandalorian Wars, the Jedi were much like they were of the current era. Pacifists who disdained war, and aloof from galactic affairs. From his analysis, Thrawn saw many parallels between Revan and the young Anakin Skywalker. At odds with the Council, headstrong, charismatic. There was much to learn from this ancient history.
Thrawn noted that this mask, this symbol, it had became something more.
“It evolved.” He whispered, tilting his head. “The mask, Revan, for a time, they became transcendent.”
The mask began as a memorial, yet it grew to define a Sith Lord feared across the stars. The symbol became inseparable from the man beneath. And eventually…no one remembered Revan's face. Only the mask remained.
Identity surrendered. Identity reborn.
An epiphany sparked across his thoughts, and he knew he was on the verge of a great discovery.
Thrawn walked slowly around the projection, his mind spinning faster than the holodisplay. To the Jedi, identity was to be cast off, attachments severed, the self dissolved into the whole. But Revan defied that. He made his identity a weapon. A mask to hide behind. A symbol to inspire fear, loyalty, even reverence.
He was the hero, and then so swiftly, so easily, he transformed into the villain. Only to come back again as the hero triumphant!
That was the piece that interested Thrawn most. Revan’s return after the fall. Legends said he was stripped of his memory, then returned to the Jedi to be reshaped again. A man made of contradictions. To the Jedi, he was Light and Dark, order and chaos, unity and division.
A balance in this thing the Jedi culture called the ‘Force.’
He considered the idea not as a moral judgment, but as a strategic construct. One that the Jedi of the past used to achieve victory. After all, the success of any long campaign required adaptability. Revan had embodied it. The mask, although fixed in appearance, had represented fluid allegiance. A contradiction in form and function. Just like Revan.
Thrawn tapped the interface again, shifting from the mask to ancient depictions of Jedi iconography. Pictures showed murals from Ossus, minimalist sculptures from Jedha, fragmented tapestries once held in the Temple archives. They were peaceful, serene and utterly obsessed with harmony, symmetry, and light. Yet to Thrawn’s trained eye, they were evasions, not revelations. Each work cloaked conflict beneath the surface, denying the inevitability of war, of power’s corrosive pull.
"Jedi art denies the truth of war even as they fight it. They call themselves Knights of the Republic, keepers of the peace, yet protection is impossible without violence. He who holds a monopoly on violence, wields the reigns of destiny.” Thrawn noted, his now voice quiet yet precise, each and every syllable was measured, and said with purpose. "Revan embraced war, and art followed him. The mask became his narrative. Fear became his medium. He grasped the truth of power where the Jedi shied away from it…his character and motives have become clear."
During his deep seated research, the door hissed open behind him, but he did not turn.
“Lieutenant Thrawn, the briefing with the Admiral and Lord Vader begins in ten minutes.” A serviceman saluted, and awaited an answer.
“I will attend the meeting.” He replied, still watching the projection. The mask lingered a moment longer, then dissolved into blue particles.
As the door closed again, Thrawn allowed himself a final cold & clinical thought:
‘Revan’s strength lay not in the Force, nor in his armies, but in his understanding of perception. His grasp of the heart…it is a power to behold.’
Glancing at his communicator, he saw it beep notifying him that a message had arrived. It was from his latest collaborator, Agent Bond from the Imperial Inspectorate. Much of this old history was provided by him. Thrawn had his suspicions, yet he would reserve judgment for a later date.
He then stepped out into the corridor, the hum of the Strikefast was louder now, the blue light of hyperspace met his crimson eyes. Revan had been long dead, yet his shadow remained, engraved in myth and memory, now the Jedi, once more on the brink of destruction, wished to hoist his banner, and reverse their fate like they had in the past.
Symbols outlasted civilizations.
And masks, when properly worn, never fall.
The glass of the viewing port reflected Thrawn's image, and he showed a small grin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AN: Palpatine is a devious man. You don't think he wouldn't have any contingency plans in case Order 66 failed, do you? Clone Tarkin is just the tip of the iceberg.
Comments
steve
dang nice listening to thrawns theme and reading.
Sin Vergil
Thrawn*
Sin Vergil
There is so much infighting, scheming, and political machinations going on I swear it feels like reading Star Wars: Dejarik of Thrones. I love it. Thrown was easily the highlight because of how chillingly accurate he felt and properly terrifying in his intelligence. Tyftc
