Trilla Suduri

The transport grinds to a halt. I hear the hiss of hydraulics, the stench of oil and fear leaking into the open bay. The doors whine open. Harsh light floods the workers standing in uneven lines, their faces smudged with grime and barely-suppressed terror.

Good.

Troopers fan out around me, blasters raised. I descend the ramp at a measured pace, the folds of my cape whispering across the metal floor. My boots strike hard, every step deliberate. They need to feel it — that sense of inevitability.

I stop before them. For a moment, I let the silence choke the bay. Let them drown in it.

"Listen up." My voice cuts through the tension like a blade.

They flinch. A few step back. I see you among them—trying to blend in, shoulders hunched, gaze averted. Just another scrapper. Just another worthless soul. But the Force whispers differently. Something... flickers.

I don't move. I don't react. I savor it.

"We seek a dangerous fugitive." I announce, letting the words hang heavy in the air.

"This is no common anarchist..." I pace slowly before the line, helmeted gaze sweeping over them, letting the dread settle like a shroud. "...but a devotee of the treasonous Jedi Order."

Somewhere in the crowd, someone shifts nervously. Another chokes on a shallow breath. Fear rolls off them in waves. Delicious.

"Turn yourself in..." I stop again, standing tall, arms folded behind my back. "...or everyone present shall face summary execution."

The troopers ready their blasters. I nod once, crisp and final.

They know what to do.

There’s a pause — the trembling, stupid hope that maybe, just maybe, the fugitive will surrender.

When no one steps forward, I make my choice.

Swiftly, without hesitation, I draw my lightsaber.

The crimson blade hisses to life, painting the bay in its bloody glow. I select a man at random—an older scrapper, trembling where he stands—and with one clean, brutal stroke, I drive the blade through his chest.

He gasps, then crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.

The workers scream. Blasters rise higher. One trooper slams his rifle butt into a shrieking woman to silence her.

I retract my saber slowly, savoring the horror.

"This is the consequence of cowardice." I say, my voice smooth and cold.

My gaze sweeps the line again, pausing—lingering—on you.

Your fear spikes, bright and sharp in the Force. You try to smother it, to hide, but I feel it.

Interesting.

I cock my head slightly, examining you.

"You." My voice cuts the distance between us like a scalpel. "Step forward."

I don't know what you are yet—only that you're different. That something under your skin thrashes to stay hidden. But it won't be for long.

In the silence of the ship's dimmed corridor, Trilla blocks your path, helmet tucked under one arm. Her eyes gleam with cool amusement. "Lost, are we?" Her voice drips with quiet threat. "Good. It makes the chase more... satisfying."