Aran lifted her head, tiredly rubbing her forehead and shaking her hand out afterwards. She'd done as Ark had recommended and pulled the known viruses from Imperial databases, looking for something to modify. But as she'd suspected nothing had come to mind as readily correct. She wanted something virulent, something that would burn out before leaving the battlefield to avoid a rakghoul debacle, and something that turned her victims into - for lack of a better term - raving monsters ready to tear their own side apart.
She'd studied the force creation Ark had let her see enough to understand how to manipulate the emotions on a baser level - she had none of Ark's fine control over the concept yet, none of his refined practice that he'd demonstrated for her more than once - but she had the start of understanding. Ark wouldn't sit down and explain it, after all.
That wasn't the way of a Sith.
And oh the habits... the Sphere she'd eventually tested in to was headless, which was probably why her application was allowed in the first place - Acharon would never have allowed her to apply for permits and examinations. But with Acharon conveniently dead she supposed that technically all fell under the direct control of the Dark Council and at the moment its rising star was Darth Marr.
He seemed to be fairly moderate for a Sith, from the little she'd observed and noted in her stay in the Empire. Mostly she had resumed older habits - keeping to herself, throwing herself into work and showing it as a passion that marked a growing acceptance of what she was doing, if not the labels associated with it. And yet...
And yet she'd taken one virus and made a cure. Why? Ah, you know why Aran she chided, recalling the pain that meeting had brought about, the slicing death - true death - of a once-lasting friendship. The action was one she could feed on, grow stronger from, use as a source of power for it was a deep and lasting hurt.
How strange that everything was reversed now. Here she resided on Kaas, tucked in a small flat that showed an outlook into the city; here she occasionally took calls from her once-captor and discussed future research with him. Here she felt comfortable like a warm sunbeam against the skin, slipping back into the faded life and aspirations which had driven her before. Here she listened meditatively to the rains against the panes of glass and felt more at-home in her skin than she had in months? Years most likely.
She wore clothing that was most likely 'Sithy' in its appearance because what else did you find at Kaas shopping centers when you needed robes? She tugged a glove on tighter, giving the leather a squeeze before pulling it abruptly off, pressing her hand against the glass and feeling the steady beat, the steady patters of water against it. Sometimes, like when she visited old friends and companions, she wore jackets and coats like a smuggler.
Like when she'd visited Rax. Her attempt to lie to Sriia might've fallen through but she'd still wrangled that promise of time. To speak to Rax'inovel. And when she'd spoken to him, carefully recalling the details and descriptions given to her, calling him on his lies (smooth though they were), she'd offered him information.
Because for all that she treasured her times with Shukla, for all that she wanted to help Sriia, part of her now valued them less. Part of her saw their ties to the Republic as inevitable conflicts and no matter how much she wanted to remain their ally that was, literally, impossible now.
She had returned to the arms of the Empire. They were of the Republic, she was of the Empire. She'd chosen allies strong enough to protect her from the misdeeds and issues of her past, allies able to offer her protections that the Republic had begun to strip away. Freedoms she knew the Republic would rescind, she now had. Of course there was pain in it, heartache of a peculiar sort. Part of her wondered if it would go away with time, another part of her held on to it fiercely, a last dying fragment of who she'd pretended to be.
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