Mera - Reflections

In Character Roleplay
#1

// The following is a Datafile from 2 years ago. //

:: Datafile Entry - Mera Sevlik ::
:: Timestamp: [REDACTED] ::
:: Location: [CORRUPTED] ::

[BEGIN FILE]

ACCESS VIOLATION

[Data corrupted… attempting restoration]

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[FILE RECOVERY PARTIAL: Displaying available data]

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:: SUBJECT: Reflections of an Exile ::
:: AUTHOR: Mera Sevlik ::

For two years, I’ve had time to get my thoughts together after what happened. Now, I feel it’s time to commit these memories to a dataslate so that I can finally move on and focus on my training. This is my attempt to leave the past behind and step forward into the future.

I will reflect on my time with the Jedi Order, recounting the events as I recall them and, more importantly, what was going through my mind that led me astray. But let there be no mistake—I was not solely responsible for my actions.

I was raised on Dantooine, under the care of an orphanage from birth. I’ve never known my mother or father, and I’ve always wished I could ask them why they left me—but fate never gave me that chance. The orphanage was in proximity to the Jedi Enclave, yet for some reason, I was never detected by the Jedi. Perhaps it was due to my parents—maybe I was the result of their defiance to the Order, or simply a mistake they wished to cover up. Suffice it to say, I grew up watching the Order from afar, observing students train and bond, all while feeling like an outsider.

As a child, my gifts frightened the other children, leaving me isolated and lonely. I often felt like a girl born at the wrong time, dealt the worst hand of cards. Things did improve over time—I eventually grew closer to the other children and the matron of the orphanage—but I remained the odd girl who could perform magical tricks, existing more to wow others than to be truly understood.

Each year, colonists would visit the orphanage to adopt, but each year I remained. As I grew older, I became the matron’s oldest daughter, helping to raise the next generation of orphans. My teenage years were spent teaching young, lost children, playing with them, and sometimes using my gifts to entertain them and lift their spirits. But at the end of it all, I always looked out towards that Enclave, wanting nothing more than to be one of them—walking the grounds, having a place, finding meaning in my life, and being accepted for who I was.

[DATA CORRUPTION: 0x291F]

When I finally joined the Order, I was filled with hope, though the process took a great deal of time. As a hopeful, I was left waiting for weeks, and my presence was even forgotten by the Jedi. It wasn’t until I lost my patience and pushed the issue with a Knight that I was informed they didn’t even know about me. And that day, I was brought into the Order.

I remember my oath to this day. I’ve thought about it many times. I knelt before the Knight and swore to uphold the tenets of the Order, to serve the people of the galaxy with unwavering devotion, and to bear the weight of the Jedi’s strictures with diligence and honor. I swore this, and even though I have faltered since, I still strive to uphold that oath.

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The turning point came when I was on the Jedi training grounds, seeking quiet meditation in the woods to reflect on the code. Sometimes I wonder if my thoughts on the code are still in the archives, unfinished as they are. During my meditation, a Sith aspirant approached me. She told me she was much like me, that the Jedi had tortured her, pushed her away, and broken her. Her words resonated with me as she described what I was experiencing. She offered me a taste of her knowledge, and in my lost state, I accepted. She placed her hand on my head, and the pain was indescribable. I managed to push her hand away and stand up, rejecting her offer to continue the “lesson.” I drew my training foil and told her that her threats would never force me to break my vows to the Order. She did not relent and drew her lightsaber, offering me one last chance.

I told her, “I would rather die.”

And we fought. She broke me on that cliffside, tortured me, and cast me off the cliffs. I was found hours later in critical condition. When I awoke in the Kolto tank at the Enclave, I was scared, enraged that someone had attacked my new home and threatened to turn others away from the path of clarity. When I was released, a student told me that I had failed, and my teachers echoed that sentiment. I went to the dojo, and all I could think about was why the Jedi were not training me to be stronger, to fight back against such incursions. I began practicing what I knew when a Knight, a good friend to this day, approached me. He spoke to me, calming me and offering clarity, but another Knight intervened. This Knight, having overheard me say I felt like I should leave the Order, told me that if I ever returned, I would be sent to the Corps.

This pushed me over the edge. Now, I saw the Jedi punishing me for defending myself. Instead of support, I was condemned. They wanted to tell me that the Corps wasn’t for failures, yet they were sending me, who had just defended myself, away as a failure. My anger grew, my frustration hit critical mass, and I left the Order. I threw my training foil to the ground and told them that they had failed me, not the other way around.

[DATA RECOVERY ERROR: 0x45A3]

I wanted nothing more than to share this feeling of liberation with others, so I contacted L’saat, a Twi’lek girl I had helped bring into the Order. I asked her to meet with me, but she brought Doma, a Corpswoman of the Order. When I saw L’saat had brought someone else, I lost control. The betrayal I felt from the Order was fresh again, and I wanted to show them my rage. I remember hurting them, breaking them—and then I collapsed. I couldn’t do it anymore. I lacked the conviction needed, and they embraced me.

I remember crying, telling them I was scared, that something was wrong with me. I told them I was angry, betrayed, and terrified of being sent before a Council and cut off from the Force. I had been told that if I showed my face back at the Order, I would be mutilated, and I feared punishment. But with Doma and L’saat, I trusted them. They took me back to the Order, and the Order left me behind a shrine for many weeks.

In my anger behind that shrine, I vented what had happened to me. I detailed my thoughts to those who asked what was going on in my mind and how I felt about everything. Eventually, I was summoned and sentenced to serve in the Corps by the same Knight who had tried to place me there before. I accepted it, but thirty seconds later, she received a report that I had been attempting to “convert” students. Then I was exiled. Someone had taken my venting, my affliction by the dark side, as a sign that I intended to corrupt students.

I left the Order as an Exile, escorted out like a criminal by Temple Guards with weapons drawn. I was alone once again. I had a choice: return to the warband, or get drunk. I remember that night—I chose to drink. Later that night, a Republic officer took me to an apartment, where I climbed into a shower and cried until I was exhausted. The officer saw it all. In retrospect, I probably looked beyond ill. What followed was an attempt to crawl back to the Order. I reached out to the Masters of the Order, only to be rejected as a “manipulator.”

My last day on Viscara was spent looking between the cockpit and my blaster, thinking of reasons to end it all. Luckily, I chose the cockpit and left Viscara, wandering the galaxy to find myself again. That is where I am now, and I know what I want to do.

I know that I wasn’t truly to blame. I know that future students of the Order won’t be to blame either, and I want to stop what happened to me from happening to others. But I am without a clue on what to do. Without a teacher or training—what can I do?

[DATA INTEGRITY: 80%]

[END OF AVAILABLE DATA]

:: System Administrator: [REDACTED] ::
:: Location: [CORRUPTED] ::

#2

:: Datafile Entry - Mera Sevlik ::
:: Timestamp: [REDACTED]::
:: Location: [Dantooine] ::

[Begin File]
<LOAD_ENTRY>
:: SUBJECT: Reflections on Corruption ::
:: AUTHOR: Mera Sevlik ::

To fall is punishment enough. Anything more is an injustice.

Two years ago, I fell, and now I’m ready to write about that experience—not about the Jedi, no. I’ve already poured my heart out on that subject. Instead, I want to put my thoughts to pad about what it’s like to drown, to fall into the darkness. My goal in this reflection is to provide whichever generation reads this with an understanding of what might transpire in one’s mind when they fall, and more importantly, what can be done to save or prevent such falls. Today, we’re going to decode the Dark.

The terms “redemption” and “conversion” should not be used lightly, as they often miss the mark in understanding the true nature of a fall. These words, at best, are misguided and, at worst, actively unhelpful.

“Redemption” implies an original fault that must be atoned for. Not all falls come from fault, and not all adherents of the Dark Side are harmful to others. Some do more harm to themselves than anyone else. “Conversion” suggests a shift from one ideology to another, but recovery from the Dark Side is rarely ideological. The draw to the Dark Side typically has little to do with belief systems—dogma is merely a smokescreen for emotional needs. We must look beyond this smokescreen. Jedi do not redeem or convert those who fall; those who fall are responsible for their own recovery. The burden is theirs alone, though others can certainly help.

Those who fall do not need redemption or conversion—they need recovery.

An addict cannot be argued out of their need. Telling a spice addict on Nar Shaddaa why they should recover won’t work. Even if they listen, even if they stop, withdrawal will hit, and they’ll find themselves back where they started. To tell them they don’t need their addiction is like telling them they don’t need air.

It’s a lie—they do need it, or they wouldn’t be addicted in the first place.

An addict recovers when they no longer need their addiction. The emotional wounds that drove them to it in the first place have to heal, or they’ll just fall back into old habits. There’s always a reason for the first taste of spice, and unless that reason is addressed, nothing really changes.

The Dark Side works much the same way. If we strip it down to its essence, the Dark Side is like an addiction. This explains why the Jedi have such a poor track record when it comes to “converting” those who’ve fallen. Jedi speak in terms of reason and logic, but addiction doesn’t understand that language. The language of addiction is about need. We have to address the need that drives someone to the Dark Side, and we have to fill the emptiness that the Dark Side preys on.

Understanding this, we begin to see patterns that were once impossible to comprehend.

This also explains why those who embrace the Dark Side can never seem to get enough. They crave more, use more, until the corruption consumes them completely. It’s the same story you’ll hear in any spice den across the galaxy.

The Korriban Method

There’s a method the Sith use—a way of twisting a person’s mind through sheer, brutal force. They create a void within you, a pit filled with unprocessed pain and trauma. It’s a hole in your soul that the Dark Side is all too eager to fill. This void isn’t something you can simply patch over or ignore; it’s a gnawing emptiness that eats away at you, manifesting as a need for revenge, or as a consuming fear. There are countless ways this void can manifest, each one a foothold for the Dark Side to take root.

But not every fall begins with trauma. Sometimes, it’s simply a matter of seeing the world through a distorted lens. From an early age, we’re taught to see things in a certain way, often based on our experiences or the influence of others. This can twist our perception, making us see conspiracies where none exist, or feel slighted when no harm was intended. Over time, this creates a sense of emptiness and unfulfillment—a perfect breeding ground for the Dark Side.

For example: Children often blame themselves when their parents argue. They might learn, through small successes, that they’re worth more than others, or, if they’ve been betrayed, that no one can be trusted. These early lessons, flawed as they are, shape our view of the world well into adulthood.

When you view reality through these distorted lenses, it creates a vulnerability in your psyche—a place where the Dark Side can take hold. Denying ourselves meaningful connections, or introducing emotional vulnerabilities, opens the door for darkness to creep in.

You can’t undo these vulnerabilities, but you can become aware of them. And when you do, when you see just how deeply rooted these issues are, that’s when the real fall begins.

The Korriban Method in Practice

First, they gather information. They dig into your past, your family, your friendships. This information is collected by an acolyte, usually under false pretenses, and without your knowledge. Then, when you least expect it, they approach you, pretending to be a friend, someone who understands. Once they have your trust, they move to the next phase.

They take that information and use it to break you. They’ll put you in impossible situations, forcing you to sever your ties to your own sense of self. Maybe they’ll torture you, promising to stop only if you do something unspeakable—kill a stranger, a family member, or a friend. They might even offer to do it for you, making it easier for you to justify your actions. Once they’ve shattered your principles, the trauma deepens, and if left unaddressed, it consumes you.

But they’re not done with you yet. The Sith thrive on strong emotions—pain, anger, fear. These wounds they’ve inflicted become a source of power, allowing you to tap into the Dark Side at will. But it’s a double-edged sword. The more you draw on the Dark Side, the wider those wounds become, deepening your connection to the darkness, and fueling your self-hatred and rage.

Recovery

Recovery can be sparked in many ways—through empathy, devotion, love, admiration, or trust. These feelings shift your focus away from yourself and toward others, and that’s the first step toward healing. When you stop looking inward and start seeing the world outside yourself, recovery begins. But this process isn’t easy—it can feel like a shock to the system, causing confusion, stress, and even physical pain.

To help someone recover, you need to shift their focus outward. Give them responsibilities that allow them to see the positive impact they can have on others. Support them with warmth and trust.

Remember, we’re aiming for an outward focus, so meditation isn’t always helpful. Meditation is introspective, and can lead to self-criticism, which is the last thing a fallen Jedi needs. Don’t put them in a hole without a ladder—doing so will only cause them to dig themselves deeper.

My Experience

I was set up to fall the moment I joined the Order. My worldview was shattered early on, leaving me with feelings of abandonment and a deep need for companionship. This created a void inside me—a need that demanded to be filled. When I was denied further education in the ways of the Force, that void grew larger, turning into a thirst for knowledge. And when my mission success went unrewarded, the need for respect and recognition took root.

It was a tinderbox waiting for a spark. When I encountered Quorzan in the Temple training grounds, that spark ignited. She told me that everything I was experiencing had happened before, and would happen again. She offered to feed my new hunger. And when I hesitated, when I was afraid of what was happening, she tortured me. She left me emotionally shattered, feeling weak and useless. My thirst for strength and knowledge only grew. And when the Jedi punished me for my trauma, the fall began in earnest.

The first sign of my fall was when I sought out a new teacher, abandoning my beliefs and adopting a nihilistic view of life. Nothing mattered anymore—everyone was a liar, out to hurt me. The difference was that I intended to hurt back.

The next step was accepting that I had fallen. On Korriban, we slaughtered our way through a cultist temple. I was finally allowed to unleash everything I had been holding back. To me, it was liberating. I reveled in it, and I didn’t care whether the reactions were positive or negative.

If you looked at me then, I wasn’t Mera anymore. I was a slave to my passions and desires. I remember pacing like a wild rancor on my ship, thinking about my newfound “freedom,” and how I wanted to bring that same feeling to others. That’s when I planned to torture and break L’saat.

Aftermath

I believed in them. I trusted them. Even in the depths of the Dark Side, I still wanted to help L’saat, to help Doma. My desire to show them “freedom” came from a twisted place of love. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t draw on that rage.

When I collapsed, I began to lament. I wanted to be angry, and I begged myself to want to hurt them again. I remember crying, pleading with myself and with them, saying I didn’t deserve to live. Then the fear set in—the fear of what the future held. There was nothing positive in those moments, except for the sacrifices they were willing to make to save me. The truth is:

They were right—I was strong enough, and there was goodness in me. I just needed others to help me see it, to fill the void inside me that I couldn’t fill on my own.

[END OF AVALIBLE DATA]

:: System Administrator: [REDACTED] ::
:: Location: [Dantooine] ::