Ahsoka was horrified. Executed the Jedi. Cleaned out the temple. That meant everyone – even herself – was dead. They'd killed them all, by his own hand and by the hands of the men they'd served alongside of, the men she'd quickly learned to treat as the individuals they were.
And even that wasn't the end of the horrifying things he said, a situation which warred with what she felt in knowing he'd helped exterminate the Jedi, as it was, in its own way, just as awful.
Not just defeated. Obi-Wan had left him there to burn and die slowly. How was that compassionate? In her short time out of the Temple, Ahsoka had struggled with the concept of killing people – the droids were one thing, people were another. But at the most simplistic level, the Sith were the enemy, so they had to be eliminated. Yet, how could the Jedi be Jedi if they left their opponents to die slowly and miserably, rather than end their lives cleanly and with some sense of respect for life?
He'd been left alive and suffering and, she could see, the perfect tool for the Emperor. A shell of hate, barely alive, and she could only imagine what more had come after the Jedi were gone. The man she'd known, one who had earned her loyalty early on and her respect, even when it seemed she didn't, reduced to that.
It was suddenly harder to see him and it was then she realized tears were obstructing her vision. She startled, blinking now at inward dismay. She was a Jedi, what was she doing crying? Mortified that compassion had veered so far out of control as to reduce her to tears, she turned and faced the poster again, thin shoulders trembling.
And confronted again that dark mask. It didn't help at all.