Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. . .

Prolog

Perhaps you were expecting some surprise, for me to reveal a secret that had eluded you,

something that would change your perspective of events, shatter you to your core.

There is no great revelation, no great secret. There is only you.

- Kreia

“Your intel was invaluable, sonny. You know, I think you’d fit our crew perfectly.” The voice was craggy, a little hoarse even, but firm and confident. The cracked lips of the speaker parted roughly, a strange parallel to the way he conducted himself in every other situation. His skin was worn and almost leathery, but he was undoubtedly human. Unsurprising, to say the least.

“So, my friend, what do you say? We could really use you on our next job. We’re short one man as it is. But with you, we may get this job done fast and safe.” The speaker put his mug down on the heavily used table, nearly knocking the old thing over. He cackled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking the listener up and down.

The listener didn’t react. He sat still, quietly staring at the table top. He knew the speaker couldn’t really see his face, with it being hidden by his heavy cowl and cloak. The speaker leaned a little forward and placed both his hands palm upwards on the table – a gesture meant to soothe any possible unease in the listener. But the listener knew that the man in front of him was no one trustworthy. He may have meant well with what he had tried and kept trying to accomplish. Yet deep down, the speaker and the listener both knew that Saw Gerrera was a madman.

They were sitting a dilapidated bar with a few men scattered around the used and ramshackle tables; dim and dusty light fell in from outside with almost all the lights inside the bar defunct or turned off. It was a shabby place, reeking of booze and piss mixed with vomit. Lovely, really, for a place on Nar Shaddaa.

Gerrera relaxed his muscles visibly and tried to peer into the cowl of the listener. “Don’t make me beg, my friend. We both know I can’t do this without your help.” The listener smiled, his first outward reaction. Then he spoke in a gentle, basal voice. “If you can’t do it on your own, maybe you are not supposed to do it.” Gerrera’s expression changed from pleading to guarded. “You think I don’t have the guts for it? Are you calling me a coward?”

The listener chuckled softly, less a sound and more a vibration that originated from his chest and seemed to spread outwards in palpable waves. “Oh, you definitely have the guts for it, Saw. But I know you’re afraid. After all this time, after all you’ve been through, you’re still afraid to die. And that is why you won’t do it.” The human male’s face became rigid, as if chuckle and words had cooled the room by at least ten degrees. The listener waited for Gerrera to reply. When he didn’t, he leaned back from the table. While in motion, his cowl fell back a few inches and allowed for the other man to see the crimson skin of the listener’s face.

“You’re… you’re one of them,” Gerrera stammered, the pitch of his voice rising. The listener could hear the soft clicking noises of blaster safeties being switched off. Or maybe he sensed it? Either way, he knew what was coming next. “Them?” he asked politely. “Who is them, Gerrera? The enemy? Ah, but of course. Them is always the enemy. They are nothing like us.”

The madman’s shoulders tensed at his words. “We are not alike,” he hissed. The listener smiled gently. “Do you truly think so little of me?” He leaned forward, then placed one crimson hand on Gerrera’s lower arm to squeeze it firmly. “Tell your men to stand down. It wouldn’t do for your team to be short twenty men instead of one.” Gerrera’s mad eyes locked on his, the expression of terrified prey looking in the eyes of a hunter, knowing that death was certain and imminent. He gave a microscopic nod and the clicking sound resumed, now with safeties being switched on. The listener smiled gently, baring his sharp predatory teeth for only an instance. “Good. You’re learning.”

Gerrera swallowed hard. “What do you want from me?” The listener tilted his head to one side and sized the human up and down. “The real question is, what do you want?” The question seemed to throw the man. He must have expected some dark and dangerous orders to come from the crimson skinned listener. So utterly predictable and at the same time so incredibly frustrating.

“I… I don’t… shouldn’t you… you know…?” The listener leaned back again. “I am not here to tell you what you have to do. That decision is yours to make, not mine. So tell me, Saw Gerrera, what is it you want?”

The madman seemed to ponder the question for a while, his eyes moving rapidly around the room as if he was expecting a trap to spring any moment. Then he focused on the listener again. “I want justice. For the galaxy, for my home world, for everyone. I want freedom from the clutches of a corrupt empire whose only goal is to exploit the people that live in it. I say enough is enough.”

The listener smiled, again baring his teeth. “Then what are you waiting for?” The man looked at him puzzled. “What?” The crimson smile turned wider. “You heard me.” In a smooth motion, the listener rose to his feet, towering over Gerrera. He stepped around the battered table and placed his hand on the madman’s shoulder. His smile never faltered as he spoke. “You will probably never see the end of your fight, will never know if you succeeded, but deep down, you know that this is the right path. Don’t let your fear and doubts deter you from doing what is necessary.” With that, he started to make his way towards the front door. Gerrera, lost in thought and stunned until this very moment, whirled around and called after him. “Who are you?”

The crimson skinned listener didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

This, he decided, was exactly why the Order had fallen. How convenient that he should be reminded every once in a while. As if the shift from the Clone Wars to the Civil War had escaped anyone’s notice. Well, he thought, at least they’re not denying it after the fact. The Jedi had lost their power to foresee the future, or to what extend they imagined they once could foresee anything, and so had he. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have been captured.

Another punch in the gut. He groaned and spat some blood on the ground. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen the hit coming. Hanging as he did from his feet, and having his hands tied behind his back, all he could do was watch the hits coming. In the beginning, he’d tried to brace himself for impact, but after hours and hours – or were it years yet? – his strength had left him. Everything hurt; his head, his lungs, his ribs – which must have been broken repeatedly by the steadily ongoing torture –, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Suddenly, his torturer stopped the onslaught and stepped back. He coughed repeatedly, trying to clear the blood from his throat. Through the scarce illumination, he could see another man enter the room. His torturer, a huge man dressed in the absurdly white armor of a clone – no, stormtrooper, he corrected himself – had moved far enough out of his field of view so that he could see the approaching figure. He was tall, very tall indeed. And now that the figure had stepped closer towards him, he wasn’t entirely sure anymore if it was a man or a living being at all. The breathing sound was unnatural and labored, heavily so, and a small panel was attached to the chest of the figure. An enviro-suit? No, it couldn’t be.

“What is your name?”, the figure asked in an impossibly deep, chilling, and very much mechanical voice. He winced at the sound, trying to draw back into himself. The voice… it reminded him of someone he had heard once before, but he couldn’t place it. There had been many voices he’d heard over the last few years.

Another punch, coming again from his torturer, but now from the side. He gurgled, spitting blood all over the black boots of the tall figure. “Refusing to cooperate will gain you nothing. We know what you are, Jedi, and you will tell us all that you know.” He moaned in pain, before looking back up at the imposing figure. “I… will not… tell you… anything… I’d rather… die…”

The figure chuckled, the metallic sound making the Jedi shiver. This, he thought, was pure evil. Evil like he hadn’t seen before, not even in the Clone Wars. It wasn’t natural, it was made. He tried to summon up the strength to grin at the black figure, although even the smallest movement caused him excruciating pain. “Laugh… all you want… Sith…”

Another punch. The figure before him looked down, and the Jedi could feel the cold grip of fear clenching his heart. The figure’s stance held something like contempt – not only for him specifically, but for the Jedi in general. Only then did he realize that he couldn’t breathe right. He coughed, imagining another gulp of blood blocking his wind pipe. But no matter how much he tried to clear his throat, it didn’t help.

“You are a stubborn one.” The Jedi looked back up at the figure, wriggling desperately within his restraints. “Tell us what you know about Donan Kurla.” Had he been able to, he would have frowned. Donan Kurla? Why would they want to know about him? His thoughts were reeling, from both the question and lack of oxygen. Either way, he couldn’t reply. And even if, it wouldn’t do to betray someone now, just to stay alive. He faintly remembered his clone troopers turning against him and only escaping his end by mere centimeters. He wouldn’t do this to another person, Jedi or not.

The invisible grip around his wind pipe closed entirely, his attempts to free himself becoming frantic rather than desperate. He looked at the Sith in abject horror. The figure stood there, calmly and without remorse. “If you won’t talk, you’re of no use to me.”

His vision blurred, his large black eyes protruding even more so from his green skinned face, the tendrils on the back of his head twitching in obvious agitation, but the Nautolan Jedi didn’t give in. If this was how it was supposed to end, he would accept his fate willingly. Darkness overcame him, his lungs trying one last time to gulp in some much needed oxygen, only to collapse under the pressure. His last thought wasn’t so much defiance as a prayer. There is no death, there is only the Force. Nonetheless, it felt like yet another punch to the ribs when he suffocated.

Chapter Text

Heavy footsteps approached the security door in front of her. With a whoosh, it opened and she found herself face to face with her superior: Darth Vader. She didn’t flinch. It had been a long time since she’d last been scared of him – or really, anything at all.

“Lord Vader.” The greeting was formal, clipped, and accompanied by a salute. From the corner of her eye, she could just make out the broken form of the Nautolan Jedi hanging limb from the ceiling. Well, she thought to herself, I guess I got more work to do.

“I want you to widen your search for the remaining Jedi,” Vader said by way of greeting. He wasn’t one for formalities, although he acknowledged her salute with a slight nod – or maybe he simply tilted his head down to look directly at her. After all, he was a giant. “Bring me anyone who could have the location of Kurla.” He stepped past her, his long steps carrying him faster down the hallway than she could blink. With the troopers to her left and right assuming formation, they followed him. When she caught up, he continued, still walking. “The Emperor is not accustomed to waiting, and neither am I.”

“I understand, Lord Vader,” she replied courtly. “If I may, sir, our search for Kurla would be much easier if you could provide us with more information about him. We are doing all we can, but I cannot promise you better results if we don’t have the proper resources.”

She heard one of the troopers behind her swallow hard. Ah yes, Vader’s legendary aggressive response to officers questioning him. She was rather sure that a few of the troopers were expecting to receive a new commander in the next few hours. Silently, she wondered how often this had already happened to this particular squad of stormtroopers, but she shrugged the thought off. She wanted to do her work adequately and that she could not do without Vader’s help. The Dark Lord didn’t slow down when he replied. “You have all the information you need, Agent Lacer. I’d advise you to use it.” She sighed inwardly. “Yes, Mylord.”

They had walked down the hallway and were entering the turbolift, when she gestured to the troopers to wait. As the doors closed, she addressed him again. “Lord Vader, I know that I am not cleared for all the information you have on Kurla, but I’d strongly recommend you to share some of it with me. With all due respect, I do not want to disappoint the Emperor, and I fear I will do so without your help.”

Vader gave no outward reaction to her words. She imagined him smiling behind the mask; he must have been bemused by her attempts to get something out of him. When he spoke however, his voice held neither contempt nor praise. “You are incessant, Agent. The Emperor will be pleased to learn that the ISB training is turning out adequately.”

She took the remark in stride. “Thank you, Lord Vader, but that is not what I asked.”

Vader chuckled, a sound without mirth. “No, you did not.”

The lift doors opened onto a busy corridor. Maintenance mouse droids were sweeping the floor, stormtroopers were marching to their assigned posts, and officers were walking swiftly past each other, handling datapads. Lacer took it in with a glance, noting the sudden tension in the people around them. Vader was an awe-inspiring character, but the awe they held him in came from fear of what he could do and not admiration for what he had done. She filed that information away in the back of her mind, should it ever come in handy.

They exited the lift and turned to their right, walking through the throng of Imperials, making their way to the secondary command area on the bridge. The Imperial Star Destroyer Executrix was one of the newest models from the Kuat Drive Yards, and currently the flag ship of the Imperial Navy under the direct command of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. Currently busy on another assignment, the command of the Executrix had temporarily fallen to Vader, with Lacer acting as his direct subordinate. The hunt for the remaining Jedi who had survived the Jedi Purge was taking much longer than the Emperor and Vader both had anticipated. Given that, it came as no surprise to Lacer that the Imperial Security Bureau was getting involved as well.

The man Vader had set her team on was Donan Kurla, a former Jedi-Knight and valiant fighter in the Clone Wars, or so she was led to believe. He disappeared a few months prior to the end of the war and hadn’t been heard from since. The biometrics she had received from the Dark Lord identified Kurla as a small, medium built Twi’lek of the Rutian variety, with twin lekku and bright green eyes. A distinguishing feature of the man was a scar running across his nose and left cheek, originating from a blaster shot he’d taken for one of his clone troopers. Unwilling to undergo the full medical treatment, he had decided to fight on with only the minimum of Bacta injections. His troops had been extremely loyal and followed his orders to the letter, even more so after his injury. The loyalty to the Jedi that Kurla had inspired in them had ultimately led to them not following Order 66, even though they were assigned to another Jedi’s legion. Subsequently, they had been terminated by the 501st.

 The two Imperials stopped at the holo table and regarded the map of this sector. It took Lacer only a second to scan the map with her eyes and deduce where they were, even before Vader could access the planetary information. The closest planetoid to the Executrix was classified as terrestrial and highly volcanically active, with two moons, surrounded by gas giants, a water world and lifeless smaller planetoids. Saleucami was the oasis to the Suolriep sector and had been host to a variety of immigrated species, as well as one of the fiercest battles of the Clone Wars. Whatever had moved Vader to bring the Executrix here, it must have had something to do with the latter.

“Are you familiar with Saleucami, Agent Lacer?”

She looked up from the map and directly at the black-clad figure. “Yes, sir, I am. The Techno Union hid a highly secretive operation of cloning Niktos for the Morgukai sect during the war on Saleucami. During the Republic assault, Jedi-Master Oppo Rancisis died here, as well as Jedi-Master Stass Allie during the early days of the New Order. I assume our being here is about them.”

Vader sounded pleased, if not impressed. “You assume correctly, Agent. My Inquisitors received intelligence that there are Jedi artifacts hidden on Saleucami. I want you to take a squad of your troops down there and search the cloning caves for any such artifacts. Your objective is merely to locate and tag them, not to bring them aboard.”

Lacer nodded. She had expected something of the sort. “You suppose those artifacts will draw the attention of surviving Jedi?” Vader’s posture didn’t change. “Yes.” She straightened to attention and saluted again. “It will be done, Mylord.”

Chapter Text

“Ma’am, we’re coming up on the drop zone.”

Lacer tightened her grip so as not to fall. Saleucami wasn’t known for strong winds, but her pilot wasn’t well-known for his apt flying skills either. Mentally, she noted that she should appeal to Colonel Yularen to find the field agents better pilots for their squads. The pilot was young and unexperienced, but that was nothing new for Lacer. The Empire had been conscripting younger and younger men to fill the ranks that the old clone troopers vacated, now that they grew old. Yet the training for those new pilots, troopers, and so on, wasn’t much more than a boot camp, which they left with knowing little more than the basics. Of course, she could’ve flown the ship herself, but that was unbecoming in an officer.

For a moment, she wished she still had clone troopers in her squad. No matter what everyone else thought of clones, Lacer was certain they were the better pilots as well as soldiers – and no one would complain about clones being killed in skirmishes. Nobody had cared about it in the Clone Wars, so why should they now?

“Lieutenant, what does it look like down there?” she snapped at the trooper next to her. The man wasn’t as young as the pilot, maybe in his thirties, wearing the same hollow expression like every other stormtrooper. Their training was rough, Lacer knew, and most graduated so as never to smile again. For a moment, she was quite thankful that the ISB instructors had only trained her to display certain emotions at certain times, and had not trained all the emotion out of her. The stormtroopers were even more mechanical than the Separatist battle droids – with the added bonus that they were even worse shots than those same droids.

The lieutenant consulted the holo map in front of him. After a few seconds, he looked back at the ISB agent. “Rough terrain, no life forms so far. There should still be one of the Separatist landing pads up ahead, so we won’t have to land on uneven ground.” How nice, she thought, at least our inept pilot can show off his landing skills on a perfectly intact landing pad. Aloud she said, “What about explosives or other unwelcome surprises?”

The lieutenant again consulted the holo map and called up the scan results the Executrix had performed of the area. Simultaneously, he ran another narrower scan around the landing pad, which was coming up fast. “Agent Lacer, there’s a landing pad up ahead. Seems intact, should I set down there?” the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. Lacer looked at the lieutenant. “Anything?” He started to shake his head, and Lacer was about to give the pilot an all clear, when the expression on the man’s face changed abruptly. “Ma’am, there seems to be something –”

Without warning, the side of the drop ship tore wide open, the sudden change in pressure ripping the troopers to her left and right out into the open air. Lacer tried to hold on to one of the rods overhead, while the dropship spun out of control towards the landing pad. She could see the permacrete floor rushing up to meet them. Her last thoughts were rushed, memories from her childhood and adolescences flooding her mind, followed by one last comment on her squad: At least I’m not dying because our pilot couldn’t fly a ship.

Coughing. The first thing she noticed was someone coughing. Strange. They had been in a dropship attempting to land on Saleucami. Why would someone be coughing? When a jolt of pain ran through her lungs, she suddenly came fully awake and realized it was she who was coughing. Blood, to be precise. She tried to sit up straight, her lungs desperately trying to cleanse themselves from blood and dust, but an excruciating pain in her left leg forced her back down to the ground. She wiped at her eyes, looking around from where she lay. Then she noticed the burning wreckage next to her. The dropship?

Finally, her mind caught up with events and she remembered. The lieutenant was about to say something when the ship… exploded? Was hit? It was all a blur, but she was certain that it couldn’t have been a malfunction. She tried again to sit up, slower this time, and looked at her left leg. A piece of metal had burrowed deep into her upper thigh, only narrowly missing her femoral artery. If she had tried to get up, she might have punctured it by accident. She wasn’t sure whether she should consider herself lucky or stupid. Probably both.

Speaking of stupid… She looked around for the rest of her crew. In the shattered remains of the cockpit, she could just make out the burning remains of the pilot. Somehow, she was glad that he wouldn’t get the chance to fly home on his own. Then the remains of the ship blew up, the fuel cells finally catching fire as well.

Lacer covered her face with her arms, feeling the heat of the fireball sweep over her and ebbing away as quickly as it came. How on Alderaan was she supposed to explain this debacle to Lord Vader? Or to her superiors at ISB headquarters? Considering her injuries, she would have plenty of time to file a proper report in the med bay.

She reached into her pocket and tried to find her comlink. It must have fallen out during the crash. So no calling for help. Turning to the side, she tried to get her right leg under her and push herself up on her hands and one knee. Her left leg was basically useless, and crawling on all threes would be the easiest way to get moving without damaging anything else. She needed to find a comlink. Any comlink, really.

Moving forward, she tried to spot any other members of her crew. Her search soon turned out to be more successful at finding parts of the crew. A leg here, an arm there, a helmet splattered with blood. She turned her face away, when she saw the lieutenant crushed beneath one wing of the dropship. She was sure it was the lieutenant. What remained of his face still held the same hollow expression. Not even in death, stormtroopers regained their emotions.

She robbed forward, when she spotted the lieutenant’s comlink a few meters away from his body. As soon as she reached it, she tried to call the Executrix. “Executrix, this is Agent Lacer. We need immediate –”

A muddy boot went down hard on her hand holding the comlink, making her scream in agony. She could feel the bones in her fingers breaking, the agony strong enough to make her vision go momentarily black. When she could, she looked up at the figure wearing the boots. A mad, piercing glare, coming from a bald, dark skinned human male. She felt a chill in her bones. “We don’t need anything, agent. But we gotta talk,” said the madman.