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Chapter Text

Vader was dying, wheezing out his last few breaths in the arms of his son. The Force beckoned to him now, gentle and welcoming. It was a sharp, but pleasant contrast to the usual raging inferno he felt when he reached out to it. This aspect of the Force had a cool liquidity to it that comforted and soothed him in his last moments. The old, aching weariness that had plagued him ever since Mustafar seemed so far away now. Even the thin breaths that racked his failing body were of no consequence anymore, not when the Force was subsuming all of his agony. Vader choked out a laugh, but it echoed more like a sob in the cavernous interior of the Death Star II.

Luke’s face twisted in sorrow, though Vader could hardly understand why. All he had ever done was cause pain and suffering to his son, so for his impending death to received with such anguish was unbelievable. Luke truly was his mother’s son—someone pure and good enough to mourn even the death of a Sith. That was as it should be; Padmé’s strength of will had been her greatest trait, and it was fitting that it be the thing to finally bring him back to the light, briefly as it was. Though Luke would mourn Vader’s passing, things were as they should be. Luke . . . he would be safe now, free to live out a long and prosperous life without being burdened by his father’s terrible legacy. The galaxy was a far better place without him in it, and one day Luke would understand that. The Force fluctuated again, this time with a sharp note of finality to it. A faint smile twitched at his lips in response. Vader closed his eyes, released one last rattling breath, and then became one with the Force.

What first registered was that he was warm. It was strange—he hadn’t felt anything besides a dulled, tired pain for decades now. The scorching heat of Mustafar was the last true sensation he had experienced before being placed into that hideous life-support suit. This soft warmth was practically divine bliss in comparison. He blinked slowly, a soft haze of dreaminess clouding the edges of his vision. The familiar off-white stone ceiling of his childhood bedroom met his half-lidded gaze. He nearly choked out a bitter laugh at the sight. Vader had rather expected something different to await him once he passed on. Anything else, really—just not this, not something that belonged to a childhood he had forsaken as soon as he’d been given the chance.

It was strange to see it now with adult eyes . . . How many times had he gone to sleep pretending the many depressions worn into the grain were actually the stars and planets of distant galaxies that he would one day explore? It was the fantasy of a child, discarded once he was violently thrust into the real world—one where the people he loved were brutally taken from him, one where his self-destructiveness condemned millions to die. He felt a foreign wetness form in his eyes and blinked it away. How long had it been since he had last cried? Surely not since Padmé’s death had he let go enough to feel this way . . . Hatred, regret, weariness—those had been his companions over the years—not this deep sorrow that seemed to have worked itself into his very bones. He sighed in exhaustion. Wasn’t this the kind of thing that was supposed to dissipate once he became one with the Force? He was supposed to feel complete, finally purged of the anger and despair that had plagued him his entire life. He still felt so terribly human, unable to wrest any sort of control over his emotions. But—after all the atrocities he committed over the years, why would he deserve anything like serenity? The very thought of dealing with whatever hell the Force had cooked up for him was too enormous in its scope to even bear thinking about, so he continued to lie there, lingering in that peculiar state of half-awareness where the line between dreams and reality was blurred. He had almost lulled himself back to sleep, or at least whatever passed for sleep in this strange place when a soft, long forgotten voice broke through his reverie.

“Ani, wake up—it’s time for breakfast.”

Vader jerked awake, the last vestiges of his dazed stupor fading away. Shmi—no, his mother was here? How was this possible? She had been blind to the ways of the Force, and thus would be incapable of maintaining a consciousness once she passed on. Unless . . . Had he misjudged her terribly—writing her off merely as another Force-null when she had actually been one with the Force for decades, watching him make one terrible decision after another? If so, how could she possibly speak to him with such kindness, such love if she knew what a wretched creature he had become? Vader lurched into a sitting position, the rough blankets of his pallet pooling around his waist as he moved his unexpectedly small limbs. Limbs—he had true, flesh and blood limbs! He stared at his hands in wonder, slowly curling and uncurling his palms, the movement made awkward from years spent as a quadriplegic. Incongruous with the massive robotic appendages of his suit, these were the small, fine-boned hands of a child, browned by the sun and littered with callouses more suited to handling tools and connecting wires, rather than wielding a lightsaber. They were hands he hadn’t seen in years, not since he left the sandy wasteland of Tatooine as a child. This . . . this was all wrong. He was supposed to transcend humanity and become one with the Force, not be confined to the body of a child. Was this some sort illusion meant to torment him—or, perhaps the final reflection of a dying man? Both possibilities rang out as wrong to him, which meant that this situation was something else altogether. He supposed that he would just have to go along with, well, whatever this was.

“Ani, is something wrong?” Shmi asked, worry clear in her voice.

Vader started, having become lost to his thoughts. He then twisted to face her and hungrily drank in the sight of her worried face. She was just as he remembered—a woman with kind eyes and a resilient air to her. Even though she was prematurely aged by the sun and hard work, she exuded an inner beauty that was rarely matched. Force, he had missed her. It was so easy to forget just how much he yearned for her when it had been decades since her death. Now though, it hit him all at once and he was unsurprised to find himself crying again for the second time that day. Shmi rushed towards him and tucked his small body under her chin, allowing him to bawl his eyes out into her shirt. She stroked his hair gently and murmured softly under her breath until his chest-shaking sobs subsided.

“Oh, Ani what happened? Did you have another nightmare?”

He nodded into her chest. She seemed to understand that he didn’t want to talk about it, and continued her ministrations in silence. Vader could have remained there for hours, luxuriating in her comforting embrace, but eventually Shmi pulled away. There was a sad gleam in her eyes as she spoke. “We have to leave for Watto’s now, so you’ll have to eat your breakfast on the way there. But tonight I’ll make you some Zucca fruit pastry, okay?”

Vader nodded dumbly and disentangled himself from her embrace. As he stood up, he was suddenly struck by a strange sense of vertigo—he had forgotten what it was like to be so fragile, so diminutive. It was disconcerting; he was used to a much larger and heavier frame, so even the simplest of movements was awkward. He followed Shmi out of the room on unsteady legs (he was still becoming accustomed to the fact that he had actual legs!) and delighted in eating the solid fruit that she handed him as they left for Watto’s. After decades spent ingesting only nutritional liquids, it was positively heavenly. As they walked, the suns of Tatooine blazed like twin furnaces overhead, imbuing him with a dearly missed warmth. How could he ever have despised this as a child? The light kissed his face like an old lover, and he basked in the warmth like a contented cat. Even the sand he once so abhorred seemed tolerable now. It could be that he was looking at them through the rose-tinted glasses of an old man, or that he’d associated these conditions with the miserable life of a slave. Either way, he appreciated them now more than ever.

The dingy exterior of Watto’s shop soon greeted them, and Vader’s good mood dropped precipitously as Watto entered his line of sight. The Toydarian was hovering behind the counter with an annoyed expression on his face.

“Late! You’re late! What am I supposed to do without my slaves? What if a customer needed something fixed? I would have to turn them away and lose money! What use to me is a slave who doesn’t work? What good does that do for me? This means punishment—for now, you get no rations, but next time I might think twice about the usefulness of a female past birthing age who can’t even arrive on time. Maybe Gardulla would like to have you again, Shmi—Ack!” Watto’s raspy voice broke off as Vader instinctively raised his hand for a Force-choke. How dare this vile creature talk to his mother like that? Like she was nothing more than something to be owned and discarded when her usefulness ran out, like she was worth less than the very dirt beneath their feet, like she was a . . . slave. It finally dawned on him then, the situation that he now found himself in. He—Darth Vader, was a slave. He had an owner, a master who he was meant to take orders from and come to heel for. The Force vibrated in tandem with his growing rage, absorbing and reflecting it in a familiar cycle of blistering hatred. His eyes burned with power, flashing the deep orange of a Sith. Vader rasped out a laugh. Well, this at least, can be rectified easily. He jerked his hand sideways, and Watto’s head was separated from his bloated body with a spray of violet blood. His headless torso was dropped unceremoniously onto the ground. Shmi screamed from behind him. He turned, eyes fading back to blue as he released his hold on the Force. Her lined face was slack with terror and liberally spattered with Watto’s blood. He didn’t know what to say that could possibly alleviate the shocked horror of seeing her precious son decapitate someone in front of her, but he knew that he had to give her some type of justification for what he’d done.

“My dreams have shown me that I possess a great and terrible gift. I won’t stand for this subjugation anymore, not when I have the ability to remedy it. I will free all the slaves of Tatooine, or I will die trying.” Vader spat, growing more agitated with each word. Yes . . . this was what he had been called here to do. He could feel the Force feverishly agreeing with him, ardent in its assent. Whether or not this was truly the past didn’t matter—he would purge the filth from this world either way. Perhaps this crusade would end up being his redemption.

Chapter Text

Kaidin Samick considered himself a jack-of-all–trades. He was a competent smuggler and mercenary, and even found success gambling on podraces. As long as he could make a living for himself, Kaidin didn’t really care what he had to do or who his employers were, which was how he found himself in his current situation—working as a slaver for the Hutt Cartel. While the Hutt Cartel didn’t specialize in slavery like the Thalassian or Zygerrian slaver guilds did, it was a profitable enough venture for them to expend resources on. Kaidin had worked jobs for the Hutt Cartel in other capacities before, and the pay had been extremely generous. So when they contacted him several weeks ago to work for them as a slaver on Mos Espa he had quickly agreed. It was his job to oversee the various slave trades between the Hutt Cartel and their customers, as well as to ensure that the stock didn’t try to escape or revolt. While taxing at times, Kaidin generally found it to be an easier profession than smuggling. At least now he didn’t have to worry about being arrested or captured by pirates. The free drinks from Hutt-controlled cantinas and access to any slave women he desired were a definite plus, as well.

He was currently relaxing in such a cantina, enjoying a complimentary bottle of syrspirit. Kaidin drained the last dregs of his drink and gestured for the bartender, an angry-looking Rodian, to bring him another. Syrspirit tasted like piss, but it was by far the best booze he could get in a cantina bordering the slave quarters. Even though technically it was his night off, Kaidin was on call to suppress any disturbances that might arise. Incidents of that nature happened rarely, as most insurgent slaves had their chips detonated long before they could do any lasting damage. But, they still occurred often enough to require a Hutt enforcer to remain nearby in case anything happened. He expected it to be a quiet night—last week an idiot girl had one of her legs blown off in a botched attempt at escape, and the reminder of what consequences awaited them should still be fresh in their minds. Unfortunately, Kaidin was proven very wrong when he stepped out to have a smoke.

He was lighting one up when a small boy approached him. Definitely a slave, judging by the state of his clothing and dirty face. He looked frightened, and was wringing his hands in apparent nervousness. “What d’you want, kid?” Kaidin grumbled in annoyance.  

The boy sniffled and wiped at his eyes. “M-my master was just attacked by a strange man—a slave, I t-think. H-he wasn’t breathing when I l-left. I-I’m sorry sir but I w-was just so scared!”  

Fuck—it was a good thing the boy had come to him. A stranger upsetting the status quo of Mos Espa was the last thing the Hutts needed. It was the last thing he needed. Even if the child was lying or it was just a business deal gone wrong, it was worth investigating. Kaidin nodded and crushed the remains of the deathstick under his heel. The child seemed to note Kaidin’s assent and began to lead him through the winding, serpentine streets of Mos Espa. The three moons of Tatooine loomed high and full in the velvety night sky above them, illuminating their path with an almost ominous glow.

Their final destination appeared to be a shabby-looking junk shop. The door looked like it had been broken down and there was a trail of what looked like bloody footprints leading out of the shop. Kaidin was immediately put on alert and pulled out his blaster. He slowly made his way into the shop, taking care to be extra vigilant. There was an undercurrent of wrongness to this situation, and it would be unfortunate for him to be caught off guard because he made a rookie mistake. The oppressive stench of death hung heavy in the air and gore was liberally sprayed across the walls. The decapitated body of what appeared to be a male Toydarian lay festering on the floor. His body was distended and festering, bowels spilling out onto the floor. Thousands of maggots writhed and squirmed as they burrowed farther into the body to feast on the entrails. His eyes had been eaten; the squirming larvae peeked out from the empty sockets. Kaidin nearly gagged—it was one of the more gruesome deaths he’d seen over the years. It was clear to him though that the body had been here for hours. So what was this kid playing at? Had he just been too scared to leave his master, and had cowered in the store for hours while the corpse rotted? Could he have been threatened by the murderer not to go to an enforcer? Either way the kid had some serious explaining to do. Kaidin turned to face the boy.

“What in the hells is going on here? Your mast—” Kaidin’s rant was truncated by a sudden suffocating pressure around his throat. It felt like someone had wrapped a large hand around his neck; thick fingers slowly tightening their hold. Yet there was no one there save the boy standing in the doorway, his dark form backlit by the light of the moons. The pressure intensified, and Kaidin was lifted bodily off the ground. It was only then that he gathered enough of his wits to fire of his blaster. The shot froze in mid-air, and hovered there momentarily before being redirected at the ground.

“That decision was unwise, slaver.” The high-pitched voice of the boy rang out menacingly in the darkness of the empty shop.

This was the boy’s doing? What sort of creature was he that he could accomplish such abominable perversions of nature? And suddenly there was a horrific ripping noise, and his body was on fire. Gods, he had never felt such a torturous pain before. Kaidin tried to scream, but all that escaped was a low whimper. His arms lay on the floor, ripped off by whatever unholy powers the boy was using to suspend his body in the air. The child stalked forward out of the dark, his illuminated visage revealing a hateful face with fiendishly gleaming orange eyes. A cold sweat broke across Kaidin’s forehead as the child drew closer, his dread increasing along with the proximity.

“You needn’t fear, filth—your death will serve a purpose greater than you could possibly imagine.” The boy spoke again, a wicked smile twisting at his lips.

Electricity sparked along the child’s fingers, and shot out towards Kaidin. It struck him in the chest, and he writhed in agony. His body was dropped to the ground, leaving him free to thrash freely, the movements similar to the maggots he was so disgusted by. The torment seemed to stretch on for ages, the seconds crawling by like days. By the time blackness crept into his vision, Kaidin yearned for the painless oblivion of death. The boy’s luminous eyes were the last thing Kaidin ever saw before the darkness took him.

Vader stared disdainfully at the slaver’s corpse. It had been all too easy to lure the man here and kill him. If the rest of them could be taken down like this, his mission would be made far easier. He crouched down next to the body and began going through the man’s pockets, as well as the many pouches that lined his belt. When he felt the long, thin cylindrical shape of the deactivator wand, he grinned. It lit up under his touch, and he waved it at the general location of the chip. The device beeped. Ah—to be made truly free, finally. The simple existence of the chip in his head had been excruciating, and he was glad to be rid of it. Now he could deactivate Shmi and the other slaves’ transmitters, and the rebellion could truly begin. A vibroblade with a silvery handle was also pocketed. He could outfit the blade with a cortosis-weave and use it as a substitute for a lightsaber until he could gain access to a Synth-crystal or a geological compressor so he could create one himself.

“Mother, you can come out now.” Vader rasped.

The door to the back of the shop creaked open, and Shmi slowly shuffled towards him. He could sense her fear, even though she tried admirably to hide it. It was honestly the best he could hope for, considering the circumstances. He wasn’t her precocious little ‘Ani’ anymore—he was a man in his late forties who’d lived without a motherly presence for decades. Just because he now inhabited his younger body did not mean he was going to pretend to be anything different. Their relationship would have to undergo a fundamental change if it was going to survive. Vader did not like to hope; it was an emotion unbecoming of a Sith, and it often proved to lead only to misery—but he hoped that Shmi would come to accept him as he was. She still remained one of the few people he had ever cared for, and it would be . . . distressing if she left him. He proceeded to deactivate Shmi’s chip in the same manner, the wand beeping when her chip shut off.

They stood there in silence for a beat, Shmi not meeting Vader’s eyes.

“I won’t make you stay with me,” Vader said. “I can get you transportation to an Inner Rim world and enough credits to where making a new life would be easy. I know you’re afraid of me—of these powers I have. You can’t hide that from me. I haven’t freed you just to enslave you in a different way.”

Shmi met his gaze then, and something in her seemed to soften. Her mouth curved into a thin, sad smile.

“You’re such a stupid boy, Ani. As if I could ever leave you. As if I could ever leave our people here to suffer. Yes, I am afraid of you. I know you are not the same boy who fell asleep last night listening to me tell stories of star pilots, heroes, and princesses. But that doesn’t make you any less important to me. No matter what, you are still my son. I will help you free our people in whatever way I can—the day I abandon the slaves of Tatooine will be the day my ashes are scattered across the Dune Sea!”

Vader stood there in shock as Shmi’s words sunk in. This . . .  this was why he loved her so dearly. He choked back a sob and staggered forward to embrace her. She hugged him back fiercely and stroked his face gently as they parted. Vader quickly composed himself, the Force pulsating in tandem with his ragged breaths. Next, he would liberate the slaves of Mos Espa, and they would storm the palaces of the Hutt crime lords Gardulla and Jabba. They would burn those disgusting hovels to the ground, and he would personally dispatch Gardulla and Jabba himself. Not just for the crime of slavery—he had never forgotten the burning lashes of Gardulla’s whippings, or Jabba’s violation of his precious daughter. He would deliver retribution tenfold, and those beasts would die screaming.

Several Months Later

The scorched earth of Tatooine loomed close as the Nubian cruiser approached the planet’s surface. The heat of the planet’s twin suns, Tatoo I and Tatoo II, could be felt with a searing intensity even through the thick shields of the ship. Jedi padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had never felt such a horrible, blistering warmth in his entire life. The very thought that sentients could out live their entire lives here without ever knowing anything different inspired an immediately squashed swell of pity inside him—after all, who was he to judge? Many sentients despised the labyrinthine city-world of Coruscant, while he personally found it to be one of the most beautiful and vibrant planets he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing. Though the Queen—ahem, Padmé—seemed to agree with him too, if the way her lips thinned with distaste was anything to go by. Naboo’s climate was famously mild, so this sharp disparity must be a bit of a shock for her. Sadly, considering their current circumstances, they really couldn’t afford to be picky with where they sought temporary asylum.

The unfortunate clime was only one of many problems with seeking refuge on this particular planet. Tatooine had recently undergone a violent revolution instigated by a mysterious man known only as ‘Vader,’ and was now involved in one of the bloodiest civil wars in galactic history. Vader led the revolting faction, which was comprised mainly of ex-slaves and droids—with the other being headed by the Hutt Cartel and their allies. While sparsely populated, Tatooine had always been a hotbed of criminal activity due its key position in the Outer Rim, which was ideal for moving a colorful variety of shipments otherwise frowned upon by the Republic at large—such as Spice, illegal weapons, and slaves. For years the planet had been under the Hutt Cartel’s informal jurisdiction, with the family having set up multiple on-planet bases that were even frequented by some of the more famous higher-ups such as Gardulla, Jabba, and Arok. However, any status quo that might have existed previously had most definitely been thrown out the proverbial window when Vader showed up.

The warlord—for lack of a better term—seemed intent to purge the planet completely of whomever and whatever he viewed as being corrupt. The man considered himself a purveyor of justice, and delighted in dishing it out with a viciousness that was rarely matched, if reports and shaky holo-vids were to be believed. Within months of his appearance, Vader had overthrown what little government Tatooine had through a strange amalgamation of frontal assault and guerilla warfare-like tactics that focused on sabotaging any Hutt ships the insurgents could get their hands on, ambushing all known members of the family, and launching aggressive incursions that would be doomed to fail if not for the unkillable madman leading them. As things now stood, Vader was the de facto leader of Tatooine.

According to Qui-Gon, the situation had escalated to the point where the Council had considered stepping in, but had ultimately decided against it. The eternal words of Master Yoda surmised it quite nicely: ‘Slavers, we are not. Other places in the galaxy, we are needed.’ Obi-Wan agreed with the Grand Master—it simply wasn’t a Jedi’s place to suppress the freedom of sentients. If he had been sent on such a mission, he wasn’t entirely sure that he would complete it. And wasn’t that a scary thought; being a Jedi was his entire life, and provided a completeness that he could never achieve otherwise. To exist without the Force or his comrades would be . . . well, unthinkable. Obi-Wan grimaced; he was inwardly projecting his nervousness and it was incredibly unproductive. He released his tension into the Force, though he was certain that Qui-Gon had sensed it through their bond. He was proven right when Qui-Gon sent him a reassuring probe.

Obi-Wan sighed. As much as he despaired of landing in what was effectively a warzone, Tatooine was their only option for repairing the T-14 hyperdrive generator. Without a working hyperdrive, they would be easy prey for the Trade Federation, and so many innocents would have died for nothing. It was a lucky break that any of Tatooine’s spaceports were serviceable during the revolution. Most planets would have been hostile to travelers, but the city of Mos Espa had been allowed to remain open as a nexus of trade under Vader’s rule. That didn’t make stopping here any safer—the horror stories of what happened to those who incurred Vader’s wrath were still fresh in Obi-Wan’s mind.

“We’re landing in Mos Espa.” Panaka shouted from the cockpit.

The damaged cruiser was landed as gracefully as possible in its current state, with only minimal trembling. The door lowered with a hiss, and Obi-Wan stepped forward to follow Qui-Gon, but was rebuffed.

“Obi-Wan, I need you to stay here and protect Queen Amidala. Jar-Jar and her handmaiden Padmé will accompany me to purchase the needed parts.”

Qui-Gon sent him another reassuring wave through the Force—trust me, it said—but Obi-Wan was too shocked to properly process it at first. Qui-Gon knew that Padmé was the actual Queen, so what was he playing at? Did he not believe Obi-Wan to be competent enough in battle to protect her? How would taking an almost offensively stupid Gungan with him be a better battle strategy than his own padawan? It wasn’t as though they were leaving the ship unprotected—Panaka would serve as sufficient protection for the handmaidens, as well as the cruiser itself. This didn’t make any sense—

Obi-Wan’s furious train of thought was interrupted by a sharp fluctuation of the Force. Qui-Gon stiffened, and Obi-Wan could feel his surprise through their bond. There was a large group of sentients and what seemed to be droids approaching the ship. Obi-Wan could sense no malevolence from them, just a strong sense of duty and dedication. These were probably some of Vader’s soldiers. Qui-Gon obviously sensed this as well, as he motioned for Obi-Wan to follow him down the platform to meet their welcoming party.

The group was a motley assortment of humans, droids, and various other species. They were heavily armed and exuded an air of barely restrained violence. The leader of the group appeared to be a particularly intimidating-looking female Twi’lek. Her skin was a dusky pink and was crisscrossed with thick, ropey scars. She wore an eye patch over her left eye, and the corresponding leg was completely mechanical. The silvery metal gleamed brightly in the harsh sunlight. A vibroblade was strapped to her waist and she held a blaster with the loose ease of a veteran shooter in her right hand.

“Vader wishes to speak with you. This is not an invitation.” Her voice was sultry and sensuous, yet a hard undercurrent ran through it.

“Well, how can we refuse such a request?” Qui-Gon responded with ease, but Obi-Wan could feel the sharp rise of apprehension in his Master.

And so the crew of the Royal Naboo Starship followed the rebels through the desert and into the tortuous city of Mos Espa, where the enigmatic Vader awaited them.

Chapter Text

The city of Mos Espa wound through the desert landscape like a tremendous, sinuous serpent. Low adobe buildings, virtually indistinguishable from each other, formed a byzantine maze of winding streets. The vast expanse of the sky stretched out above the group, seemingly infinite in scope. The horizon rippled and distorted with heat. The warmth from the planet’s three suns beat down heavily upon Obi-Wan, and he found himself wiping copious amounts of sweat from his brow.

In spite of the recent revolution, Mos Espa remained a bustling spaceport metropolis—droids of all shapes and sizes intermingled with a wide variety of sentients as they chatted, exchanged goods, and generally went about their daily business. It was far more normal than Obi-Wan had expected, though he did observe that a notably large percentage of the population had prosthetic limbs—most likely a combination of both the recent revolution and the dangerous lives slaves often lead. But the palpable despair endemic to oppressed groups wasn’t present here. The only thing out of place was the occasional patrol group, but they carried themselves more like peacekeepers than armed guards. The locals clearly considered Vader’s forces to be an extension of their community, as families and shop owners openly interacted with them—one fruit vendor even shouting a friendly greeting to the Twi’lek woman. She responded with a brusque wave, but Obi-Wan could sense genuine affection in the gesture.

“Vesper?” Qui-Gon asked genially.

She nodded. “Vesper Fyr, Vader’s second-in-command.”

“Is it wise to share sensitive like that information with us? We could easily be informants for the Hutts or another crime syndicate.” Qui-Gon replied, echoing Obi-Wan’s thoughts.

Vesper laughed throatily. “The Queen of Naboo traveling with criminals? Heh—I think not, Jedi. Besides, if we suspected you were working for those scumbags, then we would have just killed you.”

Obi-Wan was left reeling. How did Vader, the military leader of a warn-torn Outer Rim planet, learn that the Queen of Naboo was traveling with him and Master Qui-Gon? There was just no feasible way . . . unless Vader was working with the Trade Federation. If the Trade Federation had somehow tracked the cruiser here, a trap could have easily been set for them. A sharp thrum of shock reverberated across the bond, and he could feel Qui-Gon’s disquiet. We must wait until further information is given before taking action, Qui-Gon projected. Obi-Wan responded with reluctant acceptance. Unless they wanted to engage what was probably hundreds of armed rebels and their supporters in combat, as well as their mysterious leader, they would have to keep silent and see what this Vader character wanted. He just worried for Padmé’s safety—she was Naboo’s only hope for liberation. If she died or was captured on this hellish wasteland of a planet, then her people would be doomed for death and subjugation.

The ‘Queen’ looked like she wanted to retort angrily, but Obi-Wan’s careful gaze picked out Padmé making a dismissive hand gesture. She apparently wanted to save any confrontations for the real leader. Obi-Wan approved.

“That’s a very . . . blunt statement. How did you figure out that we would take refuge here?” Qui-Gon asked, voice still level.

“Vader foresaw your arrival.” There was a deep admiration present in Vesper’s voice as she spoke.

 “How very interesting.” Qui-Gon murmured.

Vesper led them to a low stone building. It looked like any other Tatooinian abode, dirty and worn by the planet’s harsh conditions. Obi-Wan felt slightly underwhelmed by the sight. This was the great Vader’s base of operations? He had expected something grander from the warlord. These types usually had some sort of opulent fortress that paid testament to a combination of their ego and success. This was just, well . . . drab. Vesper opened the door and gestured for them to follow. He and Qui-Gon took the lead, with Padmé, Panaka, Jar-Jar, Artoo, and the handmaidens following behind them. The other rebels took up the rear, well in place to cut any attempts at escape short. One of the droids—a large, lumbering creature—even cocked its blaster in an unnecessarily threatening manner.

The interior of the building was much like the exterior—small and dingy. There was only one room, sparsely furnished with a small table and chair set. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s bafflement rose synchronously across the bond at the sight. What in the hells was going on? There had to be a secret passageway or lair of some sort hidden here—something more than just these blank walls and worn furniture. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease.

Vesper walked to the middle of the room and dropped into a crouch. She began to run her hands across the floor, and was rewarded with a sharp hiss. The floor began to sink into the ground, revealing a long set of underground stairs. There was a clicking sound, and rows of lights flickered to life. Vesper rose from her position on the floor and stepped back.

“I suppose you want us to follow you down there,” Qui-Gon said wryly.

“You would be correct. I see that your Jedi teachings have taught you to be observant,” Vesper responded, before descending down the steps.

There was nothing for them to do but follow her into the unknown.

The underground compound was as mazelike as the city it was built under. Identical corridors branched off at seemingly random intervals, marked with only the occasional door. Obi-Wan attempted to keep track of their path, but Vesper had done an efficient job of making the route indecipherable. This configuration would definitely make any escape attempts rather . . . difficult, to say the least. However, Obi-Wan trusted Qui-Gon’s instincts, and continued to follow Vesper without complaint. Though he did make sure to angle himself closer to Padmé in case he needed to jump into action. Vesper led them deeper into the labyrinth, until they came to a stop in front of a large metal door. She typed a complicated looking sequence of numbers into a keypad, and the heavy partition began to open.  

The center of the rebel headquarters was located in a large, cave-like room. Lining the walls were rows of tables and shelves with an assortment of monitors, parts, and gadgets strewn atop them. Half-finished droids and weapons littered the floor, making navigation unduly troublesome. Obi-Wan thought it looked more like a mechanic’s workshop than a military command center. Distantly, voices could be heard talking. A golden-plated protocol droid plodded over to them, and addressed Vesper in a clipped, nasal tone.

“Hello again, Mistress Vesper. I’m glad to see that you are well.” He turned to face the rest of them. “Master Vader has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Please follow me.” The droid began to amble off further into the workshop.

Vesper snorted. “Typical Threepio. Fall back, guys—I’ll take it from here.”

The other rebels dispersed, leaving them alone to follow her and ‘Threepio’ to meet Vader.

The voices grew louder and more distinct as they drew further in, until finally becoming a clear conversation.

“Are you sure it has to be me? You’re the one who liberated our people—they see you as our leader, even though you deny the hold you have over them.” A woman’s voice, beseeching.

“No, it cannot be me. I have other . . . duties to attend to, as you know. This will work better with you. At any rate, it seems our guests have arrived.” A deep, mechanized voice responded.

 Obi-Wan assumed the voice belonged to Vader, and was proven correct as they rounded yet another towering shelf and were brought face to face with the warlord.

Vader was settled at a workbench, welding what appeared to be the joint of a droid. Despite the mudanity of the activity, he looked every bit as intimidating as Obi-Wan had imagined. The holo-vids truly did him no justice. A heavy black mask obscured the entirety of his face and head. Thick, tinted lenses and two circular respirators comprised the front, with intricate piping winding its way around the circumference of the mask. He wore long leather coat, worn with age. A variety of weapons were strapped to his waist, and heavy clothing covered the rest of his body. A woman with long, dark hair and a prematurely aged face stood at a safe distance from the machinery, arms crossed across her chest. An exasperated look passed over her face before settling into calm neutrality.

“Master Vader, Vesper and the others have arrived.” Threepio stated.

Vader cut the blowtorch and swiveled to face them. “I told you not to call me master, Threepio. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“I couldn’t possibly! The very thought is preposterous—what use is an uncouth protocol droid?” Threepio exclaimed.

A strange huffing noise emanated from Vader. It seemed almost like a poorly processed sigh. “Very well, Threepio. You can go now.”

The droid in question left, leaving them with Vader’s undivided attention. The lenses of his mask gleamed menacingly, and the audible sound of the respirators was unnerving in the silence of the workshop. Obi-Wan could sense nothing from him, which suggested some type of Force training. He seems to be blocking my probes, Master. Obi-Wan communicated across the bond.

I noticed this as well. This could explain much, my young Padawan. Qui-Gon responded, before audibly breaking the uneasy silence that had developed.

“Why have you brought us here, Vader? What are your intentions towards us?”

Vader gave no indication that he heard Qui-Gon, and continued his staring. When he finally spoke, it was to Vesper.

“Has the distress call been answered?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yes, he should be entering the atmosphere soon. All patrols have been notified of his impending arrival and have prepared accordingly.”

“Good—you have pleased me today, Vesper. As for the rest of you, I want to assure you that I have not brought you here today with the intention of either killing or betraying you to the Trade Federation. The theatrics are for my own safety, as well as yours. The Hutts have become even more . . . unpleasant lately. They are losing control, and as such, are clutching onto Tatooine with the last throes of a dying man. Several neighborhoods on the east side of the city were bombed yesterday, leaving dozens of civilians and soldiers dead. That our headquarters remains hidden is paramount to the rebellion’s success. The house surrounding the particular entrance you used is disguised with state-of-the-art cloaking technology of my own design—it causes the average eye to simply pass over it, unless one is intentionally led there or told of what it hides.

My intentions are towards you are simple: I request that in exchange for fixing your cruiser, you allow Shmi Skywalker to accompany you to Coruscant, where you will protect her for the duration of her stay there, along with Queen Amidala.” Vader gestured at the dark-haired woman. “Shmi is our chosen candidate for Senator and will petition the Senate to allow Tatooine to become a part of the Galactic Republic. She encompasses all of Tatooine’s hopes and dreams for true democracy. She must be protected, and who better to do that than the Jedi?” Vader had become increasingly more impassioned as he spoke, even getting up from the workbench. He towered like a giant, black monolith over them.

“You are a Force-user yourself, so what’s preventing you from protecting her adequately?” Qui-Gon asked.

Vader snorted derisively—or seemed to, at the very least. The mask made interpreting anything aside from speech rather difficult. “There would be no way to keep news of my presence on Coruscant quiet. The Hutts would attack Mos Espa and Mos Eisley immediately, and put out hits on both Shmi and myself. We would be easy prey on a foreign planet without the aid of my soldiers. However, if Shmi were to merely stow away on your ship as a refugee seeking transport to a Core world, she would likely be left unmolested until the day she petitions the Senate. Besides, my presence is needed here with my troops. Tatooine will soon be fully taken, and then my people can finally live without fear.”

“How are we to believe that you truly desire peace, when so much blood has been shed because of your crusade?” Padmé asked, stepping forward daringly. “You are a warmonger, Vader, and you have been elevated to a high status on this planet because of it. Why give that up? You could have petitioned the Senate months ago, but you resort to politics only now? I find it hard to believe that this is all that we’ve been brought here for.”

Obi-Wan wanted to face-palm. Oh yes, do please antagonize the bloodthirsty warlord while we’re stuck deep within his underground base, surrounded on all sides by armed guards. He moved his hand closer to his lightsaber.

“How dare you—” Vesper’s indignant shout was cut off with a wave of Vader’s hand.

Vader laughed. “Ah, Queen Amidala—you are a treasure. You are correct in the assumption that there is more to this situation than I am outright telling you, but the fact of the matter is that Tatooine needs to be inducted into the Galactic Republic. It is the only way to legitimize our takeover from the Hutt Cartel. The only reason I did not send Shmi to the Senate sooner was because we did not have the control over Tatooine that we do now. I do not desire power over this world, only vengeance against those who have committed the crime of slavery. Once Tatooine is freed, I will then be able to remove other sources of filth from this galaxy.”

Padmé jerked back in shock. “How did you . . .?”

“I could sense it, just like the Jedi have been able to this entire time. There is a fire in your spirit that is not present in your double, courageous as she may be.”

Padmé’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment it seemed like she was about to argue with him again, but instead her lips pressed into a thin smile. “I accept your proposal, Vader. Who am I to stand in the way of democracy? I will order my protectors—Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and his Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi—to make defending Shmi a focal point of their mission, and ensure that she arrives to Coruscant safely. But hear this Vader, if you deceive me in any way, or this is all some elaborate trap or ruse—I will make you regret it to your dying day.”

“I’m sure you will . . . Padmé.” There was an odd, almost sad note in his voice.

Obi-Wan stood there in a silent state of shock. WHAT? Master, you have to do something! The Jedi cannot be pushed around by prepubescent queens and random warlords. This is outrageous—

“My padawan and I would be delighted to help you.” Qui-Gon said.

Why do you do this to me, Master? Obi-Wan nearly groaned.

“Good. I ordered some of my subordinates to fix the ship while you were down here. Shmi will gather her things, and then I will escort all of you back to the cruiser.”

The walk back to the cruiser was made even more troublesome with the addition of Vader’s oppressive presence. The same cloaking device used on the house was apparently also located somewhere on his hulking frame, concealing his presence from any Hutt spies lurking about. Shmi walked closely by his side, whispering to him under her breath. Vesper and the original group of rebels had also been tasked also escorting them back, and were grouped loosely around them.

Qui-Gon sent Obi-Wan reassuring waves through the Force, but Obi-Wan steadfastly ignored them, preferring to attempt to release his emotions into the Force without interference. It was times like this when Obi-Wan found it the hardest to remain serene. Everything around him was chaos—Panaka was attempting to wrangle Jar-Jar, with the handmaidens giggling at his unsuccessful attempts at preventing the moronic Gungan from causing trouble. Several of the rebels were arguing loudly in a foreign language, while the others seemed to be placing bets. The background noise of bustling Mos Espa was almost deafening, roaring loudly in Obi-Wan’s ears—and then, several things happened at once:

Vader stiffened and shouted a warning right before a large explosion rocked the street, the shockwave tossing them like mere ragdolls and showering them with dust and debris. Multiple shots rang out, and cries of pain echoed loudly in the madness. A heavy Force presence, darker than anything Obi-Wan had ever felt before, made itself known. Obi-Wan scrambled up from where he’d been thrown and in his disorientation almost fell back down. Master? Where are you? He sent across their bond. All he received was a feeling of intense concentration underlined with apprehension. It was the feeling Obi-Wan often received when Qui-Gon was in battle. Obi-Wan wanted to rush to his Master, but knew he had to find Padmé first. She was his charge—what kind of Jedi would he be if he let her die because he was worried for the safety of his Master?

He staggered through the clouds of smoke and dust, feeling out for her in the Force. Padmé’s presence pulsed weakly, signifying that she was alive, but unconscious. In his distraction, Obi-Wan slipped in a thick, viscous liquid and stumbled over the crushed body of Panaka. His head was pulverized, brain matter spilling out across the dirt. One of Jar-Jar’s legs was strewn haphazardly next to Panaka’s corpse. Blood slicked his hands and feet as Obi-Wan blindly crawled over more bodies. Some he blindly recognized as the handmaidens or rebels, others appeared to be civilians. Their grotesquely mangled limbs stuck out at odd angles, and the ones who still clung onto life moaned in pain at the newly added weight. The tangy, metallic scent of blood filled Obi-Wan’s mouth and nose, and he coughed wetly. He tried to clumsily release his emotions into the Force, but the fact that he was crawling around the corpses of people he’d seen laughing and joking mere minutes ago made it nigh impossible.

More shots were fired and he could feel a blaster bolt hit him in the shoulder. Obi-Wan crumpled in pain, collapsing on a wet mound of flesh. He could do nothing but lay there breathing heavily for several moments, agony sparking in starbursts across his back. He has never felt so weak, or so afraid—never so far from the calming serenity of the Force. The worst thing was that he could feel Qui-Gon out there fighting a dark and terrible assailant, while he did nothing more than lay in a field of corpses. No—NO! I have to find my Master. I have to find Padmé. I have to help these people. I am more than this! I am a Jedi! He reaches out for the Force, and it begins to fill him in a way it never had before, fiery and bright. Obi-Wan choked in a harsh breath of powdery air, and staggered to his feet. The Force was with him now. He ignited his lightsaber, deflecting blaster bolts and even slicing through the torso of a bounty hunter stupid enough to attack a Jedi head-on. The Force felt electric, and made slipping into the familiar forms of his training more effortless than it had ever been before.

Obi-Wan traced Padmé’s signature and found her cradled in Vader’s arms, with Shmi huddled next to him. Vader’s mask was bent oddly in places, and there was an unpleasant whirring coming his right arm. They were surrounded by the bisected bodies of droids and what Obi-Wan assumed were members of the Hutt Cartel. He eyed the vibroblade hanging from Vader’s waist with a new perspective.

“Y-you’ve got her? Sh-she’s safe with you? I sense that my Master is fighting a dark presence—he needs me there.” Obi-Wan choked out, blood trickling down his lips.

“You are in no condition to fight alone. I will accompany you and we will deal with this . . . nuisance, together.” Vader rumbled, and set off in the direction of the skirmish.

Qui-Gon Jinn was a heretic. He didn’t see emotions as weak, or unbefitting of a Jedi. The only real weakness was in their denial. Being too far removed from the average sentient was the Jedi Order’s one true failing. Love, fear, sadness—these were all inescapable facets of existing. This was why he could admit to loving Obi-Wan like he would his own son. The boy would probably never know it, but Qui-Gon privately considered him to be family. It made going on dangerous missions such as these all the harder; there was always an undercurrent of worry present for Obi-Wan’s safety. His Padawan oftentimes had the unfortunate tendency to act first and think later.

He could feel Obi-Wan’s terror and self-loathing peripherally through the bond. His Padawan had inherited Qui-Gon’s dissident views and often had trouble controlling his emotions, loathe as he was to admit it. He hoped that Obi-Wan wouldn’t take his death too hard, because Qui-Gon knew deep down, that he wasn’t going to win this battle. Qui-Gon’s opponent was strong in the Dark Side, and performed terrifying feats of agility and swordsmanship. He was an expert in the fierce lightsaber form Juyo, and rained down blow after blow on Qui-Gon’s rapidly faltering defenses. The Zabrak’s dual-ended blade didn’t help matters.

Qui-Gon was outmatched, and was tiring quickly against the Sith’s savage assault. Obi-Wan called out for him across their bond, but Qui-Gon knew that he wouldn’t make it in time. All he could do now was try and hold off the Sith for as long as possible and hope that Vader was powerful enough to help Obi-Wan finish the battle Qui-Gon had started. He parried the Zabrak’s next strike, but was too slow to deflect his opponent’s counterattack; the Sith flipped through the air, the red blade arcing down towards him The lightsaber cut through his flesh like butter, and neatly bisected Qui-Gon in half. The last thing Qui-Gon heard before becoming one with the Force was Obi-Wan’s cry of terror.

“Master, no!”

Chapter Text

Fire. Ash. Blood. The revolting slaves of Tatooine rose up like a great, terrible wave and in their vengeance slaughtered their owners like beasts. The city of Mos Espa was burning, and the instigator of the uprising was a small boy with eerie, fathomless eyes far too old for his face. He had materialized out of the night like a phantom, and said follow me. There was a palpable weight to his words, something that sparked a fragile hope in the hearts of a beaten down people. So they followed, and watched as the boy bent the very fabric of reality to his will. Buildings crumbled under his power; flesh rent and twisted with a single wave of his hand; the shadows themselves came alive and licked at skin like fire. Corpses crawled and squirmed like animals in the dirt, gnashing their teeth and clawing at the enemies of their lord. The boy was a calamity, a force of nature. An incarnate god sent to liberate them. He had freed them from the chains of slavery. The oppressed were all too happy to follow in his footsteps and swarm like vultures around the fallen. They took up blasters, vibroblades, blunt weapons—anything they could get their hands on, and soaked the earth beneath their feet with the blood of their oppressors.

Vesper had been a slave for most of her life. She was taken from Ryloth when she was a young girl and sold to the Hutts to be their plaything. Female Twi’leks were coveted across the galaxy, and were always in high demand. It was seen as a mark of high status to own one, and Gardulla the Hutt so did love her trophies. Vesper’s age didn’t matter—the Hutts cared only for the soft swell of her breasts and the dusky pinkness of her lekku. She was treated like a thing instead of a person, passed around to be used. Vesper danced for, fucked, and praised her captors for years, but she had never forgotten what it was like to be free. She had never forgotten Ryloth. She swore to herself that one day she would escape this hellhole, and that she would traverse the stars. Distant nebulae and solar systems would be at her fingertips, and she would decide what course her life would take. Vesper only had to wait for the perfect opportunity to arise. It came sooner than expected, when a boy with eyes like the twin suns stormed the palace of Gardulla the Hutt, an army of slaves at his back.

Vesper was in one of the many pleasure chambers located off the main hall of the building, entertaining a guest, when she heard the distant crumpling of the thick, metal door that barred the entrance of the palace. Screams of agony and terror soon followed. She knew instinctively that this was her chance. She would be free, if only she had the strength to attack first, before they struck her down. She had prepared accordingly for a moment such as this—she had hidden a sharp piece of metal within her decorative circlet. Her client jerked underneath her, torn from his haze of pleasure by the commotion. Vesper didn’t give him enough time to react more than that—she grabbed the piece of metal and stabbed it into his throat. Blood spurted from the wound, spraying across her face and chest. He thrashed violently, nails raking bloody furrows across her skin, but Vesper refused to relinquish her iron grip on the weapon, and jerked it cruelly upwards. It carved a long, jagged line up the hollow of his neck. The man shuddered and convulsed weakly, blood dribbling down his lips. All of the fight had been bled out of him. She spat out the tangy liquid and rolled off his body. She lay on the bed for several moments, panting. She was numb with shock. It was one thing to fantasize about killing; it was quite another to do it. Vesper laughed, voice tinged with hysteria. She turned to face the corpse.

“You piece of shit—it didn’t have to be you. You were just convenient. It could have been anyone; you were just enough of a bastard to want to fuck a slave.”

The shock was fading, brining her back to the reality of the situation. Vesper knew that she had to move quickly if she wanted to get her hands on a deactivator wand during the chaos. She dressed herself hastily and wrenched the piece of metal from the man’s throat. It was her only weapon. She crept out into the hallway, feet ghosting lightly across the floor. The arched entrance to the throne room was ablaze with an unholy light, and it cast ominous shadows down the length of the hallway. The screaming was louder now, coming from the main room of the palace. Vesper continued her path, creeping along the walls so as not to be seen. She peeked her head out slightly to see just what the hell was happening, and nothing could have surprised her more.

Slaves, grimy with dirt and gore, were viciously fighting their way through Gardulla’s horde of thugs. Their eyes were wild and fierce, their movements amateur yet brutal. These were the eyes of a people starving for the taste of freedom. Mothers and fathers and children—they all participated in the destruction. An orgy of violence was laying waste to the tyrannical Hutt Cartel, and at the center of it all was a young boy with two burning pits in his hateful face. A murderous rage radiated from his small form as he lifted thugs and tossed them aside with the barest wave of his hand. It was . . . enthralling, that hatred of his. It was magnetic and magnifying at the same time—amplifying her fury at her helplessness, her vulnerability to the filth that ran this infernal planet. Inexorably drawn into the frenzy, Vesper growled and leapt forward.

Her target was a female slaver who was holding a wicked looking pair of blades in her hands, stained to the hilt with blood. Vesper struck from behind, tackling the woman to the ground, clawing blindly for the deactivator wand. The woman beneath her bucked wildly, managing to get enough leeway to swipe one of her knives down Vesper’s leg. Vesper screamed in pain and released the hold, allowing the slaver to throw her off and roll on top of her. The woman raked one of her blades down Vesper’s left eye, the action punctuated by a sickly squelch as Vesper’s eye was pierced. A gleeful smirk twisted at the woman’s lips.

“We have no use for broken things like you, whore.” She sneered as she clambered off Vesper’s trembling form. “We discard defective property.”

The woman detonated the transmitter, and Vesper burned. Her world was narrowed down to that one agonizing moment—an explosion of blistering heat that arced up the length of her body. A broken wail was torn from her throat. White spots danced across her vision. What was once her left leg was now a charred, bloody stump. Horrible burns crawled up near the blast radius, leaving her skin gooey and pliable. Vesper drew in a ragged breath and coughed wetly. This was to be her last stand—killed in a botched attempt at escape by a fucking slaver? If she had to die here, then she was going to take this bitch down with her.

The woman continued to hover over Vesper, looking pleased.

“You should have never tried to be more than what you are—” Her voice choked off as a pinprick of red blossomed across her throat. Her eyes rolled up into her head, and she collapsed.

Vesper flopped back onto the ground, convulsing weakly. The needle she kept secreted away in her mouth had been a last resort. It was dangerous to move it around, and her aim had never been very accurate. But it seemed that the Fates had smiled down upon her for once, because she had managed to spit the needle exactly into the woman’s jugular. It was getting harder to breathe, now. The pulpy mess that was once her left eye pulsed, and he bloody stump of a leg spasmed. Darkness encroached across her field of vision. The world dimmed, and Vesper knew she was going to die.

“Your ferocity burns bright, even amongst this madness. I could use someone like you.” A cold, high voice murmured.

Vesper’s head lolled; the axis of the chaos stood above her, eyes burning. The boy looked like a wrathful god—a crazed, bestial twisted his face, and pure malice emanated from his small form. His mere presence was suffocating. Vesper wished he would either leave or just kill her. Incoherent as her thoughts were at this point, she was still cognizant enough to understand the sinister undertone to his words. She didn’t particularly want to extend her suffering, but there was nothing she could do but lay there shivering.

The boy crouched down next to her. His eyes raked along her prone form, flashing a clear blue. A soft glow emitted from his hands, and Vesper’s agony abated. She gasped. However, the darkness crept ever closer, and Vesper slipped into unconsciousness.

Vader finished his healing and stood up. The Light Side was something that he hadn’t touched in years, but it flowed freely through him now. His fingers prickled faintly with power, and he felt electric. So this was what bringing balance to the Force meant—being equal in power in both sides of the Force. Not truly belonging to one or the other, but being situated in the gray area between. Vader realized that in the first timeline, it had not been the act itself of killing Sidious that had brought balance to the Force, but the fact that he had accessed the Light Side one last time in order to save his son. This was why he could use Jedi healing techniques while having moments ago been employing Sith Magic. Though he was planning on killing Sidious again—Vader fucking despised the man, and he was a dire threat to the galaxy as a whole. However, right now there was other filth that needed to be dealt with. His eyes flared a poisonous gold.

Gardulla the Hutt was cowering behind a group of armed guards, who were furiously battling a mass of slaves. They were far more skilled in combat, but the slaves of Mos Espa had righteous fury and massive numbers on their side, and were slowly gaining ground. Gardulla was shouting angrily in Huttese, her snake-like eyes wide with fear at being cornered. Vader stalked towards the spectacle, casually blasting Force lightning at members of the Hutt Cartel and deflecting blaster bolts with a wave of his hand. When he reached the outer edge of the mass, he uttered lowly.

“Move aside.”

There was a pregnant pause in the action before the horde parted enough to give him room to pass through. He began to wade through the sea of blood and corpses, electricity sparking at his fingertips. Gardulla’s yelling increased in its intensity as he approached.

“Attack the boy! He is their leader!”

Her guards were too busy fighting for their lives now to pay any heed to her words. Vader smiled wickedly.

“Do you remember me, Gardulla? I remember you. I’ve never forgotten what you did to my mother and me. Not to mention the other countless crimes you’ve committed over the years. You’re time is up, scum. Now die!”

Vivid images of he and Shmi being whipped mercilessly while Gardulla laughed flashed through Vader’s mind as he spoke, increasing his rage exponentially. He had never liked to dwell on that time of his life, but his anger at what happened served him well now. A bolt of pure hatred arced out of his hands at Gardulla, striking her in the chest. She let out a long, agonized scream and began flailing wildly. Vader howled with laughter at the sight, and inched closer. The Force flowed through him so freely that it made intensifying the beam easy. Gardulla’s putrid flesh bubbled and melted, dribbling down her body like wax. The smell of burning lard assaulted Vader’s senses. He didn’t let up, allowing Gardulla to fully experience the exquisite agony of this particular ability. It caused the victim to feel a terrible pain unlike any other while the voices of a thousand damned souls screamed inside their minds. When you added enough power, it would liquefy the insides of the victim. Vader watched gleefully as Gardulla literally melted into a sloppy pile of softened innards and deliquesced flesh.

The last of the remaining cartel members fell, and a loud cheer echoed through the cavernous room. They had taken Mos Espa, and soon the revolution would spread across the whole of Tatooine.

“It is our time, now—no longer will we be bought and sold like chattel. We are sentient beings, and we deserve liberty!” Vader cried, the slaves chorusing alongside him.

The new suit had been created to solve the problem of Vader’s weakness in physical combat. The original nine-year-old Anakin Skywalker had been an emaciated slave boy who had never been in an altercation in his life. His combat skills would have to be built from scratch again, and he would have to adjust his method of lightsaber combat to fit his smaller form. A mechanical body would help ease him through the adjustment period, allowing Vader to utilize Djem So and fight in the intermediary period. It would also serve as an adequate intimidation factor, seeing as he was a child now. Most of his forces knew what he truly looked like, but he doubted that anyone watching the holo-vids would be daunted if they saw a child leading the slave rebellion of Tatooine.

It had the height and breadth that his previous suit did, and was hollow in the torso, thighs, and bicep areas to allow for his small form. The rest would be completely mechanical, and would have kinetic interfaces so that he could properly control the limbs. The whole of it had been painted in varying shades of matte gray and black. The mask protected his face and concealed the oddity of his child-sized head in comparison to the monolithic body. The respirators were added because they were actually needed for Vader to be able to breathe while using the suit. The vocalizer was also added to disguise his high, childish voice.

When he first tried it on in the early stages of testing, a cold weight had settled over his shoulders. Vader felt like he was entombing himself in yet another cold metal prison. The phantom pain of his stumps, and the persistent ache of his lungs haunted him. It was another life suddenly superimposed over this new one he was making for himself. His breathing quickened, and the echo of the respirators thundered loudly in his ears. He unclasped the helmet and tossed it to the side, inhaling wildly. He reached out to the Force for comfort, and it immediately flowed through him like a cool, soothing stream. Vader counted to ten, slowly. He was alive; he was whole. Soon, the suit wouldn’t be necessary. He only had to use it until he could fight properly. Then, he would stand on his own two feet in battle.

He had planned for this particular day for months. His fleet of bastardized Hutt Cartel starfighters had been notified of both the Nubian Cruiser and the Scimitar’s arrival. They were to allow them through without a disturbance, and a select group of ground troops were to meet the Nubian cruiser and escort their party to his workshop. If all went well, Vader would convince Kenobi and Jinn to escort Shmi to Coruscant, where she would petition the Senate for Tatooine’s entrance into the Galactic Republic. Vader would also be able to use this opportunity to dispatch Maul, if he ambushed them by the cruiser as he had the last time. It was also his best chance of getting his hands on a synth-crystal. His plans just had to come to fruition . . .

Vader could sense Kenobi and Padmé as they approached. His former bond with Kenobi was still a frayed, broken mess, but it was there. He could easily catch snippets of Kenobi’s thoughts and feelings—most of which were dry, acerbic observations and nervous worry for his mission. It gave Vader an intense feeling of déjà vu; Kenobi was still the same sarcastic bastard he’d always been, even at twenty-four. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed the man—not the decrepit sage who he’d killed on the Death Star, but the actual man. It was strange to feel this way. He’d expected that old, blistering hatred of Kenobi to return once he felt his presence once more, but it was absent. Vader only felt—well, nostalgic. And wasn’t that odd. He’d never felt that way about anything in his life before. He had always just pushed forward, leaving the past where it belonged. Dwelling on his history never boded well for him, so he thought only of the future—of what could be.

And Padmé . . . her presence was like a supernova. She burned so bright, like an inextinguishable flame. Her strength of will was exceptionally strong, even at the tender age of fourteen. It was no wonder she was the youngest elected queen Naboo ever had. Vader had missed her so, so much. It had been an ever-present ache in behind his breastbone for decades. He would have moved the heavens and stars just to see her smiling face one, last time. And now she was actually here! It was stupefying just how lucky he was to have been given this chance by the Force. His angel, his Padmé . . . he was going to see her again. Vader could have wept when Padmé strode in, looking every bit the child she was.

He hadn’t realized that she would be so young. She was a good decade younger than his daughter. Her eyes still held that sparkling glimmer of innocence to them, and her cheeks were still swollen with baby fat. Padmé had looked like a goddess to him when he first met her as a child, but seeing her now like this was truly mind-boggling. She was certainly still beautiful, yes—but she looked like a little kid to him. I could very easily be her father, was his first coherent thought. It was disheartening. Even though he had expected her to be youthful, he sure as hells hadn’t realized she would be this shockingly young. He supposed that a small part of him had been expecting his wife to walk in behind Threepio, not this girl. Though he was still desperately, miserably in love with her. Not for the girl she was, but for the woman she would one day become.

Kenobi’s youthfulness was surprising as well. He was younger than Luke, with an unlined, clean-shaven face and close-cut auburn hair. His eyes were pale and narrowed in unease. As much as it hurt to feel Padmé in the Force, it was soothing to feel Kenobi—he still retained the same calming fluidity he’d always had. Though it was utterly horrible to actually comprehend just how much older he was than what were once the two most important people in his life. They were both younger than his children—his own children were older than them. He needed to stop thinking about this. He turned to Vesper, having blatantly ignored Jinn’s queries. It was time to set his plans in motion.

Vader was fuming. He had underestimated Maul’s ingenuity in planning out his attack, and now Qui-Gon Jinn was dead, again. Taking advantage of the ongoing war between his forces and the Hutt Cartel required a shrewdness he didn’t think Maul was capable of. Vader had planned on Maul attacking their group as they approached the Nubian Cruiser, as he had the last time. Vader would dispatch him easily in a duel and then the group would be able to leave for Coruscant safely. Maul’s demise would also enable him to steal the synth-crystal from his lightsaber, which would prove to be an invaluable weapon. Instead, Maul had decided to cleverly strike during one of the Hutt Cartel’s bombings, easily separating them in the confusion. It didn’t help that a good portion of their party was dead now. Aside from their group, the only ones who had lived through the initial bombing were Sabé and Vesper. They seemed to be several blocks over, fighting gang members.

Vader set Padmé gently down on the ground. He turned to Shmi, who was still hovering by his side.

“Watch her carefully. Kill anyone who approaches.”

Shmi nodded, fingering the blaster strapped to her waist.

Kenobi had already started a furious volley of head-on attacks against Maul, instead of favoring his usual defensive style of Soresu. His anger was a double-edged sword—it was giving him the strength to match Maul blade to blade, but it allowed his emotions to cloud his judgment. Kenobi was ill suited to Juyo, and not at all practiced in the ferocious staccato strikes that were needed to execute his attacks. The mental state of raging aggression was also foreign to the Padawan. His opponent couldn’t have been worse. Maul was a consummate master of Juyo, and was quickly gaining ground on the injured Kenobi.

It only took one misstep, and Maul carved a deep slash into Kenobi’s torso. Kenobi cried out and stumbled back. Maul twisted through the air and kicked him harshly in his wound. Kenobi was thrown to the ground, where he lay gasping erratically.

“I enjoyed killing your Master, and I will enjoy killing you.” Maul cackled, and swung his lightsaber down in a fierce arc.

There was a sharp fluctuation in the Force, dark and twisting. Kenobi parried Maul’s blow, and flipped to his feet. He spat out blood, and there was a manic gleam in his pale eyes that had never been present there before. Vader grinned maliciously. This . . . could prove to be very useful, as long as he played his cards right. Maul pressed forward, leaping high with his lightsaber angled downwards. Kenobi raised his saber in retaliation, parrying harshly. They both jumped back, sabers at the ready for the next attack, but Vader was done with watching.

Vader waved a hand, and a large chunk of adobe slammed into Kenobi, flinging him backwards. He had been too preoccupied with the battle to pay attention to his surroundings, though he would certainly learn better with time. Vader strode forward and stepped into the opening move of Djem So.

“The boy is done. I will be your opponent now, scum.”

Maul sneered, his eyes trailing over Vader’s vibroblade disdainfully. Then he lunged, furiously twirling and twisting his lightsaber in deadly arcs of red. Vader matched Maul blow for blow, his mechanical limbs giving him a strength that Maul lacked. Vader brought down his blade in a heavy curve, pressing Maul’s close enough to his chest to singe. As expected, Maul took a calculated fall backwards, and then flipped back to his feet. The bastard was just as annoying to fight as he had been the last time. He was like a snake, weaving in and out of Vader’s blind spots. It was of no consequence, though. Vader would finish this soon enough.

Maul darted forward again, swinging the dual-ended blade in a wide arc. Vader met the blow easily, steeping forward into Maul’s space to viciously swipe his blade in a jagged motion up the length of Maul’s abdomen. He then switched to a downward strike that mirrored the first one. He was crowding Maul, which meant that Maul would feint to the side or fall back as his next move. Maul feinted to the right, but Vader swung down in a high arc, catching Maul unawares and lopping his head off. The Zabrak’s horned head rolled across the ground, and his stump of a neck spewed out thick jets of blood.

Vader wrenched the lightsaber out of Maul’s hand. Finally, he had a synth-crystal. He would now be able to create his own lightsaber, uniquely suited to his needs. He had so longed for one in the past few months. It just wasn’t the same, using other weapons. None of them had ever felt as right as the thick guard of a lightsaber. The Force sang all around him, and Vader cautiously allowed himself to feel happy. Sure, almost everyone on the Naboo Royal Cruiser had died horribly, there were dozens more dead or dying littering the bombed-out streets of Mos Espa, and all of his plans had gone to shit—but Vader now had a lightsaber, and his beloved Padmé was safe. And Kenobi was proving to be more useful than previously anticipated . . . Vader let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. Things could very well be worse. He could have lost an arm.

Chapter Text

Sabé stepped into the familiar flowing forms of the martial art technique taught to all guards of the Nubian Royal Court. The Dancing Crane was a technique that focused on short, swift strikes that incapacitated the assailant immediately. The graceful arcs of the arm and leg movements looked deceptively like a dance, but could very easily kill the average sentient without much effort. The style suited Sabé’s preference for the use of small blades in close combat perfectly. She was competent with a blaster, but it didn’t have the same intimacy.

Sabé jabbed her fingers into a Hutt Cartel member’s throat. He choked and grabbed at his neck. Sabé quickly slashed his throat, a hot spray of blood splashing across in the face. She tasted metal. Sabé twisted sharply and swept her leg underneath her next attacker, tripping him up and using his weight to shift his center of balance to throw him over her shoulder. He landed on a jagged piece of pipe, his torso impacting wetly as he sank onto it. In her periphery, Sabé could see Vesper shooting at a trio of men. Her aim was precise, hitting them each in the forehead with every shot as she ducked and weaved around their return fire. Artoo zipped around, beeping wildly as he attempted to avoid capture by enemy forces.

Sabé was focused on two things right now: survival, and finding Padmé as quickly as possible. She had seen Eirtaé’s and Rabé’s bloodied corpses amongst the rubble, but Padmé’s form was notably absent, thank the gods. Sabé didn’t know if she was merely rotting away somewhere else or if the supposedly infallible Jedi had saved her. Either way, Sabé would grieve once she had completed her mission. She had to maintain her composure for this battle, even if all she wanted to do was break down and weep. Rabé and Eirtaé had been her her sisters-in-arms, her best friends, her family . . . Sabé blinked tears away and viciously severed the spinal cord of her next attacker. The Rodian died with a surprised look on his face.

“We need to find the others!” Sabé shouted as she brought her leg up for a high kick. She meant Padmé and Captain Panaka, but it sounded like a more unifying goal when phrased like that.

“Agreed,” Vesper replied, spitting a . . . needle (good gods) into the eye of an assailant who’d somehow managed to wrangle her onto the ground.

Sabé needed to learn how to do that from her as soon as possible. She resolved to ask Vesper about it later. Right now she needed to finish off the blue-armored Mandalorian approaching her. She quickly became lost to the heat and chaos of battle, expertly incapacitating all who dared to fight her.  

Sabé was toeing the corpse of what seemed to be the last living Cartel member when she felt the slight kiss of a blaster bolt sting her face. She twisted, noting the fallen body of a sniper slumped over a slab of adobe. He’d been positioned perfectly to take her out. The shot could have come only from one other being in the vicinity—Vesper. The Twi’lek’s blaster was still held aloft in her hand, smoking slightly. A little smirk twisted at the corners of Vesper’s mouth.

“Thanks,” Sabé said, meaning it. It was good to know when someone was watching her back.

“No problem, queenie. Let’s get moving—that bastard Riyan owes me thirty wupiupi, and better be alive so he can pay up.” Vesper sauntered off, hips swaying.

Sabé flushed. The tight pants Vesper wore did nothing to disguise the sinuous curves of her body, and Sabé found her eyes drawn to the thick swell of her ass. Artoo beeped from beside her, jerking Sabé out of her ill-timed reverie. Oh gods. This was so not the time for this—she had a Queen to save. She broke into a run to keep up with the other woman’s longer strides, Artoo following close behind.

Shmi missed her son. She missed the precocious child who spent his free time playing with his friends and dreaming of being a pilot. She missed her Ani. That wasn’t to say she loved this new one any less—she simply cared for him in a different way, one that was no less deep or meaningful. It was just that it was hard to reconcile the two at times. He had gone from being a bright, childish boy one day—to a cold revolutionary the next. This Anakin didn’t need to be mothered, and certainly wasn’t dependent on her for anything. It was somewhat disheartening, to suddenly find herself not really being essential to the welfare of her own child. Shmi had motherhood thrust upon her in the most unconventional of ways, and it was wrenched from her grasp much the same. She and Anakin spent as much time together as they could, but it wasn’t like it used to be.

The strange metamorphosis Anakin had undergone had fundamentally transformed both him and their relationship. Shmi had adapted quickly, changing the boundaries and norms of their interactions. Anakin was averse to overt displays of affection, but easily welcomed a hand on his arm or a casual brushing of shoulders. She discussed politics, battle strategies, and Tatooinian economics with him. They frequently ate meals together, and he was pleased when she spent time down in the workshop with him. It was nice, having him be her equal. But she still longed for her baby boy, and her grief over his disappearance lingered.

When Shmi first saw Anakin in the suit, she thought, This is who he truly is. He towered over her small form, his massive figure dwarfing her completely. They stared at one another, the gleaming lenses of his mask meeting her soft, brown eyes. The only noises were the harsh exhales of Anakin’s respirators and Shmi’s thudding heartbeats. A hand—large and dark, covered hers. Shmi held it close to her chest and let out a low sob.

“This is the real you, Ani. You’re not my baby anymore. You’re more than the body you inhabit—I’ve known that for awhile now. It still hurts though—seeing you like this, despite all the good it’s brought our people.”

“You know I still care deeply for you.” Anakin responded, sounding pained.

“How could I ever forget? It still doesn’t change my feelings. Emotions are fickle things, Ani—I can’t control the fact that I miss my little boy. Being a mother was the only thing that kept me going through the years . . . and now you don’t even n-n-need me.” Shmi stuttered, wiping the wetness away from her eyes.

Anakin disentangled their hands and pulled Shmi into a rare embrace.

“I would raze worlds for you, mother. I may not need you the same way a child does, but without you . . . I would be lost in ways you aren’t fully capable of understanding yet.”

She wouldn’t understand, not for a very long time—but today had given her more insight than ever before. Anakin’s fury was a palpable thing, and the way he slaughtered the cartel members like animals was horrifying to watch. Shmi had seen Anakin angry before, and she was no stranger to violence—but this was him enraged on a level she’d never seen before. He crushed men and women into pulpy, oozing masses; he cut through bodies with the practiced ease of a veteran killer; curling tendrils of shadows disappeared his victims into the unknown. The depravity reached new heights when Anakin spotted a Dug attempting to drag Padmé’s body away from where she had fallen. The girl’s head was bloodied, and she appeared to be unconscious. Anakin had been carving a grisly path to the girl since they had been separated in the blast, and his stance became even more aggressive at the sight.

“My Padmé . . . how dare you touch her!” Anakin growled, clenching his hand into a fist.

The Dug was lifted off the ground, the flesh of his stomach torn asunder by an invisible force. His body blossomed open like a terrible, gory bloom; guts spilling out onto the ground as he was slowly folded inside out. His tortured screams rose and rose in pitch—until they cut off abruptly. Anakin released his hold on the corpse and ran over to where Padmé lay, gathering her up in his arms and stroking her hair.

Shmi stood frozen in horror. She hadn’t been present for Anakin’s original takeover of Mos Espa—Anakin had feared for her safety and made her promise to stay hidden, to which she had reluctantly agreed—but if this was the kind of horror his powers could unleash upon others, she could only imagine the brutal vengeance he’d personally inflicted. Anakin had always been prone to emotional outbursts, and this was no different. Though it was so very odd how attached he was to the girl. She may have been a queen, but that mattered little in Anakin’s eyes. There was something else to her . . .

Suddenly the Jedi Padawan burst onto the scene, gasping for air and visibly injured.

“Y-you’ve got her? Sh-she’s safe with you? I sense that my Master is fighting a dark presence—he needs me there.” Redness trailed from the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

The boy looked so very young, his eyes wide with poorly concealed fear. Shmi couldn’t help but feel sorry for him; the likelihood that things were going to turn out well for him were slim.

Shmi hated being right. She hovered over the prone forms of the boy and Padmé, blaster cocked. Anakin was engaged in a vicious battle with the horned-sentient, blades clashing thunderously with every strike. It was the first battle she’d seen him in where the opponent actually posed a challenge, and it was astonishing to watch Anakin up the ante. His strikes were harsh, yet fluid; his stances refined and minimalistic. It was a sharp contrast to the complex movements of the other sentient, who was flipping and twisting about, dual-ended blade spinning madly. Despite the other’s obvious prowess, the battle didn’t last long—the moment the sentient made even the smallest of mistakes, Anakin struck. The sentient’s head rolled across the ground, body sprawling awkwardly. Anakin strode over to the corpse and plucked the extinguished blade from his hands. He stood there for a moment, seemingly basking in the glory of his kill. Then he let out a deep, low chuckle.

“We need to find Vesper and Sabé. We will regroup and head back to base, where I will heal the injured.” Anakin said after a beat, picking up Padmé and the boy (Shmi really needed to learn his name at some point).

Anakin seemed to sense where they would be, so Shmi followed behind as they made their way through the bombed out streets of Mos Espa. Ash, dust, and corpses marked their path as they searched for the others. However, by the grace of the gods, the damage seemed to be confined to the north side of the city, as Shmi could see no smoke rising from the other sectors. It was still the worst attack they’d faced in a while. It seemed that the Hutts were throwing everything they could at Tatooine in a last ditch effort to retake the planet. Shmi knew Anakin would eventually overpower them, it was just the matter of how many lives were going to be lost in the process that worried her.

“Vader! Shmi!” Vesper ran towards them, Sabé and the little astro-mech droid close at her heels.

They all looked a little worse for ware—Vesper’s face was littered with small cuts and was beginning to bruise; Sabé’s makeup was smeared with blood and dust, her once elegant and convoluted hair and clothes in disarray; the droid dented and dirty. Sabé looked immensely relieved at the sight of Padmé.

“How did the others fare?” Vesper asked. There was an anxious gleam in her eye.

“We are the only survivors. Everyone else was killed in the initial blast aside from the Jedi Mast Qui-Gon Jinn, who was killed in battle later on.” Anakin answered tactlessly.

At least he wasn’t cackling madly like earlier—though Shmi still could have smacked him for his insensitivity.

“No! It can’t be true!” Sabé shouted, stepping forward. “You’re lying! I know it—I k-know it!” She broke off into a long sob.

Vesper, who had been staring blankly at Anakin, was jerked out of her reverie by the noise and tentatively wrapped her arms around the smaller girl. Sabé leaned into the embrace and let out a low wail.

Anakin shifted awkwardly, and Shmi knew that under the mask a pained expression had crossed his face. He never dealt well with overt emotional outbursts of others very well, despite his own penchant for them.

“I am . . . sorry for your loss. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, and I regret that things turned out the way they did. We can retrieve the bodies later and give them a proper burial, after I heal Padmé and Kenobi.”

Sabé extricated herself from Vesper’s hold, and wiped at her eyes.

“F-fine. Let’s go.”

Obi-Wan drifted back to awareness slowly. The edges of his vision were hazy, dream-like. The world looked soft and unreal. His eyelashes were gluey and wet, clinging together as he blinked. The indistinctness of his surroundings came into clearer focus. Dark, low ceilings; no windows—he sucked in a breath, and the air was stale. Underground, then; most likely back in Vader’s base. Obi-Wan sat up, swinging his legs onto the floor to come to a standing position. He felt for his lightsaber, but it was gone. This was . . . unfortunate, but not the most pressing matter for Obi-Wan to tackle. He just needed to find Qui-Gon and then they could—a-a-and then they could—Obi-Wan fell to his knees, the events of the past few hours rushing back all at once. He blindly reached out for Qui-Gon in the Force, but found nothing. Felt nothing. There was a fathomless abyss inside Obi-Wan where Qui-Gon used to be, devoid of any light or comfort. No, No! An anguished moan crawled its way out of Obi-Wan’s throat. Their bond was a broken, aching stump of a thing—and it burned like a live-wire inside him.

He grasped wildly for the comforting tranquility of the Force, but it instead twisted and scorched its way through his veins. Obi-Wan shuddered at its intensity. It was unlike anything he’d ever known before. The serene fluidity he’d become accustomed to was nowhere to be found now. Only the pressing agony of his loss, and the fiery blaze of the Force. Obi-Wan clutched at his face and clawed at his eyes. Whywhywhywhy? Why could he find no peace? Why was his only comfort in the wake of his Master’s death stolen from him? His emotions were spiraling violently out of control, but when he attempted to release them into the Force, they were reflected and magnified. Obi-Wan had never experienced such an intensity of feeling before, and it pressed down upon him with a palpable weight.

“There is no emotion, only peace. There is no emotion, only peace,” Obi-Wan muttered fervently to himself, but it was futile—his grief persisted.

His eyes burned, and a dark well of despair bloomed within him. Suddenly, the truth of it all struck him then. It was as though the floor had dropped out from beneath him, leaving Obi-Wan was frozen in horror. He had fallen. He had given into his weaknesses. He had been warned about this his whole life, and yet he had still given in—stupid, pathetic creature that he was. He had given his entire life up in a single, thoughtless moment; letting his impulsiveness rule him for once, giving into it—and now he would pay the price until the day he died. He could never be a Jedi again, all because he wanted to save his Master. Qui-Gon’s softly smiling face came to mind, the way their bond made Obi-Wan feel complete, safe, loved. Qui-Gon had been his role-model, best friend, and father figure all in one. He was all Obi-Wan had ever known. And now he was dead, Obi-Wan having both failed to deliver justice to his killer and honor his memory. He was a complete and utter disgrace. Obi-Wan staggered to his feet and lashed out uncontrollably with the Force, sending the bed flying against the wall. It crumpled on impact and the broken mess tumbled to the floor. The ease of the action and the power behind it was jarring. He stumbled back, suddenly fearful. This was the call of the Dark Side; this was its power. It had an instinctiveness to its use that the Light lacked. Obi-Wan stared at his hands. Lives will be extinguished with these. The thought came out of nowhere, but Obi-Wan was certain of its truth.

A knock at the door broke his contemplation. It was apparently only perfunctory, seeing as the partition opened before Obi-Wan even had a chance to respond. He wanted to comment snidely on the breach of decorum, but was abruptly stopped when he saw who his visitor was. A young boy with gleaming orange eyes stood there, expression unreadable.

“I think it’s time for us to have a little chat, Kenobi.”

Chapter Text

“Y-you’re a Sith!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, jerking back in shock.

The boy rolled his eyes, a thin smirk twisting his lips. It wasn’t a pleasant expression; if anything it looked more like a gash than a smile. A sense of deep unease crept up on Obi-Wan.

“How . . . perceptive of you, Kenobi. Did the eyes give me away? Or was it this?”

Obi-Wan’s knees buckled, and he collapsed under the weight of the suddenly oppressive Force presence. There was a horrible, corporeal weight to it; it spoke of vast untold atrocities and terror, of experience in the art of murder. Obi-Wan shuddered at the inescapable feeling of dread that crawled up his spine. His breathing was labored under the pressure, and little electric currents pricked at his skin. A distant, unsettling hum arose within the room. This—this was true power. He had thought he knew the Dark Side, but this boy wielded it on another level.

“Who are you?” Obi-Wan was struck with a sudden, hungry desire to everything about this strange boy. It was a foreign sensation, and very unlike him.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker, but you know me better by a different name—Vader.” The boy leaned forward into Obi-Wan’s space, his heavy Force presence pressing Obi-Wan further into the ground. He seemed pleased by the forced submission.

“W-what? How is that possible? You’re a child!” The absurdity of the situation hit him full force. Despite the very obvious atmosphere of danger that radiated from Vader, this was still a young boy he was talking to.

“Do I seem particularly childish to you? I had assumed you were intelligent enough to look past the exterior of this body and see the truth.” An annoyed expression crossed Vader—no, Anakin’s face.

When Obi-Wan didn’t respond, still baffled by the scene, something in Anakin seemed to snap. He grabbed Obi-Wan by his braid and viciously yanked his head back. Obi-Wan gasped at the sudden spark of pain.

“Look at me! Look at me!” He growled, irises spinning wildly into a sickly yellow. The circles beneath his eyes stood out like bruises against his pallid skin. The crazed expression he wore distorted his innocent features into something unearthly, something ageless. Anakin was right—he was no child, he was a monstrosity. His Force presence became even more unbearable, and the buzzing increased in volume.

Obi-Wan attempted to shrink back in disgust, but the creature’s hold prevented the action. He couldn’t stand Anakin’s presence anymore; it was slimy, vile—like worms slithering around in his veins. He desperately needed to get out of here. He could still finish the mission—he just needed to find Padmé and whomever else managed to survive the attack and get to a ship. Then they could hightail it to Coruscant, making it there within the next couple of days. There was still time to save the people of Naboo, still time for him to be a hero. Perhaps the Council would even be understanding of his condition . . . no, they had to! He had been selfless in his Fall, giving everything up in a desperate attempt to extinguish the life of the infernal Sith who killed his beloved Master. It was an act of pure altruism, and they would surely be able to recognize it as that if he were there to explain the situation to them. A fragile sense of hope bloomed in his chest.

“You think the Jedi Council will accept a Fallen back into their ranks? It doesn’t matter what your intentions were—you still have irrevocably broken the Code in their eyes. You’re blinding yourself to the truth in your grief and fear,” Anakin sneered.

“No—I don’t believe you! They will understand; they are my comrades—they know me!” Obi-Wan shouted, rage burning a hole in his chest. “They know me!”

The Dark bloomed within him, begging to be used. Obi-Wan shuddered at the intensity.

Anakin laughed darkly and released his hold. Immediately Obi-Wan lurched back, scrabbling across the floor to get away. The sense of creeping unease lightened with the increased distance. He could breathe easier.

“You’re so . . . weak. I expected more of you—I thought you would be stronger than this. Yet, you cannot even bear to feel my Force presence. What will you do when you encounter the leader of the Sith who slaughtered your Master? He is far more depraved than I could ever hope to be; so strong in the Dark that his mere presence is like a black hole, completely devoid of light or emotion. You would be utterly consumed.”

Obi-Wan eyes widened in shock. That was merely the apprentice? He had assumed that this being was the pupil of the Zabrak. Anakin scoffed, seeming almost offended by the implication.

“I dispatched that wretched creature easily. I didn’t even need a lightsaber to do it. However, had I allowed you to continue your fight with him, you would have soon gone the same way your pathetic Master did—and then you both would be rotting away in the desert together,” he said with a derisive curl to his lip.

“How dare you talk about Master Qui-Gon like that!”

Obi-Wan struggled to his feet and charged at Anakin, enraged. He felt out of control, like he was slipping away from his body; a spirit no longer confined to the flesh. The walls of the room twisted, lengthening—extending outwards unto infinity. Time seemed to move in slow motion. He was strung-out on the dizzying rush of power, his movements sloppy and uncalculated. He was easily batted away by Anakin, who despite his apparent volatility, remained firmly in control of himself.

Obi-Wan impacted harshly against the wall, head smashing into the unforgiving metal. He fell to the ground, sprawling awkwardly. The sharp tang of blood filled his mouth, dribbling down his chin when he coughed brokenly. The world spun, a dark blur save for the approach of Anakin’s wraith-like form. A suffocating hand wrapped around Obi-Wan’s windpipe, and he was lifted into the air. He sucked in harsh, little breaths; ringing out piteously in the silence of the room. Dark spots peppered across his field of vision. This is it—I’m going to die here at the hands of this creature, Obi-Wan thought deliriously. What a dignified way to go out, truly befitting of a Jedi.

Anakin clenched his outstretched fist, and the pressure around Obi-Wan’s throat tightened. His hands scrabbled at his throat, carving deep groves into the tender flesh. But nothing could relieve the pressure. The claustrophobic feeling of his impending death descended upon him. The walls were closing in on him, and this was it; this was truly it— He fell to the ground, convulsing. He curled in on himself, gasping weakly. The stale air raked down his abused airway like glass. He spat out a thick mouthful of blood, an action followed by a pained moan.

“There are many things I could do to you, Obi-Wan—all infinitely more horrible than this. I could yank out all of your teeth one by one—then force them down your maw. I could slowly separate the skin from muscle; paring your body like I would a fruit. Would you like to relive the agony of your Master’s death over and over, seemingly endlessly—only to wake and find that mere seconds have passed? I am showing you mercy, even though you attacked me without any true provocation. I have tortured and killed men for far less than what you did. I merely stated the truth: you and your Master are weak. He died that way, but you still have the opportunity to change that. Don’t you long for revenge against the one who killed the man who was like a father to you? The Zabrak was just the tool of a far more sinister being, a true lord of the dark. He ordered his apprentice to come here and attack you, and is thus the one truly responsible for the death of Qui-Gon Jinn. Kill the Sith Lord, and you can avenge the death of your Master.” Anakin spoke with a fevered intensity as he loomed over Obi-Wan’s prone form. He was utterly magnetic, drawing Obi-Wan in despite his earlier unease.

Yes . . . Obi-Wan could envision it now—the Sith Lord on his knees begging for mercy, eyes wide with fear. He would cower and simper and beg for his miserable life, but Obi-Wan would rend his flesh and crush his bones; drawing out the suffering. It would be absolutely exquisite. He would relish it, savor the feeling of the kill. It would be his greatest triumph—to have avenged his Master and slain the Jedi’s most reviled enemy in one fell swoop. The Council would be forced to let him become a Jedi again. How could they not, after all he’d done for them? And if they didn’t, well . . . they would pay dearly for their blindness.

These dark thoughts slithered their way into his mind like writhing snakes, poisoning everything they touched. A shadow was cast over his hazy, pain-stricken mind. The vitriol behind the fantasy was strikingly foreign to Obi-Wan, but the burning rush of emotions felt more innate than his forced peace ever did.

“W-what do I need to d-do?” He choked out, swollen tongue distorting his words. It felt a little like walking off a cliff. Now he just had to wait for the inevitable impact.

Anakin smiled. It was horrible.

“I’m so happy you asked. You see, I’m in need of an apprentice, in the loosest of terms. Perhaps ‘partner’ would be a better description. Someone who also desires to slaughter the Sith Lord as much as I do. Someone who’s willing to do anything—and I do mean anything, to gain enough power to do so. Alone, I am not strong enough to defeat him—but together, with training—we could put him down like the beast he is. I will bestow unto you my knowledge of the mysteries of the Force, and you will help me destroy the man who ordered the death of your Master.”

What choice did Obi-Wan have now? He couldn’t go back to Coruscant, not yet at least. He didn’t have a home or life outside the Jedi Order. What else could he do but avenge Master Qui-Gon’s death and try and restore his own honor? Even if it meant making a deal with this devil.

“Yes,” he breathed. It felt like a death sentence.

“Good,” Anakin hissed, before grabbing Obi-Wan’s face in his small hands. “This will only hurt a little bit. Try not to scream too loudly.”

What—the sudden, forceful blaze of agony that spread throughout his entire being like a wildfire cut off any other coherent thoughts. Obi-Wan cried out around the thickness of his tongue at the assault. Anakin was ripping open a Force bond between the two of them, latching onto the broken stump where his bond with Qui-Gon lay festering. It felt like someone thrusting their finger into an open wound and digging around inside. Tears budded at the corners of his eyes, and Obi-Wan sobbed.

When the connection formed, it was as though someone had opened up a black hole in the back of his head. It was hungry, all-consuming. Obi-Wan found all of his thoughts and feeling being sucked away into the void. What little he received from Anakin was barely comprehensible, but insanely possessive in nature: Minemineminemine. Tym’s manosi, m\'tye’s manosi—tau’re abid manosi. Anakin started whispering to him in the strange language, same horrible grin cutting across his face. “Sis liudesys kash dhasias. Zhol kash midwanas.”

The pause did not last for long, as Anakin soon reached to grab something off his belt. It was the guard of a lightsaber, dark and intricately twisted. It reeked of evil and seemed suitably appropriate for a Sith of Anakin’s apparent caliber. He flicked it on, a blood red blade appearing. The glow illuminated Anakin’s sickly eyes and cast strange and terrible shadows across his face. How could I have ever been so foolish as to think him a child? Obi-Wan thought deliriously.

“There’s just one more thing I need you to do for me before we can proceed. This is a journey we will take together, so our bond must be cemented both inside and out,” Anakin rasped, and pressed the blade across his right eyebrow. His flesh bubbled and blistered at the contact, but Anakin merely exhaled. The fanatical gleam in his eyes remained. The skin was slippery around the wound as he removed the pressure, but the cut itself had been cauterized by the intense heat. Obi-Wan tried to scramble back, but was held in place by invisible, grasping hands. The blade descended upon him, and fire scorched up the right side of his face. A tortured wheeze crawled out of his throat.

“Now, we are the same—marked by the same blade, cemented together by an unbreakable bond. If you should ever even think about betraying me, I will know. Then, you will learn the true meaning of suffering.”

Anakin stood, flicking the blade off and reattaching it to his belt. The fervent intensity seemed to have bled out of him somewhat. The change was disorientating. “The first step to achieving our goal is finishing your original mission: escorting Padmé to Coruscant. There is a reason the Sith Lord sent Maul after you, and it’s because he wants to prevent that from happening. Shmi is still needed there, as well. Tatooine will still be made free, no matter what. Though unfortunately, I will now have to accompany you—more protection for them is needed, and you are still so new to these abilities. We may have to make a little detour, so I can clean things up here . . .” he trailed off, lost in thought.

Obi-Wan just continued to lay there on the floor, head tilted to the side to allow the blood to dribble out instead of pooling in the back of his throat. Everything ached, and he really just wanted to pass out and pretend none of this ever happened, instead of listening to Anakin’s monologuing. Sadly this would not be the case, as Anakin noticed his drifting thoughts almost immediately and stalked back over to him.

“I need you awake for what’s to come, Obi-Wan. We have so much to do, and so little time.”

Chapter Text

Vader regarded Obi-Wan’s supine form with contempt. He had expected more from the Jedi who had bested him on Mustafar. Not this disgusting display of weakness. How could this be the same man who taught me the ways of the Force? How could this—this child have ever been my Master? Vader was sickened by Obi-Wan’s vulnerability, his conspicuous youth. The intense feeling of déjà vu he’d initially experienced upon seeing Obi-Wan again had blurred and faded into this swirling mixture of disdain for his puerile impetuousness and lack of wisdom. Vader supposed that he had expected his old Master to be here with him, the same as he had with his wife. He had neither—just this scared, desperate boy, and a girl barely out of childhood. However, Vader could admit that he had perhaps been a little too forceful in his recruitment of Obi-Wan. The boy’s eyes were glazed, and blood was liberally smeared across his face and mouth. He likely had a concussion, as well as internal bleeding from Vader’s . . . discussion with him.

Obi-Wan was barely coherent; his disorientated thoughts and wildly fluctuating emotions flowed freely through their newly created bond. If Vader had been less experienced in the mind arts, he’d likely have a difficult time parsing them out. While rage and sorrow cast dark shadows over his mind, it was his all-consuming despair that pervaded the air. This was what made Obi-Wan so easy to manipulate—his desperation. He had nothing now, save his lightsaber and the clothes on his back. Qui-Gon Jinn was dead, his corpse already spoiled and festering in harsh desert climate; the Jedi Order, his only home, would surely exile him for having Fallen. What else did Obi-Wan have now, save the goal of punishing the one responsible for his Master’s death?

As Sidious had proven to Vader time and time again, the fiercest passions were the most easily malleable; able to be dexterously contorted into advantageous opportunities if one knew what to do with them. This was such a case. Obi-Wan’s palpable hopelessness and confusion was what made him the perfect candidate for Vader’s manipulations. He had united them through a perceived common goal, and now had been able to reform the bond that had been so cruelly severed on Mustafar. It was stupefying to him how he could have even thought about merely dismissing this connection. It was clear that he had forgotten how powerful a Force-bond between Master and Apprentice was; how wonderful it was to have a companion in the Force. This was something that would not be broken, not if Vader could help it. Obi-Wan was his partner now, just as Padmé would be his wife once she matured. He didn’t really know how he was going to accomplish that, seeing as she obviously despised him, but it was a work in progress.

Obi-Wan coughed wetly, head lolling. Vader grimaced in revulsion, but consoled himself with the fact that one day, his old Master would be no longer be this weak, pathetic thing laying prostrate on the floor in front of him. He would once again be strong, able to live up to the legacy of the Jedi Master who taught Vader everything he knew before he turned to the Dark. They would be a worthy team then. All would be as it should: the ‘Hero With No Fear’ and the ‘Negotiator,’ back together, fighting side-by-side. As for now . . . well, Vader was going to make Obi-Wan’s life hell. Training to control the Dark Side was no simple task, and would not come easy to Obi-Wan, who had relied on the serenity of the Light as his anchor for so long. Though he would soon learn that to suffer for the sake of power was necessary; it was the way of the Sith, the way of the truly strong. Vader would break him, and then rebuild him into what he should be. It would be glorious.

The noise from the bond began to fade as Obi-Wan drifted, and Vader realized that he needed to heal him quickly or Obi-Wan would actually pass out. Vader took a deep breath and let the Light fill him, tempering his frenetic rush of emotions. It still a foreign sensation to Vader, who had immersed himself totally in the Dark for years, but he could admit that it was enjoyable. There was a stillness to this aspect of the Force, a tranquility that could not be found in the Dark. It was . . . relaxing. His eyes faded back to blue, and his hands began to glow as he healed Obi-Wan’s injuries. They were more severe than he had expected—he had certainly felt Obi-Wan’s agony, but he had written it off as the overreaction of someone unfamiliar with pain. It didn’t matter; if Vader could survive having all of his limbs cut off and being burned alive, then surely Obi-Wan could survive a small beating and a little scratch on his face. He had almost forgotten about his own matching cut, the pain was so negligible. Not that it would be going away anytime soon; lightsaber burns scarred permanently, and would remain as a visible mark of their new bond for as long as they resided in their fleshly bodies.

Vader released the Light and stepped back to examine his work. The glassy look in Obi-Wan’s eyes had dissipated somewhat, and he had stopped coughing up blood. Coherent thoughts started to drift through the bond. It was good enough. He kicked Obi-Wan in the side, and when that elicited no response, he did it again, harder. That got his attention, and the boy scrambled unsteadily to his feet.

“Did you just kick me?” He exclaimed, wiping blood off his lips.

Vader resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I needed you to get up. As I said before, we have only a small window of time in which to get Padmé and Shmi to Coruscant without letting Naboo fall to the Trade Federation, or Tatooine to the Hutts. I couldn’t have you drifting off again.”

 “Drifting off—you nearly beat me to death! I was likely suffering from a concussion from you viciously throwing me against a fucking metal wall! No to mention you ripping open a Force-bond without permission in my mind, and slashing a lightsaber across my face!” Obi-Wan shouted indignantly, pointing at the gash. The walls vibrated in tandem with his growing rage.

How quaint, Vader thought acidly, before speaking. “It’s not as though I’ve somehow forgotten the events of the past several minutes. If I ever come down with short-term memory loss, you’ll be the first to know. And need I remind you that you attacked me first; I was merely defending myself against your assault. I even healed your wounds after—what more do you want of me?”

“I would like to be treated with some dignity! If we are going to enter into a . . . partnership of sorts, then I would like a modicum of respect—” Obi-Wan was abruptly cut off by Vader reaching out for a reflexive Force-choke. It was his immediate response when anyone other than his mother or Padmé spoke to him with that degree of insolence.

“You are in no position to make demands here. You have nothing to offer me, but I have everything you need. Let me make this clear to you: I am the Master, you are the Apprentice. Right now, you are weak; I could crush you easily,” he punctuated this statement by tightening his hold on Obi-Wan’s throat. “Never forget that. But I can make you strong—give you a strength beyond even your wildest dreams. But first you must learn to respect me, or it’s likely that I will end up killing you before we even attempt to accomplish our goal.”

Vader released his hold on Obi-Wan, and the boy fell to the floor, rubbing his throat and coughing. Vader wouldn’t actually kill him, well—he probably wouldn’t, but if he wanted to make any progress he needed to instill a healthy sense of fear into Obi-Wan. It was clear that his lesson earlier hadn’t done much in the way of that.

Obi-Wan nodded vigorously, terror leaking into the bond.

“Good, now get up. In case you’ve forgotten, time is of the essence here.”

Padmé had never been the type to wait around for a someone to rescue her. The very thought that she could ever be perceived as being that fragile was appalling. If there was one thing Padmé knew how to do, it was take care of herself. Her self-reliance had blossomed at a young age; not something born out of necessity—at least, not at first—but rather because she couldn’t bear the thought of being a burden to the people around her. It stemmed from her deep desire to help others—for if she couldn’t even ensure her own safety, then how could she possibly help anyone else? So Padmé became well-versed in a variety of martial arts forms, honed her proficiency with a blaster, and developed a knack for picking even the toughest of locks.

Padmé’s political ambitions had quickly jump-started her experience with dangerous situations, and her skills grew as she found herself drawn into an ever-increasing number of improbable plots and schemes. This was why that as soon as she had awoken in what was obviously some sort of medical facility, she immediately went on alert. She didn’t know how or why she was here; the last thing Padmé could recall was walking back to the cruiser. She would figure it out soon enough, what was important was getting out of her and meeting up with Sabé and the rest of the crew.

Padmé quickly took stock of her surroundings—white walls, sterile equipment, vicious-looking droid guards posted at the only exit. She wasn’t strapped to the bed, thank the gods, and she was still dressed in her handmaiden robes. They looked a little worse for wear, but it was comforting to know that no one had undressed her while she’d been unconscious. Padmé liked to focus on the little things; it made powering through situations like this easier. She inspected the room once more, this time spotting several medical tools lined up neatly on a table. A scalpel, wickedly sharp, stood out to her. Perfect. She quietly padded over to the table, ‘accidentally’ knocking it down.

“Ah!” She cried, falling to the ground. The scalpel was slipped up into one of the billowing sleeves of her robes.

One of the droid guards ambled over to her, seemingly confused as to what he should do. His head swiveled to Padmé’s sprawled form to the fallen table, and then back again. He cocked his blaster, then decidedly set it down. He stood there for a moment, just staring. Padmé wanted to laugh at the display, but instead simply stared back, waiting for him to actually do something. A hand was eventually extended out to her, the movement almost absurdly awkward. She accepted it with as much grace as she could, considering she was still trying to smother the swell of giggles attempting to fight their way out of her. The spectacle was weirdly cute; it was really too bad that she still had to end him. The perfect moment arrived just as she was helped to her feet. She encircled in his arms, almost pressed to his chest. Padmé struck, stabbing the scalpel into the vulnerable cluster of wires at the base of the droid’s neck. The droid reacted swiftly, swiping at her with one of his strong arms, but it was futile. Padmé ducked, her small body gliding underneath the appendage. She grabbed onto the blade again, this time jerking it more sharply. The droid immediately stiffened and toppled over.

His friend had finally noticed the commotion, and cried out in alarm.

“You killed Jerry—” His mechanized voice was cut off by the blaster shot to the chest. He collapsed against the wall, limbs twitching. Padmé lowered the pilfered blaster and ran towards the door. She felt a little bad about killing ‘Jerry,’ and the fact that apparently the droids she’d ended were advanced enough to care for one another. Well, it was all in the name of freedom, she supposed. Padmé had a world to save, and ultimately these droids were far less important than securing her people’s liberty.

She made short work of the lock, and sprinted down one of the many labyrinthine hallways that comprised Vader’s base. She ran for several minutes without seeing any doors or signs of life. It was just her and these dark metal walls, illuminated only by dim lights placed intermittently along the way. The emptiness was unsettling. She could easily imagine just being trapped down here forever, running in endless circles, never finding a way out. She quickly snapped herself out of those dark thoughts, pinching her left wrist. The sharp pain brought her back to the now. This was what she had to focus on, not ponder absurd impossibilities. Padmé sped up, blaster at the ready. Eventually, she heard distant voices.

“I still don’t understand the point of this nonsense. It’s utter insanity,” a dry, acerbic voice said—it was Obi-Wan.

Thank the gods—someone she could trust. She increased her speed.

“You don’t have to understand, Obi-Wan—you merely have to follow my lead. It’s what a good apprentice does. Have I not proven my power to you yet? I can give you another demonstration, if you’d prefer,” the high, squeaky utterance of a child. It was chillingly cold, and made Padmé uneasy. The cadence of his voice was also eerily familiar, though she couldn’t pinpoint the source.

This begged the question—where was Qui-Gon Jinn, and why was this boy calling Obi-Wan his apprentice? What in the hells had happened while she was knocked out? She faltered momentarily, before steeling herself. There was really nothing else for her to do at this point, aside from turning around and going back the way she came. She turned the corner, coming face to face with the two.

Obi-Wan looked like he’d been put through the grinder, face mottled with bruises and splashed liberally with blood. A large, twisting scar had been carved down the right side of his face, standing out starkly against his freckled skin. His eyes, once a pale gray, were now a poisonous yellow. His lips were swollen and bloody. There seemed to be an air of danger to him that hadn’t been present mere hours before—a suffocating aura of sparking volatility foreign to the seemingly level-headed man.

And then there was the boy. He was short, barely coming up to Obi-Wan’s elbow, and couldn’t have been more than ten. He was gaunt and sickly-looking, skin thin and translucent. His flesh was delicate enough that Padmé could see the elaborate blue coils of his veins peeking through. The ugly gash crossing his cheek mirrored Obi-Wan’s perfectly. Though his scarred, rawboned figure was far from being the most disturbing thing about him. It was his eyes—his eyes. They were ancient and malevolent, ill-suited to the body of the child. It was as though there was something else residing in his small form, a force beyond comprehension. She shuddered involuntarily, repulsed in spite of herself. She wanted to step back, run as far as she could from this creature—but she couldn’t leave, not now.

“What in the hells happened? Did you two break out as well?” Padmé asked, still on edge. Her hand hovered lightly over the stolen blaster.

“Break out—you think that you’ve been imprisoned here?” It was the boy that spoke first, disbelief evident in his tone.

“What was she supposed to think, Anakin? She woke up in a locked room with armed guards posted at the door. It’s not as though she’s going to think ‘Oh this must a safe place for me to recuperate from my head wound in.’ That isn’t a normal reaction, and I find it a little ridiculous that you would assume that of her.” Obi-Wan bit out, pitching his voice high to mimic hers. It wasn’t the most flattering of imitations, though judging by the manic look in his eyes, he wasn't really in the best of states mentally.

 “You’re such a bastard. It was obviously a medical ward, and it’s not as though I had her strapped to a bed or anything like that. Wait—how did you get out? I had sentries posted at the door.” ‘Anakin’ asked, eying her.

Dumbfounded by the fact that this child-creature was apparently running the show now, Padmé blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I killed Jerry!” She wanted to face-palm immediately after. She was just the picture of royal maturity, wasn’t she?

“You killed Jerry? Force above, he was my favorite. Do you know how difficult it is to program actual personalities into droids? Mental capabilities that go beyond simple quirkiness? Never mind—you don’t have the depth of mechanical knowledge for me to even broach the topic. I’m going to assume then that you, ahem, incapacitated Robert, as well?” He sounded annoyed, but there was a strange undercurrent of admiration present.

“Well, yes—but this doesn’t matter! Naboo is under siege, their only hope for liberation being my presence at the Senate. Despite whatever’s occurred in the interim, I still need to Coruscant as quickly as possible.” Padmé retorted.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out right now. The last time we tried to get off-planet, we were ambushed by the Hutt Cartel. They set off several bombs right where we were walking, and sadly . . . a good portion of the group was killed in the initial blast. My-my Master was slain afterwards in battle,” Obi-Wan said softly, despair plain in his wavering voice.

“Who?” She asked, bracing herself. She would not break; not now, not here with these people.

“All the handmaidens save Sabé, as well as Captain Panaka and Jar-Jar Binks.”

“Oh gods,” Padmè whispered, but refused to sink to her knees. She pressed her palms to her eyes, the softly smiling faces of Eirtaé and Rabé flashing vividly in her mind, Panaka’s calm voice hauntingly superimposed over the images. A sob crawled its way out of her throat despite her best efforts. Wetness trickled down her cheeks. Her sisters, her mentor—they were gone. Brutally killed while she did nothing more than lay unconscious. What kind of leader would let her people die like this? This was the queen the people of Naboo were placing all their hopes in—a fucking coward, unable to even save her closest friends. Her legs trembled, but she steadfastly remained upright, blinking the tears away. No—she couldn’t think like this. Sabé was still alive, and the people of Naboo were counting on her to save them. There was still so much work to be done. She sucked in a steadying breath. Focus on the now.

“Okay, so you said that you’re trying to figure a way to get to Coruscant?” Padmé asked, ignoring the shakiness of her voice.

“Uh—yes, we need to find out how to get Anakin off Tatooine without alerting the Hutts to his absence. Acquiring the ship is the easy part.” Obi-Wan responded.

Anakin said nothing, his eerie eyes hungrily burning into her. The creeping sense of unease that plagued her before returned in full force now.

“Why would the Hutts care whether or not he’s here, unless . . .” she trailed off, scrutinizing Anakin. “Vader?”

 “In the flesh, your highness.” A sharp grin curled across his face.

“How—wait, I don’t even want to know. There are more important things going on right now. Have either of you formulated any sort of plan yet, or are we completely in the dark?”

“I believe that I have devised a suitable solution for our problem—” Anakin was cut off by Obi-Wan, who apparently in spite of his best efforts, couldn’t keep from interjecting.

“It’s preposterous! There’s no way it will work—ack!” Obi-Wan’s furious exclamation was cut off by an invisible force constricting his throat and lifting him bodily into the air.

Anakin was seemingly behind it, as he held his hand out in an imitation of a grasping fist. A deeply agitated expression contorted his features.

“How many times am I going to have to do this before you learn to respect me?”

“Stop, please!” Padmé cried, jerked out of her shocked stupor and into action.

Anakin, surprisingly, actually listened to her and released Obi-Wan. He landed in a heap on the floor and began to gasp and heave for air.

“Excuse the . . . scene, Padmé. I tend to let my emotions get away from me sometimes.”

Yeah, no shit, Padmé thought. Obi-Wan seemed to agree with her, seeing as the sour expression on his face could have curdled milk. Anakin noticed this, and immediately launched into another diatribe.

As they argued, Padmé silently marveled at the situation she now found herself in—stuck deep in an underground base run by the revolutionary leader of a war-torn planet who also happened to be a megalomaniacal child with magic powers. Almost all of her friends were dead, Sabé was nowhere to be found, and the remaining Jedi had stupidly managed to get himself ensnared in a volatile apprenticeship with said megalomaniac. Padmé despaired of her chances at actually making it out without enlisting their help, so there was really nothing for her to do except buckle down and somehow make this dysfunctional partnership work.

“Shut up, both of you. Now Anakin, tell me your plan.”

Anakin smiled, a real genuine smile. It was terrifying. He began to speak, and Padmé suddenly understood why Obi-Wan was so against the idea. Good gods, he really is insane.