In the years since the fall of the Galactic Republic and his rebirth as a Dark Lord of the Sith, few things had given Vader pause. He blinked not an eye as he carried out his Master's wishes with exact and deadly precision. It did not matter who stood in their way - their fate was always the same: a swift end at the tip of a glowing red blade. It did not matter if they were men, women, or children, human or alien, Force-sensitive or not. The Empire did not discriminate in its vengeance.

Some had tried to reason with him, as that fool Obi-Wan had, attempting to appeal to the man he had once been. They tried in vain. Nothing remained of Anakin Skywalker - or at least, not anything that Vader allowed. He had spent years distancing himself from his former self. He had failed, then, failed his Padawan, failed his wife, failed the Jedi... but now, he would not fail his Emperor.

And so, their appeals fell on deaf ears as their words were quickly silenced.

Nothing would distract him from his mission.

But Maybe Anakin Skywalker wasn't as dead as Vader thought.

When word reached him aboard the Executor of a rebel ship feeling Coruscant, Moff Tarkin looked at him expectantly, awaiting the order he had received so many times before. How these rebel scum had ever thought they could escape the very heart of the Empire was beyond him.

But the order did not come.

The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, ready to be spoken, to spell doom for the small ship at the hands of a Dreadnought superlaser... but something held them back. A whisper, a feeling, a flutter in the Force he had not felt in an age. Vader closed his eyes, reaching out through its energy, anger coursing through his veins... and found its source.

All at once, it came to him: a young Togruta, keeling on a cold, metal floor, her orange skin in sharp contrast to the muted gray, cradling a bruised and broken figure in her lap. One whose robes were ripped and torn, caked in blood and dirt and substances that made even the hardened Sith Lord shudder, her green skin drawn sharply over bone... the black tattoos upon her face faded to near nonexistence.

Ahsoka Tano and Barris Offee. Their names came easily to Vader, and with them, a rush of emotion he had in all honesty though himself incapable of still feeling. It was not the way of the Sith to feel love or compassion, and yet... as he gazed through the Force upon the two figures, watched as his former apprentice reached out and brushed the matted hair from her old friend's eyes, whispering as she did so:

"Barris... I forgive you."

As he watched the thin Mirialan curl in on herself, tears pouring from her eyes as she shook with sobs, watched as Ahsoka wrapped her arms around Barris and held her close, watched as the green-skinned Twi'lek at the controls threw the ship into hyperspace and away from the Empire's reach, the proclamation of death he had intended to utter died on his lips.

And so, he simply turned and walked away.

Maybe Anakin Skywalker wasn't as dead as Vader desperately wanted him to be.