Prologue

Gregar Typho looked out the window at the skyline of Coruscant, tinged in shades of gray, blue, and purple. It could have been his imagination, but ever since the fall of the Republic, and the rise of the Empire, everything in life looked darker. Maybe he was seeing it through dusk colored glasses.

He loved her; not in a romantic sense--duty had long since taken over his personal life, what he might have had of one, when he was commissioned in the Nubian Guard. He loved the honor, the loyalty, the code, and she was a radiant symbol of that. Senator Padme Amidala, the voice of democracy, the woman he'd been assigned to protect, recently died and was laid to rest by the citizens of Naboo.

It was like her death had coincided perfectly with the death of democracy, a fact he pondered often now.

He missed his post in life.

It didn't take someone who played politics to understand the none too subtle choice he'd been given by the Empire after they had attended to her personal belongings and the ceremony that laid Amidala to rest. Work for the Empire, resign, or be dishonorably discharged from service.

A dishonorable discharge would ruin not just a career, but a life. It was a mark, well known, that would follow someone across the galaxy and preclude every opportunity they ever came across. Now it felt a dishonorable discharge, issued by the Empire, was a hollow threat indeed--how could they assign dishonor to someone when they had none themselves?

He refused to work for the Empire, so to avoid any confrontation, resigned from a life in security. With Senator Amidala's death, and her burial, Typho thought he could pay his final respects, gain resolution, and move on to his next assignment. He never found the closure he was looking for.

His uncle, Panaka, had taken Amidala's death and the rise of the Galactic Empire worse than he had, it seemed. Unaccepting of the changes, Captain Panaka was on the fast track to disciplinary action or worse before Typho stepped in and warned him his life could be in danger if he pressed matters. He was involuntarily medically discharged--not dishonorable, but not honorable--for reasons classified as no more specific than failure to adapt.

It was the only assistance Typho could give him.

Now, civilian, Panaka turned to drinking more and more frequently and his life was unraveling. He and Typho had grown apart because of it.

Typho was not without his own problems. Guilt weighed heavily on his conscience with the death of Amidala, and he wanted answers about the circumstances surrounding her demise. Why was she so upset the night she died? Where was she going? Why didn't she take his advice?

There are moments in a person's life while, seemingly insignificant at the time, imprint to memory and replay themselves over and over again. Typho could picture it, vivid as if it happened yesterday--Senator Amidala clad in a brown battle dress gear, striding determinately out of her Republica apartment to her Nubian cruiser. She was nine months pregnant, borderline distraught, and would not tell him where she was going.

In his mind Typho followed her again out to the landing pad, trying to change the strong-willed woman's mind before she made what he knew was a very bad call.

I strongly recommend you don't do this, he'd insisted, repeating his concerns about her safety, concerns she wouldn't hear.

I'll be fine; I have 3PO to protect me, she added, throwing him a light reassurance that did nothing to assure him. The droid was for assistance; not protection.

Please reconsider, he stated, as firmly as possible without being insubordinate.

I'm going by myself, she said, casting a last glance over her shoulder. It's personal.

He could only watch as she boarded the Nubian cruiser, destination unknown to him, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Days later he walked in her funeral procession.

And he blamed himself.

People, well-intentioned, sometimes asked him why he sought answers, why he asked questions at all, when doing so under the oppressive politics and watchful eye of the Empire placed his life in danger.

Typho looked out the window again, watching the sun set on a Coruscant without hope, before softly answering to himself.

"It's personal."