(;*o*;) ::Bawls her eyes out::
But life has been good to her.
The same couldn't be said for all her old friends at the Jedi Temple. She was working as a freight-hauler when news of order sixty-six broke onto the holonet: the Jedi, traitors to the Republic, all summarily massacred wherever they were; video of Jedi being gunned down by clones, even younglings in the Temple—
She'd had to run to the toilet to throw up her insides.
I haven't even thought about them in months, years…
In time, she learned that the best way to cope—to stave off the nightmares—was to say a small prayer before going to bed; a eulogy to all her old friends.
Please let them be at peace, living or dead: Master Plo Koon (dear Master Plo), and Obi-Wan, the best of friends, and Master Yoda, and Master Shaak Ti… and dear old Rex, and Padmé Amidala… and Barriss (still ever a friend in my heart) and her Master Luminara… and Kalifa (poor, poor Kalifa) and O-Mer and Jinx… and the younglings—here, it was always difficult to stifle a sob—Petro, Ganodi, Byph, Katooni, Zatt and Gungi, please keep their little hearts safe... and…
And she could sleep.
Things were very different under the new Empire. Lux and Brianna (now Imperial senators) tried to help her as much as they could, but with a bounty being put out for all missing Jedi or ex-Jedi (and with her name near the very top of the list), she had to go into hiding… and so found new purpose. For there was a fomenting rebellion against the tyrannical rule of the Empire, and she fit right in; a chance, at last, to avenge her fallen comrades.
For Master Windu (even if we never really saw eye-to-eye), and Steela (forgive me, Steela), and Artoo and Threepio, and…
She dreaded having to fight clone—no, storm—troopers, fearing that each time she slashed the helmet away from an enemy, Rex's face might appear before her, dead and cold… but it seemed that most of the clones had been relegated away from active duty, and so the men she killed were nameless, faceless to her.
It was great to have missions again; to feel alive again. The Force thrummed powerfully once more in her head and feet and hands, as if she'd never left the Temple, never stopped her training. She missed this: the camaraderie, the adrenaline, the sheer giddiness and celebration when surviving yet another mission against impossible odds.
With her in the lead, the Empire stood no chance; she crafted a new set of silver lightsabers and reached ever-higher in the Force (learning powers neither of the light nor dark side), defeating Inquisitor after Inquisitor and stormtrooper battalion after stormtrooper battalion that they sent against her. Even a last-ditch attempt by the Empire to assassinate her (an ambush when she returned from a battle alone, sprung by the Grand Inquisitor and the last five members of the Inquisitorius) failed utterly, and soon there was nobody and nothing left to challenge her.
Victory was assured.
And so today, this morning, now. Life has been good to her. She straps on her lightsabers, squares her shoulders, and walks out of her quarters into the roar of the crowd.
"The Fulcrum never dies!"
"The Fulcrum never dies!" She smiles at her codename and tilts her montrals in humble appreciation, eliciting even more cheers.
In the control room, the mood is just as fervent; today, after all, is the day they topple the Empire.
"Ahsoka!" Lux waves her over in excitement; his face is more lined now, but still as beautiful as ever. She falls easily into his embrace.
"Fulcrum," says Brianna with a respectful curtsey that Ahsoka returns. Even after all this time and all their friendship, she still finds it hard to look her in the eyes; as if afraid that Lux's wife might see the ever-present guilt brewing inside of her.
"Look at this." Lux pulls up a holomap of the galaxy. "The Emperor has retreated all of his Star Destroyers to Coruscant in his desperation, leaving countless worlds unguarded. Most of the planets will turn to our side within days, so there's not much we need to do there, but there is one important location that the Emperor has left vulnerable… here."
She recognizes it. "The fortress-world of Vjun."
He nods. "Here are most of the Imperial leaders, Moffs and governors. It seems the Emperor would rather save his own skin than his government."
She taps the end of one lekku thoughtfully. "Despite the absence of the Imperial Fleet, this won't be easy."
"No, it won't; the leaders have their own personal battalions and fleets. Still, their power is much less than facing the main fleet itself; and once we take Vjun, all Imperial government will collapse and Coruscant will have to surrender. It's our one chance!"
"Not to mention our sources indicate the Emperor's second-in-command, Darth Vader, is there as well," says Brianna.
Ahsoka looks at her uncomprehendingly. "Darth Vader?"
Lux shrugs. "Some guy. Force-sensitive, not seen much after order sixty-six. You might have felt him when we had that fighter skirmish in Vjun's orbit a few months ago," he says, completely missing Ahsoka's sudden grimace, "but he's probably just some administrative person; never seems to leave Vjun."
That day, she could've sworn—
Lux pats her shoulder. "Don't worry about it; not even the Grand Inquisitor could take you on!"
She smiles weakly back. "Let's do this."
As the command center erupts into cheers and renewed urgency, she walks slowly to her starfighter; staring into the black-tinted visor of her flight-helmet, lost in thought.
For her Master is dead, dead, dead.
"Lord Vader—"
He shuts off the holoprojector with a thought. Then crushes it with a thought.
It's a wonder Sidious hasn't killed him yet; though if he knows anything about his Master, it's that he won't die unless it serves the Empire somehow.
And judging by the commotion going on outside…
Leave it to Sidious, really. If Vader won't go to his assignments, then let his assignments come to him.
And then bomb the whole godforsaken planet to hell, getting rid of a depressing apprentice (which isn't completely true, he did smirk that one time a Moff fell down a hundred-meter-long vent and died, which was pretty funny and why did they build vents into the floor, he wondered) and the rebels in one fell swoop.
Which is fine, he doesn't care.
He does want to go outside, though, and leave this little metal box of a room, because he imagines he smells (though he can't actually smell a damn thing in his metal helm) tangerines and honeysuckle and the dying sunlight baked into her back, walking away from him—I'm sorry, Master… but I'm not coming back…
He adjusts his voice-modulator; looking for all the world like some fussy socialite checking his tie before the ball, ready to escort his chosen debutante—I'm assigned to Anakin Skywalker, and he is to supervise—down the stairs (to hell, yes).
He runs over some Vader-isms in his head, as he does like to be prepared.
I must commend you all on your bravery for making it this far.
He should leave that for Sidious; final boss and all that.
Our long-awaited meeting has come at last.
But then that would make it sound like he'd been waiting for this moment and not like he'd been moping around for who knows how long.
…Why did you leave?
Where did that come from—?
His door is blasted off its hinges and he slams into the opposite wall, blacking out momentarily. Rough hands grab his shoulder-guards—he just had those re-shined yesterday—and unceremoniously dump him out into the hallway where the light stings his optics; and all around him are the familiar rebel huzzahs.
Like, learn a new chant already, you assholes.
Someone reaches over to touch his mask and that's when he unexpectedly snaps, all amusement evaporated, savagery spilling from every pore. He violently breaks their spines where they stand so that blood fountains out of their mouths and stains the walls.
He senses her running around the corner then, hears her cry of anguish and her lightsabers flaring to life and the screaming tumult in her heart…
He blocks her wild swings without effort or thought. His arms, his muscles, and even his lightsaber remember everything, everything, about her.
He does like her when she's like this: weeping and broken and fragile… as small and childlike as the day she came to him.
He supposes he should kill her.
After all.
It's not like he still sometimes wakes up in a cold sweat, thinking she's buried under a droid factory or captured by slavers or dying on Mortis or plummeting from the sewers kilometers above the ground, all over again.
It's not like the day of her parting—and the memory of her small, vulnerable back fading into the sunset—has haunted his dreams ever after.
It's not like he once swore to never let anyone hurt her.
It's not like she's the one good thing he left behind.
It's not like he's kept her braid.
… It's not like any of those things, at all.
Anakin, you have to trust me now.
Ahsoka, I do trust you!
I know you do.
His world is painted in drab red and cloying mauve… and a splash of sunset ochre.
Thank you very much!