The revolution started with a bang. Just not the kind of bang that you imagined it to be.

Princess Leia was bruising her knuckles, she was sure of it. But it was better this way—hitting the cold metal bench she was confined to at least relieved some of the pain that the drug injected to her had brought.

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

"Where is the rebel base, Your Highness?"

She'd heard those words perhaps a thousand times, a sentence that got murkier and murkier as time passed and more drugs were pumped into her system. Darth Vader; the famed Emperor's right-hand-man, the Galaxy's most fearsome murderer, looked down at her—she thinks. With that black mask on, she could never be so sure.

Leia never felt fear quite like this before; never felt helplessness quite this all-consuming before. Her nausea was unbearable now, clinging to her throat like vice, and the pounding in her head seemed to increase by the second. but she was no Princess of Alderaan if she let these things take course of her actions. When she replied to him, her eyes were defiant, albeit hazy and unfocused, and her voice was filled with conviction, albeit shaky and slurred.

"Away," She had said, challengingly, because she'd rather die than let this tyranny win the fight against democracy.

Something muffled came out of Darth Vader's mouth—she thinks. Perhaps a snort, or a groan, or a curse of frustration, she could never be so sure, with how much his vococorder distorted it. Beside him, the torture droid lifted his syringe—fully refilled, of course—menacingly, ready to pump her with more toxins so she could break for them to take.

"I see that you have chosen to continue refusing cooperation." Said Vader, monotone voice echoing through the cold cell. "IT-O, dispose more of the drugs. I want to try something else."

Leia almost whimpered at that, because the substance already inside her had made her heart squeeze, made her nerves prickle. Could she possibly take more and endure? Could she possibly take more and survive?

Could she possibly take more and still guard the secrets given to her?

"You are one brave girl, my love." She forced her mind to remember what Mama had said, as she felt another needle pricking her arm. "You are braver than the fiercest of mankind. You can do this."

The room spinned around her. Her head was beating faster than a ship going into hyperspace.

"Your birth mother would be so proud of you, Leilila."

Leia closed her eyes, tongue licking her lower-right canine silently—a fake made to contain toxins of her own, standard for higher-level rebel cell.

If it came to death, then so be it.

"Bring me the best that you have," She whispered, almost inaudibly, giving Vader one last weak grin before wincing, feeling the drug run its course. Her abused knuckle hit the metal bench, over and over again, creating a rhythm she herself couldn't hear due to the heightened buzz of the torture droid.

Bang, bang, bang, bang—echoing through the room, matching the mechanical noises.

Before her, Vader—were her eyes blurry or were there two of him now?—tilted his head slightly, as if in amusement of her unwilting defiance. "That I shall."

And then—then suddenly, he was inside her head.

Leia gasped, wincing at the sudden intrusion. Her headache escalated into unimaginable pain as she gritted her teeth. Vader was still there, before her, but somehow he was also inside her; breaking through her shields, carding through memories, tossing them around one by one.

"Where is the rebel base?"

She was age Sixteen; dragging Winter to another midnight adventure, climbing down from their room's window sneakily as they looked left and right in case of a guard spotting their latest teenage rebellion phase—

Tossed away—like nothing. Her and her sister, discarded like nothing.

"I don't know."

"Liar. Where is it?"

Age eleven; and Papa was teaching her how to milk a Bantha. Leia held the nipple wrong and the blue liquid sprayed to her face, all over her dress. Papa had laughed at that, Prince-consort dignity be damned.

Torn to shreds. Her father's smile, destroyed just like that.

"I told you, I don't know!"

"Your torture will only continue if you refuse to drop the facade, Your Higness."

Age four; Mama was doing her braid, singing a good children's song that she hated so much for baby Winter on the bassinet next to them. "Mama, why are all nursery rhymes scary?" Leia had protested, and Mama had simply laughed, bopping her nose affectionately.

Crumpled, thrown off. Mama's singing voice—gone.

"Stop it—stop it!"

Leia didn't realize it, but she was shrieking now, body trembling as her knuckles repetitively banged the cold metal bench were she laid. Tears were flowing from her eyes, and she was hurt, utterly and completely broken as Vader carelessly crusaded through her mind, breaking and discarding memories—her memories, hers—in his quest to find the information he needed.

She took a deep breath—whimpered, almost. Her mind shield was in shambles, but it wasn't quite destroyed, yet. She closed her eyes, screwing them shut, imagining walls upon walls layering her secrets, guarding them with haphazard memories and emotions and thoughts and dreams and her.

This was a skill she'd learned secretively—not even Papa and Mama had known this technique, or how they even applied, but Leia had learned, scavenging old documents and reading torture resistance methods, putting herself through months of independent meditations and self control, and she had learned.

Here was the last straw of her defense; using parts of herself to protect this information—because she'd rather lose her mind than lose this fight.

"You cannot hide this forever from me, Your Highness."

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

Leia was heaving. "I'd like you—" She said, eyes closed but Vader still in her sight somehow, plaguing her mind. "I'd like to see you try getting it out of me."

Vader in her mind was as menacing and unreadable as always, but Leia had a gut feeling that he almost—smiled—at her insistence. "Then so be it."

And then Vader was wreaking havoc inside her; tearing her walls one by one, not just memory anymore—

Wishes of holding hands with Winter in a free-land, speaking the wills of the people before the senate—

Dreams of a desert, and a blonde-haired boy with lopsided grin and clear-blue eyes—

Feelings of love, of adoration, of longing to Mama, Papa, Winter—

"Where is—?"

Images—Images of—

"Your birth mother would be proud of you, Leilila."

Not mama, but a mother all the same; curly hair, cascading down, brown eyes just like her, and a sad, sad smile. Her lips working out to say words to her that she couldn't hear.

This was her final defense; a memory from a time she didn't even know—a mother she'd never met but had always seen at the back of her lids. Her mother, hers.

"Leia," She thought she'd heard her say, "Leia, You're so brave, my love."

Mother's voice was warm—velvety, with an odd accent, too. Leia heard of it before—the lull of her voice, the gentleness in her words—but she'd always recognized it in her dreams.

Her mother, hers.

"I'm so sorry, my sweetheart."

"What—?"

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

"Mom." Leia had breathed, eyes hazy and glassy, tears coming down her cheeks as she looked up to the overly bright ceiling. I'm coming to you, mom, she thought to herself, looking up. I'm coming to you—

And then—Vader was suddenly out.

She blinked, because her head was clearer now—still painful, still murky, but clearer, with only one voice commandeering its insides; hers. And she'd—

Carded through her defenses, desperately trying to find—

Oh.

The rebel base information—it was still there, untouched. Vader hadn't taken it.

Then why—?

"Who—" Leia was pulled back to reality, and she could see the all-blinding harsh light around her. Could feel the coldness of the room, of the space. Could hear the torture droid buzzing menacingly in front of her, and the harsh breathing voices of Vader through his vococorder.

Vader. Right. He was the one—asking?

No, wait—

Had he gone out of her mind before getting the information of the rebel base?

"Who is that?" Vader's voice was rough—even the vococorder couldn't disguise it. He was no longer bored and monotonous. Instead, he was sharp and—panicking? "I said, who is that?!"

Leia laughed, despite herself; airy and light. "Who is what?" She asked, voice slurred.

"Don't play with me, Highness—the woman, in your mind—"

Narrowing her eyes, Leia could barely see him from all the headache and visual distortion. "You—" She coughed, heaving, brown hair and sad eyes filling her senses, along with a repetitive Leia, Leia, Leia— "You mean—mom?"

"Do not lie to me!" And now Vader was raging, because everything around her suddenly prickled painfully, buzzing over and under her skin and torturing her. "You are Princess Leia of Alderaan, your parents are Bail and Breha Organa—"

Leia could feel ghost hands closing over her throat, lifting her up. The force—it seemed; Vader's famous technique, one only he wielded in the galaxy. She couldn't breathe, spluttering and coughing as she tried, and the room was spinning. "You are not her daughter!"

Her knuckles balled and extended next to her sides, trying to find purchase while Vader suspended her midair. She could barely breathe, but she'd find the effort to bother him, to ruffle his feathers, if it meant he was disturbed—distracted, from going on his way to find out the rebel base. "I am, though." She croaked, lips parched and tongue dry. "She's my—mom," She gasped, softly.

Funny; she didn't even know her name and she already loved her, if only for disturbing Vader's psyche this much.

I made it, are you proud of me, mom—

"You are not—you are—"

"Mom," Leia whispered, voice inaudible even to her own ears.

I'm coming—

And—just as sudden as his departure from her head—suddenly he dropped her, knee-first to the metal floor, letting her crumple like a limp ragdoll. Leia curled into a ball, could barely find the energy to scramble away to any corners of the room to protect herself.

But her eyes—blurred as they were, watched, somehow.

"No, no, no—"

And there was Vader, backing up to the corner as if he was the one wounded from this encounter. Leia wanted to close her eyes for she was so tired, so tired; her tongue was once again tracing her fake-tooth, pondering on taking the toxin right there—

"He said—" She could make out Vader's mechanical voice, "He said you died."

Leia chuckled at that, weakly, wondering what the hell did Vader meant by that. Funny—the man now sounded like he was hurting, like something physically maimed him, when Leia was the one spent, drained, destroyed. "Maybe I will," Leia mumbled, her weak voice echoing through the walls, tongue drawling her words. She could see how Vader flinched by that, so she gathered some more, all the energy left in her, to spite him one last time, "Maybe I have."

"No," There was Vader's voice, again, and now even his vococorder couldn't hide how desperate he sounded, how fearful—and would you look at that? Darth Vader, fearful? Of her, a meagly Princess of a rebel planet, no less?

Leia narrowed her eyes, her sight growing even murkier and murkier, but she could feel light traces to her skin, her bruised throat, her stinging knuckles—like someone was caressing her.

"Please, don't—I didn't—"

No, not of her—but for her.

"Your High—Princess—Leia, no, no—"

Why?

"I—" a black-gloved hand was trying to reach for her forehead, and Leia flinched, pushing herself further away as much as her spent energy would allow. Vader—it was Vader's hand, reaching out to—to touch her? "I'm sorry—"

What?

She snorted, despite herself. Her eyes were growing heavier, so maybe she was hallucinating. Leia wanted to say something, but her throat hurt and her voice died in her vocal chords, so what came out were mere groan, quiet and pained.

Leia looked at her knuckles, all bruises and blood and wounds and pains—just like the rest of her. Her mind was boggled, but she had a vague sensation of someone lifting her hand up, as if taking it closer to examine it.

"I did this to you," Said someone—Vader? No, that couldn't be right; he couldn't possibly sound so heartbroken. "I did this to you."

Chuckling, Leia closed her eyes. "Yeah." She wheezed her answer, not really paying attention to the man anymore. Instead, she focused on something else; something bright, and warm, and clear calling her name.

Maybe it was her time to rest.

"Angel," her head was pounding, her vision swarmed, and her ears were ringing, but she swore she heard Vader say, "Angel, I'm sorry."

Vader always thought that epiphany would come in waves; it would give way to clarity in a way a pathfinder might bring. He thought it would come at him in the middle of meditation, perhaps a dream while he was resting, giving him unimaginable glee and satisfaction at its revelation. It was what he was taught of—both from the Light and the Dark side of the force.

He'd never thought epiphany would sledgehammer to him here, at cell room number 2187, in the middle of an interrogation session, with an unconscious Alderaanian Princess laying on the floor.

Unconscious, Vader told himself, just unconscious, not—

Vader almost shivered at the thought of the alternative. He couldn't even bring himself to touch her, now, even if she'd show no resistance. His hands were hovering atop her still-form, trembling and unsure of what to do, perhaps for the first time in a long, long while. She was breathing—shallow, and pained, but breathing, and Vader didn't know how he felt about that.

"Leia," He tested the name, letting it roll off his tongue—it came out odd and impersonal through the vococorder, and he hated it. She'd said it wrong, before—her own name; it was no Alderaanian word, and the accent didn't make sense. It was a Tattooine word, a Tattooine name;

"How about Leia?" He—not him, the other one; the weaker link—said it a longtime ago, in a couch at an apartment that no longer were, next to the love of his life that no longer breathed, caressing the bump of her belly lovingly.

"Hm?"

"For a name. Leia." He had said, leaning over to her, ears pressed against the belly, expecting a kick from her stomach. Something hit him, then, perhaps a foot, or a hand, or a head-bump, he'd never know, but he'd gleefully take it nonetheless. "See, she agreed!" He laughed, pressing his cheek a little harder, hoping for the baby inside to do more.

The love of his life, his wife, Padme, merely chuckled as she chided him. "We don't even know if it's a she, yet."

"Mmhm. and whose fault is that?"

"Well—!" Said Padme, flabbergasted, "Forgive me for wanting it to be a surprise!" She said, playfully pushing him away, much to his chagrin. He fake-whined, hands reaching over to her, wanting to pull her closer.

"Aw, Angel, don't do that, I want to spend time with our baby girl—"

"Could be a baby boy—"

"Baby, then." He amended, and Padme laughed as he kissed the side of her jaw, still engulfed in euphoria of the day's revelation. "But if it's a girl—Leia?"

Padme pondered, leaning to his side. "Leia," She had said, with a pronunciation that was not-quite but close enough. "Tell me what it means?"

Suddenly he grew flustered, an awkward hand raising to trace idle pattern at the top of her stomach. "It's—" He said, cheeks reddening, "In Tattooine, it means Lioness." He said, looking down to his lap. "Wasn't much of a name as it is a title for untamable women—Jabba used to, like, give it to the female slaves fighting for freedom—"

"Ani—"

"It's stupid, I know—"

"Ani." his jaw was on her palm, tilted down so he could meet her gaze; brown and warm and loving, spreading through his veins. "I love it." She said, genuinely, eyes sparkling with joy. "Leia. Our little lioness."

He breathed in relief, leaning closer—

"Leia, then."

He had named her himself, and he had forgotten. Made himself forget everything about the past, about him and the old life he lived in, and now—the price of his erasure was her pain.

She whimpered, then, coughing faintly to the floor. Even in his scarlet-tinted view, he could see how her neck had dark marks adorned on it, like a curse, like something straight out of history, repeating itself—

"Come back, Ani, you're breaking my heart!"

The thought of his actions made him nauseous.

"Leia." He said, and even his vococorder couldn't hide the tremble in his tone as his fingers hovered atop the princess' still-form. "Leia, Leia, Leia—"

Vader had always avoided her, in the senate building or in his visits to Alderaan, because she reminded him so much of her; of an Angel he once loved then destroyed. He always thought that she was a coincidence, a cruel reminder the Force made to ridicule him, not—

[Lord Vader, it appears that the subject is unconscious.] the torture droid—IT-O, that was what it was called—piped with a monotone voice, breaking Vader's reverie. [Should we employ shocking methods to—]

IT-O didn't continue—couldn't; because right that second Vader had bend the force and crushed his frail metal body with his will only. The droid beeped for several seconds before its lamps slowly dimmed to death, and Vader stared at its lifeless form, crumpled to the ground like a crushed can.

He looked at the Princess—Leia, her name was Leia and he had given her that (Just like he gave her the bruises and the drugs and the mind tricks and the fear)—and tried to listen to her breathing.

Shallow; they were quick and shallow, like she was—

Like his Angel when—

He wanted to scream, but instead he balled his fist and called the force, willing it to swirl around her once more, lifting her up with the gentlest of movement, putting her back at the cold metal bench she first began. Way too cold for her organic skin, Vader knew—but he would have to make do.

"Lord Vader, we heard some noise—" The cell door opened, and three stormtroopers walked in, halting their steps upon seeing him. In hindsight, perhaps it was a strange sight for them—the Emperor's Second in Command crouching over an unconscious prisoner like he was caring for her. "Oh."

Several beats of silence, and then—then one of the stormtroopers laughed. "You got her good, didn't you, Sir?" The man suggested, rather cheekily.

Another piped up, almost laughing. "Served her right. She deserves to rot after—"

They never finished their sentence; instead their face contorted into something akin to pain, fear, and shock, mixing into one. Their fingers clawed their throat to remove hands that weren't there, before their body grew slack and limp. It was only then did Vader drop the two stormtroopers, watched them as they crashed to the ground with no resistance.

(just like she did a few minutes ago, after he—after—

He did this to her, too; nearly put her in the same fate, too, if not for—)

Vader's felt the force buzzing around him, fury fueling their dance as they lashed out—cracking the walls and the floors and the ceilings of the cell; leaving only one small crevice of the room untouched—the place where she resided.

The remaining stormtrooper yelped, despite himself, and Vader dragged his eyes to see the trooper. "Fetch me a medical droid." He ordered, coldly, as the force raged around them.

"Sir—?"

"Medical. Droid."

The soldier didn't need much more prompter before he scrambled from where he was, leaving Vader alone once more with the Princess.

No—not just the Princess. His princess.

His—

A medical droid came soon after, beeping and bopping in binary about his name and designation. Vader brushed it all briskly, going straight to instruct his order. "You are to nurse the princess. Provide her with every medicine, treatment, therapy—anything necessary to ensure her survival." He said, "Make sure to always keep yourself by her side until she is fully recovered."

[Certainly, Sir.] The Medical Droid beeped, [if I may inquire, what are the causes of her injuries and to what extent it could possibly reach? This might be important to figure out relevant treatment that might work for her needs.]

Vader could feel the crackle of raw power prickling at the tip of his fingers upon being asked such question. He wanted to crush the Droid as well, let her crumple like the Droid before her for making him remember. The force around him lured, telling him just how easy that would be; to tear the Droid to shreds—

But then Leia groaned, and Vader stopped. No, he said, firmly, pushing the temptation away. No, this was for her; for her safety and security and wellbeing. So history wouldn't repeat itself.

Ani—

Inside the helmet, Vader winced. He worked hard to shove that name at the dark crevices of his mind a long time ago, but now it was the only thing echoing through his head; his Angel's voice, saying Ani, Ani, Ani, Ani—

Look at her, Ani; so much of me in her, but also so much of you—

"See that nothing jeopardizes her recovery," Vader croaked, thankful for the vococorder to hide the weak notch in his voice, before whisking himself away; from this room, from these memories, from her.