Stars blurred across the shuttle's dash and Vader willed the ship to go faster, faster, faster. He was already pushing the cruiser to its limits, but he wanted more.

Faster. Faster.

Bail whimpered and Vader stole a glance.

The man finally looked…presentable. He'd sacrificed the first five minutes of their voyage to wash his face and hair. He'd combed and shaved and changed his clothes. And the smell that had been lingering since they'd boarded was finally dissipating. But his face was still gaunt. And the wrinkles across his forehead continued to grow, and his eyes remained bloodshot and leaking. His lips had turned deep crimson and then strangely blue, and they were quivering.

And he was twitching.

Vader glared; he felt no remorse. Felt nothing other than a deep-seated, steadily-building rage toward the man in the copilot's chair.

Because, regardless of how Bail saw it, none of this would've happened had Leia been entrusted to him from the beginning. Had Vader known about her existence from birth.

Because he would've taken every step necessary to make sure she was protected. Cared for, nurtured.

Loved.

Because it was his duty. His responsibility. And those feelings didn't come from that weak and pathetic boy whose physical form he happened to occupy. No, they came from an obligation to her. His dearest angel. Padmé…

It was the least he could do—give his deceased wife a guarantee that her child would be safe and well and given all of the opportunities life could bestow. He owed her that much. And would've loved to have given her more, but…

She was gone.

Vader shifted a calculation and shaved off two minutes from their journey. It didn't seem like much, but every second saved was worth it. Every minute salvaged was one more instant closer to her—to that screaming little girl in his visions. To that girl who was hitting and kicking—fighting for her life—no matter how much she was pummeled or beaten. To that little girl who had continuously wailed for her father. For him.

For him…

Leia.

Vader's hands clenched the controls.

He would save her from her captors. He'd mercilessly maim anyone who stood in his way. He'd slice, choke, impale, beat, destroy whatever and whoever stood in his path. Because he wanted to see his daughter with his own eyes. Wanted to see her brown irises and curly locks when they were neat and unblemished. Wanted to see her smile—not cry—and grow into a beautiful young woman. He wanted to give her a future; she could choose an occupation or a hobby—whatever she wanted, as long as she was happy. He'd bless her with a long and prosperous life, something stolen from her birth mother—and stolen from her birth father.

Because he owed her, too. For his absence. For his ignorance. And he'd do whatever he could to repay his debt, no matter how long it took.

Vader scratched out another calculation and readjusted his course. Again. It would save them mere seconds, but he found the task worthwhile.

Bail noticed and cleared his throat. "Alderaan is usually peaceful," he whispered, frowning as he scanned the navicomputer's readout—still a good hour away. "But ever since Leia was kidnapped, it's been…chaotic."

Vader said nothing. Frankly, he didn't want to talk to the viceroy. He would've killed him back on Coruscant had he not been valuable—filled with information about Leia's kidnapping and already given Alderaan's highest security clearances as their galactic senator and Queen Breha's spouse. And the man was treading a fine line, one he could find himself teetering over dangerously soon if Vader's temper continued to escalate.

Yet, the man continued, unbeknownst to the silent longing for his immediate decapitation.

"My people aren't used to such violence. Especially on a child." Bail paused and nibbled his destroyed bottom lip. The bite broke open delicate flesh and he grimaced when fresh blood filled the cracks. "Even more so on a royal child."

Bail sighed.

"It…it hasn't been easy. Most of the planet doesn't know, and the palace staff has been sworn into silence, but they aren't used to such secrecy and I'm sure the truth will get out eventually. And I don't know what we'll do when the rumors finally do—"

"Tell me about the girl."

Bail blinked at the interruption and took another breath. "About Leia?"

Vader had no times for games. Or stupid questions. If he was asking about a girl, of course he meant Padmé's child—his child. "Unless she has another youngling out there," he said as Bail's face paled, "I'm asking about Leia."

"Ah. Well, um." Bail faltered and some color returned to his cheeks. "What would you like to know?"

Vader thought.

Her favorite foods and colors. Her interests and hobbies. What she liked to do in her spare time. There were so many unique questions to ask—did she repair droids? Did she enjoy the ups and downs of political quandaries? Did she speak with purpose and poise? Was she shy or outgoing? Did she have her mother's heartwarming smile or her father's ambition? Did she play? Have friends? Was she doted on and cherished? Did she love anything with an ache she couldn't explain?—and he had no idea which to pick.

"Everything," he finally whispered. "I want to know…everything."

Bail sadly smiled and filled the remainder of their journey with a one-sided conversation about his adoptive daughter. He spoke of Leia's friends and droids, C-3PO and R2-D2 (Vader'd often wondered what became of them and was secretly delighted that they'd managed to stay alongside his daughter as lifelong companions) and her ever-growing list of hobbies. He mentioned Leia's fondness for politics and her drive for the greater good. He said that she was just like her mother and had her father's reckless attitude and that she was growing into a delightful young woman. She was intelligent, talented, kind, and dutiful. She also had an uncanny knack for sifting through deceit; she could swim through a sea of lies and resurface with the truth—and use it to her advantage, no matter if it was good or bad or somewhere in between.

"She'd be an excellent queen," Bail concluded as he stared at the stars; they morphed from blurs to pinpricks, dotting the transparent durasteel windshield with teeny blinks. "Alderaan would be blessed under her rule."

Vader had no doubt.

With the way Bail had described her, Leia would make a fine queen. She sounded like she had the right composure and skill. And she already had an impressive number of accomplishments under her belt.

And if her biological mother could've seen her—or heard even a little bit of what Bail had said—she would've been proud. She would've doted and smiled and whispered encouraging praise to bolster her daughter's drive…

But her mother was…gone.

And…so was Leia.

The ship rocked as it entered Alderaan's atmosphere. It quaked and jittered and eventually leveled out. And Bail heaved another deep sigh when they finally landed in the palace's private hangar. The ramp descended and they disembarked together, weaving through the royal family's curious staff and guards until they made it to the turbolift. They shot straight through the palace and exited on the floor with the royal family's private apartments. And from there, they rushed to Leia's bedroom, which was the last place she'd been seen.

The door whooshed open and Vader stared at his daughter's bedroom as he walked inside.

It was beautifully and tactfully decorated. A few antique oil-paintings lined the walls, each one a beautiful scenic snapshot laden with blues and greens, pinks and purples, and yellows and oranges. A bed sat in the middle of the room, topped with a feather-cushioned white duvet, touchably soft and welcoming. There were a few bookcases along the far wall, each filled with datapads on subjects ranging from remedial schoolwork and basic etiquette to advanced political philosophy. There were also a few dressers nearby, neatly closed and probably organized to the hilt. And on top of those, a sparse few personal touches: a silver-handled hairbrush with a few tangled strands of curly hair, a flickering holo of the Organa family, a few scraps of paper, some scribbled with schoolwork, others depicting crayon drawings of a golden-plated protocol droid and a blue-hued astromech…

Everything was beautiful and lovely. Befit a young princess.

Except the pieces that weren't.

Broken veranda doors. An overturned chair. A datapad splintered into a thousand metallic shards across the floor. Blaster scuffs on the walls—not a lethal black, but dark, oblong stains that suggested a stun calibration. And finally, an enormous crater at the end of the room, where a partially-destroyed rug dangled lifelessly over the ledge, ripped to shreds.

Vader stood at the edge of the chasm and looked down. Steel footers were splintered or bent, exploded from above and curved down from a blast. He inspected further and discovered that the room below looked largely untouched, albeit coated in rubble and dust. There was a dirty footprint there and another one there, but not much else to go on.

Vader stewed. And stared.

The crater was…odd. There weren't any dark scuffs that indicated an explosion, and there was no discernible reason to have used an explosive in the first place—Leia was a child no older than six, she couldn't have been difficult to capture, even for the most inept kidnapper.

And for some reason, the Force decided to rear its unhelpful head. It whispered and Vader reached, but it flitted away and disappeared as quick as it came. It left Vader silently fuming, mood growing darker and darker the longer he looked at the strange pit.

Bail eventually joined him, shuffling his feet as he neared. "It's terrifying to look at," he said, eyeing the room below. "When we first saw it, we thought Leia had been immediately obliterated in the blast. But there's no blood and no sign of a body."

"It seems wholly unnecessary," Vader said as he kicked a piece of rubble into the pit.

Bail nodded and stepped away. He didn't stop looking down, though. "We scanned it and we don't know what caused it or why it's there, but whatever the kidnappers used had to have been powerful. And unique."

"Very."

Vader turned and inspected the destroyed datapad. He picked up a few chunks and tossed them when they proved unusable. He walked to the chair, righted it, then glared at the blaster bolts that had discolored the fabric—nonlethal ones, like the ones on the walls.

"Whoever took her wanted her alive," he said.

Bail mumbled something unintelligible and rubbed an already-red left eye with a clenched fist. He sighed. "That's what we thought, too."

Vader turned and hooked his thumbs into his belt. "Is there anything else worth mentioning?"

"No, but—"

"Do you have security footage of the surrounding area? Was there somebody or something that might've seen the kidnapper's craft or their method for scaling the palace walls—a servant, a handmaid, a droid?"

Bail frowned. "They hacked our security holos—"

"Unfortunate."

"—but we have a droid who saw the ship. It said the kidnappers used a nondescript model; probably a clunker from a scrapyard."

Vader considered that, then said, "Bring me the droid."

"Of course."

Bail disappeared and Vader took a few moments to peruse Leia's room, unaided. He went straight for her drawings and writings. Pressed his gloved hands to the pages and spread them across the desk until he could see each one individually. He studied her tidy handwriting and crossed-out edits. There were a few highlighted sections that referenced old proverbs or books; one page had a quote from an old, very retired senator, another from the Emperor. There were a few more doodles of R2-D2 and one very haughty yet expressionless one of C-3PO with its hands raised, animatedly explaining Force knew what.

Vader smirked behind his mask. At the drawings. At the writings. At the very essence of his daughter. Who she was and what she was like.

Then he moved to the hairbrush. Looked at the curly remnants within the bristles. He reached out and plucked a strand and was instantly reminded of Padmé's tresses; how they had often snagged themselves in his clothes in the most curious places. He used to find it mildly irritating—they pricked him or stood straight up through his sleeves or curled in weird designs across his back—but now, he would've given up everything he owned to feel her discarded hairs tickling whatever was left of his skin through his suit.

Breep boo breep. Whurggle wurg.

Leia's hair fluttered to the floor and Vader turned. "Of course it'd be you," he said.

R2-D2 trundled forward and stopped when it got to the chasm. It leaned forward and whistled, loud and shrill, but Vader understood every droidian word—as he always had and always would.

"I'm here to help the princess," he explained, unsure why he was entertaining the astromech's question. "Now you're going to show me what you've seen so I can find her."

Blick blick.

The droid most definitely said and bring her home, but Vader didn't reply. Instead, he pointed. Said, "Now." And R2-D2 wiggled from side to side with its usual sassy inelegance before it finally relented and extended its projector.

Blue fuzz took shape and Vader stared at the image. It was a truly commonplace, unimportant Corellian freighter, a decade or so past its prime. And he seethed when the image meant nothing to him and dismissed the astromech with a flick of his wrist.

R2-D2 backed up a bit, but didn't leave the room. Bail eventually returned looking flustered and windswept and about ready to deliver a myriad of excuses, but then he looked down and saw the droid and put the pieces together. Said, "Thank you, Artoo." But didn't make the useless device leave.

Vader returned to the princess's hairbrush and drawings. He extended his hands and let them hover over the objects, feeling for Leia's essence. Searching for a bond embedded in the Force, even if she wasn't sensitive, herself. Maybe there'd be a piece he could identify and connect to. A piece that would lead him to her, even across the galaxy's expanse.

He focused—concentrated and enhanced his senses—but Bail was there. Interrupting him. Disturbing him.

"Did Artoo's projection help?" Bail stepped forward and further disrupted his focus.

Vader said nothing for a while, just seethed at the annoyance. There had been a tingle, a small blemish in the Force. But it'd glimmered and disappeared before he could really identify what it meant. And he turned, frustrated but strangely calm. "It contained nothing of value," he finally admitted, hands drifting over the flickering holo of his daughter and her smiling adoptive parents.

"That's…unfortunate." Bail shuffled further forward and picked up Leia's hairbrush. Vader snatched it and returned it to its proper place. "I was hoping you'd see something I couldn't."

"I can," Vader grudgingly admitted. "And am."

"You are?"

"Indeed." Vader turned and Bail stepped back. "And in order for it to be effective, I require silence."

"Ah." Bail took a few more steps back and joined R2-D2. "O-of course. I'll just be over…" He pointed, like it mattered. "…there."

Vader nodded and returned to his task. His hands spread wide and his senses flared out and beyond, probing each of Leia's cherished, well-handled articles. The Force hummed at him and fought against him for an instant before it coiled around his psyche and embraced the darkness he held so dear.

For the first time in a long while, it whispered directly into his ears and encouraged him to dig deeper, stretch further.

So Vader grabbed Leia's hairbrush and a drawing that he liked and took them to her bed. He sat—ignored the way the frame and mattress creaked under his weight—and placed the hairbrush on one knee, wrapping his mechanical fingers around its handle to keep it in place. The picture found its way into his pocket while Bail was looking elsewhere. And when it was finally out of sight, he closed his eyes and stretched.

He thought about what he wanted. Thought about Leia and her curly hair and dimpled smile. Thought about his visions where she kicked and hit, screamed for him or Bail while an unidentifiable body held her down and hit back. Thought about the smallest details of his vision and how he wanted to learn more. Understand more.

And he breathed—long and deep—

And slipped away.

Into the Force's loving grasp…

Where it transported him to a room he'd never seen before.

The Force-enabled connection was thin and somewhat blurred—wholly worrisome—and Vader didn't know how much time he had, so he gazed at his surroundings and memorized each detail as best as he could.

A windowless room, ten-by-ten at best. It housed a single door, but when Vader pressed his hand against the panel, he discovered it locked. It was twilight-level dark, which meant that there was just enough light to see. Barely. And there were a myriad of unidentifiable blemishes on the walls—they could've been blood, feces, or discolorations of any variety—but there were a select few stains that were unmistakably blaster bolts. Lethal ones.

And they unnerved him.

There were unmarked boxes stacked high and he tried to pry one open, but his fingers floated through the wood, transparent and unusable. He turned away with a frustrated snarl and continued looking. Continued searching.

There was an odd and distracting smell—rot and decay with a tinge of urine and feces—and even through his respirator, his eyes watered until he blinked the tears away.

Music played and raucous laughter resounded nearby, but it was muffled and the voices couldn't be deciphered from so far away. So he took a step. Then another. Looked around—again—and couldn't discern anything of note other than the fact that the room felt like a prison—looked like a prison. And Vader had no doubt that it wasn't, even make-shift.

Then something sniffled and he leaned forward and—

Found her.

Leia.

She was cowering. Huddling. Dirtied knees pressed tight against her forehead. Dress and boots torn and ravaged with dirt and substances unknown. Fingers bloodied and raw, arms and legs quaking.

She lifted her head—just barely—and Vader could see a trail of blood dribble down the side of her face; the crimson stream continued past her chin until it disappeared beneath her thick and unkempt curls. She blinked once, and Vader watched her unfocused eyes blur with tears; evidence of their predecessors splotched her cheeks and mixed with that ever-expanding trail of blood. She tried to swipe everything away but stopped when the effort proved too painful.

She opened her mouth. Then closed it.

Shivered.

Gasped and wheezed.

Then let another torrent of tears fall as she pressed her bruised and raw cheek against the filthy wall.

Vader knelt awkwardly in front of her. He stretched out his hands, gentle and caring, and tried to cup her tiny digits with his own massive ones. But just as before, his fingers floated through, useless. So he rested there, staring at Leia—his daughter—watching her cry and sniffle and swipe at her running nose with a decrepit sleeve.

Until the scene grew too difficult to bear.

He scooted close, knees almost pressing against hers. "Can you hear me?"

She said nothing. Just whimpered and huddled into herself.

"Leia—"

Her eyes flicked to him for a single instant, then disappeared behind her hands.

"You can, can't you?"

No answer. No movement.

"I want to help you." A pause. "But I need you to tell me where you are."

Her head tilted up and her brown irises focused on him—on him!—but then she cringed and whimpered. Pressed her head into her knees and disappeared behind a cloud of unruly brown hair.

"Leia." He'd never begged—found it demeaning—but he'd do it for her. Gladly and without pause. "Please."

No answer. Just movement.

She slumped forward and stretched out her hands. Crawled to the opposite wall, wincing with the slightest effort. She stopped behind a box and wedged herself into a corner. Tight. And far, far away from him.

"Leia."

Nothing.

He followed her path, scuttling inelegantly across the disgusting floor. "Leia—"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Up an' at 'em, kid!"

Somebody was screaming from the other side of the door and Leia let out a frail cry. The door opened—the music grew loud and deafening—and Vader tuned to watch a purple Twi'lek enter; he was brawny and calloused, self-righteous and imposing (to a child), clearly dim-witted, but threatening, nonetheless.

He walked with purpose and pride and strode directly to Leia's corner, where he sneered at the wall before pressing his gloved hand against it. He leaned forward, eyes cold and calculating, and barked, "I said up!"

He gave her no time to respond or move before he kicked her. Hard.

Leia yelped and struggled to get onto her feet. But she wasn't fast enough and he grabbed her throat. He yanked her up and into the air—

—and she flailed until breathless.

His pointed teeth gleamed yellow as she aimlessly punched the putrid air, losing consciousness with every strike as she struggled to breathe.

"Still feisty, I see," he commented as he dropped her ungracefully onto the floor. Leia rolled on the ground and pitched forward. Gasped. "And still not up," he growled as he wailed into her side once more.

Leia screamed and another round of soggy tears poured from her lashes; they pitter-pattered against the steel floor until she lurched ungracefully and violently backward, against her will.

The Twi'lek put one fist in her hair and dragged her across the makeshift prison. Leia kicked and shrieked, but it made no difference. The Twi'lek was bigger and stronger, and she was already so weakened and bruised. Practically defeated.

And it pained Vader to watch the abuse, but he knew he had to.

So he followed.

Into the loud hall filled with species of all sorts, milling about as they drank and conversed. The Twi'lek nodded at a pair of Rodian males and Leia's squeals lessened until she went entirely mute. Her captor smirked at the sullen silence but eventually pressed through the small crowd. They walked—Leia stumbled—until they hit a curved staircase. They descended slow and steady until the Twi'lek groaned and kicked Leia down the last few treads. He laughed as her face hit the dirt floor and eventually forced her onto her feet with an aggressive heave.

His leather-worn gloves brushed her face—smeared dirt into her pores—and she flinched backward at the rough and unwelcome contact.

She swiped at her face until the dirt wore thin, barely there, and he laughed. Then he stuck his thumb in his mouth and wiped the remainder of the grime off with a saliva-coated digit.

"The slug wants to keep you pretty," he said when she was smudged clean. "So don't make me do that again 'else I'll have to send you to Xi'an. And you won't like that."

Leia paled and her eyes grew wide. She shook her head, fast—so fast—and he chuckled, low and cryptic.

"Heard you already had a run-in with 'er. Wasn't pleasant, huh?"

Leia's head dipped and her eyes closed.

The Twi'lek snorted. "Just 'member," he said, poking his saliva-glazed thumb to his chest, "I'm worse."

Leia said nothing, just whimpered. And the Twi'lek's teeth glittered once more. Then he shoved Leia forward, through a beaded doorway—

"Qin!"

"Jabba!"

And Vader knew where she was.