Thank you for the feedback, Guest! I always welcome honest and constructive criticism; your input helps me write a better story! You are right that this is a dark story at its heart with a lot of hurt—plenty of chapters still to go, though. Four Acts in total planned and we've just finished the first. A big thanks to everyone who's been reading all thus time and stuck around, followed, favorited, etc.; always means a lot to me to see readers coming along for the ride.

The world of politics is full of heartbreak. Watching helpless as warped populism triumphs over good intentions; fighting effortlessly for higher ideals that are so quickly shot down by cynicism veiled in the cloak of practicality. Sparring with senators, colleagues, that turn their face and become rivals. Watching longtime friends heighten security as death threats and conspiracies pass their doors. And the war, the all-consuming war: It drowns out everything, a death's-shroud fog snuffing out the dream of the Republic, of democracy, and wrapping an ashen bow about its stillborn head.

So when Padme sees the light shining in these shrouded halls, she pays attention. It is everything to be affirmed, validated, to remember why she chose to fight for her people—the Naboo and the billions of billons of sapients across the stars in equal measure—against such long odds.

This is one of those times: The chance to see a young man rise to the occasion, just like she did back when she was fourteen and a queen, speaking to this very chamber on behalf of her besieged people suffering at the hands of the Trade Federation blockade. She wonders who watched her as she now watches Korkie Kryze, a newcomer to the Senate yet speaking with the poise of a man twice his age. Hardly older than a boy. Although with an aunt like Duchess Satine—a needle jabs Padme's heart as she thinks of her face, her persona, her leadership that the galaxy now sorely misses—perhaps it's no surprise that Korkie is doing as well as he is. Satine never would've let her nephew go without passing at least a few public speaking courses.

"—did not leave my people and my home behind to see them suffer in silence. I did not leave them to a Separatist invasion so that I could hear the Republic claim that justice isn't expedient, that it is too burdensome. Justice is hard, and these are hard times. But it is justice we must pursue anyway, not because it is convenient, but because it is our duty. Yours, mine, all of us who would fight for freedom from here to Wild Space," Korkie speaks from Padme's senatorial platform as the political body looks on. Padme keeps her hands folded in the attendant's seat, barely blinking. He has no lack of confidence. He thunders as if he was born for this. A smile trickles across her lips as the mundanities of senatorial life slip into her mind. She should make Lux Bonteri speak to him. Maybe he'd learn a few things.

"And it is justice that my people deserve now, that all of Mandalore needs, that we call on the Republic to aid us in establishing in the face of our invaders," Korkie finishes, raising his finger in the air. "My aunt, the Duchess Satine, promised peace for our people in our neutrality. But that peace has been shattered despite all of our efforts, and so now the course is clear: If we must have war on Mandalore, then let it be in a fight for freedom. For liberty. To drive back the darkness that has plunged our world into hell!"

Padme beams and claps. Around the Senate others join her, first Bail Organa from his position at Alderaan's box, then Senator Mothma, Senator Chuchi, more, more. A beautiful sight. Korkie lowers his hands, relaxes his shoulders, the tension in his eyes easing. He speaks from the heart. With a little embellishment, too—no one here is perfect. Padme recognizes Senator Chuchi's writing in that ending; the Pantoran senator has always had a flair for the dramatic in her grand let's-come-together declarations. But no one, from a rookie speaker to the most wizened of politicians, can rouse a galaxy to action alone. And none of them should want to.

There is one being in the Senate who does not seem pleased, however—and he is right in the midst of the action. Padme's smile slips when she notices Vice Chair Amedda's frown. Vice Chair—and acting Chancellor, given Palpatine's odd absence. Unfortunately, it is exactly his approval that Korkie and Mandalore need if his plea for aid will move from a stirring speech to a real vote.

As Amedda stands, Padme has the feeling that the burly Chagrian is already hunting for ways to shoot that vote down. "Order," he booms, the applause rapidly fading before his commanding tone. "Order. I will have order." His mouth hardens into a stony slit; his stare seems as if it could see for miles, straight through Padme and Korkie and everything and everyone else in here. "A moving speech by the honored guest of the Naboo delegation," Amedda continues, mostly for the Holonet media's sake, "and the Defense Appropriations Committee shall be sure to take into account Mandalore's precarious situation in the upcoming Offensive Discretionary Spending Bill. Until we have had proper debate over both where and how to allocate military funding and prioritization—following consultation with our fleet leaders—we cannot simply sign off on any offensive action, Mr. Kryze."

"Outrageous!" slams an offended Bail Organa, veering his senatorial pod into the air as a half-dozen cameras swarm to capture his reddening face. "We have passed spending bill after spending bill here in this very chamber over the last three years of war, authorizing more and more warfare. Yet now we must practice austerity?"

"You were not recognized, Senator Organa of Alderaan, and the protocols are clear," Amedda says, turning to meet him.

"Protocols or not, the young man is right! If Mandalore is burning, then we must discuss it now, not later—not after the Separatists have wiped out all resistance and turned the world into a fortress our brave soldiers will never breach. We vote now!"

Amedda jabs his finger at Organa. "There will be no vote on this matter now, Senator! Must I remind you that Chancellor Palpatine is currently absent from these proceedings? Offensive action requires the Chancellor's approval—"

"You are acting—"

"Enough! The rules are clear, and the course of action is final. I will not breach the sacred protocols that have guided this venerable institution for a thousand years! This is a democracy, not a mob."

Inside, Padme burns. She knows what Amedda is doing—the exact opposite that Chancellor Valorum did here all those years ago when she called on the Republic's aid to relieve Naboo. Valorum wilted under pressure and paid for it. Amedda is shutting down that very resentment before it can threaten either him or Chancellor Palpatine. A good move for a lackey—but poor form for a Chancellor. A good leader would split the middle, allow for debate within reasonable limits.

But of course, Amedda is not Chancellor, as he said. Palpatine is. But where is Palpatine?

Korkie has the same thought, and without Padme's approval, he taps back into the Naboo seat's broadcast channel and speaks to the Senate: "This is a democracy," he says, angrily, "and so where is its leader? If Chancellor Palpatine must approve, then bring him here!"

Amedda stares daggers into the young man, and with one hand swiping over the Chancellor's console he cuts off the Naboo seat's audio. "Order!" he bellows. "The Chancellor's whereabouts are not this session's concern. I assure you, on behalf of his office, that this body will proceed on a timely—and orderly—schedule until his return."

"Bastard's completely blowing me off," Korkie spits, his voice suddenly so quiet without the broadcast amplifier.

"Don't let him dissuade you," Padme urges. "He's right on a technicality."

"Right? How can you say that?"

"On a technicality, I said. This fight isn't over. The Vice Chair's trying to wriggle out of being blamed in case anything goes wrong. That's why he'd rather wait until Chancellor Palpatine comes back to sort it all out," says Padme. "We won't let that stop us."

Korkie sits down before her as she waves the pod back to its docking station. He looks drained, his face washed of color after being shut down so harshly by Amedda's political hedging. Even the good ones aren't unbeatable. He needs time to think, to reflect, to rebound. Time to vent and time to regroup. "We'd better not," he growls, more to himself than to Padme. "I don't have any other choice."

In the hall outside of the Naboo box immediately following the session's conclusion, Padme runs into one of the last people she wanted to face after that stinging loss. "Korkie, go to Senator Organa. He'll help figure out your next steps," Padme says as she sees a group of Kaminoans headed her way, led by one stooped figure with smoldering coals for eyes, all manner of serpentine gamesmanship slithering in her flat expression. "I think Senator Burtoni wants to have a word with me."

Senator Halle Burtoni of Kamino is many things, Padme knows, but she is not one for idle visits and chitchat. That she is here approaching one of her chief rivals given their opposing stances on the Republic's escalating militarism rouses Padme's hackles. This woman is an opportunist before all else; anything that benefits Kamino—including, and certainly not limited to, reckless military adventurism in order to drum up enthusiasm for new clone trooper production and all the credits that entails—takes precedence over the good of the Republic at large.

Of course, a relief mission to Mandalore would certainly get clones killed, and thus require replacements…hm. Perhaps Amedda's decision did not sit well with her, either, if for drastically different reasons.

Burtoni wastes no time with pleasantries. "An interesting gambit, vouching for the Mandalorian boy," she says, tilting her head higher as she approaches Padme. "So what do you get out of it, Senator Amidala? Clearly something. I saw your scowl when Amedda crushed Organa's demand for a vote."

"Some of us aren't obsessed with our own interests," Padme growls. "I'm helping Korkie because I want to help the Mandalorian people. Is that too far outside your understanding?"

The Kaminoan senator laughs. "Not when it comes to you and your idealism, no. It's your flaw, though. It makes you predictable," she says. Then her grin dies, and her eyes narrow. "Unfortunately, the same defeat you're lamenting now is just a symptom of a larger problem. A problem we both have."

"I think we have plenty of problems with each other."

"Not with each other, Senator, although I'm always happy to recite that list. It's a mutual problem, this one, and it's growing far too large for me to keep ignoring," Burtoni says. "It pains me to say it, but how about you and I speak in my office? In private."

Among all the senatorial offices, Burtoni's might just be the worst, Padme thinks. It is, true to a Kaminoan's tastes, totally devoid of life. Sterile white walls and synthetic white overhead lightning and faux-artiste curved furniture—white, of course—without an edge or a point to be found. It is the sort of place where people go mad, and just stepping into it and feeling the air hush inside her ears makes Padme want to rip her hair out.

"I can't imagine how I'm supposed to help with your problems," Padme says as she sits down, noting with annoyance at the hardness of the seating. It's probably intentional: Burtoni is the sort of politician who would provide her guests with unsuitable accommodations just to get an edge over them.

Burtoni leans back in her seat and presses her spindly fingers together atop her desk. "It affects you too," she says. "My problem is the Chancellor."

"Palpatine? That's not the impression I get. Not as long as the war keeps going and you keep making deals for more clone production."

"If that was all he did, I'd be ecstatic. But it's what he's not doing that bothers me," says Burtoni. "Notably, he's not showing up."

"You're referring to his absence."

"A brilliant deduction. Yes, I'm talking about his absence. Two weeks, a number of important debates and bills, and Palpatine is nowhere to be seen. No one seems to know anything about it. Every senator and aide I've spoken to has no idea as to his whereabouts. His office refuses all requests. Even Amedda himself turned me away when I demanded to know what was happening. And Amedda..." she trails off, her face curdling. "Hm."

Padme perks up. So Burtoni doen't like Amedda. What unlikely alliances might be forming here in this dreadful office. "I take it you're not happy with the Vice Chair, either. He's been around long enough that he knows every technicality and rule in the book, but I don't think his heart is in the right place. Palpatine has ideals. Amedda is a career politician."

"I don't need your lecture on morality, Senator, but you're not wrong," Burtoni says. "Amedda is a weasel. Do remember what happened to the last Chancellor, and who was serving him as Vice Chair. Maybe Kamino wasn't afforded a seat in the Senate at the time, but I know all about what you did to Chancellor Valorum. And through it all, as he fell to the vote of no confidence you called, Amedda was right there at his side. Valorum didn't make it, but Amedda did, slipping through the nets time and again. That eel."

"So why do you dislike him? I thought you didn't care for my ideals."

"Because of his worminess and his cowardice. Palpatine benefits Kamino because he is strong, because he sees the need for the war to continue and for troopers to fight it. Amedda is neither this nor that. He is not a militarist, nor is he one of you peace-loving loons. He simply sits in his seat and keeps it warm. Yet with Palpatine's absence, he is our so-called leader. The acting chair. A disgrace: The Senate without a Chancellor. We may as well be the very mob he disparaged."

Padme rolls her eyes. "I see. So my first thought was right: You're only on my side today because aiding Mandalore means more money for Kamino."

Burtoni shakes her head. "This is the problem with you idealists. You pounce anything that doesn't clear your bar, yet half the time you refuse to let anything try and rise to your expectations. How do you live like that?"

"Does this meeting have a point, Senator Burtoni?"

"Yes it does. While most of the senators are lost in a daze, thinking everything will go back to normal once Palpatine returns, I have a bad feeling that something else is afoot," Burtoni says. "Never has the Chancellor's office been so secretive regarding his whereabouts, not for so long, not at an important time."

"Two weeks is a long time. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't concerned."

"Two weeks is long enough to begin preparations. Do you know what happens at six weeks with no sign of the Chancellor?" Burtoni asks. "We can push a motion to declare Palpatine having abandoned his station. With a simple majority vote, we force him out of office. No vote of no confidence necessary."

"His emergency powers—"

"Do not apply here. Don't bother arguing, Amidala, I've done my legwork on this."

"Why unseat Palpatine, though?" says Padme. "He's led us through this war. You're happy with him."

Burtoni scoffs. "Because Amedda knows the rules just as I do. I guarantee you that right now he's having the same sort of conversations. He knows what people like me can do, and unlike Valorum, he will not be caught flat-footed. The moment Amedda has the chance, once six weeks are up he will position himself to be declared Chancellor Pro Tempore. An emergency title and role. Acting Chancellor, like now, only—given the situation—with all the powers and rights of the actual Chancellor. And one more right, too—the power to declare a state of political emergency that would give Amedda the ability to declare a new Chancellor. He would cut off our ability to hold snap elections and force the Senate to withstand a peon of his choosing until the emergency is over. And when might that be? Who can say? Not us. He can make it last as long as he wants. But no—I don't intend to let Amedda dictate terms. Not to me."

Padme crosses her legs, mulling Burtoni's ideas. She is a cagey beast, but she is right: Palpatine's absence grows graver by the day, and every power-hungry politician will be making moves to capitalize in case the Chancellor's vacancy continues. And when six weeks is up—can she trust Amedda to make the right decision? Will it even matter, if someone like Burtoni will force his hand anyway?

And if she can't trust either of them, what is she to do but jump aboard this vile carousel herself? "You make an…interesting…point," Padme admits. "So what would your plan do?"

Burtoni laughs. "Come now, Padme, you've done this sort of thing before. We topple the Vice Chair."

"What? You just said he can put himself in a position to—"

"I know what we said, and we're not going to contest that. The very moment the first session passes the six-week mark without Palpatine's appearance, we immediately call for a vote of no confidence—not in the Chancellor, but in the Vice Chair. No Chancellor is needed for that. Just—well, you know how these things go. Only a majority vote is required. We cut him off, establish a vote for a new Vice Chair, and there we have it—whoever wins immediately ascends to become Chancellor Pro Tempore and names the new Chancellor. In effect, we secure snap elections without actually going through all that paperwork."

"If Palpatine comes back before that—"

"Then we forget about all this and call it a day. But why leave yourself unprepared?"

She certainly has her bases covered, Burtoni. Padme shakes her head, partly out of her disgust at the Kaminoan's political machinations and partly out of awe. "So why tell me? If you have this grand plan underway, you don't need my help."

"Actually, I do need your help. You and your band of pacifist idiots that you always vote with," says Burtoni. "Amedda will know what I'm planning is an option. He will try and sway as many senators to his cause. We have to fight for them too, and win them. A simple majority. Just that. Just enough to kneecap Amedda and get him out of our lives so that—barring a return by Palpatine—we can have real leadership once more."

"You're not going to like who I'd support for Chancellor Pro Tempore, then. And I doubt I'd approve of who you'd pick."

"Oh, we can argue over that later, Senator Amidala. You can vouch for one of your old hands like Bail Organa or Mon Mothma or promote some young blood from your peaceniks, whether that's Riyo Chuchi or Bana Breemu or someone else, I don't care. That will have its time. For now, let's focus on our common enemy and how we go about ousting him. Then we can return to slinging barbs at each other."

Padme presses her hands to her knees. "So where do we start?"

"You agree? That easily? Without any snide looks and passive-aggressive insults and insistence that we first free every last sapient being from here to Rothana?"

"Spare me, Burtoni. If things do come to this and Palpatine doesn't return, then we can't let our leadership end up in one man's hands. This is a democracy. We need a debate, and a vote," she says. "So let's talk action now, because we only have four weeks to go."

Burtoni grins. "First step's easy enough. The best way to sully a politician's reputation—and to swing support from him—is to find some dirt on the man. Amedda's remarkably good about hiding that sort of thing, so why don't we turn up the heat and get a real search going? One, preferably, that he can't track."

"Such as?"

She chuckles. "You have friends in the Jedi Order. I see who comes out of your door. Win them over. Put them to good use. They handle plenty of investigations; convince them it's for a good cause."

Padme's heart aches. Anakin. Ahsoka. Not now. "This isn't the best time—"

"This isn't the best time for a leadership crisis, either, but here we are," Burtoni says. As if already accepting Amidala's approval, she turns in her seat and waves the door open. "And do tell Bail Organa about what we discussed. The man infuriates me, but out of all of your circle, he at least has a clear head. We're going to need every good idea we can get if this is going to work."

"That is my point exactly, Vice Chair. Admiral Yularen and his Jedi attendants suffered a disastrous defeat at Ziost, and our momentum from the Thyferra campaign has evaporated. We are falling back on most fronts. We cannot afford delay; we cannot abide by indecision."

Mas Amedda is frustrated enough by today's Senate session, what with Padme Amidala pushing her pet Mandalorian in front of everyone. As if the Republic doesn't have enough troubles, now she turns from her pacifist ways and wants to liberate a neutral world. What will that benefit them? Him? That will only get the Holonet screeching about why they can free Mandalore bu t can't so much as dent the Separatist occupations of a dozen other important worlds along the Mid Rim. More bad press. More tabloid garbage damning his name.

What Amedda didn't expect, however, was to have Admiral Tarkin in his office up in arms. First the Senate, now the navy. The blows are coming from every direction. And here he had thought Tarkin to be a potential ally. "I told you, Admiral, it is not within my ability to command fleets. The Chancellor is absent; turn to the Jedi. They handle military matters. I do not."

Tarkin does not blink. He is not quite human, this military man. Like a being cut from stone and given life by the sculptor, as hard as onyx, as impenetrable as bedrock. He will break before he ever bends. "Time is not our ally, and the Jedi do nothing if not waste time," he says. "All our recent defeats have come from their commands. The Republic—you and I—cannot dally while the Jedi debate which folly to pursue next. Might I remind you that the Ziost debacle was their decision? Not a single military man had any input in that. And yet we lost dozens of warships, tens of thousands of men, hundreds of skilled starfighter pilots. These are not losses we can replace overnight."

"And what would you have me do? Send your fleet to Mandalore, as the Senate screams for? Pursue whatever target the public votes to attack? I cannot act without a reaction, Tarkin. When Chancellor Palpatine returns, he will have full authority to sign off on any campaign."

Tarkin turns his back as if to leave, but the man does not so much as take a step towards the door. Instead, he says, "You are not in a position of strength, Vice Chair. But you could be."

"I beg your pardon?" snaps Amedda. He has had enough talk today. Solutions, Admiral. Solutions—or go run back to your star destroyers and leave me to deal with the Senate's yowling.

"The military is a matter of the executive branch, that branch only. The Jedi have operational control of campaigns and battlespaces solely because of their elevated position in the Republic, one they have occupied for centuries. Yet these are times of trouble, of emergency. Use your power. Seize on your ability. Show strength, not weakness. Politically, you cannot withstand further defeats, neither in your precious Senate nor on the front lines. Already the Holonet spits on every loss, and your name comes up all too frequently among those reports. Especially now, with Chancellor Palpatine's absence. So if you wish to both appear strong and divest yourself of the problem of our military struggles, then use your executive authority. Grant me the power that the Jedi hold."

Amedda leans back in his seat. Has this man lost it? "You are no Jedi."

"It matters not, Vice Chair. What the Jedi have is the ability to command operations, to order offensives, to deem certain worlds worth defending and others worthless before the enemy onslaught. I am but an Admiral, subordinate to the Jedi. But with your word—and one signature—you can change that."

"How?"

Tarkin's eyes glint. Amedda has the distinct impression that the Admiral has been planning this move for some time. "All of this must stay within the military purview to bypass the Senate," he says. "As acting Chancellor, you are officially the supreme commander of the Republic military. So create a new position in the navy. A Grand Admiral, perhaps. A position to supersede all other naval officers. A position to rival the Jedi. And then wash your hands of the military affairs entirely, and leave them to me. I will take all media criticism, handle Senatorial requests, keep the Jedi occupied…in short, I will handle all the ugly business of this war, and you can focus on keeping the Republic upright."

Amedda will not let him dictate terms so easily, even if it is a good idea. A very good idea. A chance to get the weight of the war off of his back and let Tarkin absorb every blow. He can escape the fire entirely. "You will still answer to the office of the Chancellor. Especially once Chancellor Palpatine returns."

"I never presumed to any other outcome. The Chancellor still remains overall military executor."

The Vice Chair smiles. So Tarkin remains an ally, after all. This man has proved far more interesting—and useful—than those mewling politicians in the Senate. Oh, he can use this. And how timely this gift comes. "Then we are agreed," he says. "I expect frequent updates, naturally. And the Chancellor's office reserves the right to override your commands. But if you wish to free yourself from the Jedi and the Senate, then I would congratulate you on your promotion—Grand Admiral Tarkin."

Tarkin bows his head. When he lifts his chin, he wears a smile. "Thank you—Chancellor."

She has floated long enough in that darkness, the impenetrable black of anesthetics and sedatives. An abyss so thorough, so ultimate, that even dreams do not come. As if time itself is wiped away, a clean slate between before and after. Now it is time to awake and look upon this new world.

Ahsoka's eyes flutter open.

She groans. Everything hurts. Her head, her body, everything. The sour smell of pharmaceuticals stings her nostrils. The beeping of medical monitoring equipment rings in her ears. The lights—too sterile, blue-white. Understanding seeps back into her mind. The healing wards in the Jedi Temple. That is where she is.

Her nose itches. Without thinking she reaches up to scratch it—then wrenches her left hand away when what passes before her eyes is not what she expected. She shouts out of shock: A steel prosthesis opens and closes beyond her left elbow, her forearm and hand gone, only cold metal and flashing wiring in their place. What is this? Images of before billow through her mind: Rex, Grievous, Invisible Hand, dark hallways, flashing lightsabers, gunfire. What happened to her?

Her shout wakes the one soul sharing her small room—Anakin. Her master rouses from a seated nap with a start, getting to his feet in a flash, eyes suddenly open and fully awake. "Whoa," he says when he sees Ahsoka's stunned expression. "Hey, Ahsoka. Slow down. Just slow down."

Slow down? How? She fights back the panic and lays her hand—what had once been her hand, but now is replaced by machinery—at her side. Then she notices the odd feeling, an extreme unsettlement bordering on nausea, brewing in her stomach. Something else, too—her legs. They're not supposed to feel so…so alien. So detached. As if they are both there and not there in superposition. She moves to brush away the blanket covering her from chest to foot, but Anakin hurries forward and holds it down. "You're okay, Ahsoka. You're okay," Anakin says, although a shadow across his face tells Ahsoka that he's hiding something. "You're safe now. We're back in the Jedi Temple."

She pulls at the blanket. "Let me see, Master," she says. They lock eyes, and she sees Anakin's resolve faltering. "Let me see."

He relents, letting go and stepping away with a grimace. She pushes back the blanket—

And screams.

There is almost nothing of her under there. From her stomach down it is all metal and clockwork. Lifelike, to an extent—her legs look like, well, legs, not like the spindly, mechanical utensil that is now her left hand—but it as if she fell unconscious as herself—a Togruta, a Jedi, her—and woke up half-droid. Like a machine has pulled her in two and stapled itself onto her lower end. Even the way the skin attaches to the prosthetics where they begin around her navel, or what once was there—it all looks, it…it…

She slumps back on her bed, her head swirling, her breaths coming in labored pants. She only just hears Anakin yelling for the healers as if he is far away, so distant, just like all the rest of what was once Ahsoka Tano and now is gone. Gone. So far gone.

She does not realize her fall into unconsciousness until she wakes up some time later, everything hurting even worse than before. By now the shock has subsided. A melancholy, a gloom total and all-encompassing, settles upon her. Like a red morning bleeding the sky, promising of storms to come: This is you, now. There is now taking back what was once Ahsoka Tano. Now Ahsoka Tano is something less, something half-Togruta and half-alien, dead, barren. You are not whole; never again shall you be whole.

Anakin watches her from his seat at her bedside. He has not left her this entire time, she can tell. "Nothing more important to do than sit here?" Ahsoka mumbles.

"No," Anakin says. "Nothing."

"Great. I guess we won the war while I was out."

Anakin chuckles. Soft, subtle. Not a happy thing. But it brings a smile, at least. "I know this isn't easy. And it isn't going to be easy," he says quietly. "I know what it's like. Dooku cut off my arm back on Geonosis."

"You don't know what it's like," Ahsoka grumbles. Her eyes drift up to the ceiling, to all that blankness. She doesn't want to look at him. She doesn't want to hear his words of comfort. And it is has nothing to do with Anakin: She doesn't want to admit what she's feeling now, that she's not worthy, that she has failed in such a catastrophic way that Anakin has to sit at her bedside and look at her half-destroyed self rather than going out and fighting for the galaxy. It's humiliating. Humbling. And more than anything else, she hates it. Hates. That feeling she should never have she now turns on herself. "Your arm is one thing. I saw down there. I saw what's gone. I'm barely even the same person anymore."

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe not the same thing."

Ahsoka glances over. Anakin looks as if he is trying to stay on course, trying to stave off his own demon, his eyes downcast, his mouth pinched as if to fight off a frown. Then she looks away. She did this to him. "Why didn't he kill me?" she murmurs.

"What?"

"Grievous. I remember what happened. I remember fighting him. Why didn't he kill me?"

"Hey, don't think like that. You're alive. That's what matters."

"Matters for what?" she laughs. A hollow laugh. "I can barely even feel my legs. If they're even mine, now. What can I do? What am I supposed to do? Stay stuck in the Temple forever? Teach younglings, maybe? Tell them not to try and fight Grievous one-on-one? Great. I can't fight anymore. I can't do anything."

Anakin shakes his head. "That's not true."

"Master, come on. The Council's not going to let me go out onto the battlefront like this, let alone fight anything. It'll never be like it was."

"I don't care what the Council does or doesn't say. I know better than them," says Anakin, rising until he looms over Ahsoka. That shadow is gone, the demon dispelled. His eyes are flame; his face is a wildfire. In his clenched hands burn those old agonies so that new growth might spring forth. "And no, no it's not going to be like it was. But we'll make do."

"How?"

"I'll tell you how," he says in a voice that Ahsoka doesn't dare disbelieve. "I'm sick and tired of hospitals and healing wards. The moment you can get up out of that bed, I'm taking you to the dojo. I'm not taking your no for an answer."

"Master—"

"Stop. Listen. You and I are going there, and we're going to spar. Then the next day, we're doing it again. And again. And again. Until you're not just fighting, but fighting just like you were. Better," he says. "And then yes, I am taking you out to the battlefield. You and me. Like it was, but different. Better. And we're going to fight, just like we know how. Just like we've trained. No—don't start, I'm not taking no for an answer." He turns away, his fists clenched so hard they're shaking. "You're not going to be stuck in the Temple, Ahsoka. You're going to get through this, if for no other reason then because you're my Padawan and I'm not giving up on you. Because I need you. I promise you. I promise. And I'm not going to stop until you're out there again with Rex and all the others and it feels just like it did before. I promise."

He turns, and she can see his soul aflame in the center of his eyes. She does not know what to say. Everything is in pain, but somehow his words has made the agony recede, if only for a moment. In her shock, in her dismay, she can feel the darkness calling. It is all too easy to fade into depression and despair. To give up. To stop moving forward. And she knows that she can fall right into that trap. But Anakin's fire is infections, its warmth contagious. And she knows, when she looks at him, that this is exactly what she needs. Not condolences. Not I'm sorry and This is terrible and Hope you feel better and It'll be all right. What she needs is Anakin, furious, steady, surging forward as if his life is on the line in every minute. There is no one in the Republic so alive, so driven. He can lose, he can suffer defeat, but he is incapable of failure.

He is what she needs. What they all need. A champion.

"All right," she says, nodding. She doesn't truly believe her words. But she does believe his. "We'll do it."

"You know, nobody's coming for you. You're all alone. Except for me. Well, me, about a hundred battle droids, and Pella. That's it."

Sae blinks. Jagged rock walls on three sides, so close as to be claustrophobic. Rock ceiling, rock floor. Then the fourth wall: An energy gate, orange burn stretching from floor to ceiling and cutting her off from the outside world. It's not much of an outside, however: Just a poorly-lit hallway and a single chair occupied by a man sporting the ugliest, most malformed left arm Sae has ever seen. He has told her his name: Taron Malicos. Once a Jedi Master. Now nothing more than her tormentor as she rots in this cell in some desolate spot in the galaxy. They could still be on Serenno, for all she knows. Or perhaps any other planet. Or not a planet at all.

There is no use thinking. After all, Malicos is right. No one is coming for her. She is stuck, alone, lost. "Who's Pella?"

"Ah, you don't need to know about her. She's rotting in her own cell, anyway," Malicos says, stretching out on his chair. "She always snaps at me like an animal too, little snot."

"You probably deserve it."

He laughs. "Yeah, I really do. But enough about her. I want to talk about you."

"Don't you get bored of this?" Sae murmurs, side-eying Malicos through the energy gate. "So, what, you're Dooku's new apprentice? You don't have any Jedi or clones to go fight? This is the best you can do?"

Malicos points a finger at her as if instructing a student. "You know what your problem is, Sae? I've figured it out, these last couple days since you came around and we started chatting. Your problem is framing."

"What does that even mean?" Sae says. She should just ignore this Sith, this idiot. But she has nothing better to do locked in this cell. Besides, it beats talking to her ghosts. Malicos's aggravations at least keep her occupied. It's the silence she fears now, because it's in that emptiness that her phantoms lurk.

"It means that you look at things the wrong way. You look at me and say, 'Oh, he's Dooku's apprentice.' But I like to look at it from a different angle: I'm learning from him. Embracing a side of me I never had before. I'm growing stronger, escaping the old Taron Malicos who scraped at the Jedi Council's boots and instead have become this, here, me. My own man."

"So you're Dooku's apprentice."

"Framing, Sae. Framing."

"Give it up, man."

He laughs and stands. "I know, deep down, you don't want me to leave," he says. "You see things in the darkness, don't you? Hm?" Sae scowls at him. "You know, when I received the Haxion Brood's offer of a Jedi for sale, I thought they were playing me for a fool. Me and Dooku. But then, when I got there—"

Sae snarls. "Don't you talk about her."

"Why? She's dead."

"Don't you start."

"See her in the darkness, don't you? Hm? What's she say?" Malicos taunts. When Sae doesn't respond he chuckles. "Come on, Sae, I just want to know Tamri a little better."

Sae jumps to her feet and pounds her palm against the rock. "You think you're so great, being a Sith now," she snaps. "Lower the gate, then. I'll throttle the life out of you. See just how tough you are as a corpse."

"Uh-uh. That's not tough, that's just being easy. You want me to kill you, not the other way around. Won't have it. I know your tricks."

"Try me."

"No. Not this time," he says. "I have to pay little Pella a visit, see that she hasn't chewed her hands off or something stupid like that. See you, Sae."

She doesn't bother to watch Malicos go. Part of her—a significant part—wants him to stay, if only so that she can see someone, anyone. Someone real. Someone not born from her nightmares.

And they come quickly, those wraiths, as the hallway light dims and the loneliness settles upon Sae in her cell. It is that voice in her, that one that first birthed on Ziost and never truly left. Back again it comes in the voice of Master Gallia, and as Sae closes and opens her eyes, she once more sees her old master standing before her with a face of disapproval. "Sae," Master Gallia—or Sae's idea of her—says in a tone dripping with disgust. "Look at yourself. I trained you to be better than this."

"Get out of my head," Sae says, looking away. "I know you're not Master Gallia. You're that thing."

"Of course I'm that thing," Adi Gallia says, circling around into Sae's line of sight. "Why does that I mean I can't be your master, as well? Because I am your master. I have seen every moment you lived with her. I know what she sounded like. The things she said to you. The looks you exchanged. The way you felt about her. But what do you know about me, Sae? Only what you saw on Ziost? That's not fair. That's not how a relationship should be. We're together now. It's only fair that I speak to you as a friend, in a way you can understand."

"Go away," Sae murmurs.

Master Gallia chuckles and walks towards the far wall. Sae looks down. When she looks up Master Gallia is gone—and the last person Sae wants to see now stands before her with her hands on her hips, her face familiar yet off by the smallest of margins, a vision of Tamri Dallin sinking into the uncanny valley. It's her eyes. Just off-kilter. Too dark a shade of blue to be real. "Is this better?"

"No."

"There's no need to be so critical, Sae," the vision—Tamri, the Celestial, whatever—says. "I don't have as much memory of Tamri to work with. Just four years! Not like your entire apprenticeship with Master Gallia. It's a bit harder, working with less. But I try." The vision of Tamri spins around and smiles. When Sae only scowls, its eyes droop. "Don't be that way. Besides, I showed you what was going to happen. You saw the future that played out. Don't blame me if you stumbled right into it. But you've already told yourself this, hm? You shouldn't have kept going forward. Tamri told you to stop."

"I know."

"And look what happened! Little Tamri's dead, and you're a prisoner of the Sith. Do you think you get out of this by being how you've always been? Sulking and looking away from the problem, as if that will cure anything?" says the vision. "Would you like to see what might await you?"

"No. What do you want?"

"Want? I don't want anything," the vision—no, the Celestial, name it for what it is, for it is with you now, for better or worse—says. If only it wasn't saying all this in Tamri's voice, through Tamri's lips, watching her with Tamri's almost-but-not-quite eyes. It is unbearable. "I'm just here. Here for the ride. You let me on, after all, so why shouldn't I ride along? And I'll be here when you decide to stop sulking over your loss. When you want to see the way forward…all you have to do is look."

Tamri laughs, and then the Celestial's vision is gone. Sae is alone again, alone in the dark, alone in a cramped, dusky cell in some nameless spot in a vast galaxy. She leans back against the rock, pressing her hand against a crag. She is too tired now to even think about ways of making this end. That was then, back when she had a little drive, a little spirit, a little hope that it would all be over. Now she knows better: She knows it is never over, this horrid trek through the maze of life. She is beginning to doubt that there even is death, real death, the kind that puts an end to it all.

Not when she can still picture Tamri and Master Gallia still standing there before her, both of them very dead, yet taunting her with the words of another. Nothing ever ends. And she cannot escape this path through the convenience of death.