Shortly after the Sixth Sister deigned to leave Leia alone, the door opened again. She spun on her heel, lit lightsaber whipping around with the motion, ready to throw again. . . then she saw who was in the doorway, and stopped just in time.

Her father just crossed his arms and gave her a look.

"What do you want?" she snapped, irritated—with him, with herself, with the entire blasted galaxy, she didn't know. It made her antsy.

It made her especially antsy that she'd been so absorbed in her own emotions that she hadn't sensed the dark bonfire of her father's presence before he made himself known.

She was supposed to have better control than that.

Vader remained unimpressed by the anger. Of course he did: he probably had that much, and more to spare. "I could sense your frustration during the board meeting."

"Please, like you're never frustrated during them," she bit back. She knew, logically, that none of this—well, not all of this—was her father's fault, but she was angry and he was an available target. "At least you can strangle someone without worrying about the political repercussions."

"You know that your brother does not like it when I 'strangle' people, as you so put it."

"He doesn't like it for minor things. When they're being annoying he understands completely."

"I concede the point." Vader uncrossed his arms. "But I sense an unusual amount of frustration from you, and it has only increased since you left the meeting."

The worry was implicit in the words, evident only to one who knew to look, but it warmed her all the same, despite her lingering resentment towards him over. . . everything.

He was her father. She wanted to trust him.

So she let out a sharp sigh. "I assume you heard about Governor Vilrein and Tarkin."

"Indeed. Such political machinations are typical between the governors and other elite."

"We installed Vilrein because she was competent."

"And Tarkin deposed her because he was influential. This galaxy runs on power, not competence."

"And I hate it." Leia stared at the tip of her lightsaber. Her arm couldn't stop bouncing, restless as she was; she drew small red circles on the air. "How are we to get results if the people muscling their way into positions of power don't know what they're doing? What's the point of. . . this," she gestured around the room with her saber, the walls and floor marked with years and years of hardcore training, "if Tarkin just waltzes in to take positions from someone more suited to it than him?"

"Governor Tarkin has his skills."

"Yeah, and they lie in mass slaughter and other brutal military tactics. He can crush revolution. He can't build anything."

She waited for her father to disagree. He never did.

"The galaxy is corrupt," he said. Leia rolled her eyes—she did not want to hear another people are inherently greedy and selfish speech from him right now—but he surprised her. "There are corrupt people in power right now. Soon, you will be in a position of power yourself, and you will be able to change that."

The coup. His coup. Her father was always going on about his coup, how everything would be better once they carried it out, but he hadn't shared any details with them yet. Leia hadn't pressed, and nor had Luke—the incident after Tatooine had almost shattered his faith in their father entirely—but so far Vader was all talk and no action.

And that was exactly what he always accused the politicians of being.

"Yeah, well." She felt very cold and alone, all of a sudden. She extinguished her lightsaber and hugged herself, glancing down. "I didn't feel very powerful in there."

Vader stepped forward and gently tilted her head up to meet his eyes.

"You are powerful," he told her. "If those governors refuse to acknowledge it, that is their own foolishness. In a few short years, you will hold their lives in the palm of your hand, and they will regret not respecting you when they had the chance."

Leia didn't want to think that she might still care at that point—they were only petty politicians, after all, and barely worth her notice—but the part of her that was her father's daughter felt a vindictive pleasure at the thought. They'd feel her revenge for how they treated her—

"You could even dissolve the governors altogether, if you wanted, and replace them with something else. Erase all power they could possibly have had."

The words struck a chord in her. Dissolve the governors.

Replace them with something else.

"What would I replace them with?" she asked, then scoffed, "The Imperial Senate?" They both knew Palpatine's upcoming plans to be rid of it, and instead only strengthen the governors' control.

Her father's voice was amused. "If you think that would work better. The bureaucracy and petty squabbling would certainly make it easier for you to get your own way every time, rather than haggling with men who consider themselves greater than they are."

She nodded, barely listening anymore. The idea. . . wasn't a bad one.

She filed it away for later reference. She had a great many things she wanted to change once she became Empress; dealing with the corrupt representatives was only one of many issues on the table.

You'd better get on with that coup, then, she commented to her father mentally, taking a step back and watching his hand fall back to his side.

She turned around, drew her lightsaber again and went back to her exercises.

We will get on with it as soon as your brother returns, her father said pointedly. She turned back around, her lightsaber poised over her head, to see him with his own saber drawn and pointed at her. I have much I need to discuss with you.

She grinned, and assumed a ready stance herself. Her poor mood from earlier had all but evaporated.

Bring it on.

The ship that scooped them out of dead space did not do so gently, or with any great care. Luke was picked up last, and treated to the sight of Wren, Biggs and Wedge all bound and kneeling in the hold, stormtroopers holding blasters to their heads.

The moment Luke himself emerged from the TIE, he was seized and given the same generous treatment. As the binders bit into his skin he familiarised himself with the workings of them, the mechanics of the lock, and pressed the Force against them like a trigger ready to be ignited at any moment. He didn't know whether or not these stormtroopers would try to hurt him, a perceived defector, and he needed to be careful.

They had orders to ensure none of them were harmed—Pryce, if no one else, knew who he was, and what the consequences could be if he was injured—but this wouldn't be the first time troopers disobeyed such orders. Especially if they felt personally slighted by it.

"On your knees!" a trooper barked, standing back to conveniently make a space for him right next to Biggs. He gritted his teeth, set his shoulders and knelt. He could sense Wedge, Biggs and Hobbie as a ball of nerves right next to him; Wren was just as apprehensive, but better at hiding it.

Luke tilted his head back to look right down the barrel of the blaster pointed at him. He wondered what the stormtrooper would think if he realised he was threatening Luke Skywalker, second in line to the Imperial throne, son of Darth Vader, future Commander of the Navy—

Nothing, probably.

The name Luke Skywalker would mean nothing to him.

It certainly seemed to mean nothing to his father.

He lowered his head again.

"Darred?" Biggs hissed beside him. He got a blaster butt to the head for talking, but he persisted: "Darred, are you alright?"

Of course he wasn't alright—Biggs knew that. But apparently some of his emotions had leaked onto his face. He'd need to fix that.

Most of all, though, he realised that Biggs genuinely cared.

He hadn't spoken to the man much. Mainly Luke's plan had been to befriend Wedge, and root out the defectors through him. But he had seen Biggs around the academy, smiled at him, joked with him. Biggs was just a decent person a few years older than Luke, who saw a seventeen-year-old afraid for his life, and had the nobility to push his own fear aside to comfort him.

And Luke was going to turn him in. Have him executed.

He's a Rebel.

He's a traitor.

The word meant less to him, now.

He could no longer separate traitor from family.

The ship shuddered as they entered the atmosphere. After that it was just a short, inexorable stretch before they were touching down in the hangar, the landing ramp hissed and descended, and they were being forced to their feet.

Governor Pryce, Agent Kallus and Instructor Goran stood in a row outside, their sharp eyes watching the troopers frogmarch them down the ramp. Luke met Pryce's eye very briefly and gave the smallest of nods. She made no response, but he sensed that she'd seen it—and was beyond satisfied with the results of his work.

"Take them to individual cells and process them," she ordered, her spine straightening a little as she gave the order. He felt her pleasure at the thought of the coming interrogation, and his opinion of her dropped. "We shall find out which of you was the Rebel agent soon enough, and then I shall have so many. . . specific. . . questions for that person."

Everyone pointedly tried not to look at Wren.

Pryce waved her hand. "Stun them all."

To further confuse them when they awoke in a cell, without the faintest clue where they were. Luke was familiar with the trick, and certainly didn't want it happening to him. He yanked on the Force and the binders fell open.

He didn't waste a moment: he rolled to the side and ducked. His companions slumped to the ground, unconscious, but his stun blast missed him; he wrenched the blaster out of the trooper's grip and turned, already prepared to duck if one of the others took a shot at him—

"Halt," Pryce ordered.

She took several steps forward, until she was standing right in front of him, and ran an assessing eye from his head to his toes.

"I must admit that you did well, agent. You are certain that those are all the Rebel sympathisers in this academy?"

Luke felt the shock of the troopers around them. It amused him—the only thing about this situation that did—and so that was why he smiled when he said, "Yes."

"Which was the Rebel infiltrator?"

"Ria Talla. She's Sabine Wren, a member of Phoenix Squadron. One of the Rebels in your own sector, I believe?"

More shock at the fact he didn't address her as governor, as well as the dig, but he ignored it. Pryce was still looking at him with something close to approval.

"Indeed. I will make a note to mention your skilled performance when I make my report," she said. Oh, now she knew how to suck up to future powers in the Empire. Leia would be both reassured and disgusted by her. "I am sure your father is proud to have a son like you."

I'm not ashamed of you.

I'm incredibly, incredibly proud of you.

Luke frowned. Clearly not proud enough to trust them with the truth.

He didn't respond to Pryce's comment. He was sure his response had been noted, and analysed, but he didn't care. He just walked away before being dismissed, the third sign of disrespect in as many minutes that left the troopers reeling.

He went back to his dormitory at first. He needed to collect his things; he'd be leaving soon. His job here was done.

He packed up all his meagre belongings—he'd barely brought anything, just outfits in various shades of black to wear when he wasn't in his uniform—and lay on the bunk for a while, staring at the ceiling. He tried to let his mind wander, but everything in him seemed focused on three room, three cells, a few floors below him.

Biggs was pacing his cell, his terror stark and multiplying. Hobbie was still unconscious. Wedge was marginally calmer, but that was because he seemed to be sitting or standing in one particular place, clamping down on his emotions with an iron fist.

Wren seemed to be fist-fighting Pryce—how had the governor managed to get herself in that situation?—and winning.

That wasn't what he kept cycling back to.

Wedge and Biggs—Force, Hobbie as well—were decent people. They just didn't want to fire on unarmed transports. Did he really think they deserved this?

Well, no. But orders were orders. And it wasn't like he could change it anyway.

He let out a sigh, then swung his legs off the bunk and stood up.

Perhaps he couldn't change it.

Perhaps.

But there was one thing he definitely couldn't do, and that was stand by and watch.

Leia returned to the apartment by herself after her sparring match with Vader—he was busy. He was always busy.

And Luke was still away.

Idly, instinctively, she reached along that bond again. The emptiness hit her harder every time.

She needed someone to talk to. Her father's words and her problems with the governors had given her too much to think about; she needed to. . . vent. . . to someone willing to listen. She needed ideas for what to do.

What could she replace the governors with?

She knew it was insane. She knew it was reckless.

The datachip holding Tsabin's contact information seemed to burn a hole in her pocket anyway.

The corridors blurred into each other, but Luke just walked quickly, back straight. He didn't have the TIE pilot's helmet most cadets carried throughout the halls, but if anyone noticed or objected to that, a slight nudge in the Force caused them to forget it a moment later.

The detention area was only lightly guarded—it wasn't like an academy had much use for cells, except in extreme cases—so after a moment's hesitation, Luke just mind-tricked his way past the few guards who were there. He could sense Biggs, Wedge and Hobbie's cells ahead, as well as Wren and Pryce's ongoing fight a few doors down. Hobbie's was the first he arrived at.

He paused in front of the cell door. His finger hovered over the release.

What was he doing?

He hadn't even switched off or destroyed the holocams. They were monitoring his every move; if this got back to Palpatine, he'd either kill Luke for his disloyalty, or take him apart piece by piece and put him back together into something that was Luke no longer.

He'd seen him do it to Inquisitors, after all. And what was Luke but a glorified Inquisitor?

This was so, so reckless. He knew the risks.

He knew the risks, he thought grimly as he thumbed the keypad, and he chose to take them.

Hobbie lay half-conscious on the floor; apparently the troopers who'd dumped him in here hadn't even bothered to drag him onto the bunk in the corner. He stirred briefly as the light fell across his face. "What—"

Luke cast his senses out. No one nearby, no one to hit lock on the door if he walked in to help him out; he was safe. And if he did get locked in, he could unlock it through the Force.

Still, his steps were urgent and hurried as he descended the steps and got one of Hobbie's arms around his shoulder.

". . .Darred?" Hobbie slurred, but he was more awake now. "Did you escape?"

"Yes," Luke lied. "The stun blast wore off pretty quickly, I managed to get away from the troopers."

After a moment's thought, he realised he couldn't explain the fact that the guards to the detention level were still awake. So naturally he reached out, got a feel for their individual consciousnesses, then knocked them out through the Force.

"Let's go. We need to hurry."

Hobbie was awake enough to walk on his own by the time they reached Wedge's cell. Wedge was more alert, and jumped at the opportunity to escape; thankfully, he didn't even question how they'd done it. Luke didn't have an in-depth explanation yet himself.

Biggs remained calm. He seemed sceptical, even concerned—Luke supposed growing up on a lawless dustball like Tatooine would breed a natural suspicion, and he wondered briefly if he'd be like that if his father hadn't found him—but wasn't one to turn down an opportunity when he saw it.

Luke felt it when Governor Pryce was knocked out. They kept running, and ran right into Wren.

"Hey," he said, cheeks pink and panting slightly. She'd clearly just been fighting. Her fingers were curled around the grip of a trooper's blaster. "You got out?"

Wedge nodded. "Darred escaped the guards and came looking for us."

"How'd you know what cells to look in?"

Luke shrugged, and hoped the gesture didn't betray his nervousness. "I. . . didn't. I opened a few wrong doors at first, then guessed."

"You were pretty quick if you spent all that time opening doors. Good guesses."

He shrugged again. The back of his neck was damp with sweat. "I guess I got lucky."

He could sense her suspicion, still, but it wasn't negative. It was more like. . . she was impressed. She suspected there was more to him—Jedi-like reflexes and intuition and all—but she still believed him a genuine sympathiser.

Rebels. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Even the ex-Imperials were far too trusting.

And speaking of reflexes—

"Look out!" Luke grabbed Wedge and dived to the side as a crimson blaster bolt streaked down the corridor. He watched the trooper advance. . . then retreat again as Wren took aim at them, her precision deadly.

She had good aim; he had to give her that.

"Other way, let's go!"

They hurtled around a corner, the troopers in hot pursuit. Luke could already see Wedge, Biggs and Hobbie beginning to tire—they clearly weren't used to running so much after a stun blast—but they needed to push on. They needed to—

The thought brought him up short.

What?

How were they going to escape?

Getting to the hangars was the obvious answer; if they played it right, and flew well enough, they could escape. But Luke couldn't.

He needed to go back to Coruscant—he needed to go back to his father. And Leia.

He needed to tell her that she was right. That maybe these Rebels had something to them after all.

And he couldn't do that if he fled with the Rebellion. Even if that could mean finally meeting Amidala, finally meeting—

Maybe finally meeting his mother.

What had she thought, all these years her offspring had fought against everything she stood for?

What would she think of this?

The troopers were gaining again. Luke stopped in the middle of the corridor.

"Darred, what are you doing—"

Luke flung out his hands and the troopers were blasted back. The door closed across the corridor without anyone pushing the button.

He turned back to his companions. Wren was gaping at him.

"You're a J—"

"Not exactly," he said quietly. A flick of his finger, and the door on the other end of the corridor closed as well.

"'Not exactly'? Who else is there?"

Luke's snarky side was tempted to point out Ahsoka Tano, but Wren didn't need any further prompting. She was staring at him, at his eyes, his fingers. One of her hands curled around her bicep, her arm across her chest; it had suddenly become extremely cold in here.

She snarled at him, "Demon."

"Sabine?" Wedge asked, looking from one to the other. "Darred? What's going on?"

Luke ignored him, and kept his gaze fixed on Wren.

"Avoid levels three through five," he told her. He could sense the activity of the academy, like buzzing spots of light around his head. "Hangar twenty-four is your best possibility."

Another press of the Force, and one of the doors opened again.

"Why should I trust you?" she spat. The blaster was levelled at him now. "You're an Imperial, you're—"

"I know exactly who I am," he said coolly. "If I wanted you dead, I would have left you to Pryce. Now, I suggest you get moving, before she manages to catch up with you."

Reluctantly, Wren lowered the blaster. She jerked her head at Biggs, Wedge, Hobbie, and they followed her down the corridor, casting questioning looks as each other and Luke.

"Oh," Luke called after them. "And tell Amidala," he took a breath, his gaze unwittingly shifting to Biggs, then took the jump, "that Luke Skywalker sends his regards."

He ignored the shock in the Force, and instead shut the door again. He was still facing in that direction when the one he'd just come through opened.

He jumped, whirling around, his hand out.

"Don't," Kallus said. "I'm not going to hurt you." He surveyed Luke for a moment. "I. . . wasn't aware that the Rebellion had more than one of us here."

More than one of us here. . .

Luke wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. Kallus had just admitted to him that he was a Rebel agent. He might even be the Fulcrum agent who'd told the Rebellion about the defectors in the first place.

And he thought Luke was a Fulcrum agent as well.

He didn't say anything, but Kallus was already turning away.

"I'll doctor the recordings," he said. "I suggest you get out of here quickly, before Pryce looks too closely at the reasons for their escape."

Luke watched him go.

The Rebels escaped. Barely, but they escaped. Later on, Luke would board a shuttle back to Coruscant, accompanied by a furious Governor Pryce who would not shut up about how this wasn't a show of her incompetence.

Luke didn't care.

He had more important things to think about.

A Togruta female and a human female stood alone in a briefing room. The holoprojector was turned off, the lights dimmed. The only sound was the whirring of the machinery around them.

The lights came on briefly when a dark-haired young man from a planet the human female had once sent all her hopes to walked in. He gave his report.

There was silence for a moment.

"You're sure he said Luke Skywalker?" the Togruta asked.

The man nodded. "Absolutely, ma'am." He hesitated, eyes flicking to the woman. "If I may ask. . ."

The woman didn't miss a beat. "What is it, Lieutenant Darklighter?"

"This Skywalker. Why is the name so important?"

"To me or to you?"

The man responded, "It's not important to me, just. . . familiar."

The woman and the Togruta exchanged a glance.

The Togruta stepped forward, her two lightsabers swinging on her belt. "Luke Skywalker's name is important because he shouldn't know it. As far as we knew, both he and his sister were unaware of the full truth of who they are."

"And who are they?"

No reply.

Darklighter answered his own question. "They're the twins who vanished from Tatooine ten years ago, aren't they? Why are they working for the Empire?"

The woman was staring at nothing, lost in thought. The Togruta lay a hand on her shoulder.

"I think, Lieutenant Darklighter," she said quietly, "you'll find out soon enough."