Author's Note: I finished and posted this chapter at 1:30 in the morning and I wasn't happy with the ending so I decided to change it. Just the last section has been updated.

Running From Shadows

"It was the classic 'recon' mission: get some info and knock off as many Imps as possible on the way…."

"Twelve versus Two-hundred—we actually felt sorry for the poor bastards…."

"…we turn the corner, and the look on that officer's face…remember, Jagger?"

"…and the sergeant here fired once and blam! —right through that fucking Imp's face…"

"Well, there's no point in wasting shots." Laughter.

"Entering Coruscant's atmosphere." The Seeker II's captain's announcement rang hollowly down the halls of the ship. A hush fell over the room where Amara sat with the Knights. Next to her, Striker continued to absently take apart and reassemble his sniper rifle—the soft snicks the room's heartbeat. Across the room, Jonathan was watching her. The universe was real and serious again. There were no more war stories that always seemed much funnier than they actually were. In the lull, she caught the emptiness of their eyes and the grim lines around the men's mouths that had been obscured by laughter. They had not always laughed at those stories—those triumphs.

And Amara understood why she gravitated toward them. They have seen death. They have raised their blaster, looked someone in the eye, and shot them.

The intercom crackled again: "Landing in approximately five minutes."

The courtroom of the newly created Galactic Criminal Court, apparently, had yet to be redecorated. The stark, gray space—functional to a fault—seemed to be the Empire's last stronghold, drawing in a final, struggling gasp: crisp, sharp, deadly. There were no windows, and the doors melted seamlessly into the walls. You were in prison before you were condemned, captured in a tiny box like a bug…and someone had forgotten to poke holes in the lid.

During the pretrial investigations, inquiries, and usual legal crap, the room had become Dr. Rave's second home, hollow, eerily quiet, but familiar. There were no photographers or journalists behind him in the rows of empty metal seats—their place was outside on the wide steps, living in the light of their flashbulbs and bright, artificial smiles like plants under a sunlamp. Behind a black lacquer table he sat with his lawyer, Mr. Carver Reynolds, a staunch supporter of the Empire who had somehow managed to slip through the cracks of justice. Beside them, behind an identical table, sat the Officer of Prosecution, his face grim as he scanned the datapad in front of him.

Dr. Rave allowed himself a little smile as he gazed up at the imposing, white judge's bench that towered over the room. The seat of God. Now, it was vacant. The three trial judges would not arrive for another ten minutes. I do not fear God. Behind the bench, the Imperial Seal was still visible, though obscured by paint and feeble attempts to sand it away.

"Don't worry about impressing the pretrial judges—those three are Rebels to the core—they'll find enough evidence to hold a trial," Carver said, leaning across the table in the Counsel Room, "It's the trial judges you have to worry about."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Why worry? I'm innocent."

"Right." Carver pressed a finger to his right temple and continued: "If we're lucky, Sakkar and Pealen will be on the bench. They'll sympathize with us. And Ccal is such a bleeding heart we could potentially get him to feel sorry for you."

"I only need two out of three. And the prosecutions got a weak argument as far as I can see: one witness, one holovid. My word against hers." A brief flash of shining green eyes filled his mind.

"Never hurts to be safe."

"Any way we can guarantee that 'safety.'"

"I have a few contacts in the GCC—I'll see if I can't sway that random placement of the judges in our favor."

And sway Carver Reynolds had. Sakkar and Pealen were trial judges. Lucius leaned back in his chair. Long live justice.

Next to him, Mr. Reynolds did not look as confident. "Remember, I would prefer you to keep the smirking to a minimum, Lucius. I doubt even Pealen would appreciate a smart ass."

Lucius immediately rearranged his features into a look of utter remorse and endless sorrow. Tears glittered at the corners of his insipid blue eyes. "Better?"

But Carver didn't get a chance to answer because the doors at the back of the room slid open, and a small procession entered the courtroom. Lucius turned to see the new arrivals.

There she is. Flanked by four Republic guards (who seemed a bit superfluous considering she was also surrounded by her twelve rescuers—all thankfully disarmed) was Number 314. She looked healthy—more alive than he remembered her in a simple sage dress that fell just below her knees—her long, black-brown hair was clean and pulled up in twist behind her head. A few curls framed her pale face, but her eyes had a fixed, empty stare. She did not look at him. Standing closely by her side, was a tall, eagle-eyed young man Dr. Rave vaguely remembered from the attack on IARF. He gripped 314's hand in a way that made Lucius' heart pang with…jealousy?

Silently (like a damn funeral procession), the group filed into the row of seats directly behind the prosecution. And he watched her. Watched as she sank onto her straight-backed chair. Watched the way her shoulders trembled as if a breeze had brushed the back of her slender neck. Watched the blue-eyed devil tenderly encircle one of her thin hands with both of his—saw her smile gratefully up into his face.

"Lucius." Carver tapped him on the shoulder. "It's starting."

Lucius forced himself to face the judges' bench. He could feel her there—just out of eyesight. I will get out. I will be freed, and then….

A door opened behind the bench, and an officer of the court, dressed in midnight blue with a red stripe around his left arm, solemnly entered. "All rise." Lucius stood. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Number 314 stand as well. "The Galactic Criminal Court is now in session."

Two elderly males and one female filed in all dressed in pure white. Only one was human. "The honorable judges Philean Sakkar, Richard Pealen, and Trill Kre'fey presiding," the court officer finished as the judges took their seats. Sakkar, a Twilek with a heavily ornamented headtail, sat in the center. The human, Pealen, sat on his right and had the look of a shriveled, bleached mummy. Trill Kre'fey, a Bothan with chestnut fur flecked with silver and the only woman, took the seat on Sakkar's left. "You may be seated."

Judge Sakkar turned his beady black eyes on Lucius and stated in a detached, faraway voice, "Dr. Lucius Rave, you are charged with crimes against humanity, with depraved, heinous acts against the sentient creatures of this galaxy. How do you plead?"

Determined, Dr. Rave stood, looked each judge square in the eye, and replied, "Not guilty."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Amara…"

"I'm fine."

"Amara, look at me," Jonathan ordered, hooking a finger beneath her chin and tipping her face up so that she couldn't hide her eyes. "You're anything but fine."

She sighed and jerked her head from his grasp. "I'm—dealing with it, okay? Now, I would like to be left alone if you don't mind, sergeant."

Jonathan's mouth thinned, and Amara felt a twinge of regret for her sharpness. "As you wish," he said and moved to leave, but she reached out and caught his arm, giving the muscle a gentle squeeze.

"Alone alone, Jonathan," she said, allowing affection to seep into her voice. A corner of his mouth quirked, and she smiled warmly in return.

His hand came up a brushed her cheek, sending a tiny trill down her spine. "Just don't wander too far." And then he was gone, leaving Amara alone in the middle her hotel room imagining what would have happened if Jonathan had leaned down and kissed her.

She felt eyes on the back of her neck. Amara snapped out of her daydream. The room was quiet. She was alone. He stared at me. Stared the whole time. The morning came rushing back to her—Dr. Rave, the judges, the opening arguments—driving away the light tingle left by Jonathan's hand.

Not guilty. Not guilty my ass. He stared. He looked sorry—SORRY! Amara punched her fist into the bland beige wall, ignoring the smart of her now-red knuckles. She could feel his eyes—the way he had devoured her when she entered the courtroom, the glances he snuck when no one was looking. His voice slid into her head: You will never escape me, 314. You belong to me. And when I am released, I will come claim you. The room seemed to constrict. She couldn't breath. I have to get out.

She ripped the hateful dress over her head and pulled the closest thing to jeans and a T-Shirt out of the dresser. Her hand brushed something cold and metal. Her hand closed around the blaster—a horribly familiar feeling—and she gingerly drew it from its hiding place beneath some hastily bought shirts. She fingered the trigger. Jonathan had given her the blaster right before they stepped off the Seeker II. "I want you to keep this on you wherever you go," he'd said, "Coruscant isn't always the friendliest of places." She hadn't wanted it, but he'd forced her to take it. Made her promise to have it with her whenever she went anywhere alone. She set the blaster on top of the dresser, and changed into the clothes she'd yanked from the drawer, wrapping the blaster's holster around her right thigh. But still she left the gun where it was.

I don't want it. With quick steps, she strode to the door, turned the handle…and looked back. The blaster lay where she left it, cold and deadly. I promised. Still, she hesitated. Don't be stupid—you don't know where you're going—just take the damn gun. Her mouth set, Amara retrieved the blaster and (carefully) shoved it into the holster before bolting from the room.

An enormous slug had fallen at her feet (And when you look up, they drop on you.), and for a moment, Amara feared that her shriek would attract more of the loathsome creatures that would of course be carnivorous. But after gathering enough courage to poke the one in front her with her boot, she decided that it was just a normal, disgusting, harmless slug. Stepping over it, she continued her exploration of Coruscant's lower levels: the abandoned and rotting homes and stores that formed the base of the city. Next time, I'll go up. She would have turned right around and gone back up the elevator that had clunked its way down, but she was not entirely sure that turning around would help. She was lost.

At least I'm not worrying about the trial anymore. Amara was beginning to realize that whenever she ran away from Dr. Rave in a blind fit of emotion, she ended up in a far worse situation. Bastard.

She jumped lightly over a piece of twisted durasteel, continuing down the remains of an elevated walkway. Her footsteps echoed strangely off the rusted metal beneath her feet. She looked up—catching a glimpse of darkening blue sky between the buildings overhead. It seemed miles and miles away. Night was falling. I wonder if they could hear me if a shouted.

Movement. She glimpsed something out of the corner of her eye. Amara's pace did not falter, but the hairs on her arms rose as she turned a corner, trying to find a place that wasn't so dark, someplace where there were…there are no people down here—everywhere is a dark alley. She was being followed. Her hand strayed to her blaster. Already what little light remained was fading.

Amara imagined the footsteps behind her quickening, and side stepped into a narrow passageway, moving swiftly down it into the blackest shadow and drawing her blaster as she did so. She couldn't see, but whoever it was was there—behind her.

She swiveled, pulled the trigger, and the red bolt briefly illuminated the T-shaped visor in front of her before she was slammed back into the wall with an arm crushing her throat and a blaster muzzle pressed to her temple. For endless seconds, her attacker said nothing. Stars began to flicker before her eyes. Then…

"You." The voice was emotionless, far from apologetic, but at least the pressure was removed from her throat, and the blaster was removed from her head (though not lowered).

"Amara." She coughed and rubbed her throat. She didn't holster her blaster either. "How…?"

The helmet nodded absently. "Holonet."

Amara shifted from foot to foot. The man was a mere step away—she was trapped. Unconsciously, she raised the blaster gripped tightly in her hand a fraction of an inch higher.

"Don't try it."

Then back off. Her fear was quickly dissolving into irritation at Mysterious Masked Man's glibness. I'm done with cages. "Who are you?" she asked, a knife blade from open hostility.

He looked taken aback, even lowered his blaster, but replied in his usual toneless voice: "Boba Fett."

Boba Fett…sounds familiar. Fuzzy memories from the movies surfaced at the back of her mind—she remembered him now. Didn't he get eaten? "And do you make a habit, Mr. Fett, of stalking young women and slamming them into walls?" she asked dryly.

"If I'm being paid."

Amara choked on a giggle and began coughing again. Boba Fett, male prostitute. When she could breath again, she asked, "Are you…?"

"We wouldn't be having this conversation if you were my merchandise," he interrupted, "I…mistook you for someone else."

Conversation? Merchandise? Amara pitied the woman he was shopping for. "Who?"

"That is not your concern," Fett replied tersely. They relapsed into uncomfortable silence. It was very dark now, and Amara had to strain to see the bounty hunter before her. She studied the scarred armor (Spartanesque) and the thingy sticking out of his back. Her eyes finally came to rest on the T-shaped visor. The helmet didn't hide everything—he seemed to be debating whether to leave her or stay. Curiosity (if it could be called that) apparently won out. "Tell me, what is the star witness in the GCC's newest trial doing alone and unprotected in the city's lower levels?"

'That is not your concern' immediately sprang to mind, but she was impressed that he had bothered to string more than five words together, so instead she replied: "I needed to get away from…everything." From him. From myself.

Fett inclined his head as if he had known what she would say and understood. "Does anyone know you're down here?"

For a split second, Amara considered lying, but she had a feeling Fett already knew the truth. "No."

"Smart."

You can leave anytime, bucko. But when he actually did move to leave, Amara took back her mental remark. It was dark. She was lost. She opened her mouth to speak, but Fett cut her off:

"Follow me."

Boba Fett was fast and silent—Amara had to trot to keep up with him. They wound there way through the maze of passages and buildings until her sense of direction was completely shot, but Fett was careful to keep her close.

"Does anyone live down here?" she whispered as they crossed what had once been a large room—a ballroom perhaps. He seemed to be trying to avoid something.

"Nothing you want to run into." Amara imagined she could see glittering eyes behind her and quickened her pace.

After a small eternity, Fett muttered, "Almost there." They ducked under an enormous fallen beam and came out into a clear space illuminated by a failing lamp. The telltale doors of an elevator flickered in the dim yellow light. Amara let out a sigh of relief and passed Fett to push the up-arrow button with relish. After a few rusty clanks, the elevator hummed to life. The car was coming down for her.

Amara turned to her savior with a grateful smile. "Thank you."

He shrugged. "I assume you can find your way from here?"

"I'll manage." The doors behind her opened with a cheery ping. She stepped eagerly into the elevator, but held the doors open and looked back at where the bounty hunter was still standing, hands clasped in front of him.

"Learn something?"

"Yes."

"Then one last piece of advice," Fett said, "Don't ever point a blaster at me again if you value your life."

Amara released the doors and watched them slide slowly closed. "Who said I did?"

Jonathan was sitting stiffly in an overstuffed armchair when she opened the door to her hotel room half an hour later. "Where have you been?" Amara flinched at the distance in his voice.

"I went for a walk."

"A seven hour walk?"

"I got lost." He didn't reply but turned accusing blue eyes on her. She took a tentative step forward. "I should have told you I know but…"

"But what?" Eyes flashing, he stood and closed the distance between them. "You can't just disappear for a few hours," he hissed, grasping her shoulders, "Do you have any idea what you're risking? Do you know what I…" Jonathan snapped his mouth shut and stepped back, letting his hands drop to his sides. His mouth thinned into a harsh line as he stared down at her. "You cannot disregard your…"

"My safety? My life?" Amara fought to keep her voice level—guilt was turning to anger, and exhausted as she was, Amara didn't stop to consider whom she was angry at. "Don't tell me how to live my life, Jonathan. Don't you dare try to…"

"Dammit, Amara," Jonathan cut her off, his voice raw, "I'm not trying to cage you, but if you don't get some things through that head of yours…"

"Exactly what 'things,' o-noble-protector?"

"You let Rave control you."

She almost slapped him—her hand was raised—but she let it drop to her side in a fist. Her head was pounding. How…dare…you. Her voice came from a hollow place in her soul, soft and harsh: "Get out."

But Jonathan gave no sign that he had even heard her furious whisper. "You let him in, Amara."

"Get out."

"You are selfish and blind..."

"Get out."

"…Clinging to a world that's…"

"My home."

"Open your eyes, Amara—see what's right in front of you…"

"Just shut up, Jonathan, you don't under—"

"There are people here who care about you, Amara…" He was yelling now.

"I didn't ask anyone to care," she shot back, "Get out now."

"…Who don't want you to kill yourself running away from a bastard who…"

"BUT I CAN'T STOP!" she screamed. Silence descended on the room. Amara concentrated on the wall over Jonathan's left shoulder—a paint-covered crack ran down it. She couldn't meet his eyes, but she could see him: a towering shape at the edge of her vision. I can't stop. I don't want to stop and think and know…

"You have to," he said, reading her fears as they flitted across her face.

I stop and close my eyes and see him, them…How much longer? Ever since she'd been rescued, she'd felt this moment building up inside of her—it was a cancer, a need to run and never stop. I let Jonathan get too close—I shouldn't have…I can't…How much longer will I see him? Everything ends when I…

"Amara, stop." She was shaking uncontrollably. She couldn't hear him. "Stop," Jonathan repeated and took a step forward, wrapping his arms around her slender body. Amara leaned her head and hands against his chest. The tension in her body ebbed away as he held her. "Stop."

I lied. I'm nuts. But in the circle of Jonathan's arms, everything was all right, and she silenced the part of her mind that was whimpering: It's a trap—don't trust him, don't love him—he'll be gone. Her panic attack subsided, and she was both grateful and a little ashamed that Jonathan was holding her up. She had lost control. And he had seen. "I'm sorry," she mumbled into his shirt.

He gave her a gentle squeeze, and she could feel Jonathan's smile as he briefly pressed his lips to her hair. "Just remember, I can always slip a tracking device under your skin."

Amara sniffed and smiled, realizing for the first time that she'd been crying. Jonathan rested his chin on the top of her head, still holding her close. She was happy standing there, hidden from the world, but the tightness in her chest was still there, waiting. I'll run again. And, next time, will I stop?