A/N: I wrote this bit of chapter a while back, but then never managed to get back to it. Originally I planned to write more, but at this point I think it stands better on its own. Hopefully I'll have another update soon.
Interlude: Skywalker
He is the enemy.
In their eyes. In everyone's eyes.
He's known this for a while now, he's accepted this for a while now, but sometimes he sees the corpse's face in dreams, and-
…he is the enemy in his own eyes too.
And he doesn't even know who she is, but his heart hurts when he thinks of what her looks might imply…
He awakens bathed in the sweat of someone who has something to lose, and has seen its loss play out in excruciating, vivid detail behind the gauze of a normal dream…and he doesn't even know who she is, but for the first time in years he feels guilty.
His mother the force tells him, but like always the stray thought is pushed aside. He knows he has no mother. He is a product of the force itself, and like the test-tubed clones he has never been in a woman's womb.
He is the chosen one, isn't he? Isn't he?
But he won't let himself go down that path of questioning. He can't.
Questioning his birth is dangerous.
It would ultimately lead to the questioning of semantics he can tell he isn't yet ready to face.
So instead when his meal is delivered by a bumbling fool of a stormtrooper who spills soup in his lap, he practices his chokehold.
He smiles as the man's corpse slides onto his bed.
Perhaps it was childish, but there was nothing that made him feel better than an effortless and pointless kill.
The snuffing of a force signature. The unraveling of endless threads.
It was intoxicating.
It was the power to control destiny.
It was the power to control the Force, and bend it to his will.
He got up and got dressed quickly.
Today was looking to be a long day, and not just because he was gonna need a better explanation than spilt soup to justify the body lying awkwardly across his bed.