Thank you all so much for the reviews! And GALAXY, I keep forgetting to answer your question, sorry - I don't mind taking requests once in a while, but I don't make any guarantees on writing them within any reasonable amount of time, lol. Remember that it took me years to write this story, which had started out as a oneshot request.
Sorry for any typos; I started writing this and just couldn't stop, but now I'm exhausted, lol, so I barely edited it. Enjoy! :)
The city lights made the buildings glow, though none as brightly as the palace itself. The air was humid and warm, and a slight breeze brought some relief. Tarkin crossed his arms, waiting at one of the palace's many hangars. He was rather worn out from his day with Vader, so he really didn't dedicate his time to thinking about how to manipulate the gala to his favor. Instead, he rested against the wall, gazing out at the city and letting himself just not think about anything in particular. His mind eventually wandered to the incident of the Jedi in the lower levels; Intelligence still was showing no sign of the Jedi apart from the feed that indicated a Jedi might have been in the alley where the strike team attacked. Tarkin was still unnerved that a Jedi had managed to get to Imperial Center, and that it had most likely been the aide his spy had fought. It was no wonder she'd had a hard time.
Tarkin heard the door to the hangar open and he stood straight, turning to face the entrance. Darth Vader and his spy were walking towards him, both dressed in formal attire for the event. Vader wore a black shirt under a black sleeveless tunic that reached his knees, black pants and shoes, and a long dark cape that flowed all the way to the floor. As was typical for Core World formal attire, he also wore gloves. Tarkin dully wondered if the man ever wore anything apart from black, but he pushed the thought aside. His spy wore a green strapless gown encrusted with silver jewels in the bodice. She wore a green choker, which had silk attached to it, flowing down and around her like a cape, and white elbow length gloves. Her long straight black hair was in a bun, and her small eyes immediately locked onto the grand moff as they approached. Both bowed to Tarkin, one from the waist and the other from the neck.
"I see you two have made your arrangements," Tarkin said, noting the defining mark on their foreheads; both Vader and his spy had painted the same calligraphy in High Galactic, as was tradition for married couples on Eriadu. The mark was small, but noticeable enough; the calligraphy was intricate and resembled a circle with a line through it. The word, barely legible due to its miniscule size, was rruthia, which was High Galactic for union. All married individuals on Eriadu typically wore the mark, especially for formal events, but Tarkin often forewent the tradition since he rarely saw his wife and those outside of his planet wouldn't understand the ritual, anyway. For a couple fresh from Eriadu, however, it would be automatic to wear the mark; the two had put enough consideration into their cover stories, then. Good.
"We're quite excited to go, dear cousin," his spy replied, smiling cheerfully. Tarkin marveled at the woman's ability to slip into an alias. When he directed his attention to Vader, he saw the young Sith glance at his "wife" and look to the grand moff expectantly, silently asking if they were going to leave now.
"Yes, you seem to be," Tarkin remarked dryly, raising an eyebrow at Vader. The boy needed to get into his role now, not at the gala.
Vader looked hesitantly at the spy once more and then his eyes locked with Tarkin's, almost pleadingly. He didn't like this. Tarkin hardened his gaze. He didn't care.
The young Sith's eyes flashed and then his face grew unreadable. He took a deep breath and nodded. "We're ready when you are, cousin."
The grand moff immediately recognized that Vader had changed his accent to match Palpatine's and his own. He hadn't heard the boy speak in a Coruscanti accent in a few years, so it was almost jarring to hear it. It used to be the boy's native accent, but when he was a teenager (blast, he was still a teenager) he'd switched to a general Basic accent – it allowed him more flexibility in conversations with others since they wouldn't automatically know where he was from; anyone who learned Basic as a second language spoke with a general accent, and even those whose native tongue was Basic would often have it as well. A Coruscanti accent, on the other hand, denoted good breeding and education, and it was often used with different variations by the natives of a handful of Core Worlds, especially Imperial Center.
Tarkin looked at his spy, and she offered a miniscule nod; she'd take care of Vader so Tarkin wouldn't have to babysit him. The grand moff then nodded and motioned towards a shuttle that had been waiting for them. The three boarded and sat, facing each other. The shuttle then departed, heading towards the gala. Tarkin examined his 'relatives' once more; his spy watched the city lights, her face steadily softening in quiet amazement, like any other newcomer. Vader, on the other hand, sat with his eyes closed, and his muscles relaxed save for the occasional twitch of his hands. The grand moff decided not to say anything; it wouldn't surprise anyone if Vader and his wife seemed distant from each other, so he wouldn't insist on any sort of behavioral change unless Vader grew too stand offish. He just hoped the Sith apprentice could maintain the façade of someone fresh from Eriadu; most members of Tarkin's family had some degree of military and political training, so it should be a relatively easy role for Vader to fill, but he was also a young aristocrat, so there were certain expectations he'd have to fulfill, especially at a social event. Vader had never been one for small talk, and in situations like this, it was all about the small talk and what someone could infuse into it. This night was a lesson on subtlety; hopefully the boy would catch on to it.
The gala was being held near the Senate District in some expensive venue that Tarkin had never been to. The landing pad was relatively large, and as the three disembarked Tarkin glanced around the area. Golden and blue carpeting led from the pad to a cavernous hallway flanked by curved pillars leading outdoors. After walking in the windy hallway for some time, they climbed a spiral staircase, which led to a large foyer filled with intricate paintings, floating chandeliers, a plethora of flora flanking the walls, and burly security guards standing at the opposite end of the room, allowing a line of guests in after they ensured the guests were on the invitation list. Tarkin heard music playing in the room beyond the foyer and he took the lead, watching as the couple followed behind him. Vader held his left hand out to his side just below shoulder height, palm facing the floor. The spy rested her gloved hand atop his, as was customary for couples in the Core Worlds – most physical contact, certainly amongst strangers, was frowned upon in upper circles, a habit that trickled down to most citizens of Imperial Center due to its high population density; familiarity, therefore, was often deduced simply by how two people physically interacted with one another. Since Vader and Tarkin's spy were technically married for this cover story, the two were allowed to touch, though it was in a stiffly formal manner due to the setting. Tarkin had a suspicion that Vader was secretly grateful for that.
The grand moff presented his invitation to the guards and indicated that Vader and his spy were relatives and his guests. The guards examined the couple, and one of them stepped forward in a slightly threatening manner, simply to show his superiority. His spy, who he quickly learned was named Mya Tarkin (since she introduced herself that way) for this mission, shrank closer to her husband, nervous. Her husband, however, stood tall and even stiffened at the threatening gesture, narrowing his eyes in a warning. Tarkin prayed the boy would keep it together; these guards were simply grunts and were sizing him up. He didn't need to make himself a threat in this scenario.
After a few tense seconds the guards allowed them to pass, though Vader's eyes burned through the one who had approached him. Tarkin released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and they finally reached the event. The gala was taking place in a large ballroom. Monumental semicircular windows lined both walls, providing a panoramic view of the city. Tables were scattered throughout most of the room, though there was space reserved for a dance floor and a stage with a band at the far end of the room. Tarkin immediately recognized many senators and a handful of military officials who he'd 'befriended' over the past few weeks. One, Grand Admiral Ran, saw the grand moff and approached him with a broad smile. The man was in charge of several systems' worth of fleets in the western Outer Rim, which had been quite the hotspot for Rebel activity before the Alliance had been trampled into nothingness. As such, the man commanded many fleets and was a force to be reckoned with… and he was in Tarkin's pocket. Most importantly, though, he had been recently promoted and therefore had never met Darth Vader.
"Grand Moff Tarkin," he acknowledged with a simple nod, being of equal rank. "I didn't expect to see you here this evening."
"I surprised myself," Tarkin replied with a nod in return. "I figured I could show my cousin the best Imperial Center has to offer. May I present to you Nydo Tarkin and his wife, Mya."
Vader and his spy stepped forward slightly and bowed from the waist, showing due respect to a superior. The grand admiral smiled and tipped his head in acknowledgement. "Well, more Tarkins grace Imperial Center. I'm pleased to meet anyone who is part of that esteemed family. Is this your first time here?"
Tarkin's spy allowed Vader a few seconds to answer, and the boy rose to the challenge. Softening his face, Vader said, "Yes."
And that was it.
"It's a beautiful city," the spy quickly added with a smile. "I've never seen such amazing architecture – and such a vast skyline!"
"It really does take your breath away," the grand admiral acknowledged politely. Tarkin glared at Vader outside of the grand admiral's view, urging him to act kriffing normal.
The boy noticed his scrutiny and piped in. "How are affairs in your sector, grand admiral?"
The officer shrugged. "Quiet, thankfully. With the Alliance destroyed there isn't much for me to worry about anymore. But military affairs are boring for a night such as this. Tell me, Nydo: what do you do?"
Oh, this would be interesting.
"I command the Besh Company of the Eriadu militia." Vader answered automatically, adding, "Military affairs are never boring."
"Ah, a fellow officer," the grand admiral acknowledged, obviously pleased with the news. "Any family that raises its members in the military is obviously a good, strong family. I'm constantly impressed by the Tarkin clan. What's your rank?"
"Captain."
"So where's my salute, captain?" Ran asked wryly, clearly enjoying his superiority over Vader.
The Sith Lord hesitated for an instant before offering the salute automatically. "Sorry, sir."
"You're excused, captain," Ran replied cheerfully. "I'm sure the city's overwhelming you, as it is. Eriadu isn't much compared to Imperial Center."
An awkward pause followed. Vader didn't take the bait, watching the grand admiral. Tarkin bit his tongue in an attempt to prevent himself from groaning.
"I take it you're a native to this city, then?" his spy asked, rescuing them all from the sudden halt in the conversation.
"Yes," Ran nodded. "I've lived here all my life. Best city in the galaxy."
"It certainly seems to be," she acknowledged and then looked at Vader. "Don't you think so, dear?"
Vader looked at the spy and nodded.
Speak, idiot. Tarkin nearly hissed through his clenched teeth, but he was fairly certain the boy somehow heard him… or sensed his frustration.
"Yes, it's… useful." He remarked.
"Useful?" Ran repeated politely, questioning him further.
Tarkin clasped his hands behind his back, trying to make his smile not look strained.
"Yes, useful," Vader said slightly louder, as if Ran had only repeated it because he hadn't heard him.
"You'll have to forgive him; he hasn't been exposed to much outside of military encampments," Tarkin finally stepped in. "His wife has seen more travel than he."
Ran chuckled. "I see. Well, I hope you all enjoy the gala. It was a pleasure to meet you."
Vader and Tarkin's spy bowed and Tarkin nodded as the man left. Then he turned to the Sith apprentice. "Milord, you have to act normal. That includes small talk."
"What's the objective of this mission?" Vader asked softly. "What am I trying to glean from these people?"
"You're trying to convince them that you are who I say you are," Tarkin answered, exasperated. "If you can manage that, I'll consider it a miracle."
Vader let out a small sigh through his nose, clearly growing frustrated. "They expect pointless, inane chatter from me. I don't do that."
"You're correct; you don't do small talk," Tarkin noted pointedly. "But my cousin does."
Vader's lip curled slightly in distaste before his face grew unreadable again. Tarkin, too exhausted from dealing with the man all day, didn't bother helping him any further. Instead, he motioned to his spy. "Ask your wife about blending in. I'm going to get some refreshments and mingle on my own."
At that, the grand moff left, relieved to not have to babysit the Sith Lord… though his stomach still churned with anxiety. Vader had better do what he was supposed to.
The air was chilly, and the wind tore through his robes and straight to his bones. The trees rustled in the breeze, and the babbling brook was the only other sound apart from a gentle hiss of nighttime insects.
Another breeze, harsher than before, made him shiver, and he squeezed his eyes closed, tightening his grip on his knees as he sat cross legged on the grass. Obi-Wan had been training with Siri earlier when she'd finally called it a night, exhausted. They hadn't done their evening meditation yet, but Siri had been too tired to bother, and Obi-Wan was still trying to do it. Without Qui-Gon's guidance, he had a hard time entering meditation. He could sense everything around him, but he couldn't focus on it; whenever he tried, it would slip between his fingers like water. The Force was ever flowing, and Obi-Wan was just lost in the midst of it, trying to grasp something that he still didn't understand.
Sighing heavily, Obi-Wan stood and walked towards the brook. It was after midnight; most of the initiates were asleep. The training grounds were abandoned. As Obi-Wan sat beside the brook and gazed into the flowing water, he tried to figure out how he was supposed to do this. How he was supposed to do any of it. The longer he stayed on Ghanu'jivo, the stranger he felt. He felt safe with the Jedi, yet he felt cut off from the galaxy. He liked being isolated from the galaxy, yet he knew he couldn't run from all the problems he'd left behind. He wanted to rejoin the Rebels, yet he couldn't face the reality of who wouldn't be there. He missed his family, yet he knew they were safer away from him. He loved feeling the Force around him, yet he hated combat training. He loved that he and Siri could connect in deeper ways, yet he worried about her all the more whenever he saw her pick up a training saber. He loved his wife, yet he couldn't be attached to her. He was scared he wouldn't find the balance between love and attachment.
He was just scared in general. And he knew he shouldn't be.
There is no emotion; there is peace. He shouldn't be afraid. He should just do what he had to do and let everything else take care of itself, let the Force take care of it. Do or do not. There is no try. That was another popular teaching among the Jedi, apparently, and it dug into him, demanding perfection. You either succeeded or you failed. Or perhaps he should look at it in another manner altogether.
"There is no emotion," he whispered to himself, dipping his fingertips into the brook as he contemplated the words. They were so simple, but they meant so much; to not have emotion… to not allow oneself to feel anything… it was a massive commitment they were undertaking, and they'd just thrown themselves into it so quickly. Padmé had barely been gone for a week and they were already on Ghanu'jivo casting their old lives away and donning Jedi robes. He wasn't sure if it was the right decision, but he wasn't really sure there was a better one. He wasn't even sure if he regretted it.
He wasn't sure of anything anymore.
At least Qui-Gon was helpful and reassuring. The man's calming presence soothed Obi-Wan's rattled nerves, and his maverick nature appealed to Siri, so they all got along well. Qui-Gon was largely responsible for their relatively smooth transition into their training.
No emotion… there is no emotion… those words were bugging him, nagging at something in the back of his mind, some distant memory that he couldn't quite grasp. It had bothered him earlier when Qui-Gon had asked about Darth Vader. Obi-Wan had hesitated, he'd allowed Siri to dictate what would and wouldn't be said, but he still wasn't sure if she'd been right. Padmé's feelings for Darth Vader may have been a blight on her good judgment, but they had to signify something; simply saying Darth Vader was manipulative didn't describe it enough, didn't emphasize just how influential he could be.
Wait.
"Darth Vader was raised to think he was nothing more than a tool for the emperor. He has no opinion of himself, and I don't mean he thinks little of himself or prioritizes differently, I mean he literally has no opinion of himself. Everything he does is because he's ordered to do so."
"No one can hide behind that excuse, Padmé, and you know it. Is a soldier exempt from all his sins if he just claims he was ordered to do it?"
"Of course not, but a soldier isn't raised a soldier – he enlists or is drafted, but he's got a sense of self, of identity, before he becomes a soldier. Vader doesn't have that – he was raised a soldier, he was raised to follow orders."
Obi-Wan bolted to his feet. The conversation was vivid in his mind now, as if he were back in Padmé's office talking to her. Oh, his chest ached just seeing her face in his mind, but her words burned into him even more. He'd given them some thought before now, but the chaos of their circumstances had pushed them out of his mind. He had to tell Qui-Gon.
Closing his eyes, Obi-Wan tried to sense out the man. He could find his wife easily, but finding others was another matter entirely. The Force was still evading him; in combat training one had to simply listen and react, and he could do that just fine (even better than Siri, actually), but actively searching the Force was another matter entirely. Warm lives hummed in his consciousness, and he smelled, tasted, heard, and saw different sensations as he prodded through all of them. Blurred images, odd stray thoughts… he couldn't sort any of it out. Sighing, he opened his eyes, temporarily giving up and trying a different approach. Perhaps some of the Council members would still be awake.
Heading towards the Council building, which stood in the center of the entire enclave, Obi-Wan tried to sort out the conversation in his mind. He'd pointed out to Padmé that Éothen had also been raised a soldier and had turned out quite differently, but now that he pondered on it more, he supposed Éothen's only saving grace was who had raised him. But then who raised Vader? Who would convince a child that he was nothing more than a tool? Vader must have been taken from his parents, or perhaps entered into some brutal military training program when he was young. No, that didn't seem right… Darth Vader was a Sith Lord, and the more Obi-Wan learned about both Jedi and Sith, the more he realized that the man had to have gotten his training from somewhere. If he really thought about it, Palpatine was the most likely suspect; though no Jedi had explicitly stated the emperor was a Sith Lord, they all spoke of him as if his very name were synonymous with evil. Obi-Wan shuddered; no wonder he'd felt awful around the man.
Obi-Wan reached the Council building and entered with a hasty knock. As soon as he entered he sensed someone ahead, but he didn't know who. He approached slowly, clearing his throat to get the person's attention. A dark skinned Human male sat in the center, meditating. As soon as Obi-Wan realized this and hesitated, the man opened his eyes, gazing at him intently. Obi-Wan felt slightly nervous under the piercing stare, but he shrugged it off and bowed. "Master."
"Step forward," the Jedi ordered quietly. "Do you need something, Padawan?"
"It's about Darth Vader," Obi-Wan explained, and the Jedi stood slowly, giving him his full attention. The man examined him oddly, as if he were looking at something beyond him or perhaps even within him. It was a little unsettling, but it wasn't threatening. "I may have more information than I provided earlier."
"You're one of the new initiates Qui-Gon brought in," the man surmised.
Obi-Wan flushed slightly, embarrassed that he hadn't introduce himself. "Yes. My name is Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan Kenobi."
It was still so strange to say his actual surname, but he and Siri had both decided it was safer than using the Naberrie name. Another separation from his old life, he supposed with some sadness.
"I am Mace Windu, head of the Jedi Council," he introduced himself, and Obi-Wan grew slightly alarmed that he'd somehow run into the head of the entire enclave. "Tell me what you know, Obi-Wan."
Centering himself, he took a deep breath. "My… my sister, as you know, was being watched by him. To distract him from any covert operations, she took him to Naboo while I and my wife handled Rebel affairs. She learned more about him, and told me a little of it when we reunited. She stated that Darth Vader was raised to be a soldier, raised without a sense of self."
Master Windu folded his arms, furrowing his brow. "Without a sense of self?"
Obi-Wan was about to nod when he himself grew confused as it finally clicked. He'd been learning over the past few days that Sith were selfish people, filled with only concerns for power and self-gain. Why the blazes would Vader be the opposite, then?
"Do you know anything else?"
Obi-Wan snapped back into attention and shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
"Curious," the Jedi muttered, his eyes clouding. "This Sith apprentice is turning out to be quite the enigma."
Obi-Wan watched the Jedi for a short while before beginning to wonder if he should excuse himself. He'd said what he knew, after all, but he was also interested to hear what the Jedi were planning. Not that he could face a Sith, of course.
In either case, the Jedi Master eventually remembered Obi-Wan was there and offered a grateful nod. "Thank you for your information, Obi-Wan. I must meditate on this."
Obi-Wan took the hint and he bowed once again. "Yes, Master."
Turning, he left, more confused than he before. Once he was outside, he figured he could call it a night and get some rest, but suddenly his comlink chimed. Confused and slightly worried, he activated it. "Yes?"
"Obi-Wan." His heartrate rose; it was Bail Organa. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything."
"No," he immediately replied, shaking his head unnecessarily. "How is everything?"
"We've finally settled at our new location," the former senator replied. "I was told Almusian is on comm. silence right now, so I decided to tell you instead. Perhaps you can relay this news to the Jedi for me? If they feel ready, we would be honored to have their fleet join us."
If it was possible, his heart beat even faster. His head had just stopped spinning after everything that had happened; now life was swirling around him faster than he could keep up with once more. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and listening to the brook, imagining the Force flowing over him and stealing the anxiety away, and for the first time since he'd arrived on Ghanu'jivo, he finally felt it actually work; whatever came to pass would be whatever came to pass. There was no sense in worrying over uncertain futures. "I will relay the news and contact you with their reply."
"Thank you, Obi-Wan," Bail acknowledged gratefully. "These times have been trying on all of us, but I… I realize it's been especially hard for you. I hope you and your wife are recovering, and I look forward to seeing you once more."
"I appreciate your concern," Obi-Wan smiled gently. "May the Force be with you."
"Take care of yourself, Obi-Wan."
Cutting off his comlink, he sighed and turned back towards the Council building, but he was hesitant. He probably shouldn't interrupt Master Windu's meditation, and honestly, the request wasn't emergent, so he could wait until morning. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Obi-Wan headed towards the dormitories, pushing all of it out of his mind.
The evening was turning out… interestingly so far. She glanced around the room as a waltz began to play. Many couples went to the dance floor and it looked to be quite the grand affair. Then she glanced hesitantly to her left to see if her charge was interested, and he gazed at the couples with glazed eyes, lost in thought. His fists balled tightly. She wasn't sure how the dance was affecting him, but it was fairly obvious to her trained eyes that he was bothered in some manner.
"Nydo," she spoke softly, getting his attention.
Darth Vader turned his cold blue gaze upon her. It was strange looking him in the eye; she'd watched him from afar, seen glimpses of him, heard about him, even been assigned once to guard him when he was an infant, but she'd never really interacted with the Sith Lord until this evening. It was a privilege, and it was most certainly educational. After all, he was the most powerful man in the Empire apart from Palpatine himself.
In either case, now wasn't the time to be pondering the matter. She had his attention. "Perhaps you could get us some drinks?"
The Sith Lord tipped his head in acknowledgement and headed towards some servant or other who would be carrying a tray with drinks. Now that she was alone she looked around once more, taking in the surroundings and searching for suitable opportunities. Grand Moff Tarkin had assigned her to help him train the Sith Lord in covert operations, so she would find the best people to interact with in order to teach him. It wasn't the most orthodox way of training someone in undercover operations, but she didn't really have a say in the matter, so she'd deal with it. She'd always dealt with whatever Tarkin had thrown at her; she'd been the man's spy for five years now, ever since he'd requested a special agent from Keeper, the head of Imperial Intelligence. She still recalled their first meeting when the grand moff had asked her name, and she'd simply replied, whatever you need it to be, sir. That had been so long ago, and it had been for an official Imperial mission, but she'd proven her worth to the grand moff and had been in his services since then, though that wasn't known even to Intelligence. After all, a scheming grand moff couldn't let anyone know he was using a spy as a double agent, now could he?
She smiled. They were all so blind to the truth. Wilhuff Tarkin only had his eyes on the throne, but the real seat of power was the head of Intelligence. Covert operations ruled this galaxy, secretly working behind the scenes to keep everything ordered. Agents were the true peacekeepers, not the military. She'd been in Intelligence long enough to know that. Someday she'd be the one commanding the most powerful organization in the galaxy, and when that day came it wouldn't matter who was sitting on the throne; she'd be the ruler. Serving Tarkin was simply a necessity for achieving that; he was the most likely candidate to usurp Palpatine, and, by proxy, Darth Vader was therefore the best weapon for the job.
She still wasn't entirely sure what to make of the Sith Lord, and she didn't like that. She knew he was a Sith, she knew he was second in line for the throne and head of the military. She knew Tarkin wanted to use him to take the throne for himself, and she knew that Senator Amidala was Vader's greatest weakness. She knew that the Sith Lord was known for being distant and cold, that he was all business and military, and that he had little to no experience in politics or subtlety in general. From their interactions earlier this evening when they'd been preparing, she also had quickly deduced that he had quite the high pain tolerance considering the wounds she'd seen on him. She briefly went over their private interactions, trying to analyze them.
They'd met up in his apartment, all businesslike. She had arrived in servant's attire to blend into the environment and then had requested a place to dress. He'd given her the guest room. The two had gone over their cover stories and, impressively, he'd already done his research on Eriadu culture and on the Tarkin family. The only matter remaining, then, had been to make the mark of their union, the calligraphy on their foreheads. It was difficult—nearly impossible—to write the mark for themselves, and traditionally each spouse wrote it on the other, so she'd insisted they do it that way. Vader had been more than hesitant to allow her that close to him, and though culturally it made sense, she broke down that barrier fairly quickly; they were married for this cover story, so he couldn't show any hesitation or discomfort in touching her. She'd sat him on the couch and had sat beside him, carefully painting the calligraphy on his forehead and then had insisted he did the same to her. His touch had said a lot about him; it had been soft and hesitant at first, even timid, but as he wrote and focused, he'd finished it off perfectly and with confidence. The man just needed some firm direction and he'd catch on; he was obviously no fool, simply reluctant. And… something else, though she couldn't quite place what it was; she had no doubt he was upset by his order to kill Senator Amidala, but considering his profile, she didn't think it would tear him up to any great extent. For all she knew, something else entirely was bothering him, but given recent events, it was likely to be the senator. Still, he seemed to be functioning just fine, so that was all she cared about.
"Well, I didn't expect to see such a magnificent flower at this gala."
She turned and saw a chiseled man approach her. He stood tall and proud, his intense blue eyes looking her over. His teeth were perfect as he flashed a bright smile, and his chocolate brown hair was slicked back and moussed artistically. He was the picture of perfection, the sight that would make a woman go weak at the knees. His long grey cape flowed around his rich attire, and his execution of a flirtatious, seductive bow was flawless, all the way down to how he eyed her from under his brow just before rising once more.
An aristocrat trying to score a beautiful woman. No threat, but perhaps a useful opportunity. Amusement trickled through her as she put on a look of mild embarrassment, placing a gloved hand to her chest and lowering her head slightly. This person looked to be in his early twenties, and he was no doubt spoiled and had never experienced any kind of hardship or training. A useless lump, easily persuaded and easily manipulated. A child.
"You're too kind, sir," she said softly, allowing a gentle blush to color her cheeks. She appeared to be demure and surprised at his forward speech, but in reality she was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes. Even if she weren't an operative, as a thirty-eight-year-old woman who'd seen every single thing the galaxy could offer, this youngling who was so full of himself was the biggest joke she'd seen at this gala.
"My name is Saelek Tovren," he introduced himself. "My father is the most powerful grand moff in the Empire, so I typically go to many of these events, but I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you. How long have you been on Imperial Center?"
She smiled shyly. "Only for a day, sir. I come from Eriadu; this is my first visit to Imperial Center."
"My official title is Lord Tovren, but you can call me Saelek tonight," the boy said with a flirtatious wink. "I'm glad you came to Imperial Center today, my dear. Eriadu can miss you for a while. Would you like to join me at my table?"
This conversation was beginning to grow slightly tiresome, and she was fairly certain that any servant bearing a drink had to be close enough that Vader should be returning by now. Stalling, she let out a nervous chuckle. "I was under the impression that the seating was assigned for these tables, your lordship."
"I can change the arrangements as I please," he waved a dismissive hand, but his expression denoted that he was quite aware of the power he wielded and he wanted her to realize it too. "And as I said, call me Saelek."
"I have to return to my party," she insisted halfheartedly as she finally caught sight of Darth Vader. He was observing her curiously, his gaze drifting between her and the aristocrat. He was gauging the situation. All right, that was a start, but now he needed to act.
Letting her gaze linger on Vader, she gave a relieved smile. Lord Tovren seemed to notice it and turned to look at Vader. "Is he part of your party, then? I'll speak with him."
She was tempted to say he was her husband, but that might scare the youngling off immediately. She had to let him talk to Vader.
As he approached the Sith Lord, Vader tensed slightly, but he locked eyes with her instead of Tovren. He held a drink out to her.
"Your lady is a beautiful woman," Tovren said firmly, a confident smile on his face. "She wishes to sit at my table, so we'll be heading that way. I'll have someone drop her off at your residence in the morning if you give me an address."
Vader looked at her questioningly, but said nothing. She was quickly catching on that he rarely spoke unless absolutely necessary, so she prompted him. "I told him the seating was assigned, but—"
"I assure you it isn't a problem," Tovren interrupted. "My father is the most powerful man in the Empire apart from the emperor himself. Something as simple as seating arrangements is beyond trivial to us. She'll be fine."
Vader's expression shifted subtly, changing from the usual calmness to something different. His forehead wrinkled slightly as his eyebrows came together imperceptibly. His eyes narrowed. "You claim she wants to sit with you."
"She does indeed." Tovren replied with a smug smile.
"You're lying," he immediately said. "Stop being stupid and go away."
Years of training stopped her from laughing… and years of training told her that the remark wouldn't be nearly as amusing to Tovren. As predicted, the man's face flushed. "You dare—"
"Shut up and go away." Vader repeated, sipping his drink nonchalantly and offering his hand to her. She fought quite hard to not smile as she placed hers atop it and walked away from the boy, who was so affronted at being spoken to in such a manner that he had no actual reply. Two possible outcomes would occur next: he'd either follow them after regaining his composure or he would go whine to his father. The latter would yield no consequence to them unless the grand moff was as idiotic as his son (which wasn't likely considering he'd managed to obtain such a high rank), though he might simply argue for the sake of maintaining appearances.
"Why were you hesitating?" she asked him as they walked closer to their own table.
"You're strong. You could handle him on your own."
A cold, distant compliment, but a compliment nonetheless. She wasn't looking for flattery, however, nor did she need his praise. "I am Mya Tarkin, dear husband; I'm used to high society, but I don't really have much strength of my own apart from leaning on you. I'm naïve and have never left the estates of my family. Do you expect that sort of person to hold her own against someone who dominates the social scene here and has no shame?"
"I don't see why you can't kill him," he muttered. "He obviously serves no purpose in life."
She allowed herself to smile. "You are right; he currently serves no purpose in life. However, if you manipulate him correctly, he could be extremely helpful; if his father has any stake in his life, you could use him in that regard."
Vader paused and looked as if he were about to turn around, and she pinched his fingers. "Not now, dearest. You didn't make a very good first impression."
"Neither did he," Vader replied sharply.
"Yes, which we can use to our advantage," she nodded, and when she heard the little moron storming towards them, she added, "So let's see what you can do."
"You cannot walk away from me like that," Tovren said angrily, expecting them to stop and turn around. She paused, forcing Vader to do so as well, and he closed his eyes and sighed heavily before facing the young man.
"Does your father know Grand Moff Tarkin?" Vader asked. She smiled; now he was catching on.
"My father knows everyone," Tovren answered as if that were a threat.
"I trust he's not as stupid as you are," Vader remarked, and this time she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing out loud. At the same time she also wanted to cringe; they would definitely have to learn on improving his tact. "If that is the case, then he will realize that you have already overstepped your boundaries in not only treating my wife like your sex slave, but also in how you have claimed your father has greater power and authority than my cousin, Grand Moff Tarkin, who has the emperor's ear."
Tovren stammered for a few seconds, his face flushing steadily more and more, when she finally stepped in with a courteous smile towards the Sith Lord. "Come along, dearest, let's go to our table."
As they turned away, Vader narrowed his eyes even more, giving a threatening glare to the whelp, who quickly scurried away, properly chastised. The two finally reached their table and sat. Dinner would soon be served. Glancing at the seating arrangement she noted that Tarkin would be to her right while Vader was to her left. Three other chairs were across from them: a senator and his wife, and a woman named Fyra Xen. The name sounded vaguely familiar, though she wasn't sure from where. In either case, the two had a moment to breathe before the senator appeared. He was a portly man decked in an absurd amount of finery; she could only imagine how much jewelry his wife was wearing… the woman would be a walking, rattling ornament.
"Senator Jertuj," she acknowledged as she bowed alongside Darth Vader. She glanced at him, silently telling him to speak up.
"I'm Captain Nydo Tarkin. This is my wife, Mya." He introduced them. She waited for him to add some sort of ingratiating remark, but he didn't.
"It's an honor to meet you," she added with some exasperation. Perhaps it would take a little more time than she thought for him to really understand how this worked.
The senator smiled politely, and she saw his eyes widen a second later as he recognized the surname. "Tarkin? Are you perhaps related to Grand Moff Tarkin?"
Vader nodded, but after noting her scrutiny he acknowledged it aloud. "I'm his cousin."
"It's a pleasure," the man suddenly insisted, nodding his head. "Governor Tarkin is an esteemed man. It's always a delight to meet members of his family; I thought I'd never get the chance."
She widened her smile in response, waiting for Vader to say something. It was time to engage in the small talk he seemed to hate so much. The Sith Lord didn't smile (she'd never seen him do so, actually), but he tipped his head to acknowledge the senator's remark. When nothing else happened, she began to wonder if this man was the reason the grand moff had so many grey hairs. Subtly, she pinched the top of his hand, and he inhaled sharply, though whether it was from pain or exasperation was beyond her.
"Where's your wife?" he asked.
"She's coming," the senator replied with a cheerful smile, gripping the chair where he would sit. "Had to powder herself up again; women and their makeup, right?"
The senator laughed, and she joined him in his nervous joviality. Vader, however, just stared at him. Another pinch later, he cleared his throat and sat down. She almost sighed; Darth Vader was no doubt used to being the highest authority in the room and therefore he dictated when everyone should sit, but in this situation they had to wait for the grand moff or the senator to do so. The senator looked slightly ruffled at the maneuver, and she smiled apologetically. "Shall we sit while we wait for her?"
The senator nodded with a gracious smile to her and the two joined Vader at the table. The Sith Lord was sipping his drink in an almost bored manner, as if he were dazed or annoyed. She wasn't sure if this was part of his cover or if he actually was just bored. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, she asked the senator about his sector, and he animatedly discussed the matter with her while Vader simply listened. She figured she wouldn't include him simply so he would have the chance to observe, and eventually their conversation was interrupted anyway by the arrival of the senator's wife. The group stood once more and allowed her to sit with them.
"That took longer than expected," she giggled, giddy for some reason. Her face was flushed as if she'd put too much blush on her cheeks, and she fanned herself. "Forgive me, beloved."
As the two fawned over each other, she turned to Vader and whispered, "Now it's your turn for small talk, dear."
He twitched his head in reply, muttering, "Inane chatter about the other person, right?"
It was so hard to garner amusement from his naïveté. It was hard to believe this man could kill everyone in the room, including her, with barely any effort. "Yes."
As she sipped on her wine, Darth Vader took a deep breath and looked to the senator. "Your wife's having an affair."
Tarkin's spy nearly choked on her drink. What did he just say?!
The senator immediately stiffened, and his wife paled. "What?"
"She's having an affair." Vader repeated, louder and slower as if the senator were an idiot. "She said she wanted to fix her makeup, yet she barely has any on at this point. She's out of breath, her adrenaline is surging, and while she is relatively well kempt her partner isn't. Senator Nemiko, just over there; he's fixing his trousers now, actually. He entered at the same time she did, and they released each other's hands."
The senator jerked his head around to find the man Vader had described while his wife stood. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing?"
"It's true, though, isn't it?" her husband demanded.
Well, that escalated quickly. While the couple argued, she turned to Vader, hissing, "That's your idea of small talk?"
"It's unimportant information about the other person." He shrugged. "Isn't that what I was supposed to do?"
She sighed heavily. This guy was the reason for Tarkin's grey hair. Glancing at the senator, she wondered if she should do damage control, but it seemed that the two were engrossed with each other now instead of Vader, accusing each other of all sorts of misdeeds. Eventually the senator and his wife stormed out to settle their issues without attracting the entire room's attention. At that moment, the grand moff finally arrived, alongside the other guest who was to sit with them.
"Where is the senator going?" Tarkin asked.
"He's arguing with his wife about her affair," Vader answered sincerely.
This man certainly was testing her ability to control her laughter. She felt genuinely bad for the governor; he had his work cut out for him if his job was to turn this somehow goofy military trained killer into a manipulative operative.
"Oh dear," the other guest, Fyra Xen, said with a certain amount of amusement.
When Vader and the spy looked at this woman, they both shifted in their seats for different reasons. The woman wore a red sleeveless gown with a low cut neckline that went to her waist, exposing almost half her breasts. She obviously was trying to attract attention, then, and judging from where Vader's eyes wandered, she'd certainly gotten it. However, as soon as the Sith Lord had examined her, he returned his attention to the grand moff.
"I take it you're Fyra Xen?" Tarkin asked, allowing his spy and her 'husband' a reprieve. His spy looked as impeccably in character as ever, but judging from the fact that she had spilled some wine on her napkin, he could deduce that Vader had made some remark he shouldn't have… which was quite possibly the cause of the senator's sudden departure. Terrific.
Fyra smiled and bowed deeply, and Tarkin looked away out of both politeness and a deep need to not look at her cleavage practically slip out of her dress. She wasn't unattractive to be sure; her light brown skin shone in the light, smooth and silky, tempting one to touch it. Her thick curly black hair was braided intricately and spilled stylishly from a bun. She had blood red lipstick on, and black gloves with a black overcoat that flowed to her ankles. Golden earrings hung almost to her chin line, and she wore rings over her gloved fingers. "You are correct, grand moff. I've never had the pleasure of meeting you before. Are these your relatives?"
"My cousin, Nydo, and his wife, Mya." He introduced them. Vader's eyes slipped to Fyra's chest again before he and the spy bowed politely. Fyra smiled broadly. As she did so, Tarkin suddenly realized that he'd heard her name before; she was known to be quite the… party piece, one could say. She was extremely sought after, and if she turned her affections to a man there wasn't anything he wouldn't give her; it had served her quite well, allowing her to climb from being a consort of a senator to one of the richest women on the planet.
Tarkin smiled and sat as Fyra made pointless conversation with his spy. The group followed his lead, and the grand moff was relieved to see servants bringing out their dinner; this gala was exhausting enough without having to worry about the damage the young Sith might be causing, though it seemed tamer than he expected. Fyra turned her attention to Vader, but her conversation was harmless. Vader answered in simple 'yes' or 'no' responses while they ate. Eventually Tarkin's spy took over the discussion and Vader was allowed a reprieve. He and Tarkin exchanged glances, and the grand moff could see the Sith Lord was steadily growing more exhausted by the affair. You're not the only one, he thought ruefully.
After dinner ended the speeches began. Long acknowledgements filled their ears, and the grand moff grew all the more irritated from it; if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was pointless and unfounded gratitude. None of these people deserved acknowledgement for any sort of good deed; the politicians and nobility had certainly done nothing to earn it, and the military officials didn't need fools wasting their time.
Fyra, having the other seat beside Vader, leaned closer to him and whispered, "Ever been to these tedious affairs before, captain?"
Vader shook his head. Tarkin pretended to not notice the conversation, but he listened carefully, and he knew his spy was doing so as well.
"Let me warn you; you'll be here a while," Fyra continued with a smile. "What about your wife? Has she been to these before?"
"She's been to more social events than I."
"How long have you two been married?" the woman asked with sincere curiosity.
"Two years."
"You two look so good together. Like newlyweds, even."
Vader made no remark. Tarkin, on the other hand, was wondering where in the blazes this conversation was going; was this woman trying to pass the time or was something else going on? He didn't have an opportunity to interrupt, however; his spy placed her hand atop Vader's, getting his attention. He almost slid his hand away from her, having been slightly started by the touch, but he caught himself. She smiled at him and pulled his hand towards her and off the table. The two looked at the speaker once more, ignoring Fyra entirely.
The strange occurrence went unacknowledged, and after the speeches were finally finished, Tarkin stood and guided his 'family' elsewhere. He was tempted to introduce Vader to more people, and he raised his eyebrow to his spy to gauge whether she thought that was appropriate considering what she'd witnessed this evening. However, the decision was taken out of his hands when Vader nodded to Tarkin. "I'm leaving, cousin. Have a good evening."
Tarkin was tempted to argue, but he didn't; honestly he himself was too tired to let this continue much longer. He would get a full report from his spy when they reached the palace (or better yet, he'd get a full report in the morning), so instead, he said, "I'll join you and Mya."
Vader held his hand out to the spy, who took it gracefully and Tarkin followed them out of the ballroom. He felt the tension in his chest relax a little as they neared a hangar where the palace shuttle awaited them. Their trip to the palace was spent in silence until they landed, at which point Tarkin asked, "So what did you learn, milord?"
Vader rolled tired eyes to the governor. "You and the emperor have more stamina than I thought."
Tarkin had to laugh. "I'm glad you appreciate how much energy it takes to deal with those entitled fools."
"I still see no purpose to it," Vader muttered as they disembarked. "Power speaks for itself. Why do we have to slither about in the shadows and pretend we're something we're not? Why do we have to lie?"
"Discretion is the better part of valor, milord," Tarkin instructed him. "There's no point in starting a war against people when you can simply fool them into doing your bidding. Subjects are far more loyal when they believe in what they're doing rather than when they're simply intimidated into it. It's psychology."
"People are too complicated," Vader grumbled. "Logic would dictate they obey the ruler. There's no reason to be convincing them to do what we want."
Tarkin hid his smile. Sometimes he was surprised at how naïve Vader was; this evening had nothing to do with getting the Empire's subjects to obey their emperor. When Tarkin was finished with the young Sith, he would fool him in the same manner he'd just described. True, a good battle was far more straightforward, but some battles had to be fought off the battlefield, and this most certainly was one of those.
"I will learn to manipulate others," Vader eventually resolved, gazing off at the skyline as the shuttle departed and they were left alone in the palace hangar. "I will learn whatever I have to."
Something about his posture and his expression made Tarkin uneasy, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was, and at this point, he was too tired to care. Sighing, he said, "I'm sure you will. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to my quarters." Turning to his spy, he said, "You are dismissed."
She bowed and departed, and Tarkin tossed one last glance at Darth Vader before leaving as well, relieved to finally be alone and at home. What a day.
A snowstorm howled outside the towering arched windows of Hjemmekoselig Sted, the residence of the warlord. Nevertheless, the large homely fire kept the room warm, and the lights on the wall were dimmed to reflect the late hour. The room wasn't very large; the windows were on the right wall, a chaise lined the back wall facing a HoloNet receiver, and the left wall was occupied by a large desk. The center of the room was a semicircular pit with a large plushy couch lining the wall of the depression, facing the enormous fire that took up most of the last wall.
Lieutenant Erwyna of the Bidra Clan of Salkende stood by the window, her eyes attempting to pierce through the darkness and the blinding blizzard winds. She crossed her arms, contemplating matters as of late. Her mood typically wasn't this… brooding, but the past couple of weeks had been a ride that she dearly wished never to repeat.
Erwyna was a dedicated soldier. All her life everything revolved around her clan and its loyalties. Her clan served the Ønske, having joined with them many years ago, and so she grew up with Éothen during the civil war, fighting, laughing, crying, and bleeding alongside him. Everyone thought they were the best of friends. And they were – but Éothen was more than that to her… so much more. Still, they were both in SpecForces; on Salkende that meant they dedicated their entire lives to their duty, and that included having no personal relationships. Erwyna had sworn an oath when she'd joined SpecForces, and she would not break that oath… even if it did keep her from Éothen for the next twenty years. The only reason Éothen was being forced to marry was because of the dire situation of his clan. When the issue had first arisen, Erwyna had been surprised and upset, but she hadn't taken it out on Éothen; at the time he had still been suffering from the loss of so many of his brethren. Besides, she'd sworn fealty to Bidra and Ønske; it wasn't her place to argue. So she'd gone along with it; she'd even given Éothen encouragement and tips when he himself had shown reluctance.
But Amidala… Erwyna hadn't liked her at all. She supposed it was partly due to Éothen's silly feelings for her, and she knew that was beyond stupid on her own part, so she tried to diminish that. The other reason was simply because Amidala was so obviously using Éothen that Erwyna was surprised he himself, as thick skulled as he was when it came to politics, hadn't noticed. Or perhaps he had but had weighed the options in his favor. She wasn't sure. She'd never asked him, not since Amidala had been found murdered. In either case, she had resigned to accept the foreigner, and then all this insanity had happened.
Éothen had been greatly upset by the news, though he hadn't shown it to the foreigners. Erwyna still didn't think he'd had any deep genuine feelings for Amidala (how could he have? The two had barely gotten to know each other!), but she knew that he, just like all of Salkende, recognized the attack for what it was—the Empire trying to ensure that Salkende didn't become a threat. Some speculated that reasoning was a long shot—how could the Empire have known about the engagement since it had just occurred? Most, though, knew that the Empire had spies everywhere, and with someone in as precarious a position as Amidala, it really wasn't too surprising, certainly in hindsight. At the time Erwyna hadn't thought the Empire would act in such a way, but now she knew she'd been a fool to assume they wouldn't interfere. She'd never given the Empire much thought since her life had revolved around Salkende's own affairs, but now she was recognizing why the Rebel Alliance fought against them. Still, her hands were tied on the matter; the warlord had insisted that Salkende act neutral, though they were now actively supplying the Alliance. The warlord claimed that once the Rebels could walk steadily on their own once more, she would supply soldiers so the real war could begin. After all, they'd just had their victory march yesterday – their own civil war was finally over.
It felt almost foreign to be standing here in the warlord's residence with no battle to contemplate, no war council to attend, no new mission objective to receive. It left Erwyna restless, but she was still hesitant about joining the Rebels; she understood their cause now, but she still wasn't sure it was wise to team up with them. She didn't want to watch Bidra get ripped apart like Ønske had been – she didn't want to be on the losing side of a war against an enemy who would have no qualms in destroying the entire Tsograda Sector if necessary. Again, though, she didn't have a choice; she'd have to wait and see if the Rebels really did recover from all the hits they'd taken. If they did so, then she might be willing to accept the actions the warlord had dictated. In the meantime she had to stay here and babysit Éothen, who'd been brooding ever since Amidala's death.
Turning, Erwyna watched Éothen as he sat on the couch, staring at the fire. His arm was finally healed, so it was no longer in a sling. He reached to his side, picking something up from the couch and examining it. It was a cylindrical metal hilt, and she knew that upon activating it a shoto built similarly to a lightsaber would appear. It had been in a box that had been left by Amidala for Éothen, having his name written on it. The flimsiplast that had borne the address had been speckled with the senator's blood; it was a grisly gift, though it was appreciated by Éothen… but it seemed to be so much more than just a gift.
"I can't believe we're waiting," Éothen muttered darkly, tossing the shoto back onto the couch.
"You know, we only just finished our war yesterday," Erwyna remarked, taking a small step towards him.
"We finished it four days ago," Éothen retorted. "We just got to celebrate it yesterday."
"I'm going to the Rebel base on Hoth tomorrow to check on their progress. We'll probably be heading over there with armies soon, so get over it. Salkende needs a rest; this is the first peace we've had in twenty years."
"The war tapered off at the end; you and I both know that," Éothen shook his head. "The people barely realized we were still fighting."
"Did the soldiers on the battlefield barely realize it?" Erwyna replied irritably, tired of his sulking.
Éothen sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands. "Sorry, Erwyna… I just… to think the Empire would do such a thing… and Padmé…"
Erwyna wasn't sure how to feel. She was just as angry, though mainly because the Empire would interfere with Salkenden affairs, but… well, she just didn't know how to feel.
But one thing she did know was that something was just off about the entire affair. Firstly, why would Amidala send a shoto to Éothen? Wedding traditions on most of Salkende dictated that the bride and groom exchange gifts, and a weapon would be an appropriate gift for a warrior, but… they'd just gotten engaged, and Amidala likely knew very little about Salkenden culture. How could she have gotten such a rare gift so fast? And why a shoto? Éothen's weapon specialty was with blaster cannons, though he could wield a standard blaster just as well as anyone. Honestly, it was Erwyna who was more specialized for close combat. So again, why a shoto? Why any gift at all? How did she get one so fast? And why did she think about that of all things when she was dying? It was obvious she'd handled the note of address after she'd been shot – her blood was all over it. Éothen had thought it was because Amidala had held the flimsiplast or the gift box as she was dying, but Erwyna was convinced it was something else entirely – she was convinced Amidala had written it while she was dying, and that changed everything. What could make it so important? Why would she ensure that Éothen got this gift? Was it just to secure Salkende's loyalty to the Rebels? That wouldn't guarantee anything.
As the days had gone by, Erwyna had been plagued by these thoughts until she'd steadily become more convinced of something: the shoto hadn't been a gift. It had been a message. It was some kind of last will or plea or something from beyond the grave. But what was Amidala trying to say?
Erwyna was going to Hoth tomorrow. She had her duty to attend to. But as soon as she'd reported about the Rebels to her warlord, she was requesting time off. She would go to Imperial Center, she would investigate Amidala's death.
She would figure this out.
Beep, beep.
Tarkin's hand automatically slammed the snooze button on his alarm.
Beep, beep.
This time he pounded his fist on the blasted thing.
Beep, beep.
Stars, what was making that noise? Was that his comlink?
Blearily opening his eyes, Tarkin immediately saw the time on his chronometer. It was four in the morning. Who in the blazes was calling him at four in the morning? Grabbing the comlink, he sluggishly answered. "This is Grand Moff Tarkin."
"Governor…" a quiet, trembling voice said. It took the grand moff a few seconds to recognize it as Vader's.
Tarkin immediately grew alert and squeezed the comlink. "Lord Vader? What's wrong?"
"Governor…" Vader repeated as if he didn't even know what to say. "I… she… governor, please… please come… I don't… I… governor, the blood's everywhere…"
Tarkin bolted out of bed. "Where are you? What happened?"
"I… alley… governor, please…"
"What alley?" Tarkin asked, pushing aside the obvious question as to why he was in an alley at four in the morning. His mind raced with what could have happened – who was she? Why was he in an alley? Whose blood was everywhere? What had happened?! "Milord, where are you?"
Vader's voice grew quieter but, unnervingly, calmer as he gave the grand moff directions. Tarkin was already getting dressed as the Sith Lord spoke, and as soon as the boy finished, Tarkin grabbed the comlink again and rushed out the door, breathlessly saying, "I'm on my way."
Tarkin ran faster than he had in years. By the time he reached the alley it had barely been a few minutes. Grabbing his blaster, the grand moff slowly approached the scene, but he quickly realized there were no threats here. He noted a puddle and wondered for a second why the ground was wet when it had actually been dry today, but then he remembered Vader's transmission and quickly avoided stepping into it. As predicted, when he got a closer look with a small glow stick the puddle shone crimson, and he followed its trail to a heavily mutilated body. Most of the damage was to its head, and he quickly deduced that it was a Human female. Judging by her outfit, he also quickly recognized her as Fyra Xen, the woman they had spoken to at their table during the gala. What had happened? Where was—
Tarkin's question was immediately answered when he looked just beyond the body. Darth Vader was sitting on the ground, his hands saturated in the woman's blood. It was splattered on his torso and was seeping into his trousers. He looked at nothing but the woman's body, his face pale and his eyes wide. He looked frightened, his brow furrowed worriedly, but at the same time he looked… dazed. What had that woman done to him?
"Milord?" he said to get the boy's attention, approaching him. "Milord… what happened?"
"She… she flirted with me," he answered softly, and his voice was growing even calmer.
Tarkin felt his skin crawl, and he grew both confused and angry. Why would Vader kill someone for flirting with him? What was he not telling him? Xen was known for using her body to curry favor; she'd probably latched onto the idea of a young naïve man who'd experienced only military and a political marriage – a relative to Tarkin would be a good mark. But that wasn't enough to murder her. What had happened?
Glancing at the body once more, the grand moff suddenly realized the woman's manner of death – Vader had throttled her with his bare hands. He'd probably beaten her into the wall judging by the excessive blood around her skull and the obvious lacerations. He'd probably punched her senselessly, over and over and over. Tarkin had never seen the Sith do such a brutal kill.
"She… no one can do that… no one can be her…"
Be her? What was…?
Amidala. Xen had reminded him of Amidala. By the stars above, this was what he'd do to someone who tried the same tactics Amidala had tried?
Slowly turning to the apprentice once more, Tarkin noted that Vader had started to tremble. His eyes were fixed upon his own hands, and his fingers were rubbing against each other, making the blood swirl on his fingertips. Tarkin felt his hand slipping towards his holstered blaster once more, unnerved by just how completely unstable the Sith seemed to be. He'd thought Vader was improving – had he just been hiding his problems?
Looking at the body once more answered that question.
"I couldn't stop," Vader suddenly said in the same soft voice, looking even more dazed than before as he finally let his hands drop to his lap. "I couldn't… she… she put her hand to my face, she… she pretended to want me… pretended to care…" here his voice finally started to rise, and he clenched his fists tightly. "She's not Padmé – she will never be Padmé. No one will ever look at her face again—no one will ever see beauty in her, see anything but the disgusting hag that she is—she's nothing just like—"
Vader cut himself off, panting. He leaned over, almost curling in on himself, and his fists relaxed again. Then he looked up, and his face held the same fear as before, but also misery, just pure unadulterated misery. "Governor… is this what it's like to feel? I don't… I don't want it. I don't. Take it away. Make it stop. Please… please, governor…"
Tarkin walked slowly towards him, crouching down to his level, speechless.
Vader shook his head. "Why would Master want me to feel? Why would he make me kill Padmé? Why can't I just obey him? Why does it have to hurt?"
This was a perfect opportunity. This was the opportunity, the moment where he could finally pull Vader over to his side and make him turn against his beloved master. All Tarkin had to do was just say the right words and the boy would eat out of his hand like he wanted.
But he just couldn't do it. All he could do was just be brutally honest. "…Because your father is a bastard."
Even Tarkin himself was surprised by his words, but Vader didn't react angrily. In fact… were those tears in the boy's eyes? Tarkin was fairly certain the boy had never cried in his life apart from when he'd been an infant. The tears didn't escape the boy's eyes, though, and Vader let out a harsh bark of a laugh, catching the grand moff off guard. Then he panted for air as if he'd run a kilometer and looked down.
"Governor…" he said, looking up once more. The tears were gone, but the miserable look was back, so empty and hopeless. "Kill me. Please… please kill me."
The grand moff didn't know what to say, what to do. He stared at the boy, horrified and clueless and he hated it. He'd never felt this out of control of a situation. For a millisecond he contemplated actually fulfilling the boy's request, just giving him some rest, letting him finally be free of all the hell he'd endured, but he immediately shoved it out of his mind. No. Vader would not die. He couldn't die. Tarkin needed him… and damn it, he was not letting this precious boy just give up like that. They'd get rid of Palpatine and then once Tarkin had reorganized everything, Vader would finally have everything he didn't even know he wanted… and some things that he obviously knew he did want. He just had to hold on.
Placing his hands on Vader's arms, Tarkin squeezed tightly, giving him the most determined look he could. "You will be fine. Everything will be fine. Intelligence will clean this mess up. No one will be the wiser. You will be fine. I promise."
Vader watched Tarkin desperately as if the man could work miracles. The grand moff continued to silently give the boy strength before eventually releasing him and calling his spy. He briefed her on the situation, told her where to go, and then returned his attention to the Sith apprentice. "Come on. We're going home."
The Sith suddenly looked exhausted beyond belief, and he closed his eyes, trying to gather what little strength he had left. Tarkin waited, and Vader eventually rose, following him silently as they returned to the palace just as his spy arrived at the scene of the crime. Tarkin exchanged a glance with her, and she nodded, eying Vader for a heartbeat before getting to work.
Once they reached the palace, Tarkin guided Vader to his own quarters—he wasn't letting the boy out of his sight. As soon as they entered, the grand moff grabbed some night clothes and placed them in the refresher, and then told Vader to clean himself up. While the boy did so, Tarkin called a palace physician and requested a sedative so the boy could actually get sleep – judging by the dark circles under his eyes, it was apparent he hadn't been resting properly for quite some time.
While Tarkin waited for both the boy and the physician, he paced his den restlessly, shaken and worried. They had to get this under control. Now. Not only was Vader a complete and dangerous wreck, but he was also a vulnerable one. The gala was a simple training mission, but as time passed people would quickly recognized Vader for who he really was, and suddenly he'd be a target for everyone who wanted to vie for the throne. The boy's coping mechanisms were nonexistent, and burying his problems had led to a murder; there was no way he could stay on Imperial Center. Tarkin had to get him out of here, but… blast it all, he didn't know if the boy was ready… he didn't know if anyone was ready for that. There were so many uncertainties, so many concerns, so many ways this could go wrong… but he couldn't stay here. He wasn't safe here. And that was suddenly more important than anything else.
A knock at the door signified the doctor's arrival, and Tarkin let her in. As she entered, the grand moff checked to see if Vader was finished and he found the boy sitting on the refresher floor in the outfit the grand moff had provided, staring at the bloodied clothes he'd been wearing previously. Snatching the condemning items out of his hands, the grand moff ordered, "Go to my room. Go to bed."
It wasn't like Tarkin would be getting any sleep at this point.
Darth Vader stared at him, his expression no longer miserable or desperate, but just empty. He stood as ordered, always obedient, and shuffled into the grand moff's bedchamber. Tarkin directed the physician in there and watched as Vader limply let her give him the sedative like a rag doll. The grand moff walked the doctor out and then returned to his bedroom, watching the boy fall asleep. His comlink chimed and he hastily left the room, closing the door, and answered it.
"The situation has been handled, sir," his spy reported dutifully.
The grand moff sighed and acknowledged her before cutting the connection. He paced the den once more, too restless to sit. He thought through scenario after scenario until he was dizzy, and he finally just resolved that he would have to ride the rancor and just request audience with the emperor. He'd have to request to take the boy to Eriadu with him.
He would take Vader to Eriadu.
Okay, so I promised Al in this chapter, but I figured I'd squeezed enough in here. As you can see, things are starting to pick up again.