A/N:If you thought that last chapter was a Wham Episode, just wait! This chapter will be a flashback revealing even more of the secret plot that I have hinted at several times over the course of the fic; we'll get back to Kevin and the others after this.

Also, just in case, warnings for both seriously bad language and fairly heavy themes in this chapter.

Disney owns Star Wars. You don't know the power of the Mouse Side!

*4 MONTHS AGO*

"What... what the hell?" Marshall Dalton shook his head, trying to recover from whatever had blown him and his friend Tommy Marko several feet backward. The rain had ceased, but the clouds—both the literal ones in the sky and the ones fogging up his head from the blast—remained. "Did we just nearly avoid getting zapped by a friggin' lightning bolt?!"

"Uh, Marsh, I think we got bigger problems," Marko said, looking around in a panic. "Caller's gone! Do you think maybe he got—"

"The lightning bolt? This is reality, Tom. The little punk just got up first and ran off, obviously."

Marsh got to his feet before helping Tommy stand as well. "Damn that little freak..."

"Hey, what if he DID get hit? The runt's from that group home, the lady there's real protective of her kids. If he doesn't show up for a while, who do you think people will start looking at first?"

The ginger started to chide his friend for worrying too much before he realized something.

My dad. Damn.

An involuntary shiver ran down his spine, one that he regularly tried to hide lest people see his weakness. Marsh didn't want to think about what his dad would say. I know what he'll do, though.

Shaking his head to get rid of the nasty images that thought had conjured up, he turned to his friend. "Relax, man. He'll show up again some time."

"Hope so. Hey, Marsh, you wanna come to the concert over the weekend? Coach is letting us off practice for winning that last game, we'd better celebrate while we can."

He thought about it for a few moments; it sounded like a fun idea. Generally, he didn't mind practice; football was his favorite escape. On the field, he was a star—the coach had called him the best tight end he'd ever seen. Fast, strong, tough. None of the things that haunted him off the field could ever touch him while he was playing his favorite sport. But a concert with the rest of the team didn't sound too bad, either; he liked the other guys on the team—

No. Bad idea. That would only lead to bad things. Especially if he weren't careful...

"Nah, I think I'll head back home for now. Looks like it might rain again, and... well, I'm not the religious type, but if the universe is throwing lightning at me I'm not gonna press my luck."

"The fates are NOT to be tempted!" Tommy said with exaggerated drama before joining Marsh in laughter. "Well, alright. Guess I'll see you tomorrow, then. Later!"

As he watched his friend leave, Marsh briefly looked back at the spot where he last saw Kevin; something was still buzzing in his head, and it felt like it was coming from there...

Nah.

Word of the incident on Coruscant had reached Dooku a few days after it had happened; Sidious was careful to control the flow of sensitive information, and rarely allowed him to see anything beyond the essential knowledge for the Plan. But no matter how well one keeps their secrets, something always manages to slip through, and the story of this strange boy intrigued him. But what intrigued him even more was the portal itself.

Hyperdrive technology had remained mostly unchanged over the millennia; there was still no way to simply "pop over" from one place to another. You had to chart a course that would allow you to stay in hyperspace as long as possible without running into a planet or flying through a star, and the number of routes that didn't need regular updates on the locations of such bodies were limited. This "portal" incident, however, could not only change things—it would REVOLUTIONIZE travel. That boy had somehow been thrown from one place to another without any actual travel in-between; if he could somehow find a way to recreate that effect, his fleets would be able to strike anywhere at any time. One second they would be mustering in CIS space, then in a flash they could be over any number of Core worlds and then disappear to the opposite side of the galaxy before any enemy reinforcements arrived. As such, the moment he had learned of the incident, he instructed his scientists to attempt to replicate the circumstances of the experiment as closely as possible. It wasn't difficult; after all, they had been replicating other experiments in hopes of building their own "Death Star" before Sidious had his. Dooku didn't generally think much of relying on technology as opposed to the Force, but the value of such a weapon was undeniable.

Then, merely a week after the initial incident, a stable portal opened up before his eyes, the droid technicians ensuring that it remained open. Not for his own travel—not yet. He needed to know WHERE this portal lead to if he wanted to understand more about how it worked. To that end, a remote stealth probe with cloaking technology had been built to explore the other side; just to be certain of secrecy, Dooku insisted that it not be artificially intelligent, and that he alone was to control the droid from his side of the gate.

The world on the other side was technologically primitive; no repulsor technology, slugthrowers utilizing explosive powder as opposed to directed energy weapons, no droids... but the strangest readings of all involved the Force. Specifically, that it simply did not exist on the other side, save for a small area around the mouth of the portal. Such a thing was unthinkable, in Dooku's mind.

But what he found after using the droid to hack into the other world's equivalent to the holonet... that was not merely unthinkable. At first, he thought that it had to be a mistake. But it wasn't.

Somehow, in that other world, his world was FICTION.

The revelation would almost certainly have driven any lesser being mad. But the Count of Serenno was no lesser being; the possibility of near-infinite alternate universes was nothing new in theoretical circles. The possibility of such universes briefly "crossing" and temporarily glimpsing one another was yet another theory that had been banded about by cosmologists; thus, the notion that some universe somewhere either came up with a fiction that closely resembled reality in another universe was not entirely out of the question, nor the possibility of an author mistaking a passing glimpse of another universe for a flash of inspiration. And once he had acclimated himself to that particular revelation, he began to realize just what a boon he had stumbled upon.

The initial use for the portal would have to be scrapped, but the information he had found gave him knowledge of current, past, and potential future events, knowledge that would help him defeat Sidious, conquer the Republic, destroy the Jedi, and finally bring true order to the Galaxy. But more than that, this new world, in spite of its primitive technology, was plentiful in valuable resources that its inhabitants had yet to truly comprehend.

They wasted their time digging in the sand for oil as a fuel when they had only scratched the surface of atomic power. They had stockpiles and stockpiles of nuclear weaponry; granted, this existed in the Galaxy already, but the amount of radioactive material on this planet, and the amount of weapons already in existence there... with modifications to bring it up to galactic standards of technology, he would have more than enough to be able to utterly dominate any republic fleet or installation long before he ran out of that ammunition. And the amount of material still potentially remaining on the planet that could be used... Then there was the possibility of using it as a virtually unassailable base from which he could launch surprise attacks on the rest of the galaxy, once his technicians had developed a method for creating a fleet-sized portal. All it would take to conquer that world would be a medium-sized fleet, and then all its bounties would be his for the taking.

All of that would have been more than enough to help him make up his mind about his next moves. But the final blessing this discovery had given him was a seeming exception to the "no force" rule:

A red-headed boy had somehow awakened to the Force in a world where, until recently, it had not existed. And the power the probe had detected within said boy was already considerable; were he to be brought over to the Galaxy, theoretically speaking, that power would eclipse that of Ventress.

A new world, with vital information, plentiful resources, priceless strategic value, and a new apprentice? Truly, the Force had smiled on Dooku. All he needed was a way to approach the situation more directly...

Several days had passed without any sign of Caller. And of course, as Tommy had feared, fingers had been pointed at Kevin's regular tormentors. Nothing came of it... at least where Tommy was concerned. For Marsh, however, the problems didn't end with the questions.

That's when the physical pain began.

"You fucking idiot! Do you have any goddamn idea how this makes ME look?! My son, the fucking delinquent!"

Gregory Dalton was a police officer by trade, and not the good kind. Oh, sure, he had good standing—a highly respected and decorated officer of the law, and upstanding member of the community and a credit to the badge!—but the truth could not have been more different. At best, he was a corrupt drunkard who occasionally took bribes from shady people. At worst... well, there was a reason Marsh dreaded coming home.

On the streets, he was strong. He was bigger and tougher than most everyone else. On the football field, a beloved athlete and valued member of a team. But all of that disappeared when his father went into one of his rages. All of a sudden, he felt impossibly small, terribly weak. The beatings didn't help. And the man was always smart enough to do it in a way that didn't leave visible bruises or scarring the next day.

"Dad, I told you, it wasn't my fault—"

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TALK BACK TO ME, BOY!"

Marsh stumbled with the punch to his gut.

"I don't fucking care whose fault it was, you're the one who brought an investigation to my door! That ever happens again... Fuck, I swear you've got to be the most worthless goddamn son in the world. That whore left because of you, you know that? Just ran off in the night. You ruined that too, you worthless little shit!"

Outside, Marsh was still cowering. But inside he was burning. He loved his mom. He really had. She had her faults—she wasn't always there, and she could shout too—but unlike his father, she NEVER hit him, and whenever the former was around she would comfort him. Then one day, she left. No note, no explanation; she simply wasn't there anymore. That wound never truly left, and there were times when he almost believed his father, when he feared that his mother really did leave because of him.

Damn it, why can't I say anything! You bastard... don't you dare call her that... Speak up, Marsh! Just man up and tell him not to talk about her like that!

But no matter how much he tried, the words never came out. Not until the angry man had left him whimpering on the floor and stomped off to drink himself stupid and then fall asleep on the couch.

Marsh gathered himself up and went into his room, locking the door behind him. This was his only sanctuary; his dad rarely ventured in, and he was eternally grateful for that. If the man ever found out what he had on his computer, found out... what he was, he didn't think he would survive. For the billionth time, Marsh sat down on his bed and put his head in his hands, cursing his own weakness. He wanted to punch that man the way the man punched him. He wanted the man to HURT. Marsh had no trouble doing it to other targets—he often imagined his father's face on people like Kevin, people smaller than him. He imagined the bastard whimpering the same way he did...

"Hmph. A pitiful display."

Marsh startled at the voice, but what was in front of him startled him even more, because it simply wasn't possible. It had to be the lightning bolt or his father's fists knocking something loose, because a floating robot and a talking hologram of a dead actor were things that certainly didn't exist.

"You're... you're not real."

The image let out a slight chuckle. "'Reality'. An entirely relative term."

His mind was like a broken record. "No, no, you're just fictional—"

"Your world creates fictional tales out of events that you know to be based in fact; stories about fictional soldiers who fought in real wars that happened less than a century ago. And yet the possibility of a work of fiction being based on a truth of which you were simply unaware is somehow impossible?"

After a few moments, Marsh's brain stopped repeating itself; if he was going insane, or dreaming, he might as well humor his failing mind. "Well... uh, why is a villain from a movie in my room?"

"'Villain'. Another relative term. Your historical fiction turns men who were otherwise heroic in nature into villains, and villains into heroes of virtue. But you are personally familiar with such a phenomenon, are you not?"

"What..." Marsh began to ask what the not-possible man meant until he understood. "My father. You're talking about dad."

A smile of surprising warmth. "Ah, as I suspected, you are more intelligent than you let on. Your father lives the role of a brave officer of law and order, but you know the truth. So why cower before him? You are stronger than him by far."

This was something Marsh didn't have an answer for. Before he could respond, the floating machine and the hologram moved toward his computer—

"NO! Don't look at—"

"At what? The images of men?"

Marsh gulped. "It's not what you think..."

"Yes. I'm sure you are simply a dedicated student of anatomy. Do not fear; unlike many in your world, I care not for your preferences. A man's worth is revealed by action and intent, by his abilities and intellect. His desires are irrelevant. At least, to a degree."

"So why bring it up? Are you supposed to be my subconscious or something?"

Another smile. "You still doubt my existence. Understandable. But you are far too intelligent to remain in denial for long. As for why I discussed that particular subject, it is because it indirectly ties into the reason for my presence."

A pause before the man continued. "This world is not so different from the 'fiction' you believe my world to be: a place that pretends toward justice and order when, in fact, it possesses nothing of the sort. Weak and foolish men such as your father hold power, merely because their point of view and their illusion of worthiness is acceptable to the other fools who run the world, while men of genuine potential are pushed toward the bottom and blamed for it. And should they attempt to change things—and often, they fail to do so—they are punished for their refusal to conform."

The man moved back towards Marsh. "For example, I am attempting to bring down the unworthy system that traps my universe in an endless cycle of chaos and injustice, and I am doing nothing more than what is necessary; for that, I am called 'evil'. You merely attempt to follow your own nature, and for that crime—were it to come to light—you too would be persecuted. But that is merely the smallest injustice of your world, compared to the true problem: men who attempt to correct the world—whistleblowers who challenge corporations, reformers who enter the political world with dreams of working towards a brighter future, men of law who challenge their corrupt peers—are similarly defeated, because their attempts resist the desires of those in power. But in truth, those in power are correct in one respect: it IS, in fact, the fault of those reformers for their own failure."

Marsh only just realized how intently he had been listening. He didn't know why, and a part of him tried to say that the man was wrong, but... it made sense. So instead of challenging the image, he kept silent as his visitor continued.

"The truth is, those who attempt to change the rules by following the rules are doomed to fail. The only way to bring order to a disorderly world is to BREAK the systems that keep the disorder in place. To force the world to correct itself, whether it wishes to or not."

A few more moments of silence passed before Marsh realized that the man had paused for his response.

"And... somehow, you think I can do something about that. But what?"

"An excellent question. And the answer is rather simple for one of your unrecognized wisdom; if I am, in fact, real... what else of my world must also, by logical extension, be real?"

...No way. "The Force. You think I have the Force."

"I do not think it, Marshall Dalton. I know it. Your power has only just awakened; thus, you cannot truly sense the Force yet. But in time, you will. Then, you will no longer deny my existence, nor the truth of my words; when that day comes, I shall return, and offer you the chance that you never realized you were waiting for: the chance to correct your world. I can show you how to accomplish this, but you must see my world before you can truly learn. You need not make your decision now, however; think upon it, and when I return, I suspect you will know what choice to make."

The hologram vanished, and the floating robot cloaked itself, leaving Marsh alone with his thoughts.

A few days later, Marsh found himself sitting on a sidewalk bench not far from the abandoned playground where the lightning struck, seeing the world in a new light; there were no people around beside himself, but at the same time he didn't feel alone. There was a sense of an energy that hung in the air around him, though most of it was concentrated on the playground.

This must be what it feels like to sense the Force, he mused. So it was real. It is real...

He looked at his hands. What did he say? That I was stronger than dad? If he was talking about the Force... then I could...

Marsh stopped himself. He wasn't a geek or a genuine fan of the franchise, but he knew enough about it to know that such thoughts led to the Dark Side, and the Dark Side was evil. Then again... he did say that 'evil' was relative. Maybe he was right. But... he's still my father...

Marsh stood up and began wandering aimlessly down the street toward his home. I'll have to think about this more. When he opened the door, though, something he didn't expect was waiting for him: a gun in his face, held by his (clearly drunk, by the stench) father.

"You little fag."

"What—"

"GET IN HERE!"

With his free hand, the man grabbed his shirt and dragged him in, tossing him into a coffee table, breaking the glass top and leaving him with numerous cuts and scrapes from the glass shards.

"You FUCKING faggot! Do you have any idea what that could do to me, people knowing what I got for a son?! Not just a coward, not just a delinquent, but a goddamn FAGGOT!"

A heavy kick to Marsh's midsection followed. Something stirred; some small aspect of bravery welled in him. "You are stronger than him..."

"If... if you shoot me... they'll think even worse of you!"

"You think this is the first time I shot this gun inside the house, boy? Worthless—"

"What."

Silence filled the air. Clearly, the alcohol had loosened his father's inhibitions in a way the man did not intend, if the expression on his face were any indication. Marsh's own expression mirrored that of his father for a bit before changing into something darker.

"What did you say."

His father gulped in fear before finding his courage again. "Don't come any closer, you little shit! That whore tried to step to me and this," he said, gesturing with his gun, "is what she got!"

"DON'T. Use that word for mom."

"Or else what? I have the gun, you worthless piece of shit. Now, we're gonna take a bit of walk, and then I'm gonna do what I should've done years ago, just the way I did to that whore—"

It happened so quickly; hearing the word again, combined with everything else, triggered something in Marsh; all at once, the years and years of cruelty came rushing back, the wounds, the bruises, the nights spent hiding his terror from the world. The face of his mother, smiling at him... then the thought of her attempting to fight back against her husband only to be murdered for it. It started as a burning sensation, then it boiled and built until it was a raging volcano; he felt as if he were going to explode then and there, and only one thing came to his mind: burn the bastard.

"DON'T USE THAT WORD, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

Lightning flew from his fingertips, spraying over his father. Marsh was so caught up in the rage of the moment that he didn't even think anymore, he just wanted this man to HURT. He stomped over to where his father had landed, shivering in pain. He was scared of this bastard for so long? This worthless piece of trash who murdered his mother...

"YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED HER! DID YOU LIKE IT?! DID YOU LAUGH?! YOU KILLED MY MOTHER!"

He thrust his hands out again and again and again, hearing his father scream in agony while his own cries devolved into screams of rage. After several more times, he finally stopped... only to see a charred, smoking corpse lying in front of him. All the rage suddenly left him, replaced with nausea in his gut and the beginning of tears in his eyes. He felt like throwing up.

"What... what have I done... I... I just..."

"You exacted justice."

Marsh turned to see the hologram again.

"You did nothing more than give a vile man his long-awaited comeuppance, and in self-defense. But because he was loved by an ignorant community, what will they think? Will they understand? Will they even listen?"

"I..."

"You know the answer to that question, Marshall. Say it."

"...No. No, they won't. They'll... oh God, they'll say—"

"They will call you murderer. And if I am accurate in guessing your age, you are old enough to be tried as an adult, are you not? All because you avenged yourself and your mother. You will be punished for the crime of JUSTICE."

The tears began flowing, and Marsh cursed himself for not being able to stop them. "W-what am I gonna do? I-I-I just murdered my father, and I liked it, I'm a m-m-monster—"

"You are not a monster. You are something far greater than any other on this world: you are the first man upon it who has the power to change it. To correct it. To make the Gregory Daltons of the world, all of them, pay for their sins; to save the other Marshall Daltons of the world from the cruelty you suffered. Come with me, and I will show you how to remake the world as it ought to be. Together, we will fix both our universes."

The tears finally stopped; Marsh felt completely lost, like he didn't know which way was up. All he knew was that he had no choice; there was nothing left for him, no other option, no one else who would listen or help. He had no choice...

"Tell me. Tell me how."

Yeah, Dooku's a master of emotional manipulation, just like Palpatine for Anakin. Next chapter will show where Kevin ended up, and from that point we'll be headed straight for the climax of this fic.