Part V
Dear Father,
I suppose that you are otherwise occupied, but I choose to ignore this. Ruling your beloved Empire with an iron fist must be a full-time job. You will find that this sounds bitter and sentimental, or perhaps simple-minded – I have none of your eloquence, I'm afraid, but this is for your eyes only. I daresay you've heard worse. Or have you already banished the memory of me?
To get to the heart of the matter, I am writing to merely ask you a question or two. That is not too much to ask, I hope. Were you aware of my continued existence over the last three years? And if you were, was it your intention? Did you purposely leave me there, out of the picture, where I could do no harm? Where you would be spared the sight of me?
I am sorry to say that it could not last – they've unleashed me onto your world again. Who knows what damage I could do? I am, after all, a deranged mass murderer. Were you aware of this as well? Fortunately for you, they will not let me off so easily, despite the lack of a public trial, or any trial for that matter.
The real reason why I am writing to you of all people is that I am leaving today. I don't even know where to – it is the story of my life, but who am I to wallow in my self-pity? You see, they've found another way to keep me away from everything that matters. From what they've told me, I gather that they'll be using me as an agent, for the sometimes dangerous, dirty jobs. Not unlike what she was. I have not forgotten. Though my hate has long since grown cold, for this I cannot forgive you. I find myself unable to let go – much like another acquaintance of mine.
I know that we have irrevocable differences – there are many things I regret doing. I am writing because this may be the last time I ever contact you. The truth is that I cannot bear the thought of dying your enemy. Yes, it is a weakness. Condemn me for it, if you will. May the Force be with you.
Love,
L. S.
Click.
oOo
Days faded to weeks, and death became routine again. He had been out of practice for so long. If you squinted, you could not see their eyes roll back into their skulls. Sometimes they screamed. That was harder to shut out – it helped if it was quick and dirty, a knife to the throat or the like. He could blast them, but explosions made noise; noise drew the barrels of blasters to him. In such instances, the question would come up. Would letting them fire be for the better?
Only he found himself afraid to answer, for the sick pleasure, that sense of fulfillment, of absolute power, had resurfaced. How empty his life had been without it, and what a sweet return this was. It would have been his dream existence, were it not for the other questions that came to mind. Such as Am I powerful, or am I enslaved?
He liked to think of the former, as he so often had. Untruths and half-truths were better for survival; it was a universally-known fact. Life was so easy when you could twist things into what you wanted them to be. Who needed sanity when there was bliss?
Such as that of ignorance, he noted. Mon Mothma's back was turned; she was unmoving. Having retreated to her homeworld of Chandrila, she had not been overly difficult to track. Either way, she had nowhere to run and most certainly nowhere to hide. Poor rebel scum. Just like him. Unfortunately for her, while their nature was the same, their sides of the quietly fading war were not.
He knew he would regret this, if only due to the memory of when he had almost had ideals. Would this then be the death of a mere memory? Curse the last vestiges of his feelings. He had done worse in the past.
"Skywalker. I knew you would come to finish what you have begun. Though I am curious as to why you would work against both sides."
"My loyalties do not lie anywhere. I was never fond of this war."
She turned and gazed at him intently, eyes unreadable but certainly hiding a spark.
"None of us were. But we were fool enough to believe that the means would lead to a greater end."
Her voice was slightly hoarse. No doubt it is a hard blow, to be stripped of everything, until all you have left is your worthless self. Indeed, they were all displaced. But who gave a crap?
"What good is a victory when there is no one left to celebrate?"
Mon Mothma smiled; without a trace of bitterness.
"Go ahead. Do it."
He plunged the lightsaber into her heart.
It had been a losing battle. A last stand, more for honor than anything else. Who could blame her?
oOo
More days blurred together, and he executed – a grim smile there – more orders. It was only the act of extinguishing a few more lights in a sea of stars. Nothing to drive him to tears. None of it had made him any deader inside than Mothma's exit. He did not feel a thing for her, being far beyond grief. It was the symbolism he would lose sleep over.
He blinked rapidly, as if to dispel any lingering brain activity. Those who lacked thought led the easiest lives. Of course, they could just as easily land themselves into a mire they could not climb out of…Was this his case? How he despised his own twisted mind.
He stood and went to make himself a caf, then headed to the cockpit to check his ETA. At least another three hours. When people spoke of space travel, they never mentioned the curiously nervous state of boredom one had to endure. Of course, this could just be one of his quirks.
With a slightly exasperated sigh, he returned to his cabin, sat down on his cot and opened the portable computer. Three new messages – one boasting free non-human pornography…some nerfherder ranting about something he did not recall saying. Did he ever waste time stirring up arguments on the holonet? And then there was something else, with Vader's unofficial address - just a few letters and numbers, utterly unrecognizable to but a few select individuals. A reply.
He fell back, letting his head smash against the wall. Stupid. What Sith-forsaken demon had possessed him to open contact with his least favorite person in the galaxy, after all that had happened? Let alone pour his soul out, albeit backhandedly. He hoped that he had not said anything particularly unintelligent. Holding his breath, he opened it.
It was blank. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What had he expected? For the rift to close over time? To be forgiven and accepted back as if none of it mattered? To be loved? Delusions, Flyboy, as she would have said. The truth was that time did not heal all wounds, that absolution was costly, that blood was worthless, that love did not transcend all things and that the last person who had loved him would be better off if she had looked away after the first glance – if she had shaken her head in disgust and turned her back on him.
oOo
The streets of Corellia were dark, dank and grimy in the night, the obscurity thick, heavy and smoldering, clinging to his skin like pitch, smothering him slowly. The air was dense and murky with humidity, unwilling to enter his lungs and less inclined to exit. None of it affected him significantly, however. A bestial instinct apparently programmed into him was dominating conscious thought. He was a hunter, and his eyes were focused on his prey.
It was a young traitor, a terrorist no older than he was, one who had repeatedly managed to escape the mighty Empire's reach, often enough to require his services. This could have been for sheer spite – yet another mind game.
Five metres. Definitely in range. He touched the blaster at his hip. Slim and almost inoffensive-looking, it was a state-of-the-art model, silent but deadly. On a higher setting, it could have blown its victim apart from ten times that distance. He preferred a more intimate murder, where he would see more than a body count or perhaps a figure collapsing in the distance.
He raised his weapon, and with the twitch of a finger, the man was down, charred, black-red holes riddling is back. He stood over him and watched his last breath leave him. Wide, moss-green eyes set in ivory skin continued to stare up at the sky.
It was pleasure. It was the facility of destroying something precious, something he could not create. It was taking without giving back. It was taking back what he had lost. It was power and futility. It was foul and liberating. It was agony.
oOo
He has taken to wandering the palace whenever he is on Coruscant. The place, for all its beauty, is cold and lonely to return to. He finds himself in the Grand Reception hall, a wide corridor stretching out so far that he cannot see what lies at the other end, with a ceiling so high that it could have been an open space. His sleep pattern is nonexistent from all the travel. At this hour of the morning, the hall is deserted.
A young woman is singing. She could be a far cry from talented, but with the echo, her voice is haunting, soaring with sweet darkness and fading slowly. She is not far from him; he can see her; her waist-length hair is fire-red against the deep green of her outfit.
As he comes up behind her, she falls silent and turns, directing a sharp glare at him. But only until she truly sees him. It is her – the girl he stops to exchange glances with, the one whom he is forbidden to see, the one whose eyes understand…The one who feels his pain.
Suddenly, he is entranced. Their lips touch. And then she is enfolded in his arms, and he feels the painful longing. He does not want to let go.