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Chapter 4 – Intrusions

Public outings were among Vader's most enjoyable tasks any given week. Harvests of fear, he'd unofficially deemed them. A darkly poetic mind might compare it to a bird taking flight, capturing the world's attention in its pinnacle of majesty. The analogy was fitting. Vader's black cape caught the wind like a vulture's fearsome wingspan.

But unlike a vulture, his intended victims were never deceased. That was the only certainty – and it was more than sufficient to send pedestrians scattering in all directions when the specter appeared in their midst.

Not that their feeble attempts at hiding would save them if they were, in fact, his targets. Logically, they knew that. But primal instinct still made them run.

He lived for these terrified reactions, imbibing them like blended juice drinks he once was able to drink. Those days were long gone – power and dominion were his refreshment now.

Except this morning.

The Dark Lord's gait wasn't the thunderous stride it usually was. One could even say his feet dragged as he led a dozen stormtroopers through the streets. There was a slump in his shoulders that didn't quite look right. Had he been any other man, dressed normally without Mandalorian crushgaunt gloves, he'd blend right into the miserable masses roaming the alleys. No one would have given him as much as a sideways glance.

Yet it wasn't an unwashed, unemployed vagrant passing by. It was Darth Vader as none in the galaxy had ever seen him.

Sluggish, dejected, and reluctant – these were the last words befitting the Emperor's right hand. Yet nothing else described the Sith as he trudged through Imperial City's central district toward...

500 Republica.

His imposing silhouette filled the front entrance, blocking all light into lobby. The doorman and front desk clerk turned to statues, too petrified to exchange looks with each other. Doom had descended upon their apartment complex. The devil was about to ring their doorbell.

How uncouth of them not to have a cake ready to serve.

The air dropped several degrees when he stepped inside, dumping a bag of tangled electronics onto the counter. The clerk stared at the wires without blinking.

"My men and I will be installing a closed surveillance system in this building," he announced without preamble. "You will grant us access to each apartment, as well as your switchboard and servers."

Unable to speak, the woman behind the desk gave a high-speed nod and fumbled for her comlink, dropping it before shakily paging her supervisor. When a portly, beady-eyed man appeared a minute later, he didn't need to be briefed. The situation was as plain as day.

But also black as night.

Vader repeated his request and was swiftly led to the control office, the functions of which were explained to his satisfaction. Not that he needed instructions. The system was standard and simple… child's play, really. C3PO's programming had been a hundred times more complex. He was fairly confident the stormtroopers could synchronize everything without much supervision.

With one exception, of course: the balcony apartment on the twentieth floor. None of the troops needed reminding it was strictly off-limits.

Neither did the building's tenants need to hear the evacuation order more than once. Whenever the words "Empire" and "surveillance" were used in the same sentence, no one mistook it for a drill. Fleeing with whatever they could grab on the way out, dozens clogged the halls in a mad rush to vacate. Dragged behind their parents, children screamed at the sight of stormtroopers pounding on doors. Many were in tears by the time they reached the lobby and the cold morning air beyond.

Again, Vader failed to savor this outpouring of fear. For him, the scene had become a slow-motion, blurry projection without audio. He felt almost disembodied as he found the nearest turbolift and pushed the button for the twentieth floor.

Was he really doing this? Was there no turning back?

Stop. Such weak, wavering thoughts are not of Darth Vader. They are of… his lesser, former self. Darth Vader dreads nothing. He suffers no anxiety.

But if it was not anxiety that consumed him at that apartment door, what was it?

Control your foolish feelings, Vader. It is only an apartment. A configuration of steel, carpet, and glass. Nothing more. The logic simultaneously stung and emboldened him.

There was only one way through this quagmire, and that way lay directly ahead. No more stalling. If he let this get the better of him, he was all but useless to the Emperor. He may as well hang up his cloak and kneel for death by Sith lightning.

Surely this experience would be more bearable than that.

Yet that was logic talking again. Logic, which was neither love nor hate – something apart from the two passionate ends of the spectrum he'd always known. Would it be enough?

Sliding the door open with a flick of his wrist, he decided it was time to find out.

Three steps inside and the rasp of his ventilator lost its rhythm. His prosthetic knees locked against the tremors that wracked his frame. At least the suit kept him stable when his nerves refused to. Using its modified senses, he stood and took stock of his surroundings.

At first glance, most everything was the same. The furnishings, though changed, were in much the same arrangement. Whoever lived here now shared a good deal of her tastes. From the artwork to the ornamental knick-knacks, the effect was so similar that for an instant, he actually believed he was breathing the same air as she.

It felt exactly like his dream the previous night. The one he knew was coming on the wake of the headaches and vertigo.

It had been even more graphic and disturbing than the previous ones combined. In it, he'd entered the living space just as he did now, hearing Padmé's voice calling from the bedroom. His feet moved much too slowly toward the sound, which changed as he grew closer. Instead of beckoning him with flirtatious tones, she was now shouting in panic, screaming as if a lion were poised to pounce on her.

When he finally reached her, it appeared as if one had. Her nightgown covered in blood, Padmé lay lifeless with an equally bloodied infant next to her. Grisly didn't begin to describe the horrific scene.

Blinking, Vader realized he was now standing in the bedroom, having retraced his steps from the nightmare. The bed before him was clean, unsoiled by visible stains of blood. Yet it was the invisible stains that haunted this room – and he saw them as clearly as his grim reflection in the mirror.

Under his feet was the path crawled by two deadly kouhun centipedes that nearly claimed her life eight years ago. And on the bed… on that bed…

The dream had been all too accurate. That bed was her tomb all along.

It was where they'd made love into all hours of the night each time he returned from war. It was where she'd slept alone far too many months in a row, her concern growing as she watched her belly do the same. The seeds of her death were sown in this bed. His visions of that death had also occurred in its silky sheets.

How had it gone so wrong? Why was he alone and ruined instead of waking up in that bed with Padmé and their children tucked under his arms? Why?

He knew the answer but refused to give it a voice in his mind. Slamming his heart shut along with the bedroom door, he stormed back into the living area, seething. He didn't care if having stormtroopers wire this apartment was a sign of utter failure. He was through here. Forever.

Something caught his eye a few feet from the door – something previously hidden from view behind the sofa. It was a basket filled with brightly colored toys and stuffed animals. Children lived here. Judging by the variety of its contents, at least two or three children.

When the family returned to their dwelling later that afternoon, they were aghast to find the couch overturned, the toy basket brutally ripped in half, and pieces of crushed and mutilated toys strewn in every corner.

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On the other side of Imperial City, curiosity was about to claim another victim before the day was through.

Ainar Skywalker had been thoroughly dazzled since setting foot on this city-planet. In all his varied and belabored travels, he'd yet to come across a world completely encrusted with commerce and industry. He wagered the charm would wear off eventually, but for the time being, he marveled at the mile-high spires that filled one horizon to the next.

There were, of course, less glamorous zones hidden in the shadows of those towers. He'd spent the previous night in one almost as rough as that Tatooine spaceport… what was the name again? Mos Eisley? After coming out of that hive with his mind and body intact, he estimated he could survive anything.

Not that his twenty-seven-year odyssey hadn't already testified to that.

And what he'd learned on that desert planet was the most bittersweet validation of his efforts. A single tear had escaped when he learned she was dead. Having cried at least two oceans over the years, one drop was all that remained.

Another tear escaped when he learned she'd given birth to a boy. A son.

His son.

Who was reportedly last seen on this planet. At least, that's what the moisture farmer and his wife claimed. They'd been mistrustful of him from start to finish, anxious to get him off their property. The information they offered could be flawed, intentionally or otherwise. But he had nothing else. This was his final chance to find the boy – no, the man – whom he'd never met, never known, and who had no reason to believe he existed.

Ainar was well accustomed to the feeling. To the universe at large, he'd technically ceased existing nearly three decades ago.

Not dead, but not legitimately alive, either. It was a bizarre, lonely limbo into which he'd been exiled.

The prospect of actually ending this saga, of stepping out of the void to embrace the one remaining person who could make him whole again… he'd waited so long that he no longer felt any thrill or excitement.

But that didn't mean he'd grown ambivalent. He hadn't run the longest race in the history of mankind only to halt ten feet from the finish line.

And so he'd come to pay late homage to the Jedi, a group the moisture farmer said Ainar's alleged son had once belonged to. Who these Jedi were was a mystery; the tight-lipped Owen Lars would only say that once Ainar found the Jedi temple in Imperial City, all would become clear.

Asking several citizens to direct him to that temple, he'd received many hostile, paranoid stares. A few skittered away, feigning poor hearing. He was starting to despair that Owen had in fact pointed him to a dead end, when at last someone took pity and responded.

"Not from around here, are ya?" the man with an eye patch and missing tooth grinned.

"No, not by a long shot," Ainar confirmed.

"Been livin' in a sarlacc's stomach for five years?"

"More or less."

Gnawing on the end of a hookah pipe, the old man leaned back to assess Ainar, squinting his good eye. "You ain't joking."

"Believe me, I wish I was."

The man heaved a dry cackle and shook his head in amazement. "Thought I'd seen everything. But someone who don't know 'bout what happened to the Jedi? Heh, galaxy's fulla surprises."

"Pleased as I am to entertain you, I really would love to find the Jedi temple."

"Sorry, can't help ya."

Ainar could have throttled the man. "Why not?"

"Ain't called the 'Jedi temple' no more," he grinned, thinking himself clever.

"Forgive me," Ainar clenched his fists to keep his irritation in check. "What's the proper name now?"

"Imperial Force Memorial," the man wagged his head in mock reverence. "But most folks call it 'pigeon poop fortress.'"

"Charming. Now where do I find it?"

"Straight that way, then take a left... wait, no, that'll take ya right by Vader's place," the man rubbed his chin. "There's 'nother way, a little bit longer…"

"Who's Vader?"

Ainar feared the man's eye would pop out of his head. "You ain't joking! Stars, ya really have been livin' in a sarlacc!" he wheezed. "Who's Vader?! The last person ya came here to meet, I guarantee ya that!"

Taken aback by the man's intensity, Ainar decided not to ask further questions. "All right then, what's the other route?"

"Ya know the Senate Building, big shroom-shaped dome in the center of town?"

Ainar nodded. It was impossible to miss that distinctive structure.

"Stand on the front steps an' look left. You'll see a group of five towers 'bout a mile away. That's it."

Five towers, got it. "Thank you."

He was about to take off running when the old man casually added, "Ya won't get closer than a hundred yards."

Fuming, Ainar craned his head to glare at the man. "How come?"

"Shadow troopers everywhere. Won't let anyone in, 'cept for Palpatine an' his special guests," he sneered. "Don't take it personally. Been that way for years."

Whoever Palpatine is, Ainar muttered to himself. What was going on here? A million questions flooded his mind, but the vagabond slouched against the side of a dumpster probably wasn't the best source for answers. Directing him to the temple was greatly appreciated, but there had to be others – preferably those who'd bathed in the past month – better qualified to fill in the rest of the blanks.

"I'll be careful," were his parting words to the disheveled informant.

"Ya better be."

A chill wind carried the warning to Ainar's ears as his heart and feet pounded away. He dismissed the ominous tone as produced by rough, raspy vocal chords.

At least, that's what he hoped was making the hair on the back of his neck standing on edge.

There was no time to second-guess himself or make alternate plans. Twenty-seven years had been time enough for that.

He'd be damned if he let a one-eyed, ragged alley rat keep him from this glorious moment. Nothing and no one could stop him with the five-towered finish line in clear sight, its majestic spires growing taller and taller as he raced closer, until –

"Halt!"

Slowing, Ainar peered in every direction, seeing nothing but pale concrete and empty benches.

"One more step and you're under arrest!"

The voice sounded closer now, yet still the speaker was nowhere to be seen. Was this a trick? A cheap defense system that relied on intruders being easily spooked? Ainar Skywalker was no fool. He'd seen enough in his travels to recognize such tactics.

Setting his eyes on the distant temple's stairway, he charged ahead with renewed spirit.

His boots hit the pavement two more times before he fell to the ground, stunned by a blaster shot that came from nowhere. He was unconscious when five shadow troopers materialized, black armor uncloaking as they sheathed their weapons and knelt beside him.

"Inform Lord Vader there's been another trespasser."

"Lord Vader just departed for Alderaan for three days."

"Then we'll inform him when he returns," the leader concluded. "Lock this one in the main detention center until then. Level seven security."

"Yes sir."

"I'll alert the other squads to be extra vigilant. The Emperor is expected this afternoon, and you know how he dislikes uninvited guests."

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"Imperial Force Memorial" was invented by me after reading how Palpatine altered/renovated the temple after ROTS. I figured if he tampered with the temple's statues and archived data, he'd change the official name too.

Don't know if the directions to the Jedi temple are accurate or not.

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