Dark Angel
By Serena Kenobi
A/N: GAH! I haven't updated in AGES!! Welcome new reviewers, I hope you'll stick around to see the end of this story. It won't be over for a while if I get enough feedback from the sequel. I'd like to thank everyone now who's been around for this and the previous story - you guys are the best. You seriously have helped me to become a better writer, and I thank you.
A week later, and Elena still hadn't forgiven her father. She felt that soon she or he would have to say something, but she wanted him to be the one to do that. One evening as she was in the media room reading a letter from Leia, the door opened. She didn't look up.
"Elena."
"Father." She still didn't turn to look at him.
Anakin sighed. "Look, I'm sorry that you have to go through this. Believe me, it's not what I want for you."
"Fine."
Anakin glared at her. "Elena!"
"What?"
"Will you accept my apology or not?"
Elena looked at him. "Fine." She returned to her letter.
Anakin was growing very irritated at her passive aggressive behavior. "Elena Skywalker, stop this ridiculous attitude! You are not a teenager anymore! You are an adult and I expect you to act like one!"
Elena slowly rose to her feet. Her eyes were cold. "As you wish. Excuse me, sir." She brushed past him, but he took her arm and pulled her back to him.
"Elena," he said, frustrated, "I really am sorry. I wish I could change the Emperor's mind about this, but unless he is gotten rid of, I can't do anything to disobey him and give him reason to call me a traitor."
Elena's eyes softened. "I know. I'm sorry, too."
The first thing he sensed when he awoke was extreme pain. He grimaced at the bright light and blinked twice before opening his eyes. "Hello?" He rasped. "Who's there?"
He heard a murmur, and then a man in a white coat appeared over his head. The man smiled and said, "Hello. How are you feeling?"
"I'm not sure… like a speeder ran over me," he muttered, putting up a hand to block the light. He stared at his hand, which was a deep red with black tattoos swirling over it. He frowned and asked, "What's going on?"
The man above him sighed. "What do you remember?"
He wracked his brain for memories, but to his horror came up with nothing. "I don't… I don't remember anything," he whispered. He reached up and touched his face, then his head. He felt over it and found several horns jutting out from his scalp. "I'm a Zabrak," he muttered. "I know at least that much…" He groaned and tried to sit up, but the man gently held him down.
"You're in no condition to be moving," the man said. "You've had a hard time of it – you almost didn't make it. But the carbon freezing worked."
"Carbon freezing?"
"Yes. You've been in hibernation for decades."
He froze. "Decades?"
"Yes."
That did it. He bolted upright, growling, "Who are you? Where am I?"
"I'm Dr. Yan. You're on Polis Massa."
He tried to remember anything about Polis Massa. "Polis Massa," he said, "I don't remember much – but I think I've heard of it." He glanced at the Doctor, who was a pleasant looking, middle-aged man with graying hair. "Do you know who I am?"
The Doctor shook his head. But he detected, somehow sensed, that the Doctor was lying.
"You do know," he growled. "Tell me!"
"I don't. Now lie down – you'll overstress yourself and your cybernetic systems," Yan snapped.
He froze. "What?" He stared down at the blanket covering his legs, and then to the lower half of his chest. He inhaled sharply as he saw a black prosthetic lower half. "What is this?" He rasped. Throwing off the blanket, he was horrified to see two cybernetic legs there instead of normal ones – and in place of feet, there were two cybernetic claw-like things – four claws on each one. "What happened to me?" He began to shake. "What happened to me? What am I?" He gasped furiously, not noticing that things in the room were beginning to shudder.
Yan shouted, "Calm down! Just calm down!"
"No!" He roared, pushing Yan aside. He awkwardly tumbled off the bed and crashed to the floor. Picking himself up, he stumbled out of the room and into a hall. Finding it empty, he began to walk faster, still staggering as he tried to work his cybernetic legs. But as he heard a shout behind him, he growled in determination and tried to run. At first, he tripped, but in a few seconds, his speed increased, and his footing became surer, and in less than ten seconds he was ripping past shocked aliens, not knowing where he was going or what he was doing.
He halted when he saw, through a large window, a ship of some kind. It could've been a shuttle, but it would do. If he could remember how to fly it, that is. But when he stared at the window, he found that he could see his reflection in the mirror. He looked closely. He had yellow and red eyes, and his face and upper torso were covered in black tattoos.
Who was he?
But he didn't have time to ponder that question. He leaped down the hall, his pace increasing until he almost felt like he was flying, and in no time he found himself at a hangar. He quickly scanned the area before finding the small shuttle he'd seen earlier. He rushed toward it and jumped as a shot was fired inches past his head. He turned to see a group of men with guns pointed at him. He impulsively put a hand up as if to block the shots, and to his astonishment, the guns tore out of the men's hands, all landing at his feet. He stared at them.
What?
"Get him!" One of the men shouted.
He picked up a gun and raced up the ramp, hitting the mechanism to shut it as soon as he entered the ship. Making his way to the cockpit, he fell into the pilot's seat and began pressing buttons. He had no idea what he was doing, but it seemed like second nature to him. Before he knew it, he was soaring out of Polis Massa and into the utter blackness of space. He touched the controls and realized he had nowhere to go. He brought up a map of where he was. There was only the planet Subterrel, and that appeared to be a mining colony. But where else had he to go? Maybe he could find someone to help him.
He set a course for Subterrel and hoped that his luck would improve.
But another voice told him there was no such thing as luck.
Sarael Sol rubbed her sore back as she collapsed onto her small cot. She sighed and brushed a wisp of white and light red hair out of her glowing red eyes. She didn't know why she was here on Subterrel when at any time she could easily overpower her master, Jaroth, by simply calling upon her powers. Glancing down at her white hands that glowed with a hot reddish energy, she shook her head and let the glow disappear. She couldn't kill anyone. She wasn't a murderer. And how could she risk showing her powers to anyone else?
Her eyes drifted shut…
But they flew open as a hand covered her mouth, and she gasped and tried to bolt upright.
"No, please," a voice hissed. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Her eyes glowed slightly with anger as she tried to see the attacker in the darkness of her tiny room. Who are you? She mentally asked herself.
I don't know, a male voice inside her head said, sounding ashamed. She jumped, her eyes wide.
You heard that?
Yes. The hand left her mouth, and she frowned in the darkness.
"Who are you?" She whispered.
There came a heavy sigh. "I don't know," the accented low voice said. "I was just going to ask for some help. I need to get to a certain planet – I don't remember anything."
"Can I… see you?"
"I rather you wouldn't. I'm not exactly nice to look at, Arkanian."
Sarael squinted in the darkness. "I don't care. I work in the mines – I see many ugly aliens. You can't be worse than anything I've already seen."
There was a pause. "If you wish." Her small lamp flickered on, and she found herself staring at the tallest Zabrak male she'd ever seen. He was at least seven feet tall, but that was because of his lower half – it was entirely cybernetic systems. "By the mines," she breathed. "What happened?"
He sighed again. "I don't know."
She looked into his eyes, a stunning shade of yellow, red, and orange, not too much unlike her own. "I'm Sarael," she offered, holding out a white hand. "Sarael Sol."
He smiled. "I'm… a Zabrak. That's all I can tell you." He glanced at the floor and inspected one of his clawed feet – if they could be called feet.
"You don't know your name?"
"No," he said darkly. "And I don't know how, but I could hear your thoughts."
"I could hear you, too," she said softly. "No one else has." She rose to her feet. "Well, Zabrak, I can't think of any names now, so how about just Zabrak?"
He frowned. "Isn't that a little impersonal?"
"Fine. Zak?"
"Zak?" He echoed.
"Yes. Short for Zabrak. It'll have to do until we can think of something else." Sarael wondered when had she started to think that they'd have a long-lasting relationship. Shaking her head, she added, "What are you doing here?"
He glanced out the window. "I need to get off this planet."
"Me, too. That doesn't mean I can."
"Why not?"
It was a simple question, but she found herself startled by it. "Well, I…" she said lamely. "I have a Master. I have no money, no family, nowhere else to go. It's fine here, really."
He studied her. "You're not a very good liar, Sarael."
She sighed. "I know. But where would I go? What would I do?" She stared down at her hands. I can't even be myself without risking…
"If you help me to get off the planet, I might be able to help," he offered.
Sarael frowned. "How so?"
"I have a ship, hidden a few miles from here. It needs fuel. I know nothing about this planet or where to buy it – if you help me find fuel, I'll get you off here and take you wherever you want."
Sarael knew many places to refuel. "All right," she said finally, her own eyes gazing into his. "I'll help you.
It was the annual celebration of the rise of the Empire. However, neither Elena nor her father felt like celebrating. For her, it signified the death of her mother, the separation of her from her siblings, and the destruction of the Jedi. For her father it signified the duel between him and Obi-Wan and the death of his beloved wife.
Elena stood looking at herself in her mirror. She sighed. "Do we have to go to this party?"
"Yes," her father called out as he straightened his black tunic in her bathroom and entered the room. He eyed her silver, flowing dress with distaste.
"It's a little… revealing, don't you think?"
Elena grinned at his referring to the strapless gown. "Don't be ridiculous. This is perfectly appropriate." She twirled once. "What do you think?"
He smiled. "You look beautiful."
She smiled back and took his arm. "You look nice, too. Shame you have to wear the blasted suit. Every female in the Palace would be fawning all over you and forget Thrawn and Xizor. But then that would boots your already large ego."
"I do not have a large ego," he said, offended.
She put on a dress coat and grinned. "Of course you don't."
Elena had been to the Grand Hall of the Imperial Palace many times for other occasions, but the splendor and the decorations made her feel extremely ill. It only reminded her of the poverty and death the Empire had caused over the years. Upon entering the palace, a short man bowed. "Lord Vader," he said in a nasally voice, "Who is this lovely young lady with you?"
"My daughter," Vader rumbled, "Her Royal Imperial Highness, Princess Elena Skywalker."
"Of course. You shall be announced." He turned and spoke into a speaker comlink, "Announcing Lord Darth Vader and his daughter, Her Royal Imperial Highness, Princess Elena Skywalker."
"I'll give you Princess, you–" Elena muttered under her breath and was stopped by a look from her father.
Elena took her father's arm and went down the grand ballroom staircase, eying the grand lustrous room before her. There were hundreds of people talking, many dancing as well, and the ladies were all finely dressed; most of the men in Imperial uniform. Elena and her father reached the bottom and immediately came before the Emperor, who had been speaking with Grand Moff Tarkin. Tarkin, accompanied by a younger woman with cold eyes and red hair and was the only woman wearing an Imperial uniform, glared hard at Elena.
"Ah, Lord Vader and young Skywalker," the Emperor purred as Vader took the Emperor's right side. "How wonderful of you to join us."
"Thank you, Your Excellency," Elena replied smoothly. "It was kind of you to invite us." Kind, my as-
Elena! Her father berated.
What?
"This is Admiral Daala," the Emperor said, looking at the red-haired woman.
Elena nodded. "Pleasure." She held out a hand. The woman looked at it disdainfully but took it, releasing it almost at once.
"I'm sure," Daala fairly snarled.
Okay then. Elena looked around and saw Leia and her father a ways off talking to someone. Leia's eyes met hers, and Leia smiled. Elena smiled back.
A stunning Mara Jade came up to the party in a slinky green dress that showed off every curve the assassin had. Her hair was done up, as Elena's was, and wisps of red-gold hair fell onto her swan-like neck. "Lord Vader," she said, "Moff Tarkin." Her green eyes locked with Elena's.
Elena smirked. "Mara Jade," she said. "Where have you been hiding yourself?"
"Oh… around."
"Care to show me where the drinks are?" Elena asked politely.
"Get a droid to show you," Mara waved her off.
Elena glared but was inwardly smiling. "Very well." She motioned to a nearby droid and took a sip of wine. Uck. She quickly passed it on to another moving waiter droid.
"Oh, young Skywalker," the Emperor said, a hint of triumph in his voice, "I'd like to introduce you to a new pupil of mine."
An extremely handsome young man stepped forward from the Emperor's left side. He had jet-black hair that was slicked back, and it came almost to his shoulders. He had a strong, tall body, and enticing green eyes. He was garbed in all black, and he wore a black cape that billowed behind him as Vader's did.
"Young Skywalker, this is Dartan Kier."
Kier's emerald orbs locked with Elena's, and they narrowed.
Elena's eyes widened. "You!" She exclaimed.
I know, I've been horrible. Writing a novel will do that to you. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story for so long; we're actually winding down, well up, in a matter of speaking. There aren't too many chapters before the end - and then onto the next sequel! Now, as for the name... any ideas, people?
MtFbwy,
- Serena
