I feel like I should address the fact that the chapters these past few weeks have, on average, been shorter than the ones in Part I. There is a reason for that. I won't be able to write regularly, or at all, for the next few weeks, and while I have some of the story as fodder before I reach the end of what I've written, I'm concerned I'll run through all of it before I have the time to write again, so the chapters are shorter so I can continue updating quite frequently.
Also, I'm an idiot and have divided the story into another part, so there's a Part III as well as Parts I and II, despite the fact I said there wouldn't be. I've changed the name of Part II to Jedi-Killer, since I think it's probably more apt.
Anyway, on with the story!
After her conversation with Zoya, Nina found herself thinking about the music box she'd filched from Genya. Alone in her dormitory again and at a loose end, she couldn't quite stop herself from digging it out of her satchel and opening the lid.
The tune that played when she did was simple in a melancholy sort of way. A child's mourning song.
The song ended, and Nina frowned. Closed the box, opened it again. Listened to the song intently, like its notes held the answers she sought.
After the fifth repeat, she shut the box halfway through the tune and studied its shiny exterior.
He made her a music box purely out of pieces of scrap metal, once.
Was this the box Zoya had described? Its outside was scuffed and worn by hands and sand, but it was clearly comprised of metal parts. And the irregularity of the structure, the variation in extent of corrosion. . . It seemed to be scrap metal in particular.
And touching it, Nina felt. . . Sadness.
Loneliness.
No, she realised, three fingers resting on the top of it and feeling the metal surface suck the heat from her skin. Grief.
She shoved the box away from her like it stung.
Eyeing it nervously, she took a shaky breath and buried her head in her hands.
What was she doing? This was Alina Starkiller's past she was digging into - Darth Koroleva's. Why would she want to understand what drove the monster forward, what had made her into that monster? Defeating an enemy by understanding them was never an ideology the Jedi had preached; they had banned all research teams from venturing into Sith temples for that very reason.
If she understood Koroleva - empathised with Koroleva, sympathised with her - how was she supposed to strike the killing blow, when the time came?
Because that was what she was doing, Nina realised suddenly, with no small amount of horror. Sympathising. Nina Zenik was, by nature, a very social person. Being as lonely as Starkiller must have been for so long while on Jakku, relying on one other person to survive in the harsh desert, then losing that person? It was enough to drive anyone to desperate measures.
It wasn't an excuse. But it was an explanation.
And Nina remembered the horror she'd felt after Order Sixty-Six, after the Jedi Purges, alone, with no one but her master to guide her.
And when Koroleva had killed Zoya?
She would have burned the galaxy to ashes and dust if it meant Koroleva would burn as well. Perhaps the hardest part was admitting that she still would. Revenge is not the Jedi way.
It scared Nina just how dark her thoughts had become before she'd met Inej. Inej, who was cut up and shaken by her own experiences. Inej, who needed Nina perhaps as much as Nina needed her. They'd saved each other.
Why could she not keep herself tethered to the Light on her own accord? Why was it always a person who kept her there? First Zoya, then Inej, and now - and here she swallowed a little - maybe Matthias as well.
He'd challenged her, made her think of the different points of view in the world. And while his wasn't right - as right as it could be considering the lies he'd been told, but still wrong - it had made her develop her own. Apart from the Jedi.
And her (admittedly limited) point of view was this:
Alina Starkiller had fallen to the Dark Side because of grief. But grief did not inherently cause Jedi to Turn. Grief was a natural part of life; it was only as powerful as the joy and love - the Light Side aspects - that it came hand and hand with.
Why had Nina not Turned after Zoya died? Why, if she was so angry and hurt and lost, had she not become the very thing she'd sworn to destroy?
Because of Inej.
Because Nina had had Inej to support her. Inej to support her, and an obligation to protect. Nina and Inej's relationship had kept both of them out of the pits of despair, and catapulted them into the Rebellion, where they belonged.
Considering the Jedi Council's ultimatum to bury your feelings deep down and let go of all you fear to lose, it was. . . unlikely. . . Alina had had a luxury like that.
And Nina was sure the Jedi had been wrong. As someone who'd been there before and crawled her way back to the Light, she knew they had been wrong.
Staring at the music box, she only wished she had an idea of what to do with the knowledge.
They were coming close to the Concord Dawn system, and Matthias wasn't finished sulking when he heard Inej's voice echo over the internal comms. "All wings, report in."
"Green Two, standing by."
"Green Three, standing by."
"Green Four, standing by," Matthias huffed, scrunching up his nose in a grimace.
This was a bad idea. No, scratch that: it was an appalling idea. But when he'd tried to raised the point with Inej, she'd just told him to take it up with General Kir-Bataar, and, despite his newfound conviction to help the Rebels, he got the sense he was walking on thin ice with her.
The rest of the squadron chimed in with their affirmations, and the envoy General Kul-Bataar had assigned - Matthias couldn't remember his name - said, "Alright, team, we just need you to stay in tight formation around the main transport. A show of strength to impress them, and to also protect us if they prove hostile. Otherwise, do not engage the fighters."
"Affirmative," Inej confirmed among the ripple of other voices. Matthias breathed in, then breathed out. He didn't know what they hoped to gain by this mission - not only would the Mandalorians not join their cause, but nor would they take kindly to his presence in their system.
"Coming out on hyperspace now."
Concord Dawn was a striking planet, with almost a third of its mass blasted into space to form its planetary rings and moons. And approaching them from one of those moons was an escort of starfighters.
The stars had barely finished forming when Matthias heard the voice spit over the comms, "Attention, unregistered ships. This is Jarl Brum, Protector of Concord Dawn. You are trespassing. Identify yourselves."
Jarl Brum. Matthias's heart stopped in his chest. No.
"Inej. . ." He began to say, but she shushed him as the envoy spoke up.
"We come in peace, Protector."
"I'm not familiar with the word," Brum replied. He sounded exactly as he had when he'd trained Matthias for the Imperial forces. Peace is a lie the weak use to control the strong. A true Mandalorian, he liked to call himself. "State your mission."
Even as the envoy drew in a breath to answer, Matthias knew it was over. Brum was loyal to the Empire - he respected its strength and its ruthlessness with a fascism that Matthias had once admired - and there was no way. . .
"We request safe passage through your system."
"Safe passage for whom?"
There was a pause, as even the envoy considered his words, and then-
"Representatives," the envoy said, "of the Alliance to Restore the Republic."
Matthias would have closed his eyes in defeat had he not wanted to avoid a collision.
"So you're the Rebels I've heard so much about." Brum's voice was cuttingly gleeful. "How unfortunate for you." He would rip them to shreds and enjoy doing it. "Squadron, lock S-foils in attack formation." Matthias knew he left the comlink on just to strike fear into their hearts. "Annihilate the trespassers."
"Green Squadron, take evasive action!" Inej shouted, and Matthias hastened to obey as one of the ships flew straight for him. Its wings behaved differently to those of the X-wing he was flying; wide and flat, they whipped round the cockpit of the fighter as it flew, spitting blasts out of their pointed tips. Matthias recognised the designs from when Brum had been teaching him.
Inej was still trying for diplomacy. She activated the comlink and pleaded into it, "Please, Protector, we come in peace!" And then she said the words that sealed her fate. "We're here with your comrade, fellow Mandalorian, Matthias Helvar!"
Matthias felt dread settle in his stomach. He could practically sense Brum's sharp eyes honing in on his fighter, recognising the flight style, the way it moved, the golden tints of his hair barely visible past the viewport.
"Matthias Helvar," Brum said slowly, "is a traitor to the Empire, and to Mandalore. As are you, Rebel." Matthias's fists clenched the controls tighter. "And your fates will be exactly the same."
Inej abandoned diplomacy. "Squadron, lock S-foils in attack formation-"
Brum's language was simpler. Harsher.
"Protectors," he said. "Kill them."
The starfighters flew at them, hungry for blood, and the battle commenced.
The sun was setting over the hills when Wylan finally paddled over the lake to where Varykino sat on the island in the centre. He was just early enough to (hopefully) catch his father off guard, but he knew it ultimately wouldn't make a difference.
If their plan failed, he was doomed.
His unusually grim finally thought was that he only hoped he died before betraying the Alliance's secrets.
His father was waiting for him on the terrace of the manor house, easily seen from all across the lake. He appeared to be alone.
Wylan's heart contracted as he looked at him. His father looked older than when they'd last met, his hairline receding further and further, that cold, cunning look in his eyes tempered to something more akin to worry. Nervousness.
Nervousness wasn't suspicious in and of itself, but his father was Jan Van Eck. He was never nervous. Maybe he was serious about this meeting, maybe he genuinely wanted to defect. . .
Or maybe he's just a phenomenal actor trying to get you to lower your guard.
His father's eyes scanned the water until they came to rest on Wylan, who made no attempt to mask his approach. His face slackened for a moment, then froze into a neutral expression. Wylan couldn't tell what he was thinking as he stepped up and ascended the stairs to the terrace.
Then he was standing in front of his father again, and he felt like they'd never been apart. It felt exactly the same.
Exactly the same height difference between them, imbalance of power: Wylan having to look up to meet his father's eye.
Exactly the same fear in his stomach, his throat; the same pressure behind his eyes; the same rigidness to his spine.
And exactly the same look of disgust twisting his father's handsome features into ugliness.
"You wished to defect, Father?" Wylan said quietly. He knew the truth - had always known it, a part of him cried out - but he needed this validation. Needed to hear it from the man's lips.
His father's tone of voice transcended disgust. The concept of hatred quailed before the pure venom in the words that came next.
"I wished to see just how much of a simpleton my son really was."
Movement behind him, the whirring of a blaster, then a BANG.
Hot blood drenched his side. Hot tears drenched his face.
His father had set him up, he processed dimly through a haze of red. His hope and faith had done nothing to change the most reliable fact of his life.
His father hated him.
The pain came later. The pain came through the ringing in his ears, through the sensory deprivation tank he'd been plunged in. An agony the likes of which a sheltered lordling like himself had never experienced, the blaster shot to his side burning into him, past him, through him, his vision blurring and his head spinning. . .
He forced his chin up. Tears obscured his vision, but behind his father's grinning face he could make out four white shapes. Stormtroopers. Four stormtroopers. Kaz's count had been accurate.
Wylan let his chin drop again. I guess now I know the truth.
His father - because, despite everything, he couldn't stop himself from thinking of him as his father - crouched in front of him, gripping his face roughly and forcing him to look at him. "Where are the other Rebels?" Gone was the nervous expression; gone were the frantic looks. It had all been a lie.
With his father, it always was.
He wheezed past the pain. "There are. . . no Rebels. . . on Naboo."
His father's face contorted into a snarl. "You're going to die, boy," he promised, "but if you don't tell us what we want to know, it will be neither quick nor painless. Now," he tightened his grip on his face, "where are the Rebels."
"The Rebellion," Wylan gasped out, "will not be intimidated by you."
"Tell me!"
"There are no Rebels on Naboo," he repeated. His voice grew stronger with every truth told. "Only criminal, lowlife scum." Smugglers, Wylan thought, with no small amount of fondness.
"That's exactly what the Rebels are!" Each word was punctuated by a smack, and he felt bruises begin to blossom on his face. His father was apoplectic by now; he glared at Wylan, a vein throbbing in his forehead. There was fear in his voice. Fear of the Empire, of failing the Emperor again - exactly the way his pet Death Star project had.
He looked at Wylan, and the hatred was palpable.
Wylan closed his eyes. His father hated him. It was a simple truth, but not easy to cling to.
What was easier to cling to was this: Wylan didn't hate his father. He opened his eyes, and met his father's gaze. Identical blue eyes met - eyes inherited, eyes shared.
Despite everything, he still loved him.
Despite everything, Wylan still said to his father, "I'm sorry."
Then the shot rang out.
The stormtroopers fell first. Smart - Jesper was smart with his blaster bolts. Take out the armed ones first, then go for the big guns. They died quickly.
Wylan pushed himself up onto his knees as his father stood up straight and backed off - unintentionally making himself a larger target, an easier target, as he moved away from the one person Jesper didn't want to hit.
The crimson bolt hit Jan Van Eck in the centre of his chest. Wylan knew that, as long as he lived, he would never forget the sickening squelch of it burrowing into his heart, sealing his fate, making him collapse onto the hard marble tiling. Nor would he forget the stuttering rasp of his last breath as he died.
"Murderer. . ." he choked at Wylan, then twitched for the last time, and grew still.
Wylan forced himself to his feet, then blacked out and collapsed again.
He returned to consciousness to the sensation of being dragged across dewy grass, and the sounds of Jesper's struggling grunts.
"The plan. . . worked. . . then?"
"Like a charm," Jesper quipped, but he was a little too breathless for it to come off as entirely blasé. "You were right: people are so used to weird shapes under the water they never consider someone might be swimming there. And no one cares about shaaks. They're massive, lumbering orange things which are too stupid to do anything but get in the way. But they're definitely easy to hide behind." Wylan could hear the grin in his voice. "Easy to sneak up on places with."
"Yeah. . ." Wylan said on a sigh, then gasped as the movement aggravated his blaster wound.
He felt them stop moving as Jesper halted, then peeled back his jacket to inspect the injury.
"Shit, Wylan," Jesper cursed. "We need to get you some treatment before that goes septic."
"What about. . . the Empire?"
"Kaz is taking care of it," the smuggler answered, even as blasterfire echoed over the lake, and return fire rattled in response. "He's got our backs."
"I'm sure." Wylan tried to open his eyes again and succeeded on focusing on Jesper's worried face, looming above him like one of Naboo's moons. And behind him, a shadow, like the dark side of that moon. Humanoid in shape, it crouched on the roof of the manor and watched them as they departed. "Jesper, there's a-"
"Save your strength." Jesper's grip on his arms tightened, and then he'd swung him up into his arms. I'm being carried, Wylan dimly registered. Bridal style. By Jesper.
He kind of liked it.
"Kaz will take care of everything."
