The water was warm, and as Ophelia closed her eyes, she had the startling realisation that she was hurtling, at a million miles an hour, through the darkness of space. That she was surrounded by people who she would've once called her enemies. That she was alone.

She blinked the water out of her eyes, smelt soap on her skin, and then she reached forwards and found the dial. She turned it. The shower was off.

And then she yanked the towel off its tail and wrapped it around herself, hugging it to her shoulders, leaning into it as if it were arms offering her an embrace.

She sighed, sauntered over to the mirror. The floor was cold, hard, underfoot, and she did little more than stare at her reflection, amongst the steam and the shadows.

She brought her hands up to her face, rubbed her eyes. When she opened her eyes, she noticed the red marks around her wrists — bruises from the shackles.

She tried to smile.

As she sat there, wrapped in the fluffy towel, perched on the edge of the bed, she thought. Thought about the star destroyer, about Ryloth, about Krennic and whatever plot he was planning.

She wondered how much of a say she would have.

But sitting still never did anyone any good. And so she stepped out of the towel, got dressed.

She caught her reflection again, and this time, it did not look like her. She'd been issued some Imperial clothing, and she found that it did not suit her. She doubted she'd ever get used to it. It was plain, grey and starched so much that it was uncomfortable. And unflattering. She wondered why that mattered to her.

The cap was still sitting on a side table, and she picked it up and put it on, sighing. She never liked tying her hair up, and she was reminded of those few days previous when she'd stolen that officer's uniform.

What was his name?

Then Ophelia stepped into her shoes, and there was an alert on her comm channel. She flinched, pressed it, and came to the door.

The Stormtroopers were waiting for her.

The corridors all looked the same, and there were troopers everywhere; Ophelia decided not to run. Not to try to run. She decided to listen, to do as she was told.

And when she came face to face with Tarkin — alone, in the confined space of his office — she quickly quashed any thoughts of escaping. The man's mouth was pressed into a thin, harsh line, and there was a cruelty in his eyes that made her uneasy. She almost wanted the Stormtroopers to stay.

They didn't.

They left when Tarkin nodded at them.

And the doors were shut.

Tarkin's thin lips formed a sneer, and he gestured for her to step closer. She did.

"Take a seat."

Ophelia bit her lower lip, sat down, waited.

He spread his hands on the table. "I trust you have settled in?"

It was posed as more of a statement than a question, and she highly doubted he'd care what her answer would be. So she simply nodded.

He raised a grey eyebrow. "You can speak."

"Yes."

"Well, I suppose I had better get to the point." A beat. He caught her eye. "Director Krennic has been telling me about you."

"What has he been saying?"

Another grim smile. "You tell me."

Ophelia thought, considered; she knew he was testing her and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fail his test.

"I have connections with the slaves on Tatooine. Many of them have turned to the Rebellion for help." She thought she felt something then — perhaps guilt or shame — but she shook it off. She had nothing to feel guilty for, and she was not ashamed. She had seen an opportunity and she'd taken it: that was wise, and it wasn't stupid or arrogant.

"A meeting was set up between me and some of my contacts. They would give me some ammunitions for these slaves — they wanted to buy their freedom."

Tarkin waved a hand dismissively; he did not care to hear about the slaves.

She sighed, gathered herself. "I'm sure Krennic has told you what I was meant to give them?"

He nodded. "And yet we don't know exactly what it was."

"I don't know," she said quietly. Desperate to see something other than Tarkin's stern, critical glare, she looked out of the window; there were no stars and all she saw was darkness. She looked back at Tarkin. "It was a data pad. I'm guessing there was something important on there. I have no idea what it was. It was encrypted."

"So you did try to unlock it?"

"Of course I did," she said with a snort; soon, she would be too offended and simply too tired to be respectful. "I was curious. Who wouldn't be?" She was getting more confident now, and she wanted Tarkin to see it. "I tried but none of the passcodes I had worked. So I gave up. But it must've been pretty important. Top level stuff." Then she caught herself, and she could barely contain the victorious smile on her lips. "But you would know that, wouldn't you? You'd know what was on that data pad."

"Thank you, Miss Lacemaker."

Apparently, in the time she'd been talking, he had requested the Stormtroopers return to his office.

The doors were open once more, and Ophelia was taken back to her quarters.

And when she got back she wasn't alone.

She wished she was alone.

"How long have you been here?" she asked quietly, as she discarded her cap and took her hair down. She really did hate those uniforms.

Krennic shrugged, crossed his legs. "Not long. Long enough to know you were talking with Tarkin."

Ophelia snorted. "I'm not sure talking is the right word. More like he was accusing me of various things, trying to get even more information about me."

Krennic's expression became dangerous. "Remember this, Ophelia. You are here — and you are not dead — upon my recommendation. You would be wise not to make light of this."

She sighed, ran a hand through her hair. Then she flopped down into a chair, caught Krennic's eye purposefully.

"I am not making light of anything," she said calmly, and she meant it. "But I don't appreciate being questioned and interrogated."

"It doesn't matter what you appreciate," he said nastily. "But I don't see any reason to keep you in the dark for too much longer."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he said slowly. "That you are the Empire's to command."

"And what am I being commanded to do?"

"To track down those contacts of yours. To locate that data pad. To deliver it to us."

Ophelia took a moment, bit her lower lip. She wasn't ready to stop arguing with Krennic; besides, she was bored. "Don't you mean to deliver it to Tarkin?"

"No." His teeth were gritted. So she had angered him; she smiled. "To us."

"So when do I start?"

Krennic looked uncomfortable now; she wondered what she'd said. He sighed, pursed his lips, and then he was silent for a long time. He waited until she was looking at him, and then he said something she really did not want to hear.

"We start tomorrow."

She ground. "I don't understand."

"What is there to understand?" Shaking his head, he stood up, made for the door. "I knew it was a mistake recruiting you."

She wasn't entirely sure recruiting was the right word. But she said nothing; she wanted to know what he meant.

"I suggest you head to the canteen and get something to eat because you've got a long flight ahead of you." He raised an eyebrow when she tried to interrupt him. "And I know this because I'll be observing you. Making sure you don't run away. Making sure you meet this contact. Making sure you get that data pad."

"You know what's on it, don't you?" she asked softly.

He ignored her.

Ophelia groaned. "No, you do."

"What makes you think I do?"

How could someone be so infuriating? He wasn't only arrogant, it seemed. No, he was petulant as well. "Well, you seem more than ready to run away from the question."

Krennic raised an eyebrow, apparently regaining his sense of self-respect. "I am not running away."

She looked pointedly at the door — which he was a step away from — and then back at him. "I deserve to know what's on that data pad. I'm going to be risking my life it. It had better not be anything stupid."

"It won't."

As soon as she'd said it, she knew it was a silly thing to say. It wouldn't be stupid or foolish or unimportant; it would be so much more. And she wanted nothing to do with it.

"Orson—" she started, faltered when she realised she'd used his first name. He flinched but she ignored it. After all, he addressed her as such so what difference would it make? "Please, what is on the data pad?"

He sighed, the firmness in his expression seeming to splinter for a split second. "Something important. Something dangerous."

"What exactly?"

Krennic shrugged. "I don't know. But I think I can guess. And it's something I cannot risk the Rebellion getting a hold of."

"They already have it. Have you forgotten that?"

He grunted. "Yes, I know they have it. I'm not stupid. But we have some time before they work out how to decode it."

"I hope so, otherwise it'll be a wasted trip."

"It'll be your wasted trip." He was in the doorway now. "As I said, get some food. And get some rest. You look tired."

She scoffed, and yet after all she'd been through, she was surprised that she felt offended.

"You start—"

She sighed. "Tomorrow. I know."

Krennic slid a data pad across to her, nodded to it, and then he left.

A few moments later, Ophelia had only the one thought: What was his name?

Something military. Something suitably Imperial. Something defensive.

Rampart? No.

Kastle? No.

She bit her lower lip, thought again, and then she found herself looking at the data pad Krennic had unceremoniously passed her. She thought it best to be sitting down, and so she perched herself on the edge of the couch, and then she read.

It was mostly text but there were a few diagrams; she wasn't exactly sure of what. She was to return to Tatooine, and once there she would reintegrate with the smuggling ring there. Then she'd gain the trust of the leaders, and somehow retrieve that mysterious data pad. She was also supposed to liaise with Krennic throughout; she wondered how.

Ophelia flopped against the couch, groaned. They'd listed it out in bullet points, and it all seemed so succinct and precise, and yet that didn't make it any easier.

Casting the data pad to one side, she looked up at the ceiling. It was plain, blank, white, and it offered her no options. No way out. No second chance. She would be under the Empire's control now, and everything she did would be under the watchful scrutiny of Krennic, and by extension, Tarkin.

She wondered where she fell: an employee? An officer? A slave?

Fortress! That was it. And yet even that didn't remove the bitter taste in her mouth.