With this chapter, the fic is caught up to what is currently posted on AO3, as of today! From here on, the FFN version will update concurrently with the AO3 version.

After the main Wrea debriefing, Padmé headed back to her suite to wait for the window when she would contact Shili. She had intended to stay with Ahsoka as she gave the more precise report to Mon and Bail, but Ahsoka had sent her packing, insisting with all the stubbornness of her lineage that moral support was unnecessary, and she would be fine making her report alone.

In the common room, Numa lay sprawled on her stomach on the floor, doodling on a scrap of flimsi while Obi-Wan quizzed her from a holobook on ancient galactic history. Padmé held back a sigh. She still hadn't gotten used to the twins' absence.

"Aren't you supposed to be in the infirmary?" she asked Obi-Wan, motioning for Numa to remove herself from the room. "Or have you persuaded Azi that releasing you is compatible with his primary programming?"

"Azi has been much less persuadable lately," Obi-Wan replied, with a shade of disgruntlement. "Artoo must be giving him lessons. No, I've been released by Kix himself, provided I wear this until everything has healed to his satisfaction."

He gestured to the sling that held his left arm, now capped by a dully-gleaming durasteel hand. Padmé didn't remember any such stipulation when Anakin had received his prosthetic arm after Geonosis—but, of course, the Jedi Order had enjoyed the luxury of plentiful and high-quality bacta for rapid healing, while the Rebellion's supply was limited, and strict rationing was observed.

"And how is your hand?" she asked.

Obi-Wan shrugged. "I wouldn't know. We haven't been in touch for several days."

He tried to roll his wrist, and winced. "It seems there's a good reason Kix told me not to move it yet."

"And how are you… I mean… the fact that Anakin…?"

"One hand is so little, by comparison, to what we have both already done. And…"

And Vader had acted out of hatred, but there had been something beneath that hatred. Obi-Wan recalled it as a cold sort of misery. Hurt. And while that realisation tore his heart and wracked him with guilt, it also called up a hope which all Ahsoka's certainty could not. It was a hope, not only that his padawan could return to the light, but that he indeed might. (Obi-Wan didn't dare let himself use the word would.)

"I think Ahsoka is right," he said.

"About?"

"About Anakin."

"You've changed your tune," Padmé said, cautiously.

"Asajj had some choice words on the subject. And then, on Wrea, I felt something… it wasn't light, but it was not Sith."

For a Sith like Sidious would not feel hurt if his former master professed still to love him. Vader had. Anakin had. Perhaps he had not even realised it, but the Force did not lie, and the hurt had been there. And that which was hurt might be healed.

"He has an apprentice," Padmé murmured. "He told me there was no reason to turn on Palpatine until he discovered I was alive. But even before that, he had an apprentice."

Neither she nor Obi-Wan spoke again. Neither needed to. Each knew what the other was thinking: that there was no reason for a Sith apprentice to train a secret apprentice of their own if they did not seek to overthrow the master. Unless, perhaps—maybe, just maybe—it was a pathetic bid for companionship. A twisted attempt to restore something of that which had been lost.

"You are the agent Revenant, I presume?" said the Togruta man whose holo appeared over Padmé's projector a few minutes after Ellé's device was due to activate.

"I am," said Padmé. "Whom have I the honor of addressing?"

"I am Kirvet Jerti, ambassador for Her Majesty, Regasa Geroka Ilvic. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last."

"And I am likewise pleased to meet you, Ambassador Jerti. I understand Shili has been eager to communicate with the Alliance."

"Indeed. We have strong reason to wish to see the Empire's demise."

"This is a reversal of Shili's stance since its inception, if I am not mistaken?"

"It is. When Regasa Ilvic assumed the throne last year, it was discovered that her predecessor had made certain concessions to the Empire to preserve a semblance of planetary agency. Increased taxation, caps on military recruiting, and more in that vein. Most of our military ships were relegated for failing to meet Imperial safety standards, which is, if you'll pardon the phrase, is utter kybuck shavit. We were 'gifted' replacements, in the form of Imperial ships, crewed by Imperial troops.

"Regasa Ilvic has striven to do away with this sham sovereignty, but the stranglehold has only tightened in response. As our military has become largely ornamental, the Empire has grown bolder. Existing Shili troops have been seconded to off-world locations on so-called secret assignments." Ambassador Jerti's frown deepened. "Recent intelligence suggests one of these to be Kessel."

Of course. The Empire had little use for non-human troops, particularly those whose homeworld was waxing rebellious, and what better use was there for an oppositional army than as slaves for Kessel's mines?

"All remaining troops on Shili are subject to curfew," he continued. "Prohibitive tariffs have been imposed on imports required for ship construction, arms, and munitions. Hunting weapons are seized on the feeblest of pretenses. Tibanna prices soar higher every day. Just two months into Regasa Ilvic's reign, the Empire began taking conscripts from among our civilians. They have not entered the Imperial ranks, of course, and we can only conclude they have been sent to Zygerria, Kessel, or worse." He shook his head in disgust. "Within the past week, the Empire has even dropped the pretense of calling it military conscription. They cull slaves from our populace without consequence. The people are angry—which brings me to my request for your Alliance."

"Go on."

"We wish to harness this righteous fury, but, as I have said, we lack arms and ships, and our military is weakened and kept under strict curfew, such that the training of civilians is impossible."

"You wish, then, for us to provide arms and training?"

Jerti dipped his head and bowed ever so slightly. "If you would find it feasible. We have little to offer beyond the scrap of our relegated ships, food exports in such low quantities as can escape Imperial notice, and the promise of a staunch ally in the present fight and the restoration to come."

"We will not turn any world away for having little to contribute," Padmé assured him, "and we will welcome Shili as our ally. Arms, we can provide; I'm afraid, however, that ships will not be feasible. We have few, and we are unable to meet the Empire in open warfare. If we were to supply ships to Shili, you might be able to take the planet, but holding it would be far from guaranteed."

"Understood. What about training?"

"It will take some logistical maneuvering, but should be manageable. Over a period of months, we could send units to several areas planet-wide, to provide both training and weapons."

"And how soon could this begin?" Jerti pressed. "We must take advantage of our people's fury before they turn it on the Regasa for leading them into the Empire's bad graces with her rebel sympathies."

"We are prepared to begin in a month or less," Padmé assured him. Rex had assembled a group of vod'e experienced in teaching resistance tactics to civilians, and a tip on Imperial supply lines had paid off in the form of the successful ambush of a cargo ship carrying arms bound for a new Rim outpost. "I will represent the Rebellion before Regasa Ilvic, so that we may formalize our alliance, and then the first of our units will start civilian training in whatever region you choose. In the meantime, my colleague who gave you this comms device will continue to act as our go-between."

Piett sat in his office late at night, where, on his fourth cup of caf in as many hours, he was studying feverishly over a book of battle strategy on his datapad. It was like being a cadet again, up to his eyeballs in studying for finals. Great stars, he wished he really was back in academy. Then, at least, the only price for failure would be disgrace, and he could escape with his life, if not his dignity.

Someone knocked at his door. Probably Veers, come in a futile attempt to hustle him off to bed.

"Come in," he called, "but I'll have you know, I'm not sleeping until I understand how Commander Askenai used a mere three ships to conquer an entire system during the War of—Oh."

This last as, looking up, he saw not Veers but Ensign Teshlen, who seemed rather abashed at having caught her superior officer in the middle of the studies which they both knew no admiral ought to have need of.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," she said, "but—"

"The boy, again."

She nodded.

"He's making an awful nuisance of himself. We blocked the codes and frequencies he used before, but he's found new ones again. I don't know whether he's stealing his whole family's commlinks, or what. Sir."

"Transfer him. I'll see the matter dealt with."

Even as he said it, Piett had a sneaking suspicion that the only way to "see the matter dealt with" would be to give the boy the code for his own comm and act as go-between for him and Lord Vader.

He was still mystified as to how, precisely, he had gotten himself into this situation in the first place, but he had an inkling that it was his own damned fault. A basic sense of decency toward other sentient beings was really a terrible thing. If he hadn't stepped in to shield Ensign Teshlen when she had first come to him about Starkiller, if he had pulled rank and ordered her to tell Lord Vader about the boy's request, he would be well out of it, instead of running on caf like a bleary-eyed university student. He would be still awaiting his first captaincy, and still relatively certain that he would live to see thirty, at least.

These thoughts were summarily forgotten when the call came through, and Piett recoiled in dismay at the sight of his commander's apprentice. A large, ugly bruise mottled one side of his face, and the eye on that side was swollen half-shut.

"What happened to you?" Piett exclaimed.

"Messed up when I was fighting a training droid," replied the boy.

"Why were you fighting a training droid?" Piett asked, only to promptly realise how silly a question that was. He was fighting a training droid because Lord Vader evidently considered eight-ish years an appropriate age for his Sithling to learn to cut people up with a laser sword.

But Starkiller seemed not to mind the question.

"Because I'm going to kill rebels when I grow up," he explained. "And Jedi. If there are still any left."

The word Jedi sounded distinctly venomous.

Any Imperial worth his salary knew the Jedi were traitors who had sought to overthrow the old Republic. Their remnants tended to side with the rebels who sought to overthrow the Empire, and as long as even one of their number persisted, they stood as a symbol for the rebellion and a threat to the Imperial stability. All the same, it was disturbing to hear a child not ten years of age expressing such bloodthirsty sentiments. It wasn't just the bravado of a child parroting his parents in a game of Soldiers and Jedi; there was a vicious edge that hinted at the Sith whom Starkiller would one day become. It didn't belong in a child, and Piett didn't like it one bit.

"The Empire will prosper from your services," he said, in as diplomatic a manner as he could muster.

"Really? You think so?"

In the blink of an eye, Starkiller changed from future Sith to wide-eyed child given a handful of stardust. Or, perhaps, starving urchin tossed a ration pack, for Piett's praise had been as bland and impersonal.

"Yes, I think so."

Starkiller remained caught up in the praise for a moment or two, before he seemed to remember why he had called and asked, "Can I talk to my master this time?"

"He isn't here," Piett said. "He was called to Imperial Center."

This was met with a frown.

"I think you're just trying to keep me from talking to him. Wait… you're not one of the people who'd tell his master about me, are you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"He's not supposed to know about me. If he does, he might tell Lord Vader to kill me."

"What? Why?"

"Some stupid rule about how there can only be two Sith at a time." (Piett personally thought this sounded like a very good rule, in fact, given his recent experience with Sith—although he would not have it come at the cost of a child's life.) "Anyways, my master's actually an apprentice, so he's got to do what his master says, unless he kills him. Then he'd be the master, and I'd be the apprentice, and I could kill him."

"Do you want to?" he asked, wondering if it was his duty to inform his commander of a possible future attempt on his life. He decided it was not. Lord Vader presumably understood the workings of Sith succession.

"Sometimes," said Starkiller. "But sometimes no. I did when he killed PROXY. I still kind of do when I think about it. But if I did, then I wouldn't have anyone."

"No one at all?"

The boy shook his head.

"Not unless I can fix PROXY."

His shoulders drooped.

"PROXY is the droid you need help fixing?"

"Yeah. My master wrecked him because he looked like some Jedi he hates. He's my training droid," Starkiller added, "and he's a special one because he's got holos and things so he can look like people. And because he's my friend. I mean, he was. And I—"

He cut off abruptly, bit his lip, and glared, as if Piett had tricked him into admitting something he didn't want to admit.

"And you?" Piett encouraged.

"Nothing! I don't care! I'm not weak!"

"I don't think wanting your friend back is weak. Neither is missing him. Stars know, I'd miss M—my own friend, if something happened to him." Better not to mention Veers by name. It was one thing for Piett to put his own life on the line for Starkiller's sake, especially when it was already there on account of his promotion, but damned if he was going to take Veers with him.

The glare only grew fiercer. "You're just trying to trick me into telling you I'm weak so you can tell my master."

"Five minutes ago, you thought I was working against your master, and now you think I'm working for him?"

"I don't know!"

"Starkiller, I'm not going to tell your master's master, whoever he is, about you, nor will I tell your master what you've shared with me."

Digging yourself in deeper, chided his sense of self-preservation.

And where were you when I started speaking with this child in the first place? he thought back.

Starkiller narrowed his eyes.

"Why? Why won't you tell?"

How could he reach out to the boy without offending his Sith sensibilities?

"Because I've given my word to Lord Vader, in the first case, and in the second, because I've seen him when he is displeased, and I would prefer not to think of him taking his anger out on you."

"Why?" This time, the question came more from curiosity than suspicion.

"Because I happen to think it is both unpleasant and generally wrong for someone to harm their subordinates. Now, before you ask me for a treatise on moral philosophy, how are you faring with fixing up your droid—what did you call him? PROXY?"

Starkiller shrugged.

"Okay, I guess. Some of the parts are too messed up to use. I tried some ones from a different droid I was taking apart like you said, and one of them kind of works. But some don't."

"I see. I wish I could help you more."

"Then why don't you? You work on a ship, couldn't you just go ask one of the mechanic people?"

"I'm afraid it would look rather odd if the admiral were to start nosing around that way. Word might get back to your master, and I presume he would be very displeased."

"He should be," Starkiller muttered. "Would serve him right."

"Perhaps," Piett said, "but when Lord Vader is displeased, those responsible tend to pay with their lives. If I or any of my men get caught interfering with his apprentice…"

"Then he'll kill you too?"

"Very likely."

Starkiller considered.

"I don't want you to be killed."

"Thank you kindly."

"You… well, you're not my friend like PROXY, but you helped me." He cocked his head. "Why did you do that? You don't know me or anything."

Piett hesitated.

"Lord Vader is… a difficult individual, in the most generous of terms," he said, "and I suppose I helped you because I rather wish someone would help me."

Starkiller did not seem to know just how to respond to this. He said, "Oh," then stared down at his hands as if deliberating over what to say next. Just as Piett was about to make his excuses and return to his studies, he looked up again.

"Do you want to see what I've been practicing with my ' saber?"

Piett almost said no. The hour was late, and he had lost enough time as it was. But Starkiller's expression was the most eager he had ever seen it, and almost innocent, despite how he was offering to display his skill with a deadly weapon. Childlike. It was the closest Piett had yet seen him to a normal child. So he said,

"Yes—I think I would."

And was rewarded with a pleased gleam in Starkiller's eyes as he called a lightsaber into his hand, ignited it, and took up an opening stance.

Vader seldom came to Imperial Center. It was too thick with the Jedi's memories, too populated by figments of another time that flitted at the edges of his vision. Even now, the sight of 500 Republica towering in the Senate District brought a stab of pain that he preferred not to analyze too deeply. It must be no more than the lingering effect of seven years spent believing Padmé had died.

One choice, and it would have been different. One choice, and she would be there now, just back from the Senate. One choice—

He tore his eyes away from the Senate District as his shuttle's captain began to bring the vessel down before the Imperial Palace. The old Jedi hangars were still functional, but Sidious preferred his apprentice to enter through the front gates. To remind him of his accomplishments during Knightfall, he claimed.

All for nothing.

Inside, Vader followed the long-familiar route to his Master's throne room. Darkness hung heavy, potent and powerful, but even it was not enough to blot out the unwelcome thoughts, nor the mirage of what might have been—the suggestion of a Togruta, tall and lithe, twin lightsabers at her waist, as a petite, blond boy skipped up to her side. And at every step, the lofty halls echoed a tolling refrain.

You threw it all away.

The great doors of the throne room opened at his approach. Sidious had installed himself in the old High Council chambers to savor his victory over the Jedi, but doubtless he also derived no little pleasure from watching his apprentice return to the room which had so often ruled over his—over the Jedi's—fate. The dying rays of Coruscant's evening sun, casting long, jagged shadows through the space, rendered the dais on the far side and its occupant as a granite monolith.

"Enter, Lord Vader."

Vader proceeded to the foot of the dais, where he halted and knelt before his Master's throne, head bowed, hands resting upon his knee.

"I have been informed of your recent failures at Wrea."

"My admiral proved incompetent."

"And so you thought to replace him with a lieutenant? How this will remedy matters is quite beyond my comprehension, Lord Vader."

"Even a lieutenant can carry out the duties of rear admiral better than Ozzel could."

"So, you think to prove a point? Such faith you have in your men. I only wish I could enjoy the same." Sidious' voice hardened. "But it is difficult when I learn that my own apprentice, chosen as my right hand, was bested by two Jedi—nay!—by one Jedi and a half-trained padawan!"

"She is not—" Too late, Vader quelled an indignation which should not have existed in the first place. Sidious sensed it.

"She is not what?"

Vader hastened for a response he would not question.

"She is not merely a padawan. She is too skilled, too well trained, and she has been knighted. She and Kenobi—they plot to restore the Jedi."

"Indeed…. And how do you know this? Did you speak with them?"

"I acquired these."

He withdrew the beads from a compartment on his belt. Taking them, Sidious ran the string through his talons—a tooka playing with his prey.

"So, little Ahsoka Tano has grown up. Scraps, I think she was once called?"

Snips.

Sidious let the beads fall from his hand to clatter harshly on the dais, where, with great deliberation, he crushed them beneath his heel.

Vader's hands spasmed atop his knee.

"Did you say something, old friend?" Though the words were laconic, Sidious' eyes glinted sharply beneath his hood.

"No, my Master," Vader ground through clenched teeth.

"No? Quite right… and yet your rage speaks for itself."

Sidious swept the remains of the beads aside with a careless wave of his hand.

"I fear she seeks to turn you to her side," he mused.

"She seeks in vain."

"Does she?" The oily heaviness of his presence swept over Vader. "I wonder. Such power as you have at your disposal, and yet both Kenobi and Tano still pollute my Empire with their existence. I feel a conflict within you, my apprentice. Something is lightened, a burden lifted. This meeting with your old master and apprentice has left you weakened. Would you beg for their forgiveness, and prove yourself as pathetic as the smoldering carcass I dragged away from Mustafar, still struggling to groan Ahsoka, please! and master, help me!—? I helped you. I made you, Lord Vader. I gave you the life Kenobi took away. And you repay me by forgetting my teachings and neglecting your role as my apprentice. Would you think to turn your back on me? No, apprentice—you are mine, and you will know it."

Electricity arced between his outstretched fingers. Vader's muscles tightened in an instinctive attempt to brace himself.

The first crackling spray of lightning shot forth to fall on his arm, and the world imploded until only pain remained, omnipresent and blinding, and a bloody hatred that lashed out at the Master—at Kenobi—at the Jedi who had sold him into this existence [at the Sith who refused to leave it]. The vicious current seemed to resonate in his every cell, and he hated it almost as much as he hated his Master. The infernal heat of it, the way it seized his body and dispelled any illusion of agency—it was Mustafar, it was fire and lava and Obi-Wan's retreating back; it was Watto and Gardulla and their detonator chip beneath his skin. He was powerless before his Master's whims.

Through the searing pain, he felt a shift in his bond with the Apprentice. It came alive as, sensing distress, she loosened her shields just enough to offer the suggestion of a shoulder to lean against. He shoved it away.

The onslaught ceased mere moments later, and his Master snarled, "What is this? A training bond? To whom?"

"Tano," Vader managed. With wobbly limbs and glitching prostheses, he forced himself up from the floor, to kneel once more on bended knee.

"And why is it still intact?" came the inevitable inquiry.

"I—do not—know."

"That won't do. Had you kept it to defy me, I... well, I would be displeased, naturally, but it would make you a credit to my teachings. But to not know..." here, Sidious' gnarled fingers gripped the arms of his throne, "…to cling to her like a frightened padawan to its master's robe... this disappoints me. You disappoint me, Lord Vader."

He paused, to allow the weight of his words to settle, then snapped,

"This bond—break it!"

Vader's defiance tangled with the Jedi's attachment to the padawan who had abandoned him, both craving to throw Sidious' order back in his face with a single, forbidden syllable.

No.

But Vader relented. It was too early to show his hand. He had learned patience—more of it than the Jedi ever had, at any rate—and until he could face his Master with his son at his side, he would remain the obedient apprentice.

[Obedient slave.]

He ignored the thought and reached for the training bond. A thousand buried memories surfaced, bright eyes and saucy words and everything that was the snippy little padawan and the warrior she had become.

Ahsoka.

He forced the memories back. His Master was right. Even the very existence of the connection to the Apprentice weakened him, and that could not be permitted. Only through strength, only through the power that came from the dark side, would he be able to defeat Sidious and ascend the throne with Padmé.

He reached for the bond once more. His Master would have torn it out by its roots. Vader slashed it in two with a single, clean slice. It was a small thing, but it was act of defiance nonetheless.

[It was an act of mercy.]

No. It was not. What did it matter to him, how much or how little the Apprentice suffered?