Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Akame Ga Kill and Star Wars are not owned by me.

The bright light burns away, leaving only a haze in its wake. Akame blinks, her vision sharpening, adjusting. For a moment she wonders if this was the afterlife. The gates of heaven. But, shouldn't they blaze like the sun? Shouldn't they be warm, endless, weightless?

Then why are there skyscrapers—colossal, stretching toward the sky like steel mountains

And why are there cars soaring through the air?

Her breath catches. She had never taken hallucinogens, but this—must be what it feels like. To consume illegal substances? A trick of the mind. A waking dream. Or maybe not. Maybe those cars are really flying, gliding through the city, in smooth, calculated paths.

The thought is caught short when she glances down at her arms.

Her chest tightens. The markings of Murasame's Trump Card—are gone. The poison, the curse—it should've been permanent. It was permanent. Wasn't it? She pressed a hand to her skin, half-expecting the black sigils to rise under her fingertips. But there's nothing. Just smooth, unblemished flesh.

A sharp wind cuts through her, chilling her to the bone. The remnants of the Ice Age effect cling to her skin, the cold biting deeper than it should. It makes her sharper. Her skin, already fair, looks even paler—almost ghostly—due to the solution's lingering effects. It makes her sharper, more aware. This isn't the Empire. This isn't anywhere she knows.

Well, at least she still had her Murasame safely in its sheath. Her new backpack was intact too, carrying her newly acquired books. She quickly rummages through her backpack, fingers brushing against the cool metal of Adramalech her newly formidable Imperial Arms. Heavy. Solid. A weapon capable of unleashing storms, turning enemies to dust in the blink of an eye.

Everything is accounted for. She exhales, a fleeting moment of relief settling over her—before reality sinks its claws in.

This world was wrong. Unfamiliar. Had she left Earth—or moved through time?

Then something shifted as Akame's heightened senses stretched beyond their natural limits. She didn't need to turn her head—her vision simply extended, wrapping around her like an unseen force. Forward, behind, to the sides—every angle sharpened, every detail crisp. A seamless, instinctive awareness, as if the world had opened up to her. A gift from the Arachne's offering perhaps.

She scanned the towering billboards, the glowing signs, searching for something-anything-familiar. But the symbols were alien to her. At first, she initially thought she saw Egyptian hieroglyphs, only to quickly realize the characters belonged to a different phonemic alphabet, it was a writing system she had no knowledge of. Was it Korean, Japanese, or Arabic she didn't know.

What mattered was that she was lost.

This place was strange though not even a glimpse of the city was a recognizable place in the Empire. And yet, some things never change.

With a mugging right happening right in front of her eyes, one thing was for sure crime was just as high here then as the Empire. And Akame always will do justice if she has to kill a being she doesn't even know anything about.

In a blur, she closed the distance, Murasame sliding free from its sheathe. As the criminal yells in a freakishly unknown language she's never heard of.

She simply ignores this and says "Eliminate" performing a horizontal slash across the creature's throat with the smallest incision. As the criminal holds both hands to its throat as it eyes widen in shock and collapses to the floor.

She picks up the items that were mugged and hands them back to the victims whose belongings were stolen.

Some stared at her with caution and wary, as they had no idea if she might kill them next.

Akame knowing this shows a comfortable warm smile to ease the witness's wariness.

Some looked like she was insane, and others simply offered awkward smiles back to her.

Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the crowd, sheathing Murasame as she went.

The world around her fractures. Shatters.

Visions strike her like a blade to the mind—sudden, violent, relentless.

A woman appears first. Beautiful. Powerful. There's something in the way she carries herself, the way the air bends around her presence. Authority. Leadership. Maybe even royalty. The image warps. Now she's smiling, standing beside a towering man, muscles carved from stone. They laugh. A moment of peace in a place that looks too perfect. Paradise.

Then the peace is gone.

A new figure takes shape. A man with a jetpack, his face hidden beneath a sleek, battle-worn helmet. A killer. He moves with lethal precision, launching a dart laced with something vile. Poison. A body falls, lifeless. But the assassin's fate is already sealed.

A blade of pure light swings. One moment, his head is there. The next, it isn't.

The vision shifts again. Power—dense, suffocating—crackles in the air. An older man, bearded, radiating raw strength. His fingertips glow, alive with streaks of twisting lightning. Ominous. Wrong. The kind of power that poisons everything it touches.

And then, more chaos.

A cyborg wielding four lightsabers, each glowing a different color.

A grotesque, ancient man, his face twisted by time and something far worse. His voice rasps, drenched in malice, his eyes burning crimson.

Then fire. An inferno consuming a temple. Shadows dance in the flames, but they don't scream. They don't run. They just burn.

The visions don't stop.

A battlefield of molten rock. Two figures locked in a brutal, merciless duel. Magma flows like rivers, the air thick with smoke and betrayal. One fights with fury, the other with desperation.

Then the final image. A figure in black armor, towering, imposing—wrong. Darkness coils around him, suffocating, absolute.

And then, her.

The same woman from before. Cold. Motionless. A fragile body that couldn't survive childbirth.

The visions collapse, ripping her back to reality.

Akame gasps, her heartbeat hammering like war drums. Her fingers tighten around Murasame, grounding herself in something real. The weight of what she's seen presses against her chest, heavy, immovable.

This world—this galaxy—is on the brink of something catastrophic.

She steadies her breathing, forces herself to think. She can't change fate. Not yet. First, she needs to survive, to understand.

And then it hits her.

The language. She knows it now. Words she's never learned slip easily into her thoughts. Galactic Basic. The common tongue of countless planets, countless species. The knowledge is just there like it was always part of her.

A gift. A curse. A sign.

Did she perhaps see the future?

Whatever happens next, one thing is certain.

This universe—this galaxy—is far worse than anything the Empire could have ever conjured.

Planets she never knew existed, teeming with life. Millions of species, each more bizarre than the last. It feels impossible. Unreal. A fever dream of civilization spiraling in every direction. Was she in another dimension? An alternate timeline? Was there even a way back? Or was she trapped here, a lone warrior displaced in a galaxy that had long forgotten the laws of the blade?

She shakes the thought. It doesn't matter. Survival comes first.

She needs information.

The walk there is a journey through giants. Towering skyscrapers stretch toward the clouds, their glass exteriors reflecting the golden glow of Coruscant's endless skyline. Speeders hum past above her, neon signs flickering in languages she barely understands. The city is alive, breathing, but she moves through it like a phantom—focused, silent, unseen.

She reaches the entrance. The air changes. The chaos of the city fades the moment she steps through the doors, replaced by a weighty stillness. A sacred quiet. The scent of old parchment and ink lingers, heavy with time.

The library isn't a library. Not by her standards. It's a cathedral. Massive. Vaulted ceilings stretching toward the heavens, rows upon rows of books stacked across hundreds of towering levels. Knowledge, untouched and waiting. She wastes no time.

The language comes first. Galactic Basic. A foundation. A foothold in this unfamiliar galaxy.

Akame had always been quick with languages. A necessity, not a skill. Survival demanded understanding. On one sea voyage alone, she had picked up Rongo Rongo, deciphering its patterns, absorbing its structure. By the time she stepped off the boat, she could already speak the key phrases—enough to be dangerous, enough to be understood.

This would be no different.

Then, history. Politics. War.

She buries herself in books: General Rules for Galactic Diplomacy, The Conflict Between the Separatists and the Republic, Jedi: Peacekeepers or Cult Members?, How to Spot a Sith, Most Common Tactics Bounty Hunters Use, The Force and Who Can Use It, The Pilgrims of Tho Yor, and the Refined Version of the 1st Great Schism. Which were titles that reveal more than their authors intended. Discussions of the present, tensions rising, fault lines splitting open beneath the surface.

Then, deeper.

Ancient records. Whispers of forgotten wars, long-dead legends.

The Mandalorian Wars and How They Affect Today's Society. The Genocide of the Sith Race. The Philosophy of Tulak Hord. Darth Traya: Untold Secrets from the Sith Academy. Darth Nihilus's Tips for Hunger—a title that makes her uneasy. Darth Sion's Way of Immortality. Darth Malgus's Sacking of Coruscant. The Autobiography of Darth Revan: A Tale of a Grey Jedi. Darth Bane's Legendary Rule of Two. Tales of Abeloth: Real or Not Real?

The deeper she digs, the darker it gets.

Then, the planets.

Nine major regions. Entire systems ruled by war, crime, and shifting allegiances.

Felucia: The Fungal Planet. Glee Anselm: Home of the Nautolans. Kashyyyk: What to Avoid When Speaking with Wookiees. Dorin: Plo Koon's Personal Story. Malachor V: Tales of Paranormal Activity. Mandalore: Safe or Corrupt?. Korriban: Violence That Shouldn't Be Repeated. Dathomir: How to Avoid Cunning Women. Mon Cala: Ten Ways to Cook Mon Calamari—she pauses on that one, unsettled.

The pattern is clear.

Evil doesn't lurk in one place. It festers across all systems. Corruption bleeds into every planet, every government, every faction. The Mid-Rim, especially, is lawless. A breeding ground for crime and decay.

She closes the last book, mind racing.

This galaxy is a monster. And now, she's trapped inside it.

Her fingers tighten around her bag. Not trapped. Just… waiting. Learning. Preparing.

She rises from her seat, slipping a few books into her pack—nothing valuable enough to be missed, but useful enough to warrant taking. She moves through the towering halls, past scholars and droids, stepping back into the streets as the cold wind greets her once more.

It's night now.

She exhales, scanning her surroundings. She needs shelter. Somewhere to regroup.

Her gaze flickers toward a distant temple—the same one she saw engulfed in flames during her vision. A moment of hesitation. Then, she looks in another direction.

A colossal, mushroom-shaped structure looms in the distance.

An arena? A palace? A place of power?

Whatever it is, it calls to her.

She heads toward it.

A Naboo Royal Starship touches down on a distant landing platform.

The ramp lowers. Two women step down, their presence marked by the quiet authority of royalty. Padmé Amidala, Queen of Naboo, and her assistant—her decoy—Cordé. Behind them, Captain Typho follows, silent and watchful.

Padmé exhales sharply, arms crossed. Her unease is obvious.

"I want to go home already. I feel unsafe here," she murmurs, barely hiding her frustration.

Captain Typho remains calm. "Don't worry, Your Majesty. I'll ensure your safety. If there's any threat, I'll handle it."

Padmé grimaces. "Why did I have to come back here? It feels gloomy all the time."

Cordé, her voice tired, offers quiet reassurance. "I understand, Milady, but our presence here serves political purposes for Naboo."

Padmé's fingers tighten against her arms. "Yes… but I have a terrible feeling about this. Like something is about to go horribly wrong."

Cordé shakes her head. "Don't worry, Milady. It's natural to feel on edge. Everything will be fine."

And then—

Fire.

An explosion rips through the ramp. The force sends them flying backward, flames swallowing metal, smoke curling into the sky.

Chaos.

Typho is the first to react. "Is everyone alright?"

Padmé coughs, brushing off debris. "I'm fine."

But Cordé—

She isn't.

She trembles, pain flickering across her face. Tears spill down her cheeks as she looks at Padmé, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Milady… I failed you."

Padmé kneels beside her, pressing a hand against her cooling skin. "Don't apologize. You've served me faithfully for years."

Cordé exhales, slow, fading. Then—nothing.

Padmé closes her eyes.

Grief lingers, sharp and unyielding. But beneath it, something else stirs.

Rage.

She turns to Captain Typho, eyes burning. "Who did this?"

Typho's expression is grim. "I'm not sure. But someone who sees you as a threat to democracy."

Padmé's fists clench. "Maybe. But I have my suspicions. I'm alerting the Jedi."

Typho nods. "Agreed. They need to know this isn't just politics anymore."

Padmé takes a slow, steady breath. "Oh, and Captain—"

He turns to her. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"I need a new assistant. Someone who can fight exceptionally well. Not a Jedi, but skilled enough to hold their own. And it has to be a woman."

Typho hesitates. "I'll begin searching immediately. Should I distribute flyers across Coruscant?"

Padmé nods. "Yes. But only in places that don't attract the wrong kind of people."

Her gaze hardens.

"I won't let this happen again."

The sun had barely risen when Akame stirred from her sleep, the alley's cold still clinging to her skin. She pushed herself up, stretching out the stiffness that came with sleeping on stone. It wasn't ideal, but she'd endured worse. Without hesitation, she resumed her journey toward the saucer-like structure looming in the distance.

Her stomach growled. Loud. A sharp reminder of just how long it had been since her last meal. Days.

Her mind drifted to food, and suddenly, she felt as if she could devour anything. She needed to find something—anything—to eat.

It didn't take long to stumble across a diner. Unlike the chaos of the city, this place looked normal. She stepped inside.

A wave of warmth enveloped her instantly, accompanied by a rich mix of scents she didn't recognize. The air carried the deep aroma of roasted meats, the spice of unfamiliar dishes, and the sharp, bitter scent of coffee. Her stomach twisted in protest, her mouth already salivating as plates of steaming food passed by in the hands of hurried waiters.

She took a seat by the window, picking up the menu.

It was overwhelming. The dishes were organized by species—humans, Twi'leks, Rodians, even Hutts. Some of the items made her pause:

"Rancor Prime Ribs"—served grilled, smoked, or roasted with mashed potatoes and fries.
*"Huttese-Style Soup"—a thick broth mixed with vegetables and… Toydarian thighs?
"Bounty Hunter's Special"—a mix of salmon, Nautolan tentacles, rice, and boiled greens.

Akame kept reading, uncertain. She needed something simple. When the waiter finally arrived, she glanced up.

She saw a man with four powerful arms who moved with practiced ease, each one working independently—one flipping something on the griddle, another scrubbing down the counter, the third pouring a cup of steaming ardee, and the fourth scratching absently at his thick neck as he chatted with customers.

His skin was rough, leathery, a mottled blend of tan and gray-green, with deep lines that told stories of time spent under alien suns. His thick neck swelled slightly at the base, supporting a wide head with heavy jowls and deep-set, knowing eyes.

The eyes were the most telling part.

His golden-brown eyes twinkled with familiarity, like he'd known her for years—even though they had never met.

"Ya look like someone who could use a real meal," Dex continued, his voice laced with warmth. Not the forced kind, not the kind that people faked for tips—this was genuine. "Let me guess—off-worlder, haven't had a decent plate since ya got here, and got no idea what's good?"

His mustache twitched as he grinned.

Akame simply nodded.

"Well, ya came to the right place." Dex flipped open a small holomenu and leaned in slightly. "Tell ya what—lemme make somethin' for ya. A little house special. You trust me?"

His grin was so easy, so familiar, so natural that for a brief second, Akame almost forgot she was on an alien planet in an unfamiliar galaxy.

"What do you recommend?" Akame asked, her gaze curious.

Dexter hummed, rubbing his chin. "Well, if you're feelin' adventurous, I'd say go for the Nexu on a Stick or the Fried Mon Calamari."

Akame tilted her head. Nexu. That was familiar. "What exactly is that?"

Dexter grinned. "Exactly what it sounds like. We cook the Nexu, lop off the head, and serve it kebab-style. One big piece instead of a bunch of little ones."

Akame blinked. "And the Mon Calamari?"

"Ah, now that's a delicacy. Crunchy octopus balls with cheese inside. Not to be confused with Nautolan tentacles—this is different." Dexter leaned in slightly. "And before you ask, don't worry. The Mon Calamari we serve are specifically raised for food."

Akame didn't hesitate. "I'll have the Mon Calamari. And an iced coffee."

"Good choice. Give me a few minutes."

She offered him a small nod. "Thank you."

Minutes later, Dexter returned, setting the plate down in front of her with a satisfied smile. "Hope you enjoy!"

Akame picked up the first piece, biting in.

Her body shuddered.

The flavor exploded on her tongue.

Savory, briny, a perfect balance of salt and umami. The cheese stretched, clinging for a moment before snapping away, mingling with the slight sweetness of the batter.

She swallowed, eyes narrowing slightly.

She'd eaten well before. Trained her body to accept even the blandest, most survivalist meals without complaint. But this?

This was indulgent.

She took another bite.

Dexter chuckled. "That good, huh?"

She had no currency.

Her fingers curled against the table. She didn't have time to think—only act. Before Dexter or any of the waitstaff could return, she slipped out of her seat, moving quickly toward the exit. Smooth. Silent. Unnoticed.

Or so she thought.

"Hey, sweetheart," came Dexter's voice—not angry, not harsh, but knowing.

Akame froze mid-step, her fingers twitching at her side. She was fast. But somehow, he was faster. Not physically—just in awareness.

She turned, slowly, schooling her expression into something neutral.

Dex stood in the doorway of the diner, arms crossed, all four of them. His mustache twitched as he gave her a long, unreadable look.

"You weren't plannin' on skippin' out on the bill, were ya?"

Not an accusation. Not a threat.

But he already knew.

Akame exhaled, her mind calculating the next move. Run? No. That would only draw attention. Lie? Pointless.

So she told the truth.

"I don't have any credits."

Dexter didn't look surprised. Instead, he let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head.

"Shoulda figured. You've got the look—off-worlder, fresh into town, haven't quite figured out how things work yet."

She kept her stance still, unreadable.

Dex sighed, rubbing one of his thick hands down his apron.

"Alright, kid. Here's how we do things at Dex's—ya don't gotta pay me today."

Akame narrowed her eyes. A trap? A trick? Some expectation of repayment in another way?

Dex grinned at her expression. "Relax. Ain't a scam. Consider it a freebie. You looked like you needed a decent meal."

She didn't respond immediately. People weren't generous without reason.

Dex caught the hesitation in her silence and shook his head again.

"Tell ya what," he said, tilting his head toward the diner. "If it really bothers ya, come back sometime. Earn it. Help out, wash some dishes, whatever makes ya feel square."

Akame studied him. No ulterior motive. Just honesty.

She gave a single, respectful nod.

"I'll be back," she said.

Dex smiled. "I know ya will."

Akame held his gaze for a second longer, then turned away, her mind already shifting to the next priority.

She moved fast, slipping into the sea of Coruscant's never-ending bustle. The towering skyline stretched above her, neon signs flickering, speeders zipping past in an orchestrated blur of lights. The world didn't stop. Neither could she.

The mushroom-shaped building loomed ahead, its silhouette distinct against the towering structures around it.

She needed a job. Something stable. Something that would give her a foothold in this galaxy. Not just for survival—but for strategy.

Stability meant resources. Connections. Cover. A role that would allow her to operate without suspicion, to learn how this world worked from the inside.

And if she played her cards right?

It would put her exactly where she needed to be.

Then she saw them.

Flyers. Pinned to walls, scattered on kiosks, posted along street corners. She stopped, her gaze scanning the print.

One caught her eye immediately.

"Queen of Naboo's Personal Assistant"

Her fingers tightened around the flyer. The requirements were clear:
— Must be highly skilled in combat.
— Experience in protection is a must.
— Women only.

It was perfect.

The location was listed at the bottom.

Without hesitation, she set off toward it.

The venue was packed. Women of all kinds—some human, others from alien species—stood in long, winding lines. It was clear that competition would be fierce.

Akame approached the check-in counter, where a man with an eyepatch was scribbling notes into a datapad. Something about him reminded her of Najenda.

"I'm here to check in for the interview," she said evenly.

The man barely glanced up. "Name and birth origin?"

Her muscles tensed. She didn't know how birth records worked in this world. Didn't know if her truth would expose her.

But she'd listened while waiting in line. Overheard conversations. Mentions of common birthplaces.

Tatooine.

She forced herself to relax. "My name is Akame. Birth origin: Tatooine."

The man frowned. "Do you have a last name, Miss Akame?"

She barely hesitated. "Metsujin."

His fingers moved across the screen, searching through records. Akame felt her heartbeat spike. There was no way her name existed in their system. No way she could pass through a database check—

"Alright, Miss Metsujin. Your ID is valid. Wait patiently, and your interview will be up shortly."

She froze.

Impossible.

But she didn't question it. Instead, she dipped her head slightly. "Thank you."

Then, she waited. For hours.

Applicants were called in and dismissed just as quickly. Some left looking confident, others defeated. Some left with nothing.

Her patience wavered, but before she could second-guess herself, the man with the eyepatch returned.

"It's your turn."

She rose from her seat, moving forward, her body steady but her mind racing.

The door loomed ahead.

Her hand pressed against the handle, and as she pushed it open, her breath caught in her throat.

Shock.

Recognition.

Because standing in front of her, waiting on the other side—

Was her.

A/N: that's the end of chapter 2 hope you enjoyed it.

What do you think Akame was shocked about?

Hi so this chapter has drastic editing so if you read this chapter already and want the old version. Type in the comments below if you want the old version back

and should Akame keep Murasame or should she have a lightsaber?