Resilient Young Thing: A Captive Leia Death Star Torture-Porn featuring Vader and Tarkin

by Armorweave (Shimmersilk)

Summary:

Princess Leia (19) is detained on the Death Star where she endures a series of rape and torture at the hands of evil Imperials including a vicious lesbian stormtrooper and her bad doctor domme, nasty boy captains with grudges, the politely wicked Grand Moff Tarkin (64), and even her secret biological father, the dreaded Darth Vader (41). Will these cruelties be the downfall of the Rebel Alliance, or will the resilient young woman retain her integrity after the brutal destruction of both her homeworld and her virginity?

This is a dead dove Leia POV porn. Before reading it, please ensure you’re ready to see this already tragic hero profusely abused by villains running on dark mode. Also, be prepared for delicious plotty literary goodness throughout. Yes, the sex progressively intensifies, but RYT isn’t boring old banging; it’s a poetic homage to Leia’s badassery wrapped like a burrito in an emotionally traumatic XXXL smut tortilla.

Up next: With barely a breather back in her cell, Leia’s crushing fear and loneliness are interrupted by a gang of angry young officers eager to take their rage and sexual frustrations out on the epitome of lying, treacherous Rebel scum.

Chapter 1: An Introduction

Summary:

This chapter was originally posted as a mid-story update. I moved it to the front in order to retain some nice comments a couple people left. It will now serve as the intro, freeing the actual beginning, “Thunder,” from this bulky history many readers will not require.

Also, please be an Internet angel and comment if you ever notice a broken link or image in any of my works! I would greatly appreciate that!

 

Hi! I’ve learned a few readers who aren’t that into Star Wars have been lured here by the tasty tags. Welcome! I would really, really like everyone to enjoy this story and its emotional rollercoaster, not just the sex and violence. I assume you have at least a vague awareness of the original trilogy with its space wizards, lightsabers, metal bikinis, and giant slug bastards, so you really only need a couple minutes of actual history. Behold!

 

Princess Leia’s origin for newbies:

• Leia was adopted as a newborn by Queen Breha Organa and her husband Bail, the Viceroy of Alderaan by marriage and its senator before he abdicated so his daughter might be elected in his place. They were friends of Leia’s birth mother, Padmé Amidala of the beautiful-if-complicated planet Naboo, but for years Leia herself and nearly everyone else believed she was a random orphan.
• Leia was not a random orphan; her parents were famous heroes! Padmé was a queen/senator/warrior/philanthropist who fell in love with and secretly married Anakin Skywalker, a powerful, dashing member of the typically monk-like Jedi who met and befriended her while they were both children in very different desperate situations. Then everything went haywire according to the secret evil plans of the couple’s supposed friend and then-lawful(ish) leader of much of the galaxy, Chancellor Palpatine. This. Guy. Is. The. Worst. Among countless other awful things, he concocted and ended a massive war that the originally peaceful Jedi — including Anakin as a celebrated general — fought for him. This was a disaster he used in order to seize complete power and attempt to destroy the ancient enemy of his secret Sith religion: you know, the Jedi.
• Anakin was assumed to have died in the subsequent purge of his Order which the Chancellor claimed had attempted a hostile takeover. Nope! In reality, Palpatine had his creepy grasp all over Anakin’s psyche, culminating in taking advantage of his so-called friend’s prophetic dreams that his pregnant wife would die in childbirth. A promise to save her manipulated the young man into serving him as Darth Vader, a cruel persona that would soon become synonymous with the iconic suit that both disguised his old identity and provided limbs and life functions lost when heartbroken Jedi Master Obi-Wan “Ben” Kenobi fought to stop his fallen student, comrade in arms, best friend, and brother-son (and strongly hinted canon secret step-nephew, which just makes all of this sadder).
• Vader survived against all odds and eventually caused or influenced the deaths of billions of beings, beginning with most of the Jedi, and, to his eternal regret, Padmé herself whom he choked into a physically and mentally weakened state when she tried to persuade the man she thought was still her husband to come back to her and their unborn child(ren). Just like Palpatine wanted, the unmitigated death of Padmé, who was brilliantly laid to rest still appearing pregnant, left nothing but pain and anger in what had once been an understandably troubled but good person who loved his family more than the galaxy itself.
• Assuming he had failed and killed the closest person to him, Kenobi exiled himself in shame on the same absolutely dog shit harsh world where Anakin had grown up enslaved, hiding from Jedi hunters and only really living to protect all he believed was left of Anakin: his twins, Luke and Leia.
• Leia doesn’t know it yet, but she inherited incredibly strong Force sensitivity which can manifest in many ways, some of which may seem perfectly natural to her. If Vader or Palpatine, who later declared himself Galactic Emperor, knew that Leia lived, they would have killed or used her because of her connections and powers.
• Bail and Breha kept these dark secrets for the safety of their daughter — whom they fiercely trusted and adored despite her immediate relation to a rampaging monster — including the fact that by most definitions she technically was not an orphan at all. They wanted to tell her the entire truth once it was safe enough, but they never had the chance to do so in person. No, no, I’m fine, I’ve just been cutting onions.
• The first Star Wars movie (by release date) begins with Leia caught by Vader fleeing with the heroically acquired schematics for the Death Star, a top-secret, moon-sized mobile space station with cataclysmic firepower. With no other choice before her capture, she sends the plans away as data-tapes stored in a droid (literally a sapient space robot) with orders to find Ben Kenobi who, despite surviving the Jedi genocide through sad sack grade self-exile, risked everything to save her from kidnappers ten years prior. There is nobody else Leia and her (honestly poorly concealed) Rebel parents trust more with intel that could stop the Empire, but held in these horrible conditions, the princess worries her last-ditch plan may have failed.
• Tarkin is unfortunately also a very big part of Leia’s story, but almost everything you need to know about him is presented naturally throughout this work. In short, he’s a military man and a politician who is so awful that he’s the Emperor’s number two or three guy after Darth Vader, whom he privately suspected was Anakin, having met him during that war. Most other characters of note are my original creations and therefore require no special introductions.

Oh, and because weird things bother me, here is a phonetic aide for the Organas’ commonly mispronounced ship, Tantive IV:

• Tan (sunTAN)
• Tive (acTIVE)
• Ve (VEhicle)
• IV (FORce)

Please enjoy,
Armorweave

Chapter 2: An Introduction

Summary:

After days in harsh confinement aboard the Death Star, the routine interrogation of Princess Leia takes a shocking turn when Grand Moff Tarkin adds a personal touch indicative of the true horrors the Imperials have in store.

 

“How many credits do the Imperials save by keeping their detention blocks in utter darkness?” You haven’t come up with the punchline yet, but attempting to find some humor here at least keeps your spirits up. Once you’re free, the people need to see that you’ve remained strong for them. You must. You belong to them, after all. You belong for them.

 

Even as a child, you knew you would serve not only as Queen of Alderaan, but as a citizen of the galaxy unable to sit still while you could be doing something more. Diplomacy calls to you. It’s as much your culture as it is your passion, and as such, you were eleven when you decided to follow Daddy’s path into politics. By fourteen you were elected as a junior legislator. By sixteen you had your doctorate. Now at nineteen you’re a senator.

 

During the last eight years, you’ve worked tirelessly to uplift the downtrodden and bring the peace of Alderaan to those least attuned to listening. The journey was not without its hurdles, its embarrassments. Yes, the differences were small at first, but now you are admittedly a beacon, an adamantine symbol, and you refuse to be either dimmed or tarnished. Besides, what hope would the Rebellion have if the Empire could crush the dauntless spirit of Leia Organa?

 

It’s not that the Empire doesn’t try. They do to the point where you constantly have to work the bellows of your own ego lest its embers flicker out. You’re pinning your finger-combed hair back in place when the door to Cell 2187 opens. A new pair of stormtroopers stomp inside, and you stand from your cramped alcove before they have the chance to grab you from it. Head held high, you scoff, “More questions, I assume?”

 

The trooper on your right cuffs your hands in front of you and stands aside. “Move,” he orders, his voice tinny and harsh through his vocoder. His counterpart, slightly slimmer, probably female, presses the barrel of a blaster into the small of your back. “Move, Prisoner,” she echoes like that’s your name while confirming that underneath the hideous helmet there really is a woman — one who caved to fear or viciousness or both.

 

You walk. The periodic reapplication of the weapon is hardly necessary; you know the way by now. This is your seventh day in captivity, or perhaps the eighth or ninth. It’s nearly impossible to tell when you’re kept in the dark, seeing only when the cell opens so you can be escorted either to another questioning session or less frequently to the communal trough that serves as a refresher. Even the dim wall lights lining the corridor are a strain on your eyes, so you blink frequently to acclimatize yourself for the infinitesimally brighter interrogation room in three corners. Two corners. One.

 

Beyond this door, you’ll be bathed in enough light to put a bolo-ball court to shame. You’ll be shuffled into a chair across a table from yet another officer who will ask the same set of inane questions at end until retiring to conduct whatever subjugation makes up the rest of his or her busy schedule. Then an armed guard will handle you back to confinement to await the next session in one hour, or five, or ten.

 

Light floods from the door as expected. The room you step into is as much of a void as the barebones cell for several silent seconds before a man clears his throat. Revulsion fills you before he even begins to speak. You were wrong; this is no man at all, but a venomous viper basking in the artificial white sun of this monstrous mechanical moon.

 

“Welcome, Princess. Allow me to make you more comfortable,” the viper insists in that grating accent of his. It’s a sculpture clearly drilled into him quite early, and delicately refined and buffered over decades into an audible sign of wealth and station in a native of rough expanse of the Outer Rim. Now it’s just another mask for his tyranny, much like his obsequious flattery toward you. He even pulls the stuncuffs from your wrists. That’s new. “Here,” he offers, “let me help you.”

 

You retort, “I will seat myself, thank you,” but you can’t see well enough to evade a touch as formal as any of the viper’s other poorly disguised condescensions. One of his vile hands takes your hip, and the other your elbow. As if sweeping across a ballroom floor, you’re guided through the room, but there’s no purposely unpadded chair this time, not exactly.

 

The viper is slender, but he has height and apparently some sinewy muscles maintained under that ugly green uniform you’re beginning to make out, the one you’ve heard he himself designed. And you? You are a resolutely small woman who peaked years ago at just over a meter and a half. A few weeks ago, you would have considered yourself to at least be fit if not imposing, but now you've lost needed muscle mass and fat. It therefore takes nothing for this blasted creature to lift you onto an inclined slab so cold that the temperature instantly permeates your gown. In fact, this entire room is unusually chilly. “Odd,” you think as you are once more bound, this time hand and foot, to the platform, the torture rack. You would have thought that someone so cold-blooded would prefer the heat.

 

You don’t speak, and neither does your captor. These seconds, which are certainly meant to intimidate you, double as the perfect opportunity to adjust to the harsh illumination. There he is with that mouth pinched into a thin pink line, cheeks like jutting cliffs, blue eyes faded nearly into the same gray as his sharply receding hair, and his permanently furrowed brows cleaving a deep dimple into the bridge of his beakish nose. He’s certainly a uniquely fashioned monster, this detached administrator to countless cases of heartless cruelty.

 

“Are you thirsty, Princess? Hungry?” asks the viper.

 

Of course you are. You’re only given enough bitter water and tasteless rations to keep you capable of moving autonomously. That’s the point of all of this: to wear you down until you capitulate to the Empire’s demands. Well, then. You respond the way you’ve answered every question during your detainment: “I am a member of the Imperial Senate on a diplomatic mission to Alderaan. I demand that I be released from here and given access to formal legal proceedings.”

 

The viper slithers closer. “Princess, are you familiar with this contraption?”

 

“I am Leia Organa, a member of the Imperial Senate on—”

 

“No, my dear, you are not.”

 

Holding you here is a crime. So is sensory deprivation, let alone the slaughter leading to your capture. Now gaslighting? Electroshock must be next. You resume your statement, “—on a diplomatic mission to Alderaan. I demand—”

 

“That’s just it, Princess. No, no, please don’t get excited; of course we won’t provide any such council,” hisses the viper. “What I meant is that you are no longer a member of the Senate.”

 

Goading? It’s ludicrous, but you’ve had enough, and this man-snake riles you like no other. “If you think for one moment I’ll believe a single thing you say, then you’re… oh. Oh, don’t you dare look at me like that!”

 

Another novelty. It’s difficult to tell if this is actually real, or if it’s another attempt to rattle you. Imperial officers of any significance rarely remain single for long considering how the Empire values human expansion so much that it subsidizes childcare and openly rewards fruitful families. Not that Tarkin needs monetary incentives to procreate, but this sixty-something Grand Moff — whatever that’s supposed to mean —  has cousins and an agèd mother as his only living relations. At a first glance several years ago, you thought that’s because he’s a creepy-looking megalomaniac. When you were a bit older, it seemed far more obvious that Tarkin either prefers men, or that he is far too busy ruining the galaxy to be anything other than abstinent. Now his gaze both contests your theories and sets your temper aflame.

 

“Governor, should you even think about touching me again, the Senate will bring down retribution so quickly that you won’t even have the cha—”

 

To your endless consternation, the viper’s quiet voice somehow cuts over yours. “It will not, Your Highness,” he asserts, continuing to prod your chest with those frigid eyes. “As I was saying, you are not a senator, because there is no Senate. It was a vestigial thing. The Emperor had no use for a non-functional part of his domain, so in his vast wisdom, he excised it.”

 

That’s ridiculous, and you tell the lecher so. “I don’t believe you! He doesn’t have the power.”

 

“Oh, but he does. So you, Princess, are not on a diplomatic mission sanctioned by the Senate, but you never were. Besides,” the viper adds, hovering directly overhead, “have you not yet learned that you cannot make demands here? You were such a wild little girl that it’s hardly surprising you turned traitor. I’ll admit, though, that I still held hope for you. Wild, yes, but lovely too.”

 

One of those filthy hands touches your shoulder. Strokes it. “I told you, Governor, the Senate will not—”

 

“This fastens in the back, I suppose. So elegant and modest, unlike its wearer.”

 

“Governor Tarkin, even you are better than this. Unhand me. Release me.”

 

“The true tragedy is that we could have been friends, you and I. We could have had an alliance. More than that, even: a partnership. Ah, yes… an unusual couple at a glance, but politically astute, and I furthermore appreciate a challenge. Taming you would have been a delight, Your Royal Highness, for both of us. You would have had your freedom, for the most part, once you chose to be a respectable woman. Within reason, you could have continued dabbling in your” —the viper makes a flippant, dismissive gesture— “philanthropic hobbies, or perhaps you would have found purpose in more domestic pursuits. Either way, by now you could have been enjoying motherhood to the heirs of Alderaan.”

 

“You’re sick!” you shout, biting back bile. “You’re deluded!”

 

“No, but it is a shame that you will never learn quite how generous I could have been. It is true; you would have held any position you desired within a handful of years, if you chose one other than Queen. You completed the requisite trials, I heard. Belated congratulations, Crown Princess. My family has its own traditions which aren’t entirely dissimilar, if distinctly more lethal. Again, we would have made a surprisingly good match.”

 

“Tarkin…”

 

The viper slips away behind you, and in the next moment you’re stumbling to the floor, barely able to avoid falling flat on your face. Instinctively, you make for the door until the click of blasters and plastoid armor reminds you of the stormtroopers waiting there. It’s easy to forget the duo, camouflaged in this white room despite their menace. You might consider testing your martial skills against the governor if not for the presence of these anonymous interpreters for the violence of the betrayer, Palpatine. Instead, you turn toward Tarkin and stand firmly where you are before you’re gunned down. Martyrdom is not the symbol you’d prefer to project.

 

“What are you playing at?” Tarkin is a viper, but you were wrong; he really is a man. That’s how he’s looking at you again — as only a man might. He’s hungrier than you, hungry enough that he just might pounce and go for your jugular. You shake your head. “Stay away from me and ask your questions.”

 

“Certainly, Princess, but I have only one.” Fangs bare themselves through those slit-like lips. “Would you mind baring yourself to the waist?”

 

“Stars above and below! Would I mind?” You could almost laugh. Almost.

 

Tarkin offers a little bow before adding, “If it’s not too much trouble. That’s such a fine dress, after all. It would be a shame to cut it off of you.”

 

He isn’t joking, but you’re not about to be complicit in this atrocity. You stand, hands on hips, and stare up at that skull of a face.

 

Tarkin points behind you. “Do it,” he tells one of the guards, and nods to the other. “Stun her if she moves.”

 

You hold your gaze as gauntleted hands lift your cape-like hood to access the hooks and unfasten Daddy’s inauguration gift so its bodice folds over your mother's belt and down over your legs with the belled sleeves dusting the floor.

 

“Good. Return the princess to her place.” A cordial little smile is cast upon you as the female trooper yanks you by the arm to the rack, and hauls you onto it before clamping down your limbs without any of Tarkin’s vulgar grace.

 

A fifth metal binding slides around your neck like a collar. You could yelp as your skin is pressed against the biting cold, but that would be absurd. This is nothing. You know how to suffer. You know how to endure. Alderaan ensures all its future rulers can. You also know what to expect from torture and how to survive it while keeping your secrets. You know sometimes those secrets are in fact the only thing that can keep you alive until you either escape or perish for the cause. Mom taught you all of this when she realized you wouldn’t back down from carrying both her official and clandestine legacies. You mustn’t disappoint her. Not more than you already must have.

 

Admiration for Breha Organa — or the need to emulate her bravery — reminds you to keep control of yourself. Thus, you endeavor to say nothing else, not even as Tarkin makes contact yet again. You’d rather be groped, but no, he’s almost a gentleman as he strategically adheres electrodes to your torso. Electroshock. Well, you did call it after all.

 

“You’ll forgive me,” Tarkin explains. “I would continue to offer you the boon of a feminine hand, but these really must be placed quite carefully. I wouldn’t want to stop that vibrant heart from beating. Not yet. Not before you tell us everything.” Like an afterthought, he appends, “Oh, soldier, the dental guard, please,” as if stuffing the massive gag into your mouth is beyond his tolerance for either villainy or innuendo. 

 

The stormtrooper click-clacks back to the door while Tarkin reviews his handiwork. “We have more sophisticated machinery, of course, but I find many traditional methods remain astonishingly effective. He angles himself into your restricted field of view to ensure you see how practiced he is at feigning pity.

 

No additional time is wasted. All the green and gray and white blends in and fades away. A sound rips out like a thousand off-air comm signals over loudhailers as you convulse. You only realize the current has stopped when the sound is over. You feel nothing, then your body tingles. You want to sleep, but you can’t because that’s when the burning starts. You’re already screaming when the screech renews.

 

Silence. Everything stops except the stabbing, shearing pain of running a marathon through an inferno. Tarkin is gone. Your face is wet. So are your legs. No, Tarkin isn’t gone. He must be at the door. He’s talking, but you don’t understand his words, until suddenly you do, as if they were translated methodically across one million languages before finally reaching Basic.

 

“I’ll ask someone to check in on you later. For now, I suggest you consider a new answer regarding the location of the plans.”

 

The door opens. It shuts. You’re so thirsty. The screech. The white.

 

 

 

White for hours while you wail yourself hoarse, shivering or convulsing — all much the same. Daddy’s face, his trust. The steel beneath Mom's gentle hand. You grasp for both as a new interrogator asks the same old questions.

 

“Where are the plans?”

 

“Who are your leaders?”

 

“Where is the Rebel base?”

 

“I am Leia Organa.” You can’t remember the rest, but you know there was more. It doesn’t matter anyway; you cannot speak through the gag. Did the officer forget? Is he just distracted? Or… Hah. Of course; this is fun for him.

 

“Prisoner Two-One-Eight-Seven, where have you hidden the plans?”

 

You stare the man in the eyes while he leers at your breasts like they’re the only pair he’s seen since he was weaned some twenty years ago. “I am Leia Organa.”

 

“Name your leaders.”

 

“I am Leia Organa.” The Senate must stand. There must be law. There must be balance.

 

Finally, the officer removes the gag. Your teeth are nearly clear of it when the tough rubber is jammed back into your throat. Your eyes tear up, but you’re not crying; you’re going to retch. The officer, a captain, does it again and again and again until you can’t hold the reflex away. You spasm in a poor imitation of your earlier work as ration-specked stomach acid launches down your chest and onto the damp gown clamped at your waist both by the belt and a sixth restraint you hadn’t noticed.

 

The captain smiles when he asks, “Where is the Rebel base?” 

 

You cough. “I am—” Then the gag is back.

 

The screech.

The screech.

The screech.

The screech.

The screech.

The screech.

The screech.

The screech.

 

And then, a beep. And then, the black.

Notes:

If you like this and want more terrible things, please comment and kudos so I know where to focus my writing energies.

P.S. The real filth begins in “Chapter 3: Water.” I notice one dingus did not read the tags and description (or apparently anything over Grade 5) and found it complex and disgusting… Excellent! If you came here to see Leia persevere through extremely uncozy, unfluffy abuse, then you are in the right place. Welcome.

Chapter 3: Water

Summary:

Leia, disoriented and soiled from Takin’s torture, is brought to a communal shower where she and her friends are abused by a doctor and female stormtrooper who ostensibly should be keeping them healthy and safe.

Notes:

Strap your ass in; this chapter is a wild ride. You are either going to love or hate it, but you REALLY should only be here if like nasty things. If it’s not clear from the summary, the trooper and doctor sadistically abuse people who cannot defend themselves. Men don’t own evil, but apparently it goes over some folks’ heads, probably including poor Leia’s, that women can be just as disgusting as anyone else.

 

It’s been days since you’ve had enough time alone to dream of waterfalls. This is refreshing. This is good. You’ve been telling yourself to think of home, not the darkness of this cell, nor the white of the interrogation room.

 

The white. You were there, and now you’re not. You remember a man, boyish and rude, but he’s not here, and he’s not important. Stay in the hot springs just a little bit longer. Let the humidity calm you. Lie back. Breathe. Listen to the water flow, but don’t imagine your thirst. There is no thirst on Alderaan. There is no hunger, no poverty, no need, no violence that cannot be mediated, treated, and forgiven. Soak in the warmth. Take this moment to relax; you’ll need your wits to escape this prison.

 

“—with another one from Block Twenty-three, ma’am.”

 

You jump, but you don’t really move. You can’t. Who is that? Don’t you know that voice? A stormtrooper’s, isn’t it? They all sound much the same through their helmets, and that’s the point: collective anonymity. You’ve heard slight variations upon this voice hundreds of times, but this one is female. Oh. It belongs to the new trooper that guards your door. The scared woman, or a vicious, hateful one who truly chose all of this over a respectable career.

 

Another woman’s voice replies, mature and strong. “—be sharp,” it cautions. “—all of them out.” Ma’am, not Mom. It can’t be Mom. Too cold. Mom is often firm, but she’s always fair. She’s never like this. Never like ice.

 

“Yes, ma’am.” The stormtrooper.

 

Something touches your head. The voices warble in and out. They echo. There’s darkness again, but not like in the cell. Your eyes are merely closed. The light is waiting just beyond lids that refuse to answer your command to open. “Remember the words,” you remind yourself. “Tell them who you are, what you do, and what you need.” You’re tired. It’s okay. You’ll remember soon. It’s okay. “Picture the great peaks, the meadows, the rivers, the waterfalls, the rain.”

 

“—to the drain. Good.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

You don’t need your imagination, because it actually is raining. “How does it rain inside a cell?” Is that another joke? It doesn’t seem like one, but you’re also beginning to accept your lack of comedic talent. Rain? Or, not rain, and not the cell. What’s wrong with you? “This is the refresher, Leia.” It’s where you go when the Imps tire of smelling you, and squatting over the trough and being chemically sanitized are not enough. Strange, though… You’ve been herded in here twice to a row of the galaxy’s least private sonic showers, but there has never been any actual water you might be tempted to drink.

 

The voices are clearer now. The older woman — Chandrilan like the inimitable Mon Mothma by her accent — sneers, “It can’t feel that. Higher.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Nasty little troglodytes, all of them. Higher, Nine-Seven. It’s used to this.”

 

Something rattles. Clanks. You want to shout, “Stop!” You can’t, but someone else can.

 

“Stop! Please! I’ve already told you everything.” This is not someone. This is Ashwala Bellikés, a midwife, and now a detainee just like you. You’d recognize her deep, sonorous tones anywhere, the ones she often paired with the ten-string hallikset she’d bring to the lounges of the Tantive IV to break any heart within range of her immense skills. Except, her pleading isn’t sonorous. They’ve been hurting her. She’s been crying. Or screaming. 

 

“We’re on a diplomatic mission!” croaks Ashwala.

 

A diplomatic mission to Alderaan. You’re Leia. You need council.

 

“She’s just a child… Her father,” begs Ashwala. “Her father! He’s the one you want. Please let her go.”

 

Ashwala is not a member of the Rebellion, but she’s an attendant to one who very much is: a Naboo delegate working tirelessly for the chance to raise her developing child free from the Imperial yoke. As such, you would have expected more from Ashwala. You wish you could rebuke her, “No, not Daddy, don’t give them Daddy!” but that would defeat the point.

 

Underneath the patter of running water, you notice another sound, a hissing. It grows louder and louder until you can hear it for what it truly is: weeping. To your mortification, you realize Ashwala was not talking about you. She might not even know you’re here. “No!” you’d shout if you could, but again, someone else beats you to the chase.

 

“Noooo!” The quick plea is stretched into a prolonged gurgle. “It burns!” Rattling. A chain. “Help me, please! It burns!”

 

The Imperials probably wouldn’t understand these words even if they cared, for they are spoken in Sullustese. You can only understand them because of this girl herself, Hanrim Vhot. She’s your language partner. She’s the one you chose out of dozens of applicants partly for her endless supply of pranks and rock candy, but mostly for her incongruously strict attention to promoting Sullustans not only as mechanics and engineers, but as artists and explorers.

 

Hanrim is not a Rebel either, and she doesn’t have a father. She has six, all of whom she frequently works into her lessons, all of whom are far away and safe in their warren. She seems older than her age, but she’s not; she’s fourteen, and now she’s here. She’s here because of you. She’s being tortured because you invited her aboard the Tantive to make your surreptitious voyage less nerve-wracking and less conspicuous if scrutinized. No, that’s not fair. It’s not your fault. It’s theirs, the Imperials’. Only theirs.

 

“Let her go!”

 

“Let her go!” Ashwala begs through Hanrim’s intensifying shrieks. “I’ve told you everything I told him! I don’t know about the plans! We were heading to a conference. Please, you have to let us go. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

 

A hum, loud and steady, nearly drowns out all other sounds. Nearly. Hanrim’s words are fast and desperate and so highly pitched that you can no longer understand your friend. You can't hear her when the din is over. There’s only Ashwala’s wailing as you open your heavy eyes.

 

Above you is a matronly dark-skinned black woman in a gray uniform with a white collar. She’s achieved the highest degree of the sort of put-together presentation the Empire plasters on its propaganda posters. “Do you love science and haaaate sentient rights? Apply today at your nearest Imperial Recruitment Center!”

 

Pristine Graycoat leans in, brow wrinkled into an expression as severe and tight as the salt-and-pepper bun pulling at her scalp. She glances away from her datapad to scowl at you. “Ah, look who woke up from her nap.”

 

“Right on time, ma’am,” replies the stormtrooper from somewhere beyond. “This one’s ready.”

 

Graycoat remarks, “Good,” her attention already returned to her gadget. “Have her escorted back to the general.” She pauses momentarily as the crying swells. “I imagine she’ll be more forthright next time.”

 

You can finally see the showers when Graycoat steps aside. Ashwala is standing with both of her wrists shackled to the far wall beneath a faucet embedded in the ceiling. Her back is raw and bleeding in places, apparently scrubbed with unnecessary force by one of the pole-mounted brushe propped against the wall, a tool that would look more at place in an industrial warehouse. Even still, Ashwala’s back is nothing compared to her hips and thighs where her bronze skin is covered in hand-shaped splotches the color of concentrated wine.

 

Your vision begins to blur as Ashwala is unlocked and draped in a shapeless beige smock that does nothing to mar her natural beauty. Just think of her that way: kind and pretty and trying to throw these hounds off their scent of a trail that is clearly perilous whether or not she suspects it ends with you. She is a hero. Think of her as a hero. It takes several rounds of blinking before the tears clear. The hero doesn’t see you as another stormtrooper — how many of them are there? — pulls her past you by the arm. That’s for the best. Ashwala has never seen anything but shadows, an unusual choice given the availability of neurocybernetics, but for the first time, you truly know she made the right one. You might even trade with her if only to spare yourself in this one moment from witnessing precisely what was done to your friend — to Hanrim.

 

“The girl? Did you let her go?” asks Ashwala. The door opens. “Where’s Delegate Sangh? Is the baby safe? Please, she needs—” and the door closes, leaving only the continuous flow of the not-rain.

 

This isn’t Alderaan. You are thirsty. You’re also famished, and now your nose fills with the scent of boiled meat. That’s what Hanrim is now. The steaming water is still running over her, kicking up a fragrant mist. You can barely make her out through the fog, but you can see enough to tell that her once pale skin is bright red. They’ve cooked her like a lobster, and you’re starving, and you’ve never hated yourself more. You could shut your eyes, but you can’t unsee the murder of a child chained to the floor by her little ankle. You also won’t do her the disservice of looking away. This is why you fight. This is why you are Leia Organa, Rebel leader. This is why the Empire must end.

 

“How could you?!”

 

Was that your voice? It didn’t sound like yours. Oh, Hanrim. Hanrim! If they got her, they have all of you. Where are the others? Are there still others? There were fifty of you, not including your guards. Those, you know, have already fallen, but they were better prepared. They were dedicated to the cause, not like these bystanders, Force protect them. How will you save what remains of your crew? How can you save anyone when you can’t even move? Why can’t you move?

 

“Good,” Graycoat repeats. “Nine-Seven, dispose of that disgusting thing, and then start on the next one. She’s particularly foul. Ah, and be sure to keep her wrists bound nice and tight. Grand Moff Tarkin says this one has a feisty streak, but you already knew that.”

 

“You’re monsters! You’re all monsters!” It is you. It’s definitely you screaming while the stormtrooper opens a wall hatch and shoves Hanrim Vhot down its chute. A garbage chute. It’s definitely you screaming while your world flips ninety degrees and you’re unstrapped from both the gurney and the sheet covering your nudity to slip like jelly into a hard plastoid embrace.

 

A gurney? Since when have you needed a gurney? You were in the cell, and then the white. Interrogation? It’s not exactly stimulating, but it’s not that forgettable… unless you’ve been sedated. That explains some things, but why would they do that? Who would even bother?

 

Wait, what had Graycoat said? What did she say? Tarkin? Grand Moff Tarkin. He would sedate you. He would show you “mercy,” except he didn’t, did he? No, you recall, Tarkin shocked you. He shocked you until his machines said you could take no more. He shocked you until your body evacuated everything it held except for Yarvin.

 

You channel Bail at the Senate as you’re as you’re shackled like Ashwala. You channel Breha on the throne as your feet struggle for purchase against the drainage grate where a child’s skin began to peel away before she died a senseless death. The words. They all come back, and more, and you say them well even though each one feels like expelling sand from your lungs.

 

“My name is Leia Organa. I am Crown Princess of Alderaan, and a serving member of the Imperial Senate. My crew and I were on a diplomatic mission between my homeworld and Naboo, that of His Imperial Majesty, and I demand we be released from this battle station and given access to formal legal proceedings. There will be tribunals. You will be thoroughly investigated and held responsible for the murder of a minor — a cultural envoy. You will be held responsible for the sexual assault of a blind woman — a medical attachée — and for any injuries sustained by either her employer or the child she carries resulting from her absence. The galaxy will know your faces and your deeds. You will spend your days in infamy and contempt.” 

 

Behind you Graycoat yawns. “Are you finished, Prisoner? We haven’t done anything to you. In fact, I’m here to ensure your safety, and Nine-Seven rather likes you. She went out of her way to volunteer for this post, isn’t that right?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Give me a minute to file the disposal report. Then you can start.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Oh, and don’t forget to lower the temperature this time. This one’s certificate would be an incomparable hassle.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” reiterates the stormtrooper. You suspect there’s probably another one in here aiming a blaster at you, but this one is her, the one from the cell, the one from the interrogation room. Vicious, you decide, not scared or desperate or simply gullible. She’s Vicious.

 

Something drops to the floor. And again. Clack!

 

Clack!

Clack!

 

You hear the same sound at different volumes in quick succession. It’s hard to look, to focus on anything, but do they think noise is going to frighten you? Do they think this is how easily you’ll give in? Fools. Fools and monsters, all of them. “Tell them that. Tell them they’re all fools. Tell them they will never find safe haven. Tell them no clause, no sanctuary will stop the the masses from tearing them apart.”  Thus demands the Real Leia.

 

“Ignore them,” encourages Stately Leia, Regal Leia, Breha’s Leia.

 

Breha’s Leia. Focus on her. You need her. You need her right now as you regain enough sensation and awareness to feel your hair hanging down your back. Perhaps these women aren’t complete fools, considering the myriad uses you’d already imagined for the thirty pins that held your twisted buns in place. Practical or not, you’d require your mother’s composure in order to forgive this violation of her heritage. Hairitage, Real Leia secretly calls it. Nobody touches your hair without permission, let alone unbinds it. That’s for you, or Mom, or your appointed stylist, or the man you’ll share your heart with if it ever opens to another. “Mom. Mom, it hurts.” It hurts. It is everything. Not sedated, anesthetized. Painkillers, good ones, but they’re wearing off now.

 

“What do you think you’re doing, TK-Five-Nine-Seven?”

 

A new voice? No, it’s the same one, only unmodulated and Mid Rim and all military. “Some of that cave rat rubbed off on me, ma’am. It would be a disgrace to my unit to return to duty in violation of the uniform, ma’am. This locale seems a fitting place to decontaminate, ma’am.”

 

“Ah, you should be commended for such astute attention. Well, be thorough. Take the rest off.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

Clack!

Clack!

Clack!

 

“Slower with the body glove. Like that. Yes.”

 

You notice your dress is gone. It’s been gone. You ruined it, your gift. It’s gone. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

 

“That’s good, Nine-Seven. Just another moment. There. Begin.”

 

“This is insane! Think! Stop staring into space, and think.” Your hands are still cuffed together and connected to a hook. Hypothetically, you could spin and kick after the numbness fades, but you’re not going to get free without security codes, ones Graycoat probably accesses from the datapad she used to excuse and file away a capital crime. Getting hold of that would nearly be impossible even if you could stand without your aching wrists bearing half your weight. Not good enough. “Think!” Nothing. There’s nothing you can or should do in this position. Stately Leia knows this. So does Real Leia, but she is far less prudent.

 

“You’re a doctor,” you sass Graycoat by way of the monochrome charcoal wall that angles into the smooth ceiling and the grainy tiled floor. “You must be accomplished to be stationed here. What did it take to renounce your oaths and years of study? How much did they pay you to abandon your honor?”

 

Behind you, Vicious chirps, “Ma’am, I think the prisoner is trying to bribe you. Should I punish her?”

 

“That depends… Do you want a visit from the Emperor’s Fist?”

 

“You know I prefer yours, ma’am.”

 

Graycoat laughs a genuine, warm chortle, and just like that her ice melts away. That gives Stately Leia what she needs to win. The verdict? Do what’s smart. Endure, nothing more. Let them play their sick game, because it’s clear now that’s what this is. You can take the pain as these dreadful people have their dreadful fun. You can take the humiliation. Let them add years to their life sentences.

 

“Begin, I said. Don’t make me tell you again.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” says Vicious.

 

You can hear her grinning, actually hear her lips separate stickily from her teeth and stretch wide before she activates the shower’s controls. “She didn’t change the temperature.” 

 

 

Howling rouses you. Who is it this time? The cook? The steward? Sand. Sand and molten daggers. It’s you. You’re burning like your friend. It’s your fault. You knew the risks, so this is your fault, why lie to yourself? It’s yours as much as theirs, except you’re not burning for what you did. You’re not burning? No, there’s hardly any steam, but there is Vicious. Vicious, whining into your ear: “Ma’am, what’s wrong with her?”

 

Graycoat, her voice husky: “You said you saw what the Grand Moff did to her. Some aftereffects should be expected, but nothing much.”

 

“Nothing much!” Nothing much? Maybe. Muscles overworked in an unprepared, uncoordinated marathon. Nerves overstimulated and bewildered, but perhaps undamaged if Tarkin and this doctor are to be trusted that far. Can you use this? It hurts, but less now. you were just stunned. Scared. Shocked. Will they stop if you protest? Not a chance, but will it… Uuggch. Will it entertain them? Won’t that likewise speed along this horrid process? Won’t that leave you more time to negotiate for the lives entrusted to you? “Do it,” says every Leia.

 

“Yes, ma’am, if you insist.”

 

“I do insist, and I can still smell her from here. Ensure she’s presentable for her next appointment.”

 

At those instructions, you expect that ridiculous brushes to shred your back, but instead foaming gel oozes over you. You shriek, but it’s surprise, not excruciation. You keep it going nonetheless.

 

“Turn her around, and carefully, Nine-Seven.”

 

You shut your eyes before the soap can sting them, and groan as Vicious demonstrates how absurd your initial plan here was. The agony is over, the pins and needles are only a dull buzz, a tingle, but the idea of controlling your legs enough to do any damage? “Haaaah!” They’re still relearning their purpose as limbs.

 

“There. Stand to the side, and start with that hair of hers.”

 

“Oh, yes, ma’am.”

 

Was she the one who undid your hair, Vicious? Did she take this much care? As much as Mom might? Your eyes open, and you pretend to cry though the soapy water that doesn’t sting. It’s gentle, like Vicious. Right now, she’d need a new nickname if she didn’t directly participate in a murderous xenophobic dictatorship built out of war-panic on the backs of slaves. Will you join their lot? No, thinking about that will not help. Pay attention to the present. Yes. You glance as timidly as you can at the stormtrooper and try to make her out through the awkwardly shifting angles.

 

Vicious doesn’t even look cruel. She looks calm, intent on lathering your scalp with soft fingertips and massaging the suds through small batches of the hair falling below your hips. It is difficult to tell her age through the water, but she’s definitely young. Her skin is pale like yours, but with olive undertones instead of rose. Her own hair is black or darkened by the water plastering the cropped style to a face your peripheral vision suggests is delicate and lovely.

 

You whimper, and Vicious lightly strokes your cheek. She faces you, and she is pretty, maybe even more so than the woman she just savaged before you. Your eyes meet. Hers are perfect slender trapezoids with single lids and dark brown irises that glint curiously. Then they shut, and she’s kissing you, and you’d bite her lips if they didn’t thoroughly dominate yours. She’s better than Kier ever was, and Kier was good, or at least you think he was — you had so little time together. Stupid boy. So stupid. You’ll never forgive him for not trusting you, but you’ll never forget him either. You’ll never forget loving him. You cry again, and it’s real, a moan directly into Vicious. She returns it until you’re howling and wailing and screaming, and she finally moves away.

 

“That was gross misconduct, Nine-Seven.” Graycoat shouts over your noise and that of the shower. “Look what you’ve done to the prisoner.”

 

“Her face, ma’am. It was soiled. From the-the…”

 

“From the emesis?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Very well, although your methodology is distinctly ineffective. Rinse her mouth properly, Nine-Seven, and then finish with her hair.”

 

“On it, ma’am.”

 

Water? More than the miniscule drops you might have sucked in over the last several days? “Please,” you pray. When Vicious cups her hand to your mouth, you almost inhale the liquid, but of course, it’s largely soap. Worth it? No. It will sap the remaining moisture from your innards at best, and sicken you at worst.

 

Vicious pinches your cheek. “Swish, Two-One-Eight-Seven. That’s a good girl.” To your eternal regret, you don’t have the muscle control to spit into her face. The horridly alkaline water just dribbles from your mouth.

 

“Again,” demands the doctor, and you’re given another mouthful and another before Vicious rotates you for better access to the hair she once more works her hands into.

 

Now you see Graycoat. Her titular coat is open, exposing, well… You don’t think you’ve ever said the word, but breasts would not do these justice. She plays with one of them, an absolute globe with a black areola the circumference of both your thumbs and forefingers pressed together. “She must have literally wrestled those into her uniform. Is there a containment field in there? One for each?”  

 

“It’s still not looking good, Funny Leia,” you think while trying to ignore the woman and how her body makes yours look like it belongs to an entirely different, and frankly inferior, sex. For starters, you hadn’t realized how tall she is: more so than Vicious who’s of a height to fit in with the rest of her fiendish, faceless cohorts. Graycoat’s even longer calves dangle from the sink counter where she sits with her flared trousers draped over her boots. Above them, thick, parted thighs spread over the surface and swell into her writhing hips. Between them, and obscured by dampening red lace panties that are resolutely non-regulation, dips Graycoat’s right hand.

 

“The rest of her. Wash the rest of her.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

Vicious rubs suds from your fingers up to your elbows before alternating sides. When she reaches your underarms, you remember that you’ve forgotten to protest for minutes, even as a pretense. “This is not the right time,” reminds Regal Leia, as she often does. “Laughing will make this worse. Be ticklish later.” Certainly. Super great logic. Real Leia retorts, “I’ll be sure to book a session with a feather duster when I get home, you know, right after the decade of therapy. Decade? Sorry — century.”

 

You manage it. You don’t laugh, but it’s not easy. “Not easy?” That’s your best joke so far. Of course it’s easy. It’s the easiest thing you’ve done in months. It doesn’t matter, though; Vicious provides little time to react to the overt tickling, for she finds your chest far more interesting than your armpits. This seems as good a place as any to resume your objection. “Stop it.” Not good enough. Not real enough. “Take your hands off of me!!”

 

“She wants you to stop, Nine-Seven.”

 

“I heard, ma’am,” replies Vicious, tugging at one of your nipples until it’s red and raised.

 

“Tell her what you told the other one.”

 

Squeeze.

 

“Give us the Rebel base, and I’ll send the gibbering little mouse back to the cells.”

 

Twist.

 

“No, the other thing.”

 

Knead.

 

“Ohh. Yes, ma’am. It’s either this, or the brush.” Vicious tilts your head up and stares into you. “Which would you prefer, Prisoner?”

 

Flick.

 

Can this really be part of the Empire’s interrogation process? Can this-this whatever actually be sanctioned? And which option would you prefer? The one where at the end they stuff you into a cell, or the one where at the end they stuff you into it with open wounds? It doesn’t matter, just don’t tell them that your crew is innocent, that Ashwala knows nothing, nor did Hanrim. That would make you complicit. That would make you not innocent. That would make you a spy, and not a suspect. Watch your mouth.

 

Pinch.

 

“Answer her, Prisoner, or it’s the brush.”

 

Squeeze!

 

“You’re hurting me!” you snap, because she is. Some of the residual stabbing. Some of the white. There is something wrong with your nerves, and you don't know the right word, but Graycoat does.

 

“If the prisoner is still that axonotmetic, she’s definitely not going to enjoy the brush. Nine-Seven, ask— Mmmh. Ask the her one more time.”

 

“This?” Squeeze! “Or the brush?”

 

“This!” you blurt to the great shame of Stately Leia.

 

“Excellent, Nine-Seven. Move on. Leave those pathetic things alone.”

 

That’s… That’s just rude. Rude, and only comparatively accurate. “What’s next?” you begin to wonder before you resolve that any awful thing you can think of has already been prepared for you. Forecasting your own torment will get you out know. Just survive these degenerates, and for the love of everything sacred, convince them to give you something to drink.

 

“Are you getting close, Ma’am?”

 

“Mmnn. Turn her around. Yes. Move the hair.”

 

Vicious cascades your hair through the gap made by your neck and shoulder with an echoing slopp! She half-massages your back in a way that in another universe might feel quite nice before cupping your buttocks. “Like this?”

 

“Heels, Nine-Seven.”

 

With a splash at your feet, Vicious complies. She briefly rubs the soapy water up and down your legs, Graycoat growing louder as her accomplice works both her hands and her attention to their previous target. Vicious grabs at both cheeks, squeezing and separating and pinching and jiggling.

 

“That’s a nice ass for a treacherous twig, isn’t it, Nine-Seven?”

 

“It is, Ma’am.”

 

“Now stop playing around, clean her, just clean her, ungh. Clean her.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

Vicious rubs the cleft of your private parts with her thumb and forefinger, pressing her digits against, but not into you. If she tried, you would be more than tempted to test if enough strength’s in your legs to attempt a choke hold, but you’re not insane. “Definitely, definitely do not do that,” appeal the Leias in chorus. “That is when Vicious will live up to her epithet again. That’s when she’ll use one of those hoses beneath the rows of binding hooks. That is when she’ll use not only the broom, but its handle, too. She’s done these things before. She wants nothing more than an excuse to do so now.”

 

“Ma’am,” marvels Vicious, lying. “She’s enjoying this.”

 

“You do have a gift, Nine-Seven. The front again. Finish your work.”

 

“With pleasure.”

 

You shut your eyes, trying not to gag as you’re lifted by the knees and spun presumably toward Graycoat before your legs are spread to either side of the kneeling stormtrooper’s shoulders. Those gentle, soft fingertips reach up to further tickle and shampoo the parts of your body you haven’t given much thought to since you lost the only person you had ever considered sharing them with. “You were wrong, Kier. We — are — pacifists. We’re de-arming the Empire, the greatest war machine the galaxy has ever known. We must fight back. We must win.”

 

“Ma’am, you won’t believe how wet she is.”

 

“It’s a shower!” you burn to elucidate. And it’s a lie. This is all part of the game for her-her lover? Can a person with no heart truly love? You just close your eyes. Breha’s Leia says it all, “Let this indignity pass.” You should really make that your motto here.

 

“She has a tiny little baby clit, ma’am. It’s barely there, but she’s definitely feeling this.” Vicious giggles. “I can’t believe we get her first, ma’am; she’s so damn tight. Soaking wet, and I don’t think I could get a pinky inside. I could try, though, if you like, ma’am.”

 

There is a slam from the counter. You don’t mean to look, but you do, searing another image into your mind. The red panties are five shades darker than before. Those thighs squeeze together around the hand buried between them, and Graycoat groans like clearing her throat in reverse. Her other hand has let loose that planetoid of a breast to pound the counter once more, twice more, until she suddenly stops it all, head thrown back against the wall. She grins at you before looking at her compatriot crouched on the tiles. “Well done, Nine-Seven,” congratulates Graycoat. She hops catlike from her perch and looks toward the far wall. “How much time?”

 

A helmeted female trooper, the one who’s likely been training a blaster on you all this time, reports, “Six minutes, Chief.”

 

Graycoat turns her back, reassembling herself. “Two minutes, Nine-Seven. Ensure the prisoner has everything she requires.”

 

You have little opportunity to consider the other occupant of the room, another being just letting this happen. It’s about to be the broom after all. Maybe the hose. Vicious stands and turns off the water before detaching you from the wall so you wobble unsteadily to the floor, exactly where she wants you. In quick succession, she binds your ankles with a pair of cuffs from her discarded utility belt and clamps them to the drain. She does the same with your pre-bound wrists, attaching them to the adjacent grate, the one, you’re pretty sure, where Hanrim died. It can’t be your turn. You must see the mission completed.

 

Water has poured over Vicious all this time, but she so selflessly gave you a far more attentive scrub than she allowed herself. One moment you’re on the textured floor, and the next you’re not being scalded or raked to ribbons, you’re tasting the accumulated sweat of an Imperial grunt. You try to turn your head, but you can’t. You try to breathe, but you only inhale more of her slimy musk as she rolls her genitals from your nose to chin. Barely, just barely, you find enough oxygen to keep conscious. “Just endure. Endure, and let this pass.”

 

You take advantage of your thigh-muffled hearing to block out Vicious’ lewd critiques until she digs her not-at-all tender fingers into your ribs. “Open your mouth, bitch," you make out well enough. “Open it. Use your tongue. Stick it out. Like that. Like that,” she nearly sings, riding your face like a galloping fathier until she grants your wish, the one you wanted only second to undoing your mistakes. You cough and splutter as your mouth fills, and your body’s autonomic functions save you from drowning by forcing you to swallow the salty, bitter deluge you’ve been offered. Vicious actually is singing — a single high note with a single phoneme: “Uuuuuuu!”

 

Graycoat pipes in, “Two minutes, Nine-Seven, that’s enough, and you appear to have distressed the prisoner yet again. Explain yourself.”

 

“Two-One-Eight-Seven was dehydrated, ma’am. She was provided with vital fluids. Electrolytes.”

 

“How thoughtful. Rinse her off, and hurry.”

 

“Yes. Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” Vicious lifts herself from you, another jet slashing into your open, spluttering maw. Then the cuffs are gone, and you are helped to your feet. Helped? No. You are wrangled and fondled to your feet, supported by this horrible woman as she reactivates the stream of the shower. She lets the soap wash away from both of you in the warm water, ensuring you sample none of it before starting the humming cycle of the dryer that vibrates the moisture from your hair and skin.

 

Boots tap towards you, Graycoat’s, and then you’re smothered and tumbled into one of the beige smocks that are evidently just as scratchy as they look.

 

“Help me get her on the gurney.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

You’re where you started — if more enraged than confused — with your wrists cuffed, and several white strips binding you from neck to ankles. Graycoat, also back to baseline, runs the datapad that must double as a scanner over you. “Excellent work, Nine-Seven. You’ve left this one in uncommonly good health.” She smiles again. “Return the piglet to her pen. Bring the next shift in once she’s situated.”

 

“It’s me you want. Spare the rest; they know nothing.” No. Obviously, no. You glide past the hatch, and choose better words, Sullustese words. “I’m sorry, my friend. Thank you for what you taught me. The Force will be with you, always.”

 

“Stop that noise, Prisoner.”

 

Illuminated walls, then a dark alcove. Tears wasteful, and with no running water to disguise them any longer. You are a princess in repurposed potato sacking, feeling far dirtier than you did while marinating in your own filth. Let these indignities pass. You must in order to make it out of here with what remains of your people. You try to think of that, not of Kier judging you for the fact that every innocent being aboard this station will surely die if you don’t, whether or not Daddy’s droids complete the mission you failed. Let Kier’s memory hate you if it means dismantling this thing of evil… but how long do you have left?

 

The Death Star is a secret known to precious few outside of it, which means so are its prisoners. Even if all else goes to plan — it will, it must — your chances of survival are impossibly slim. But you will find a way. You’ll fix this at any personal cost if it means the rest of you will live. Dying will be easy. It’s so easy, anyone can do it. Everyone does, maybe just you sooner than others. You only wish you could say goodbye, that you could tell your parents one more time how much they mean to you.

Notes:

If you like this and want more terrible things, please comment and kudos so I know where to focus my writing energies.

I especially want that kudos if this makes you sad and-or horny.

Chapter 4: Ice

Summary:

Tarkin invites a famished, weakened Leia to a much-needed dinner disguised as a game of wits where she is forced to gamble her dignity for the chance to protect her crew.

Notes:

This chapter in particular is inspired by the scene from A New Hope in which Leia was so disturbed by the face-touching Grand Moff looming nearer that she backed away from him and into Darth freakin’ Vader who had recently drugged and tortured her. It is almost like there was something missing in that original story, something the kid-oriented PG shield protected us from learning about. Ugh, Tarkin is a real piece of work. The worst part is the entire portfolio I’ve gathered on him which establishes either precedent or plausibility for almost everything he does here.

 

“I’m up!” you promise TooVee when she pulls away your bedsheets, but the sun is only just beginning to rise, so you fall promptly back asleep.

 

Sweet seconds pass before your attendant droid, WA-2V, jostles you back into the waking world. “Fiiiiine.” You stretch your arms, yawning, to greet another day of preening, posing, and otherwise portraying the people’s ideal of a proper princess. TooVee will start with the bath, another bath despite the one she insisted on last night. While you scrub each one of your limited centimeters, your wardrobe will be plundered for a selection of attire to suit the formality of the next few events on your schedule.

 

At best, you’ll get to choose between several starchy tunics that are collectively worth as much as a new airspeeder. At worst, if you have matters of state to attend to with Mom, TooVee will stuff you a gown with frills or filigree or both just to drape you in more gold and diamonds fit for… well, for a queen. They, of course, are the Queens’, which is plural possessive. You know this, because despite your japes, and to the great pride of your aunts, you do pay attention to your lessons — history and grammar alike.

 

So, yeah, there’s a good chance that TooVee is going to decorate you like a equinox totem in shimmersilk and hereditary relics from a time when your family used to waste credits on such frivolities. Then she’ll twist and tie and braid and pile your hair into a style half as tall as you while you recite on a randomized topic. It could be the governments of yore, or the sectors and their capital worlds, or maybe even poetry, because Mom insists that’s almost as important. She says this of most things, though, and she should know, because she does everything.

 

Mom somehow makes it all look so natural and graceful that it’s easy to forget how exhausting her duties are. You wish you could be like that. TooVee claims it all starts with a fancy dress, but that can’t be true, because Mom would be just as regal in a greasy jumpsuit. Even still, it’s an honor to be transformed into a miniature of Queen Breha. It means she trusts you, that she’s proud. You’d know this even if she didn’t tell you so, for it takes great confidence to deck you in so much wealth considering your reputation. Hmm… Maybe TooVee is onto something; the sincerity and seriousness of the privilege do have a sort of calming effect on what she calls your “pervasive wily nature.”

 

Except, it would be more of a privilege if the entire process didn’t take away time that you’d rather spend doing… anything. You could be traveling, witnessing different cultures up close and learning their languages. You could be dancing, practicing to one day be as good as Daddy, or you could be studying with him, sitting in on his conferences, which are both boring but so full of wizard customs and people from all over the galaxy. Of course the woods are preferable, but you’re nine now, old enough to know not to wander off, but just young enough to still get away with it. Besides, who are you to deprive TooVee of the special joy she takes in reassembling a muddy girl into the First Daughter of Alderaan?

 

So, what will it be today? You just hope it starts with breakfast. You could eat an entire nerf about now. Ohhh, you’d like it sliced nice and thin and fried in batter, or maybe stewed with mushroom gravy. Both, if possible, and then nerf meat pies, and then pie-pies stuffed with berry preserves. And cake. Cake made with those spiky orange fruits brought to the palace from faraway places. What are they called, again? Melon-something, although they don’t taste like any other melon you’ve tried. Whatever. Oh! And caf. A whole pot of it. A carafe. A carafe of caf. A raf of caf! You’re going to do it. You’re going to order all of it and more until you make Daddy laugh like a groundquake.

 

Another shake. A violent shake. A vicious shake. “Rise and shine, Princess.”

 

What? “TooVee?” You rub your eyes. What happened to her vocabulator? She sounds so mean… like… Like…

 

“TK-Five-Nine-Seven, mind yourself,” the other stormtrooper chastises. He’s her partner, the other new one at the door, the one who’s always to the right.

 

“You obviously enjoy that stick up your ass, but are you a droid? How can you resist a mitt like that?”

 

“Just do what you were told,” bites Mister Right.

 

“Leia, you have to open your eyes. It’s time to go. It’s time for another round of interrogation. You’re awake, so stop pretending that you’re not. Do you want them to think you’re sick? You’re not sick, you’re just starving and terribly thirsty, but these bucketheads can’t tell the day of difference between malady and malnutrition. They probably can’t differentiate a Gungan from a Gundark, but you know someone who can, and so does Vicious. Do you really want to create an excuse to reunite those two?”

 

You open your eyes. No sunrise, of course not, just blasters and white armor. You sit up on the not-bed, too late pulling the not-dress down from where it’s bunched itself — hopefully itself — up to your waist. “What will it be this time? I don’t suppose you’ve found a nicer room for me? Perhaps somewhere with a view?” It’s best not to guess; that never turns out well. You hold out your hands. “Either free me or cuff me, but let’s be done with this.”

 

Vicious snickers in her helmet, sounding much like a backfiring engine. “You heard Her Majesty. Haha! Bracelets befitting royalty,” she caws as Mister Right applies the binders. “And now presenting the dainty royal slippers for Her Majesty’s dainty royal feet.”

 

What would happen if you kick the kneeling stormtrooper? You’re as proficient in unarmed combat as you’d be with his holstered E-11, but are you in any condition to test your efficacy bound, weakened, and half asleep? Surprise and speed are very good friends of yours, but you don’t know what waits outside the cell.

 

You don’t know where the rest of your crew is either, and there might be others held here, too. For all you know, there could be hundreds of dissidents and prisoners of war being processed for short, brutal lives of “indenture” entombed within the Empire’s mines and factories. So… you can definitely break your toes, possibly take a blow to the head, potentially ramble about the Rebellion in a concussed daze, doom the galaxy, and expedite your own shipment to Kessel, or you could not kick Mister Right.

 

Selecting correctly, you accept the slippers. That’s not an entirely unsuitable word for them, and they certainly are dainty. They’re dainty, because they’re barely there. These shoes made of thin gray synthetic fabric and a solitary elastic strap will do naught to protect or warm you, much like the paltry, itchy smock now mostly covering your privates. They will, however, shield the precious floor from your nasty Rebel footprints, as if the Empire wants no evidence left behind once they murder you and sterilize your empty alcove.

 

“Don’t think like that,” encourages stately Leia. “You can escape.”

 

“And now Her Majesty’s royal procession!” Vicious hoots, and her cohort, who’s understandably also had enough, points through the doorway with his rifle.

 

Time to go. You stand, and your legs nearly give way. “Not sick, not sick, not sick. Just tired.”

 

Vicious bellows, “Move, Two-One-Eight-Seven.”

 

You do, down hall after hall of illuminated walls. They’re quite nice, really. They make this oversized weapon feel like an esoteric art installation. Someone took pride in this design, perhaps unaware that their talents would be so tragically wasted on undeserving louts. “Well done, Leia. There is always beauty, even in the dark. Find more of it.”

 

“Move!” growls the blaster to your spine.

 

Ugh. You are moving, it’s simply that the troopers do sweet farriking all to accommodate your limited stride and diminished pace. Gathering what strength you can find, you nearly jog to keep up with these goons. “Keep going, it’s not that far. Yup. Jog right on up to the interrogation room in three, two—” What?

 

You pass the door, turning the last familiar corner of the detention wing, and take stock of the new territory. It all looks much the same, empty except for one officer. His face, you’ve seen it before. The certainty grows as you’re herded nearer to him. He’s young, about your age, and already a captain. He’s seen things, certainly done them, too — ones that have already transformed him from an embryonic, treatable evil into a monster in a monster’s uniform. You pass him, head held as high as you can manage while minding your hastened footing, bidding yourself to ignore how his lips spread without commitment between sneering and leering.

 

Farther down the corridor, there’s another one of him — this one brunet and tan-skinned instead of blond with fair skin and eyes, but he has the same four blue bars over his wicked heart. This one is stronger in his convictions; he clearly hates you. There’s nothing else in his fathomless eyes. He’s so keen on tearing you apart that he’d willingly spend every single ingot he’s ever earned for a mere chance at it. Are there more? “Bring them on. Glare at me. Look at my legs. Send death to me with your thoughts. Is this what thrills you? Seeing me in bondage, dressed like an urchin in a warzone? Are you so isolated from normality that this is what you fantasize about?”  

 

There are more, but none are quite so vehement as those two. Others toss glances your way, but they retain an air of professionalism and largely go about their business… except for this one. This one never stops staring. There’s no malice in his scrutiny, only disbelief. He’s an ensign, little more than a sentient footrest for his “superiors.” Your presence stuns him. It thrills him. It ruins him.

 

What should you do with your face? Should you offer a smile? Should you dismantle him with your brows for relinquishing his birthright of peace to serve the violence of the Empire? He’s behind you before you can decide, but now you’re left to wonder if there are others. How can there be? Why is there even one other Alderaanian aboard the Death Star? Why is he here to witness you like this? Why is he here to see the sorry job you did in the darkness at weaving a mourning braid between your temples? Why is he here to see you unravel like the rest of your hair that falls from your less enthusiastic attempt at two intertwined twists?

 

Did you do something wrong to make that ensign choose this? Did your family? Why would any more your people be here? Spycraft? Sabotage? No, that was no spy. A spy wouldn’t notice you like that. He was a true Imperial, and he could be one of thousands. You don’t feel well.

 

“Traitor!”  You nearly shout it over your shoulder before you remember Kier. Wasn’t he a traitor, too? Wasn’t he so blinded by the truths he thought he understood that he died for his misplaced honor? How many of your sweet, thoughtful, wrong Kiers are stationed here? Should you even care? They’ve chosen the wrong side. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid boy. I miss you. I love you. I wish I could have told you.” Of course you care. You will never not care. “Stop it. Stop seeing Kier. Stop it. Walk. Jog.”

 

The halls almost seem to move on their own, even without the automated walkways that only officers and their retinues apparently use. You don’t mind being excluded; those things look far too much like conveyor belts propelling meat beasts toward their final destinations, their occupants blurring impersonally in dull greens and blacks only interspersed by bright flashes of blue, red, and yellow. You once thought those rank insignia were made of candy, and they really do look silly, don’t they? Childish, fake, unlike the weapons those ranks permit. A lieutenant’s pistol is no less capable of killing you than a buckethead’s rifle, and there are plenty of those, too. Hundreds. They stand by every door, every hall, every checkpoint. They patrol. They wait in droves to be dispatched by watch stations, by the men behind the surveillance droids and hidden cameras, all waiting for you to try something.

 

Hold on, though — the Alderaanian. He was surprised to see you. That confirms your presence has been kept on a need-to-know basis, at least until now. This only supports your fears that the Tantive IV was reported lost or destroyed. Of course it was. Nobody’s coming here for you, not unless you can somehow access comms. A place like this would restrict outside communication only to the top of the top, but what does TooVee always call you? Wily. You’re good at getting what you want, or at least you used to be. If you see that ensign again, you could signal to him, and maybe he could get hold of the credentials. Except, no. Too many eyes will be on him now. There’s probably a betting pool on whether he’ll turn. They’ll have made this into a trial, a test of loyalty built to fail as a warning for anyone foolish enough to sympathize with you.

 

“Well, pipe in. Don’t you have something uplifting to add? Really? Nothing? Some help you are, Leias. Isn’t this where you’re supposed to remind me that I’ll find a way? That I can take care of myself? That it’s only a matter of time until I find Ashwala? That I’ll find us all a ship and fly us far, far away from here just as the Rebel Alliance annihilates this place? Maybe you could tell me that Mom and Daddy know the Empire’s tricks? That they won’t believe some bogus report until they launch a thorough investigation? That even TooVee, who’s probably losing her circuits, still knows not to trust what she’s heard about my fate?”

 

“Halt,” commands Mister Right, enforcing his curt word with a grip at the back of your collar so firm that the shoddy fabric rips a little down the back. Ugh.

 

Vicious snorts, “Two-One-Eight-Seven must be eager to spill her secrets.”

 

Catching your breath, you take in your surroundings: a turbolift platform with several carriages. One of them opens, and the occupants frown open-mouthed when they take in your damned potato sack. They don’t recognize you like this, the famous thorn in the Emperor’s side, only that you represent everything they don’t. If looks could kill, you’d be peppered with fatal blows by now.

 

Mister Right pushes you. “Get inside.”

 

You shuffle into the lift, barely keeping your footing. Spinning, you censure, “Thank you very much for your assist—” you start before you see the fist flying. “Protect your vitals, not your face. They won’t go for your face.” A flurry or white falls upon you, slamming into the arms you keep down to shield your torso. Your legs are kicked out, and you fall onto your side, bracing yourself for the rest that doesn’t come, although the clacking and grunting of a heated struggle continues without you.

 

You lie still, calming your breathing, subtly testing your mobility while taking inventory of your injuries. They’re few, but there will be bruises later. It’s nothing, so you just listen as the lift travels up and up, knowing you have no chance to disarm and escape these fools like you did with their analogues aboard the Devastator. Its commander had designed your flight. He belittled you. He tricked you into solidifying his accurate suspicions about your mission.

 

“Ugggh, let go. Let go, Two-One!”

 

“Do you realize what you’ve done?”

 

“She’s not allowed to talk like that. She’s a prisoner.”

 

“And what happens if you damage her? At best, we’ll be reassigned.”

 

“Let me go!”

 

“Nine-Seven, you need to calm down. Right. The. Fark. Now. We’re almost there.”

 

“One more kick. One more good one.”

 

“I’ll stun you if you try. You saw what he’s like; he doesn’t want marks on her.”

 

“No. No. It could be absolutely anything or anyone you’re heading to. It doesn’t have to be him — not that creature, that serpent.”

 

“Don’t care. She can’t, she can’t… She’s a bitch, Two-One. She needs to learn her place. He’s too gentle with her!”

 

“Hraaaghhh! Stop. Stop! She’s not even moving. Just, ugh! Fark’n, fa— Stop! Waste treatment— urggghh! No pretty girls in— uwwww!”

 

Flwack!

 

“Ooorgh!”

 

“I told you to let me go. Pull yourself together, man, and pick her up. She’s just playing around, she’s fine. He fried her for, like, a quarter-cycle and she’s fine.”

 

“No. No. No!”

 

“You’re crazy,” huffs Mister Right. “You’re unhinged. There’s something wrong inside your head.”

 

Mister Right is not a complete freak. Mister Right is just a sellout, some man who wanted an easy life of following orders instead of making choices. You don’t hate him. You don’t hate very many people. Most of them can be swayed, convinced, allowed to bloom into something of worth. Vicious? You’ve decided to despise her. She’s the one who eventually picks you up. She’s strong, she has to be, but she just hauls you up like a rag. You can read her faceless face, you can see the supermodel behind that plastoid. She wants to hit you, slap you, but the doors are opening, so she only holds fast to your aching arm to ensure you move in step with her. Should you mention the pain? Should you show it? Limp? Moan? You’re functional, but your hips, knees, and lower arms all badly smart. “Functional, hah.” TooVee would appreciate that. You miss her. You miss her so much.

 

“Careful,” Mister Right insists quietly, and Vicious actually loosens her grip. “The prisoner will behave herself. She won’t make a scene.”

 

A scene? Like being paraded through the upper echelons of the Death Star looking downright embarrassing? That’s where you are. The sign outside of the lift reads 100 level - Sector GM1-A in Aurebesh, but that arbitrary designation may as well read “Leisure Center.” There’s a relaxed air here in these wider halls that you’re marched through. The personnel chat in groups, lingering, loitering, laughing, even. You see friends smiling and sweethearts flirting. One man has a drink in his hand, and another bites into a sandwich. Nope. Nooope. You turn your head, looking at anything else. There’s a bar. An actual bar? Beside it is a lounge. A gaming parlor. A boutique. This is a promenade.

 

So, this is where the snake spends his time away from home. Why deny it any longer? The stormtroopers are taking you to Tarkin. Somehow he seemed above such common luxuries. You imagined him occupying some remote corner of this place where he can gloat and brood alone beneath some sort of heat lamp, but no. Here you are in a section decorated with live foliage and fountains stocked with ornamental fish. Are these offices?

 

You need to prepare yourself. You need to let go of the panic edging closer. Think of the walls, the patterns. The sleek efficiency, the lockstep, the air, cool and crisp. Right there: the climb with Mom. The way she didn’t want her pride to outshine yours when she overcame the peak that two decades prior overcame her. The way she watched over you as you safely descended where she had fallen. The way you both knew in the end, were both affirmed in your faith that you can do this, that the monarchy is secure. It’s going to be okay. Oxygenate your brain. Breathe.

 

In.

 

Out.

 

In.

 

Out.

 

Be calm. Don’t give in. He wants to turn you, or to break you if you refuse. You will refuse, but you won’t be broken. Not your mind, at least, not your conviction. Your body, however, betrays you as soon as the stormtrooper drops your arm. You hadn’t realized how much you relied on her support. You hadn’t realized how the walk drained what meager stores of energy your bones and muscles clung to. Oh, no. You’re ill aren’t you? Don’t you feel a little warm? A little cold? A little woozy? Is that rumbling in your gut merely hunger, or was the ration wafer you ate ages ago tainted? Or was it just Vicious?

 

Nope. Don’t think about what she did as she forces you to stand up straight. It doesn’t matter; you already let that indignity pass. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let her fantasize, and let him… ugh. Really? Yeah, let Mister Right judge your appearance, because that’s fair.

 

“Shouldn’t you fix her hair or something? She looks like trampled bantha fodder.”

 

Funny Leia tries. Funny Leia really tries, snapping, “I’m sure you’re hot stuff under that waste bin.”

 

Vicious has seemingly satisfied her need to pummel you, which does little for the ego of your “comedic” side. Coolly, the stormtrooper asks, “Two-One, is she bleeding?”

 

“No,” reports Mister Right.

 

The quick retort: “Then press the damned button.”

 

Ping.

 

You must breathe. You must stop. You must reset. It’s time for Funny Leia to take a break, and Real Leia can join her. You require the Coalition of Regal Leia and Politician Leia, for there’s no other way to approach Tarkin and leave untarnished. Real Leia would fight hard. She’s an excellent combatant, but she’d be summarily defeated on the battleground waiting just inside this door. Definitely the Coalition, the you who’s more and more real every day. You cherish her — a gift from your parents almost as grand as the joy of being their daughter.

 

Breathe. “See you gals soon.” Stop.

 

 

Reset.

 

The Grand Moff opens the door himself, likely with a voice command considering his position a few meters away. There’s no reason why a man like him couldn’t have a score of protocol and service droids to tend to such trivialities as greeting “guests.” Light knows he could have a fleet of flesh-and-blood servants at his beck and call, but no, he opens his own door as if he’s a common man excitedly waiting to see a friend.

 

The viper smiles, hands folded behind his crisp uniform. You take stock of the room while you wait for him to speak, because the Coalition demands that you not give in to such an obvious power play. First, though, you make a mental note to have a discussion with Real Leia and her disturbing predictions once all of this is done. This is a nicer room for sure, but not an office; these are personal quarters. Good. A bigger space means more places to look for something you can use.

 

The grainy marble entryway where you stand is hard enough to offer a final knockout if you can muster the strength for such a feat. There’s a pair of jackboots here. Company? Probably not. Without looking down, you notice the viper is wearing another pair, one that has probably never stepped outside. Unhelpful, like the deluxe carpeting beyond the entryway. You can resume this inspection shortly.

 

The viper subtly looks you up and down with a squint of disapproval as he waves one hand in an arc, dismissing the stormtroopers like an acrid smell. The door shuts them out with a morose shoop, trapping you inside with your enemy. “Good evening, Princess Leia.”

 

Is it evening? You shouldn’t ask that. There’s no need to assure him how successfully disorienting that lightless cell is. Stay on point. If you can bear being cordial, he’ll return the “favor” just long enough to get to whatever is up his sleeves. You’ll need to gather as much information as you can before then. “The same to you, Governor Tarkin, and how is your mother doing these days?”

 

“Very well, thank you, my princess,” is the unphased, seamless reply, as if he’d just ended a call with the woman in question. “I’d ask of yours, but I suspect it has been some time since you two were last in communication. Perhaps that is for the best.” Tarkin wipes his non-existent upper lip with the knuckle of his index finger the way he does when he wants people to perceive him as pensive. “You know, I still recall that shameful display, Leia, at the party. In a way, I can hardly blame you for seeking refuge from such a stressful life. I told you I’d be waiting for you, that I would lend an ear if you needed it. The circumstances are rather different now, are they not? But, still, I will listen if there’s anything you’d like to tell me, Your Highness.”

 

Tarkin misses little, and forgets even less. Of course he remembers that party three years ago, the one he essentially invited himself to, and so do you. It might have been yesterday when your parents accused each other of infidelity in front of you, a ruse to distract the interloper from peering deeper into what was a congregation of Rebel organizers. He had called them out for their unseemly outbursts, offering to step in as your protector where nobody else could against two such forces as Bail and Breha Organa.

 

All this time, Tarkin has probably been aching for another such opportunity to condemn your family, but joining him in his open disdain would be suspicious. Instead, you find the middle ground, the diplomatic response. “Governor, you will understand if I still admire my parents despite our trials. Countless children needed a home after the war, but they chose me. I owe them my life.”

 

“Ah, the intricacies of love. I do, of course, but pardon me, Leia, I’ve been rude.” He gestures into the parlor. “Take off your shoes, and please, come in.”

 

You nudge the slippers off each foot with the opposite toes and step onto the carpet. He wants you to comment on it. It’s soft, but you’ve felt softer; you’re a princess after all. Complimenting it may be perceived as an insult, and yet offering accolades regarding his aesthetic choices may be spun as points toward his victory. “These are fine appointments you keep.” Great. Neutral enough. Now you can look openly. You scan the rest of the place.

 

The exit is just behind your back. There’s no getting through there without Tarkin’s vocal pattern, access codes, or datapads. The shelves and cabinets to one side will be similarly locked like the closet to the other. Atop the few surfaces sit a limited array of trinkets, souvenirs of some violence or another, but none of them are sufficiently heavy or sharp. He’s put all of those away, or never had any to start with. There’s nothing you can use to bludgeon or stab. There’s nothing you can use to tear away a strip from your smock to use as a garrote. Even your nails have been trimmed.

 

“And are they to your liking?” queries Tarkin.

 

“My liking?” Another opportunity to inspect the environment. It consists of a decent amount of open space within a moderately sized room. It won’t afford a full-scale brawl, but neither will your health. Hmmm. Two armchairs made of blue animal hides, a square glass caf table between them, a closed door to either side. That glass might shatter against the marble entryway. Good. What else?

 

A sofa to the right, lined with the same leather. Another door is opened to a dark room you cannot see into. Across from it is one more, this one closed. There are paintings in numerous styles where you expected to find commendations, medals, and diplomas. The scenes depict ships, jungles, factories, oceans, and subjects too abstract to categorize. Are there hooks in the walls? No, the paintings lie flatly in place. The frames are magnetized — useless. The verdict? “You have a complex eye.”

 

“High praise,” he assesses, tilting his head, eyes narrowed. “And how are you?”

 

He could have killed you, never mind the insults and insinuations. Thankfully the Coalition is with you. “You’re concerned, but you don’t have complaints — you have observations,” she provides. That’ll work. “There are a number of matters concerning me, Governor Tarkin.”

 

Tarkin folds his left arm behind his back and extends the right towards the seating.

 

“The sofa will afford him the chance to sit beside you. Show him how unafraid you are.” The Coalition is correct, there’s no point being squeamish. Tarkin will continue to test you. He’ll try to confuse you, to rattle you. He hasn’t even asked the questions yet, probably because he wants you to volunteer the answers, to be so scared or grateful for another chance that you give up. The sofa, then. You pass Tarkin on your way to it. Does his head swivel to watch you? Does he look at your legs? Your backside? Did he design your uniform like he did his own?

 

You’re still wondering when you trip, the half-spin to take your seat resulting in a misstep you only notice after you dive face first into the carpet. You groan around a mouthful of it. “Stop thinking about Vicious, and get up. If he wasn’t looking at your body before, he certainly is now. They didn’t even give you underwear, Leia, but let this pass.”

 

With a slew of soft sounds, Tarkin crouches beside you, pulling you up onto the sofa with no more difficulty than Vicious exhibited. As usual, he’s wearing cologne, faint but freshly applied. It smells like an avalanche late in spring, suddenly, decisively obliterating a verdant meadow. “Oh, Leia,” he bemoans, “concerning indeed. Wait here.” 

 

“Where would I go, exactly?” The words pour free like thick sludge as you slump into the rounded armrest, but Tarkin isn’t here to notice Real Leia peeking through the curtains. You’re so tired that you could have stayed there on the carpet forever. It really was nice, besides, you’ve already seen everything that could be of use in here. Why sit up straight when you could do the easier thing and rejoin the carpet, become one with it?

 

Why perpetuate this farce at all when it would be so much easier to tell Tarkin the truth? If you do, he’ll find some painless way to kill you, you’re sure of that. No firing squad, no beheading, nothing public. There will simply come one moment at which you cease to exist, and the Empire will be free to continue purporting that your critically damaged ship was lost to space along with you and all its other passengers.

 

“No!”

 

“It’s alright,” Tarkin coos. He’s back. Since when is he back, standing by your side? Since when is he touching you?

 

“No,” you repeat, but you don’t have the strength to stop Tarkin from tapping a small pouch against your lips. He squeezes it, and it’s already down your throat when you realize it’s not water, when you realize how careless you were. Was that medicine? You don’t feel well.

 

“And this. Small sips.”

 

What’s wrong with you? This is the same error you’re making, this time from a cup. Water? Water! Flat as always from the moisture recycling processes here, but water! It’s also a little chalky. Fortified, you figure, with micronutrients absent from your nearly nonexistent diet. You drink from the disposable chalice, only the pain of swallowing permitting you to heed the sound advice.

 

“Good. He wouldn’t poison you.” Well that’s dumb, because sure he would. He might have done so while you were asleep or unconscious. He might have wanted just this very scene to unfold, and to supply you with what… an antidote? An antidote disguised as a gesture that might foster a collaborative mood. None of this is beyond Tarkin. Maybe nothing is. What had he said? A surprisingly good match. You and him. He’s right; you’ve never met a more diametrically balanced opponent. This could almost be fun in a certain light. It certainly is for Tarkin. Just look at that face. “Yes. Turn your weak, girlish expression to those ice cold eyes. Ignore the newfound vigor coursing through your bloodstream and give him what he wants.”

 

“My princess, who did this to you?”

 

That again. His princess. No, you belong to the people, and Tarkin is not one of those; the viper forswore his membership decades ago. “What?” The poisoning? Oh. The darkening marks on your arm. The answer is probably the same, regardless, so what should you say?

 

“He’ll reassign Vicious if you implicate her, probably promote her, then send a substitute that makes her seem like a saint. There is no reality in which Tarkin is unaware of her behavior. There must be records of it, holos, but Tarkin must be protecting Vicious. He supports her chaos. He uses it to intimidate and violate. Does he record what she does? Does he watch the feeds at night? Maybe. Maybe not. Let that indignity pass, and say something.” Okay then. “I was dizzy in the turbolift. I fell, and my chaperones helped me up.” Hmmm. It’s a horribly hallmark excuse for bruises, but it’s not untrue.

 

“I’ll be having a word with the warden, then. I told him to have you looked after. His troopers should have reported this — your fever, your disorientation. And what is this monstrosity they’ve put you in? Blagg sent you here wearing these trappings? Is this… a surgical gown?”

 

Kriff. He’s used this situation to derail you, but at least you know the name of the warden now. Did Tarkin lie? Make a mistake? Log that for later. Get this conversation back on track. This isn’t about you. “Say it, Leia. Sit up, breathe, and say just that.” You blink. You must remain focused, steadfast. “Governor Tarkin, this isn’t about me,” you declare, praying that you sound convincing, if not formidable. “My crewmates…” Oh light, where to start? The forty-eight who are completely unaccounted for, the one who was murdered, or the one who was raped?

 

Is there a chance that you’re mistaken about Ashwala? Obviously she didn’t fall, but you cannot know for sure. Maybe you shouldn’t start with her. Considering what may or may not have happened to the midwife, the musician, would inspire examining what happened to you, and you’d prefer to reserve that for your millennium of counseling. “My language partner, Hanrim Vhot,” you start, but can’t finish.

 

Tarkin finally sits on the sofa, the vacant space between you feeling wholly inadequate. “The Sullustan,” he fills in as you try to stop the tears. “I was disappointed to hear of that tragic accident. If it is any comfort, the heating mechanisms in those showers have now been repaired, and the maintenance crew has been adequately disciplined. Your safety there is guaranteed, Princess Leia. Nonetheless, you have my condolences for the untimely passing of young Miss Vhot.” Tarkin’s brows tent in an imitation of sorrow. “Were you friends? You seem to lose so many of them. Such a shame about that boy, too… Domadi, was it? Kier Domadi?”

 

 

Reset.

 

Come back. “All of you come back while this still looks like grief. I need you. I need you to stop me from dying in an attempt to kill the viper right here and now. It was wrong to send you away; the Coalition is nothing without you. I trust you. Please, I need your help.”

 

 

Reset. Reset. Reset. Reset.

 

Leia the Politician climbs to the pulpit. “Be true. Be natural. Yield the floor to Angry Leia if you must, but don’t antagonize Tarkin. This is his station. His word is law here. He can do anything. He can even save you. He can decide you were on a diplomatic mission. He can requisition transportation home for you and your crew. He might do it, if only to leave you and all of Alderaan forever in his debt. This could be his endgame, but you must remain in the present.”

 

“Yes, she was my friend, and so was Kier. They were special to me.” You want to say more, but your words won’t bring Hanrim back to her warren or Kier back to your arms. “May I please have more water?”

 

Tarkin leans closer, offering a handkerchief from within his tunic. “Soon, Princess.”

 

You take the cloth regardless of its hint of cologne, and dab your eyes with it before soaking it an unbidden, honking sob. “She was my friend. My friend…”

 

“I know, I know,” soothes Tarkin like a nurturing caretaker. He takes the messy square back, likely afraid you’ll set it down on the furniture. Then he’s gone again. How does he do that? Politician Leia pilots her hovering platform back to the fore. “Don’t forget where you are. Keep planning. You can use this. Ask him if he did something to you, drugged you. What if he tells the truth?”

 

Tarkin’s disembodied voice echoes from behind you? Oh, one of the other doors is open now. “I wanted it to be a surprise after dinner, but I hadn’t known they would bring you here in that. It’s such an affront to your comely form.”

 

Real Leia pipes up, “What was that? There’s dinner? Can there really be dinner? And after? What’s after dinner? Questions punctuated with death threats over honeyed wine and biscuits?” Yeah, don’t be dumb, and stop trying to be funny; it’s not working. Just be honest. Ask the question. “Did you drug me?” You weren’t this bad before. You could have sworn you were feeling better. Did he even hear you? “Governor, did you drug me?”

 

“Yes,” the echo sternly states, “but only if that’s how you’d classify digestive enzymes or antipyretics and antibiotics.”

 

That’s… likely, but, why do you still… “What’s happening to me?”

 

“Your system is hopefully doing a superior job at fighting that fever and the beginning of what might have become a rather troublesome respiratory infection. Other than that, your adrenaline could be wearing thin. I can’t imagine you had a pleasant journey here,” Tarkin explains, “but I’m glad you are more at ease with me.”

 

Ease. Is this ease? Maybe not drugged, but half out of it and half naked in Tarkin’s personal quarters? And what is this he has for you? Ohhhh! “Ohh!” You want to claw yourself to shreds for how childish and needy that sounded even to your own ears. You stare at what he holds. “I-I thought it was… I thought it was gone,” you fumble, disregarding the fact that it’s his fault what happened to your clothes.

 

Tarkin places the folded white pile on the sofa beside you followed by the matching, cleaned boots at your feet. “Do you require assistance?”

 

Still astounded, you hold up your wrists, but the binders you intended to use as a reply are gone. Since when? Would it have mattered if you’d noticed? No. “You need to focus, Leia. For now, tell him no. He won’t watch. He doesn’t need to; he’s already seen your body.” You try not to gag saying, “Thank you,” and Tarkin clearly enjoys your effort. He smiles, maybe the first sign of actual happiness you’ve ever seen from this animated skeleton, before he turns around for your privacy.

 

It really is your dress, not a mockup. This is also your underwear and your socks. Tarkin has had these garments, using them for heavens know what. It can’t really be that many different things, can it? What if… What if he wore them? What if he had himself a nice little tea party in your nice little dress? He’s so skinny that it would have fit fairly well, the bodice forming an extremely appropriate empire waist on his lanky body with the hem gathering around his knees.

 

“Princess?” Tarkin asks, back still turned.

 

Tarkin clearly hosts limited company, if any at all. There’s never been a proper party in here, tea or otherwise. These premises, while impressive, are simply for him — a comforting place to relax after ordering mass executions, but still… you can’t not see it! You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe! “Hahaaa! Ha haaa!!” You can’t, you can’t! “Ahahahehh!”

 

 

“Hi! Funny Leia here. So, if starvation doesn’t do the trick, you’re going to legitimately pass out if you keep laughing, but I’ve got you. Say you’re just so glad to have your clothes back. You can tell him that the dress was a gift from Daddy, and that your belt is a symbol of Mom’s ancestors. Tell him that together they are a reminder of happy times and your hope for a brighter future. Then he’ll be the one having to hold it in. That will be the best joke he’s ever heard.”

 

She’s right. “Governor, this just means everything to me.”

 

“You’re quite welcome, my dear,” he replies, seemingly busying himself with a datapad as if work never ends, not even when he has a private audience with a dignitary.

 

Yes, that’s exactly what you are. Seated, you slide your feet through your underwear and shimmy them into place, careful not to offer any hidden cameras or stolen glances any quality shots. Next the socks, then the boots. “Come on, say the rest.” You try. “Governor Tarkin—”

 

“Call me Wilhuff,” he interjects, “while you are with me, here.”

 

There’s something about the way that he says that last word, here. It’s unnerving, as if being together is some form of gift granted to you like his given name. He wants the same in return. He wants you to relinquish your title and your legacy. Wait, come to think of it, you can’t recall him ever addressing you by your full name, even though someone like Tarkin must respect the concept of monarchy as a dark mirror for monopoly.

 

That’s the source of his own familial wealth: insurance, you’d learned, armaments, and additional “security.” It was little more than racketeering, or exactly racketeering, but either way, Tarkin hates your parents. He really does want to save you from them, like you’re the distraught girl he once judged you to be. In your sorry state, that’s an easy mistake, but you should still defend your king and queen. You complete the exchange, the scratchy beige for the silken white. “Wilhuff—”

 

“May I call you Leia?” He couldn't even wait for you to complete your turn.

 

There is no consensus between the versions of you. A first-name basis would limit the infuriating bandy and banter, but the further displaced you are from straightforward communication, the more time you have to strategize and pry loose the bars of your cage. You lean toward that option before you consider that your personal risks skyrocket the further you push Tarkin away. Cooperating your way through his outer shields could give you the opportunity to simply reach though and throttle him. Hmm. Finding the equilibrium, you sigh, “You can call me whatever you like, Wilhuff.”

 

“Leia, then. What was that you were saying earlier?”

 

Flexing your shoulders, you try to angle your hands to fasten the hooks and eyes of your dress. It’s never been so much of a struggle. Your fingers just… you just. There, at last. You smooth the hood back and snap the belt in place. That’s better. “Now, go ahead, Leia. Tell him he’s wrong about your family. Tell him what a hard time this must be for them, but don’t use phrases like ‘hostile takeover’ or ‘coup.’”

 

Cooooouuuuu. Hehe. Why is it spelled with the letter Peth at the end? Maybe TooVee knows.

 

“Leia?”

 

“You’re spacing out way too long. Answer him.”

 

“Are you decent, Leia?”

 

“Leia.”

 

“Leia!”

 

 

“How… Why… wasting…”

 

“Seems… several cycles…”

 

“Absurd… Chief… hanged!”

 

“Grand—”

 

“… administered…”

 

“… specific stressors, trauma?”

 

“The regiment…”

 

“The readings…”

 

“Upon the Emperor himself.”

 

“… issued as you requested.”

 

“… deficit?”

 

“An error… delivery, or local…”

 

“… sanitized, scoured!”

 

“It will, sir.”

 

“… held personally…”

 

 

“Slowly, Leia.”

 

“Where am? What happened? TooVee?”

 

A deeply worried gray-haired man stands far above you. “You’re here, Leia, with me.”

 

Who is he? Where is that accent from? Is he a relative visiting from Coruscant? Is he another in-law by way of your aunts? Maybe, but look how many tasty little candies he wears on that butt-ugly tunic! Those make him a governor, right? Or is he military? Either way, he is high, high up there. That’s not good. You should be careful — just how many people did he throw to the rancors to climb so far? Or maybe he’s undercover, a Rebel plant. You probably shouldn’t ask a plant if he’s a plant.

 

“Give it another minute, my dear.”

 

He seems nicer than his uniform, like he’d push you on the swing long after his arms grew tired. Grandfather? He talks to you the way a grandfather might, except you don’t have one. Daddy married into the Organa family, but he was born into nobility just like Mom. That means his ancestry has been recorded for a millennia, and you’ve memorized enough charts of the Great Houses to be certain that all four of your grandparents are entombed in the vaults of Alderaan, so something is wrong here. “Who are you?”

 

“Your host.” The man bends at the waist and takes your hand. It’s cold as he helps you into a sitting position. It’s cold when his thumb brushes your cheek. “The stimulants should help, but let’s get you to the table, shall we? Can you stand?”

 

“Is it fried or stewed?”

 

“What was that?”

 

“Leia! There you are. Hello, it’s all of us. You’ve been gone for a little while. Many things are indeed wrong, but you’re going to be okay. In fact, you’re going to feel great pretty soon. Those will be the stims. For now, just repeat after us: the nerf — I’d like it both ways.”

 

“The nerf, please — I’d like it both ways.”

 

“Cool. So, do you remember when you broke your leg pretending you could climb trees like a Wookiee? Remember that pill you took from the medkit you were at least smart enough to pack? Remember how the doctor thought you were joking because you basically skipped back to the palace? It’s going to be like that again.”

 

“I could send for that if the fare doesn’t agree with you. Let me help you up.”

 

“Wilhuff?”

 

His thin lips are so close to you as he speaks that you can smell his denti-rinse. It's so clean, sterile. Lavender, maybe, or lavallel like his cologne. “Yes. Don’t be afraid. I have you. I’m sorry this happened, Leia.”

 

“You know who he is now, right?” Yes, you do. The man who is absolutely not your kindly grandfather is Wilhuff Tarkin, Governor of the Outer Rim Territories… you know, a third of the charted galaxy? He’s also a mass-murderer and a slaver whom the dictator Palpatine elevated to the top of his military upon inventing and bestowing the title of Grand Moff fourteen years ago.

 

“Where are you?” The Death Star, recently under Tarkin’s direct command according to fresh rumors. You thought it was a codename, but that’s actually what they call this place. It’s a mobile battle station boasting two hundred thousand weapons around its periphery, including the crater-like superlaser. It looks more like a Death Moon, really, hollowed out and stuffed full of two million marching Imperials and heavens know how many hapless, helpless captives. Oh.

 

“And do you know who you are?” Yes. You are Leia Organa, daughter of Bail and Breha.“What else?” Crown Princess of Alderaan. A former senator, if that’s to be believed? Maybe you should believe it; you’ve heard it enough times now. You’re certainly a prisoner, as the stormtroopers love to remind you. You are a detainee, really, but you suppose you have technically committed treason… They call you by a number, the same one that’s on the dark box they stuff you into when they’re done.

 

“Why are you here, Leia of Alderaan?” The boogeyman caught you. A real-life demon who can do impossible things like Ben Kenobi, feats Daddy said only the Jedi could accomplish. Except, the Jedi never used their powers to slaughter innocents no matter what Palpatine said. The Jedi were good, or at least neutral, until until they were tricked into fighting a fabricated war. That was their undoing.

 

“Why are you here?” You’re here because a team of heroes sent you the schematics for this station and its hidden structural weak point, a fatal flaw. You narrowly escaped the boogeyman’s bloodbath, but he found your hobbled, leaking ship, the Tantive IV. You’re here because there was no escape for a living being. In your stead, you sent two droids and a plea to your friend and savior, your only hope, the one person you know is wise and brave enough to ensure the Death Star plans reach the Rebellion’s stronghold. You’re here because the boogeyman knows you had them, because he knows what you are.

 

“And what does he know you are?” You are a member of the Rebel Alliance, one of its burgeoning leaders. You’ve been tempting fate for years, and it’s finally entangled you, but you’re not going to give in. Nothing can make you do that — you will never tell the enemy where you sent the plans, or forsake your cohorts, or point out your base of operations. You are on a diplomatic mission. You are harmless, only recently having crossed into majority. You are rambunctious, an overzealous tot who’s made a great big mess of things for her betters to…

 

“Whoa!” The stims! Ohhhohoh these are nice! So nice that you don’t even mind being carried like a bride, like a damsel, like a kriffing folding chair. Your arm is even around Tarkin’s neck. The other one braces its hand against his chest. You can feel muscles, taut and firm beneath your palm. The stick-figure aesthetic is just another lie; there’s a powerhouse beneath all the ghastly olive-gray-green.

 

“That was a frightened, dizzy exclamation. You’re still feeble. You’re a ragdoll in these creepily strong arms. Act for him. Use his name again. He loves that.” You drone into Tarkin’s ear, “Willllloaf…” Yikes. “But don’t overdo it.”

 

Focus. There was someone else here an eternity ago. It was Graycoat. She’s in trouble because you were, too. She wasn’t supposed to starve you, or maybe she was? How deep does this farce go? If you can consider it, so can Tarkin, but he has a certain hubris that you’re inoculated against. That gives you a major advantage, maybe the only one you have left, but it will have to be enough.

 

“Attagirl! Great attitude. He’ll expect you to be exuberant and overconfident within a minute. He will want you to fight, to become belligerent, but you don’t need us to rein you back. You don’t need us to steer you through that, Leia. You don’t need us to balance you. We trust you. Just be yourself, and eat your dinner. You need it, Leia. You need to eat. You will be force fed if you don’t, and there will be no sedative when Graycoat lets her pet jam the tubes through your nostrils and down your throat.”

 

 

Another eon passes by before you’re lowered into a white four-seater booth. It’s softer than the sofa, but similarly barricaded by armrests. They are the only round things in here  —  the dining room, one of the spaces beyond the closed doors. The booth itself is shaped like the letter Krill, an elongated square missing its western perimeter. You have only just been molded neatly into one of its cushy elbows when you promptly flop bonelessly over the rectangular obsidian table.

 

Obsidian. Obsidian is very sharp. Can you chip away a shard to use as a dagger? Is there anything in here heavy enough to shatter the surface and make that a reality? No. It’s just the two of you, the booth, and the luminous crystal chandelier — pyramidal and put of reach, its shimmering reflection dancing across the black glass. It’s nice. “Agreed, but please pay attention.” You missed another round thing, though: a huge silvery dome, a covered platter flanked by four glasses. Food. Drink.

 

You know your’re high, mentally compromised, but for a split second you’re pretty sure you’re also losing your mind… because now you’re on Sullust. You’re in a cozy den, rock walls covered by rainbows of lovingly hand-woven tapestries in stark contrast to the bleak volcanic landscape far above. From somewhere beyond drifts a colorful tune played on pipes and drums, completing an ambiance for budding romance. There’s even an arm around your waist bracing you back into a sitting posture.

 

Tarkin. He’s sitting beside you to your right, nudging closer as he reaches for that dome. He pulls it up, and you can smell the brilliant aromas of Hanrim’s homeworld. The viper elucidates, “We have many chefs for many tastes. When you told me of Miss Vhot, I thought perhaps it would be a fitting tribute to commemorate her with such a meal.” Tarkin’s thumb strokes your hip, but that’s fine. It’s fine. He continues, “Such festive mourning customs they have, the Sullustans. Celebratory, almost, not like those of Alderaan. You display your grief quietly, don’t you? Your braid, for example.”

 

How long has he been watching you? Studying you? Not just in the interrogation room, or the showers, or the cell with some infrared scanner. How many years has he been planning to have you alone and beholden to him? Is that why Daddy told you to stay away from Tarkin when he was actually invited to the palace as a necessity of state? You were thirteen the first time, rebellious, but only in the way of any other early adolescent. Was Daddy afraid that Tarkin would mold your young mind? Or… No. No way. Of all the things wrong with the viper, let that not be one of them. Never mind the things he’s said, or the lack of clemency he shows to anyone in the way of his or Palpatine’s power, even the infirmed, even the children.

 

At this point, Tarkin must be anticipating a stim-boosted outburst. You could harangue him for making improper advances toward you. Or, if you wanted to really return the shock, you could ask if one of his closed-off rooms is for the harem of the juveniles whose lives he’s ruined, or if he just had them mowed down like their massacred kin. You could tell him you’ve hated him ever since you learned about the things he has done, that you’d rather die than share his bed. You could tell him he can do anything he likes once you’re stiff and cold. you could, but you must not. Nope. You sit straight as a bolt, scoot from Tarkin’s grasp, and criticize him as gently as you can manage. “You propagate a noticeably human-first ideology. I’m astonished you’re so well acquainted with the customs of beings so displaced from your patently homogeneous milieu.”

 

Without a millisecond lost, Tarkin delivers a response he’s probably rehearsed. “It is my duty and privilege to parley with the prominent civilizations within my governance. Besides, like Alderaan, Sullust is loyal to the Empire. I visit when I can. Somewhat claustrophobic, their cities, but so unique. Now,” Tarkin drones as he reasserts his hold on your waist, “what astonishes me is that you’d rather bicker than enjoy this meal.”

 

“I’m sorry.” You’re not sorry, but neither was he. He meant to starve you. Tarkin doesn’t make mistakes like that. Nonetheless, those words have power. Your need to eat injects a gravitas into your apology that must sound sincere.

 

“You are pardoned, Leia. Stimulants can have a boisterous effect on one’s aspect. Now let’s take a look at what we have here.”

 

What we have here is a massive disk of spongy flatbread that’s crisped at the edges and topped with a fried patty, a small roasted bird, and three heaping dollops of thick stew separated by scroll-like rolls of the same bread, the only utensils required for an old-fashioned Sullustan meal. There is enough to feed four people, but you could demolish this entire platter on your own. You can barely stand to look at it.

 

“What would you like to try first?” asks Tarkin, browsing the selection.

 

The richest one, glossy with sliced black mushrooms and succulent, greasy chunks of meat — rabbit, or maybe bat — stewed with heavy spices and cream. You reach for it.

 

“No. Allow me.”

 

He wouldn’t further appropriate this culture, feeding you like only the closest of friends, doting parents, or spouses might do. He wouldn’t, but he does. With his right hand, Tarkin tears a piece of the fluted flatbread and scoops up a liberal amount of stew. He brings it to your lips with immense care. You… Stars, you have to eat, so you open your mouth for Tarkin to tilt the food inside. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. It’s paradise, a world of piquant glory. You chew as soon as Tarkin’s thumb and forefinger withdraw, wanting more before you’ve even swallowed.

 

“How is it?”

 

You don’t speak, you can’t. You can barely hear over the volume of the onions and peppers, but you’re faintly aware that you’re making weird sounds — gross, hungry, elated sounds.

 

Tarkin chuckles. You can feel it vibrate through him. A real chuckle as he offers you another mouthful before trying the dish himself. “Superb,” he agrees. “What next? I’ll admit I don’t know the names… the patty? Or beer? Do you drink beer, Leia? Or perhaps that’s not ideal at the moment. More water?”

 

You nod, glad that you can’t readily make eye contact at this angle. Eye. The glass. He’s letting you take it yourself. Shatter it on the table and stab him through the eye with it. Slash his throat for good measure, make the memory of Kier weep at your violence, but the glass is not glass; it’s some kind of plastic. It’s heavy, but not heavy enough.

 

Tarkin supports the bottom of the useless cup, as your hand begins to shake. You could swear he knew what you were thinking. Of course he did. This may not be you at your best, but it is you at your most desperate. You should be better than this. You should have found a way out. At least the droids must have escaped, you probably wouldn’t be alive if they didn’t. There’d be no point in wasting time with you if the plans had been recovered

 

“Too much at once could overwhelm your system. Take it easy.”

 

That word again. Easy. Anger flares, but it’s extinguished when the cold water hits your throat. It tastes pure, unadulterated, unfortified. It’s plain, simple water with a big chunk of ice that clatters around the rim and tantalizes your lips. Most of the drink is gone before Tarkin urges you to yield and place the cup back on the table. Fine. The patty then. Oh, just ask him for it. “Some of the patty, Wilhuff.” You know its name, but hearing it butchered by Tarkin’s inflexible accent is not something you’re ready to deal with.

 

The patty is the size of your palm and about two centimeters thick, large enough that you don’t have to suck Tarkin’s fingers to obtain your much-needed sustenance. For one welcome moment, you don’t need to ponder how only he could make what should be a tender gesture absolutely vulgar. This isn’t for Hanrim, or for you. This is Tarkin’s field, and he’s in the lead, heading for a decisive victory… but wasn’t there something you meant to say to him? 

 

Yes, you remember to finish extolling your parents, to laud them so extensively that there is no way they could have anything to do with what you are suspected of. The words are right there on your tongue as you crunch into the coppery shell of salted and crumbled peanuts surrounding a sweet, starchy medley of mashed potatoes and yams. There are no polite words to describe how good it is. It’s not even starving good — it’s truly, universally, amazing.

 

Tarkin takes the final bite, savoring the contrasting textures and earthy flavors. He licks his fingers, a sign of admiration for the non-present cooks, and not a crass lack of manners. Oh, not Grand Moff Tarkin, never Tarkin. The cosmos would implode before the day came in which he, no matter how sinister, masqueraded as anything but perfectly courtly.

 

You ignore the slight, nearly missing and opportunity when he won’t interject — while his mouth is full. Now! Do it now while he sips and savors the fragrant beer giving off notes of tangy meiloorun fruit. “Meiloorun, TooVee. It’s meiloorun, a tropical import.”  Without hurling, you dispense the words that have been brewing inside of you. “Your hospitality is appreciated, Wilhuff, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Good, a compliment and a challenge. He can’t help but reply, and anyway, a meal is nothing without conversation.

 

Tarkin releases you to to peer down into your eyes. “How so?”

 

“My parents are good people. Things have been difficult between them these last few years, and the recent transition must be especially turbulent, but even at the worst of times, they have always been there for me despite their own troubles.” That’s a lie, of course. There’s nothing that your parents can’t at least settle behind the closed doors of their bedroom — a tidbit gleaned during the last day of your childhood hobby of pretending to be some kind of shadow warrior. Tarkin doesn’t know any of that. It looks like he’s ready with another scathing retort in an attempt to rat them out.

 

“Surely good people would be more concerned about their only child missing during, as you said, this transition.”

 

“They taught me to take care of myself, and they’re always with me, in a way. The day my father gave me this dress was one of the best of my life.” That was when you were elected a Senator of Alderaan, a role Daddy abdicated after decades in favor of you. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “The belt was my mother’s. She wore it when she was my age, as did her own mother, and her grandaunt. So again, I thank you for returning them to me.” There’s one more part to this, but you have to save it until the very end after you have more to eat, to drink.

 

“That’s very sweet, Leia,” Tarkin sighs, clearly denying himself a laugh, “and no matter; it was little more than a steam and press. However, your parents…”

 

Oh, here comes more shade cast on the Organas… but that’s not all it is. It’s also half a confession. Daddy was right to keep you away from Tarkin, just like he was right to tell you not to take this mission. He was still so proud, but now look what’s happened. Did his droids even succeed? Why aren’t you and this station dust by now?

 

“...they certainly know how to make an impression when they’re in the mood, but I was always concerned for you. I came to visit some time ago, you see, when you had freshly flowered. I recall there was quite the ornate droid minding you to the best of its insufficient ability. I thought of bypassing it to approach you privately, but an audience didn’t seem appropriate. Now I know I should have made my introduction then. I should have guided you far away from this disaster while you were only a rowdy fledgling.”

 

Tarkin tugs you back toward him just before his snide visage umbridles the full extent of your rage. Saying this has changed him. There’s something in the body tight against yours that feels sheepish, like he didn’t mean to admit any of the truth you already deduced. “Speaking of which, let us try the roast fowl. My apologies,” he confides, “I’m not sure what it is either, but it does look extraordinary.”

 

Before you can think clearly, you’re a tiny speck spiraling back into that alternate world. On your way there, you’re visited by visions of what you’re actually supposed to be doing. Birds are full of bones. Take the— Ooooooh take the succulent, melt-in-your-mouth bird meat and extract the hollow, needle-like bones with your tongue and store them underneath it. Use them when Tarkin returns the binders to your wrists, snap them open with nature’s lockpicks, and clobber him into the frozen, everlasting void that awaits his crooked soul. But do that later. This garlic alone could transport you abroad to untold fairylands where you’d have time to improve your culinary talents beyond basic survival needs, yet still live and die without achieving a quarter of the necessary skills to recreate this feast. You shamelessly also honor the chefs via Tarkin’s fingers, incapable of refusing even a molecule of this decadence.

 

Oh, light, the skin of the bird has been rubbed with a concoction of spices fit only for the gods. You have the mildest sensation of babbling, “More, more,” to Tarkin so that you may extend your dance with a medley of herbs so disparate that they seem to have no business being together, but they do, and they burst like fireworks against your taste buds as your mind flails itself into a romping jig.

 

Bones. Sharp, slender, but there are none. They are jelly, even the legs and ribs — they’re all savory jelly. The bird was brined, then steamed, you’d guess, then fiercely broiled. It’s not that you don’t know how to cook, it’s that you can’t, and the situations in which you’ve truly needed to are distinctly lacking. Just like that, your latest failed ploy vanishes down your gullet and Tarkin’s, too — the small bit you spared for your “gracious host.”

 

“Please, more.” You say it this time without a doubt, and Tarkin complies, using another flute to serve you the greens while the music mellows into what can only be described as a heartfelt ballad.

 

“We might have been wrong,” self-chides the Coalition. “We’re sorry, there’s a moderate possibility that he drugged you after all, but that changes nothing. You’re doing okay, Leia. You haven’t missed anything. You’re doing everything you can. He’s going to ask the questions when there’s nothing left to eat. This time you’re going to have a new answer, a new truth, a new distraction. He will respond in turn. It won’t be good, Leia. We’re sorry, but you’ll let that indignity pass.”

 

These greens. These greens! Even the Coalition said as much… just enjoy them, and how can you not? The ferns, oh, the way they curl into emerald pinwheels against the deeper hues of chopped pungent leaves mingled with the browned, buttery onions common to these stews. Ah, how the bright red cubes of tangy ripe topatoes ooze that vinegary perfection into each bite. “It’s sooo good!”

 

“I considered Alderaanian cuisine, but this is something grand, isn’t it? I’ll be sure to send our compliments to the kitchen.”

 

This is getting pathetic. You’re above this, beyond this, but… no you aren’t. You need every drop of energy you can get. Who knows how long you’re going to be on the Death Star? Who knows if Tarkin will see fit to insult you with such a hearty meal again?

 

“The bread.” You mean the lining that’s been soaking up these impossible flavors. There’s one more dish, a second mushroom stew mixed with beans, but you can’t bear to see it go. You have to stretch this experience as far as you can, and thankfully Tarkin’s getting too much out of this to refuse you your stained, greasy, soggy treat. It’s so much better than its descriptors, if only because Galactic Basic Standard is incapable of doing it justice.

 

You’re glad that Tarkin doesn’t bother asking how your petite figure can handle all of this food. It means you don’t have to waste your breath asking how his can, and being shamed for how you’ve eaten twice as much as he has, at the very least. He seems satisfied with morsels and swigs of beer… which means he hasn’t even touched his water. Yours is gone now, so you ask for his. “May I have that?”

 

Tarkin’s hand reminds you of its presence with a squeeze meaning, “Yes, Leia,” and he lets you take the second cup. You hold it in your hands, hoping the ice will melt faster so there will be just that little bit more to drink. Tarkin notices your method and rebuffs the attempt, “There’s truly no need for that; I will see to it that you’re correctly nourished for the remainder of your stay with us.”

 

Is this a hotel now? Is Tarkin its concierge? Does he have servitors making up your stateroom aboard the dignitaries’ deck? Will there be a fully stocked kitchenette and a decanter of purified well water infused with rose petals and peaches? “The accommodations have been rather lacking so far,” you reprove. “It will be nice to see an uptick in service around here.”

 

Tarkin sighs again. That’s it. No chilling words, no sly remark — except, there is one; he feeds himself the first bite of the remaining stew. And the second. And the third. He wants you to watch him carry those scoops up so close, then so far away. It means his patience is nearly complete. It also means you have a moment to wonder why Tarkin didn’t drink his water. Is there more of his drug in this cup? Something to make you more suggestible? Something he’s built a tolerance to? Is it in the food?

 

Oh, well. Without further hesitation, you finish the water before Tarkin offers you the last portion of dinner. Together you’ve eaten so quickly that it’s still warm. The consistency of the beans, both whole and mashed with mild, marinated mushrooms, sublimely denies the law of diminishing returns. The finale is just as glorious as the premier, and then it’s gone. It’s just you and your satiated belly and Tarkin wiping his hand clean with a black linen napkin.

 

At this point, you note that Tarkin has triumphed in not spilling a thing on either you or himself, a skill your aunts would applaud him for. Your aunts? Do they know what’s happening? Is there open war, or are they still preparing for the equinox? Will you be home in time to celebrate? Will you have the heart to?

 

 

“How was it? How are you feeling?”

 

You try not to startle despite feeling like you’ve been gone for hours even though you’re still at the booth leaning prominently against Tarkin’s shoulder. You sit up to the limited degree his hold around you permits. The holographic display has vanished, the dining room having returned to a stark, shuttle-like affair. Was that even real? Recovering a bit of your pride you exaggerate, “I was teleported to Sullust and lost myself in her caverns. The meal was delicious, thank you, although we ate it far too quickly and quietly to do it justice.” Oh. This is it. This is after dinner.

 

“An excusable affront, given your situation, I’m sure. Now, Leia,” Tarkin repeats with an amiable tone that is surely meant to catch you off guard, “is there anything you would like to tell me?”

 

The false friendliness of an open-ended question. That works, you do have something to tell him. “I was raised to take care of myself, like I said, and part of that is knowing when to accept the aid of friends. You said once we could have been partners. We still can be, Wilhuff. You have the power to make this right. Apologize for your error. Set my crew free. I will speak on your behalf if you do. I will call for leniency once the Senate has been restored.”

 

“The Senate will not be restored, and I cannot free your crew.”

 

Your statement was meant to hit hard, and he just cast it aside? What does that even mean? You push yourself away from Tarkin, far enough to look up into his glacier blues. “Of course you can!”

 

“No,” Tarkin avows. “Emperor Palpatine is already correcting the damage done by you squabbling dissidents.” He takes your upper arms in both of his hands, his eyes congealing your bones like the bird’s with their intensity. “I hoped we could be done with the unpleasantries.” Stroking you with his thumbs, he continues, “Where are the plans, Leia? Where is your base? Tell me everything you know, otherwise the interrogators will soon be focusing their full attention on you. I’ve done what I can to stall that eventuality, but I’m afraid your crew was unable to endure their rigorous procedures. It’s only you now.”

 

“There were fifty civilians aboard the Tantive IV… Forty-nine. They… Hanrim… You’re lying!”

 

“I’m not, well, actually, there is one survivor. Would you like me to release him?”

 

Two dozen faces of your male crewmates flash through your mind. You try your best to set them aside, unwilling to play a game of favorites. “One?” If this is true, at least the rest won’t suffer any longer. Remain calm. You know loss, and you can handle it. You know this is not your fault. It’s theirs, the Empire’s. Only theirs. A second mantra manifests: “It’s not your fault,” and there is also no time to pity yourself. There is another one of you left, and you will fight for him as long as he has a chance, but given what Tarkin said, you might be negotiating for half a corpse barely clinging to life. “The survivor, is he unharmed?”

 

“Yes, Leia. He is under strict medical care.”

 

“Who is he? What’s wrong with him?” You try not to sniffle. “What did you do to him?”

 

Cool as the ice slowly melting in your untouched beer, Tarkin states, “His name is Peryn. We saved him.”

 

You balk, “There was no ‘Peryn’ on the Tantive. If you think you can—”

 

“Yes, in a way there was,” the viper reports as if reading a news article. “That is what she called him, the Naboo, before she succumbed. It’s such a shame she was involved in this fiasco. It is surprising, too, that one so inclined toward charity as yourself would place that woman and her child in such undue stress.”

 

The baby. A little boy. Peryn Sangh: the last of your crew, the reason the delegate chose to work with you. Something snaps. Your body takes control, speaking for you, leaving your mind a mere passenger. It growls, “Let him go, Tarkin.”

 

“Why? Like mother, like son. He’s a traitor.”

 

“He’s an infant! What could he possibly do?”

 

“An admittedly astonishing amount in a decade or so, if you’re any precedent.”

 

“You have to free him. You have to.”

 

Tarkin capitulates, but only if by him you meant his pink, flaccid tube of a penis. One moment it’s simply there, the Imperial tunic flapped up, and the matching trousers unbuttoned with the appendage peeking through. You’re vaguely aware that your body is crying. That can’t be; a princess doesn’t cry in front of others. A princess is barely allowed to emote at all. A princess captures her feelings in a journal hidden beneath her pillow. This isn’t supposed to happen.

 

“I’m not going to penetrate you, not unless you beg for it. Just your hand, Leia. Release, for release. Do you understand me? Do you know what to do?”

 

Beg him? What? Your head shakes. ”I can’t.”

 

“Have the beer,” Tarkin suggests, “if it will help.”

 

You swallow the entire cup, barely tasting the contents until they’re gone, leaving behind a clinking ice cube and a faint memory of birthday cake. The beer doesn’t help.

 

“Here,” Tarkin reassures, using his free hand to guide yours. “Squeeze,” he instructs, “and pull.”

 

This isn’t right. None of this is right. This is assault, preceded by the threat of torture, and followed by one undeniably of rape. Peryn might not even exist. If you asked to see him, Tarkin could muster up a baby with nearly any blend of features, and you’d be none the wiser. You met the delegate’s husband once and found him kind, but you can’t recall what he looks like. Your mind is too full of the names and faces of your fallen soldiers slain by the boogeyman, by Darth Vader. You’ll write to all of their families. You’ll tell them how brave they were.

 

You can be brave too. You have to be. It’s just your hand, and no, you don’t know how to do this; you never got that far with Kier. You’ve never really even seen male nudity up close, only in diagrams and in destitution during one of your relief missions. Just squeeze, Tarkin said, and pull, so you close your eyes and put your hand on it.

 

It’s alive, like a hairless creature with its own heartbeat. Then it twitches, and you flinch, but Tarkin won’t let you stop. “Tighten your grip,” he whispers into your ear. “Focus on the tip for now.” Your hand tightens. “Slide the skin up and down, and keep pulling. Like that. Yes.”

 

“Is he real?” your voice quavers. “Was he delivered by Ashwala?”

 

“Who?”

 

“The delegate’s midwife.”

 

Tarkin groans in pleasure, or exasperation, or both. “A midwife? In this day and age?”

 

“Ashwala Bellikés. She was here. She was sent to an officer. He-he hurt her.” Did Graycoat say his name. You can’t recall it if she did; your mind is still too full, still too clouded.

 

“The child was delivered properly, Leia, not by such antiquated means. The ‘midwife’ perished with the rest. Now, now, hush. Hush, Leia, and faster.”

 

She’s dead. That means she’s not in pain, but she would have overcome it. She would have healed in time. Her life was not an easy one. This should not have been the end of her, the end of any of them. This shouldn’t be happening. The plans. Haven’t they reached Ben by now? Will he know you’re here? Will he sense your presence with his Jedi intuition? Will he save you again like he did so long ago? Maybe you can’t do this on your own. “Peryn, is he real?”

 

“Faster. Twist your hand. All the way up and down.”

 

“Is he real?”

 

“Yes, Leia! He’s real.” Tarkin raises his voice uncharacteristically and throws his head back into the cushy seat of the booth. “He’s a cute little tyke. The nurses are all fond of him, and are very pleased with his progress. He’s growing strong.”

 

So is Tarkin. The limp slug is as firm as a rod. You know this is supposed to happen, but it doesn’t make it any less weird. Would you have touched Kier like this? Maybe in a few years, for a princess doesn’t participate in such simple gratuities before doing her duty. You would have courted openly for years, and then married first with the unanimous approval not only of your families, but your overjoyed planet. Even then, you would have begun your union in a traditional fashion, on your back with Kier perched between your legs and kissing you passionately. None of that would have happened, however, because Kier wasn’t right for you. His ideology was conflicted. He always would have become a liability, but he was such a treasure. He was so good to you.

 

“You’re good, Leia. You’ve had practice. A tryst with Domadi, I suppose. There is no need to play coy. I always knew you were a minx,” Tarkin reveals through heavy breaths, “I saw it in you at the palace, that you were already more of a woman than your mother. Now focus. I’m close.”

 

The thought of defending your chastity fizzles away into nothingness. There’s no point. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it means he’s taking less from you, even though it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like… well, it feels like a ridiculous mockery of love. It feels slimy. Something is trickling out of the end. Genetic material, basic biology. You didn’t know it was supposed to smell. It’s like an unclean cleaning solution, ruining the remaining aromas of spices and tropical fruit. This means Tarkin is done.

 

You try to withdraw your soiled hand to wipe it on your own unused napkin to the side of the empty dinner platter, but Tarkin just groans, “Faster.”

 

It’s supposed to be over. Why isn’t it over? “Tarkin—”

 

“It’s Wilhuff here. I told you. I… mhhmm. I won’t tell you again.”

 

“Wilhuff—”

 

“Faster, don’t stop.” His hand moves upwards from your waist to just underneath your left breast. He keeps it there as it heaves with the rest of you.

 

You shouldn’t be doing this. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, but there’s a chance. There’s a chance for Peryn, a fragile newborn, born a month early and almost certainly by force or distress. Just a little longer and Tarkin will send him to that kind, nameless father.

 

Somewhere beyond space and time, your brain maintains awareness that your body is here masturbating Tarkin. You’re not even sure if that word is correct — isn’t it reserved for self-gratification? There are other phrases, infinite colloquialisms. You don’t care for such things, but it doesn’t mean you haven’t heard of them. It doesn’t matter. You don’t want to think about it. Of course you don’t.

 

Despite all of the things you’ve seen across the galaxy, your personal matters have always been the most difficult to discuss. Tarkin volunteering himself to serve as your confidant has only been a reminder of how few people you can open up with. It’s really only been the four: Mom, Daddy, TooVee, and Lola, a toy droid with a personality more developed than that of a certain cousin you’re glad you’re not actually related to. How can you tell your loved ones what’s happened here? If it’s only you and Peryn, why does anyone need to know? The offenders will all be dead soon. They have to be. This has to have been worth it.

 

Harder, tighter, faster. You put anger into your grip. Distancing yourself from reality is pointless. Pretending you don’t know the word “handjob” doesn’t mean that you aren’t giving one. Trying to fade out doesn’t make this better, it just reduces your likelihood of noticing prudent cues, clues that might help you later. It’s just a handjob. You can let this pass.

 

“Nghaa!” Tarkin burbles, squeezing your breast hard enough that you join him in a brief duet of, “Ooh!”

 

There’s more this time. Calm down. You don’t have to look at the spew defiling your hand, because it’s just goo — water, plasma, mucus, and DNA. Strange though… It feels like an hour has elapsed, but it’s barely been a few minutes. Isn’t it meant to take longer than this? Are you actually good somehow, or is this speedy reaction just the apotheosis of a sick man’s sick dreams?

 

What now? What do you do with yourself. Your hand. You’re permitted to withdraw it, to wipe it superficially clean with your napkin while Tarkin shudders beside you. Too late you realize you’ve also used it to dab at your face, which only causes you to repeat the process as another bout of tears splash free.

 

Tarkin does not seem to notice. He lets go of you to stuff himself back into his uniform, and stands. “Excuse me,” he requests, and then he’s gone.

 

You’re alone, but there’s still nothing in here. The platter and cups are too lightweight to use against Tarkin, and there isn’t anything else that you can possibly wield to any effect. The door to the parlor has sealed behind the creep. All you can do is wait, but it doesn’t take long, the washing of hands, the straightening of face and attire as if none of this just happened.

 

Reentering the dining room, Tarkin greets you, “Leia.”

 

He’s won. You can’t even look at him. “I did what you asked.”

 

“Yes. Thank you, my dear.”

 

“The child, Ta-Wilhuff. Wilhuff.” It's a sorry-sounding demand.

 

“Certainly. I will do as I said. Upon further consideration, the boy himself is innocent of his mother’s misdeeds. I’ll write the letters myself to pair him with more worthy parentage. He’ll be part of a upstanding family as soon as he’s fully stable.

 

No. No! This isn’t what he promised. Wasn’t there a promise? An agreement? Oh, no. Stop crying. You’ve already given him too much, let him take too much. “He already has a family!”

 

“I thought you’d be more amenable to the notion of adoption, Leia.”

 

“Please send him home. Please, Wilhuff. Promise me, send him to his father on Naboo, healthy and safe.”

 

“And why should I do that?”

 

“He’ll die with the rest of the station if you don’t say it. That will hurt you worse than anything Tarkin could do directly, but it’s your choice.” No it’s not: there is no choice. Battling your revulsion, you earnestly reply, “I’m begging you, Tarkin, but you have to promise me.”

 

Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin lights up, smirking openly. No, this was the point of all of it, the culmination of his wheedling. “You may have noticed that I’m not a young man, Leia. You ask much of me, but yes, I promise to have Peryn sent safely to Naboo. I’ll draft the missive while we wait. Can you walk?” Tarkin offers his hand when you nod, and you take it resignedly. He pulls you up and invites you, “Come to bed, dear.”

 

Why does this feel like a march to the gallows? It’s only twenty-five steps out of the dining room, through the parlor, and beyond one of the closed doors where you’re deposited onto the corner of a large, firm mattress. This is the nicer room. This is the room with a view, a vast hexagonal portal to the stars.

 

Tarkin vanishes behind you and returns with a small dish, perhaps an ashtray or a water bowl for a small pet. He sets it beside you, and you see the contents — hair pins, but these approximations would make poor lockpicks and poorer weapons. Then he hands you a brush, plastic as well, with soft bristles.

 

“Style your hair like it was before,” Tarkin orders before seating himself and crossing his legs in a leather chair angled by his bedside table. He takes the datapad that rests there, and begins to type once you start with the brush.

 

Peryn. Do this for Peryn: the last of your crew members. You see each of them after all while you unwind the braid for Hanrim. They’d been so scared as they escaped the Profundity by re-boarding your ship, so shaken by leaving the others behind, but driven, inspired to carry on. You thought you were giving them all a chance, and so did they. You thought you’d escaped Vader’s carnage, but those thousands of souls left to Vader aboard the Rebellion’s command ship were probably the lucky ones. You wish you could brush away the thoughts like the tangles in your hair, for your mind to no longer be ferried by the course of Tarkin’s current.

 

The suppressants, at least you’re on suppressants. You live too busy of a life, and furthermore wear far too much white, to permit the unpredictable nature of menstruation. The same injection that halts your periods also prevents pregnancies, so nothing Tarkin can do will produce those heirs he so casually mentioned before he nearly electrocuted you. Not yet, at least. You’re due for another shot in… Well, you don’t know how long anymore. So much for nicer thoughts.

 

With the length of your hair largely manageable, you use the brush to part it down the middle as well as you can without a mirror, without sharp glass you could use to gut your violator. You twist one of the resulting halves of your hair, tugging it straight and even before twisting it loosely to give the style more body. Then you coil, pin, coil, pin, and pin again until the bun is complete and secure. It’s a simple style, not exactly traditional, but you won’t be obligated to maintain elaborately plaited braids until you wear the crown.

 

Tap, tap, tap. What words are that snake composing? Why did you agree to this? What if the baby isn’t sent home in time? What if Tarkin does not keep his word? The only logical reason you believe Peryn is alive is because the Empire values any human child it can use for its own purposes. They might have cut his mother apart, but they spared her boy. They had to.

 

The second bun is complete, all of the flimsy pins expended, far more than you’d need if they’d been metallic. Tarkin looks up from his work. “You’re so beautiful.”

 

You stare down at the carpet, at its fine weave, and you grit your teeth. He’s still looking at you. 

 

“It’s ready. The draft to the Consulate,” Tarkin elaborates. “Would you like me to see?”

 

Shivering from the proximity of this monster and his intentions, you reply, “Yes.” The stimulants are wearing off. You feel like plywood.

 

Tarkin flashes the pad at you for a brief inspection before he presents its contents like a newsreader. “It was with a heavy heart that I reported the destruction of the Alderaanian cruiser, Tantive IV, yet, through the sorrow, I may now convey a bright spark of joy. An escape pod was recently recovered containing Delegate B. Sangh of the Naboo Royal Embassy. It appears the crew redirected its remaining power to ensure her protection. Their efforts succeeded, allowing her to survive to deliver a boy whom she named Peryn before succumbing to her wounds and the trials of an early labor. The infant is receiving the utmost medical attention and will be transported to the care of his father along with a donation from the Emperor’s treasury to support the unexpected costs of providing for this delicate new life and the burial rights for the ashes of the deceased.” Tarkin clears his throat. “Will that suffice?”

 

“Yes.” What more is there to say?

 

“Good,” Tarkin declares, standing. “Come here.”

 

You do, focusing on the distant stars shimmering brilliantly in their pastel colors.

 

“Undress me.”

 

“What?”

 

“Undress me, Leia. Unfasten my tunic, and look at me.”

 

Reaching up, you start at the collar before meeting Tarkin’s eyes. The cold freezes you. The snap beside Tarkin’s code cylinders, that you barely manage, but your hands tremble too violently to finish the job. “Please,” you panic, “I don’t feel well. Please just-just…”

 

“He will discard the draft if you ask him to stop this, then he’ll send you to the white room. You don’t need us, Leia. You already know these things.” You gasp, “Can you help me, Wilhuff? I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s normal to be nervous,” Tarkin lectures, feeling your forehead with the back of his hand. “Your fever has cooled. You’re tired, is all. Troubled sleep perhaps? You may leave when we’re done. I won’t keep you from your rest; it seems you’ll be needing it.”

 

Unable to support yourself, you inadvertently return to the corner of the bed, gripping its mauve silk coverings. They’re striking, contrasting artistically with the creamy carpet, muted blue upholstery, and dark wood of the ovular headboard and matching rectangular dressers. Maybe Tarkin really does want to impress you, but he prefers your fear. Your fear excites him more than your approval. You can see it — he’s ready again. The bulge is obvious even before Tarkin sheds his tunic and drapes it over his chair.

 

“How can you speak so ferociously, yet shy from such a simple act? Don’t look away.”

 

So you watch. You see the white dress shirt with its high collar and folded cuffs linked with silver-backed ivory clasps tugged free from Tarkin’s high-waisted trousers. Unlike you, he makes quick work of the buttons and quickly adds the shirt to the growing collection. You already felt the definition of his body, but seeing it is another thing. Tarkin is over sixty years old, but he clearly maintains his fitness in between his genocides. Yet, the muscles are nothing compared to the scars covering nearly every part of him except for what is publicly visible. He looks like some kind of pit fighter, a decades-long reigning champion. Holding the surprise, you ask the question he must expect: “What happened to you?”

 

“Eriadu did.”

 

He mentioned this. Family traditions. “I’m sorry.” Are you? Was Tarkin ever just a person? A man? A boy? Was there no one to help him?

 

“Don’t be,” Tarkin says, easing out of his boots and stockings, and stepping out of his trousers. He leaves them crisply folded on the seat of the chair and nudges the footwear neatly to the side. All that remains is the tight pair of black briefs covering him from hip to mid-thigh with a protruding pouch in the center. His penis springs free when he lets them drop. There’s no hair around the testicles beneath it. He shaved it away, not like the plentiful pale wisps in the other spots all over him where his flesh wasn’t mended back into a mosaic.

 

That’s it. Tarkin is just a fit, battle-scarred old man. Face aside, he looks much like the human males from your old anatomy diagrams, just with more wrinkles. He’s strong, but he doesn’t look threatening. Without the uniform, you might even mistake him for the real person he might have been, a regular, decent one. That changes exactly nothing, because you know what he truly is: your enemy, one not so far behind the Emperor himself. You decide not to make Tarkin ask. You don’t want to hear him say the words, so you reach behind your shoulders to unhook your dress.

 

“Don’t. Keep it on. Pull it up, take your panties off, and climb onto the center of the bed when you’re ready. I don’t mind your boots.”

 

Are you ready? As much so as you’ll ever be. You gather and hug the skirt of your dress around Mom’s belt and breathe in, out, in, out as you climb on the bed to lie on your back just below the pillows. You dismiss thoughts of Kier, of your wedding night with your chambers strewn with flower petals. Looking through the viewport makes it easier to complete the invitation, the ceremonial bending of your knees and spreading of your legs.

 

“You’re beautiful, just beautiful, Leia,” Tarkin drawls, “but I would like you to relax. Turn around. Lie flat, legs together.”

 

Silently you comply, resting your head on your forearm. His way is optimal even if you can’t see the stars. He knows this, he’s… In his mind he’s affording you a scrap of the generosity that he once would have offered in abundance. To him this entire evening — clothing and dinner and medicine — is an assortment of kindnesses, not necessities traded for the pretense of your consent.

 

“Relax.”

 

You can’t. You jump when Tarkin’s hand touches you, but it only adjusts your skirt to further expose your posterior. It’s already so cold, but he either doesn’t care or takes your shivering as another sign of fear. His hand trails up your back as he steps to his nightstand and takes something from there.

 

“You don’t need to do anything, only relax. I’m going to climb over your legs and apply the lubricant,” Tarkin telegraphs, then he does it. The lubricant feels much like his semen, but it’s odorless. He squeezes your buttocks like he did your breast, and pours it into their cleft. “You’re clenching, Leia. Stop.”

 

What is that supposed to mean? “I’m not,” you tell the mattress.

 

“Would you like me to use my fingers first?”

 

Immediately you reply, “No,” because you don’t want any of this.

“Very well.”

 

“Wait!”  You try to say it, to correct yourself, but the initial sound is all you get, an elongated wail into the already dampening sheets. You grab at them and cover your mouth with your wrist, but Tarkin pulls it away, trapping it beside you in a vice-like grip, the strangling hold of a constrictor. 

 

He’s directly on top of you, pressing you down so you can barely breathe as he pushes inside. You’re aware of the intricate topography of his legs straddling yours, but you can’t feel a single thing — not even the cold — except for the pinching sting as his penis pierces farther into you. Why do people do this for fun? This isn’t fun, it’s not pleasure. It hurts. It only hurts, and he knows it, and it’s only the beginning.

 

“Relax,” comes Tarkin’s own mantra, spoken softly into your coiled hair. “Relax, dear, oh, you’re so lovely, but relax. Relax.” Slowly, he pushes as far as he can. “My beautiful girl, my Leia, you’re perfect. Let go. Let me have you. Let me have you.”

 

“Please, Wilhuff.” There’s nothing else to follow that except another, “Please. Oh, please!” It’s a call into the ether, into the cosmos. A plea for mercy knowing full well there must not be any, not unless you want to doom Peryn. It’s all for him, the last of you besides yourself. Is this for you, too? What would have happened if you had denied Tarkin? Would you not be here still, only bleeding?

 

The Coalition knows this isn’t about the Death Star plans or your base. The optics might be ridiculous, but someone like Tarkin would have limited faith that a ragtag band of troublemakers can significantly hinder the Empire’s galactic takeover. This is about humiliation and conquest, and you were wrong: he hasn’t won. All you have to do is live. You win if you live and he dies.

 

In.

 

Out.

 

Tarkin breathes into your neck, calling your name like a lover, but he maintains a semblance of reservation. You don’t. You claw at the mattress, trying to pull up, to at least stop Tarkin from pushing all the way. Your moaning is much louder than his, but you never say the forbidden word. The shower comes back to you, a thought: a way to make this end sooner. The easiest, most natural way. It’s the one that’s already had an effect on him, one you know has limited charges remaining.

 

“Wilhuff!” You cry it again and again, “Wilhuff, please!” and then you sob. It doesn’t work this time no matter how real it is, not like at the dinner table with your parents. This would have happened with or without your intention, because he’s not slow anymore. The pace is a punishment. Punishment for meddling with politics, for helping the peoples he’s subjugated, for being an Organa, for choosing the right side.

 

In.

 

Out.

 

Breathe, you have to breathe. Don’t think about the sensations. Don’t think about how experienced he seems, how he probably knows exactly what you’re feeling and how to avoid structural harm while giving you nothing at all except a painful reminder that he’s in control of you.

 

In. The barely audible imploration, the prayer, “Please, Wilhuff.”

 

Out. The mantra, “Relax yourself. Just relax. Mmm, darling. Relax.”

 

In. Your self-defense training. You can take a solid beating, and you did several times even after you could demonstrate your significant skills. There was always someone bigger and tougher. Your aunts hated this, but they agreed that you should be able to protect yourself, especially after your abduction. Your aunts. Their teachings are a perfect foil, the perfect outward distraction from who you actually are.

 

Out. A gaunt cheek nestled against your hair. “Relax.” An incoherent set of tiny sounds.

 

In. Ben. A friend. He knew you in a way maybe even Mom and Daddy never have. He knew things about the sad woman, the gorgeous woman who bore you. He knew about your other father. You wanted to know more that he couldn’t tell you, but you can trust him and his powers and his compassion. That’s why you gave him the plans… or tried to. Where are they now? Where is your friend?

 

Out. All the way out. Tarkin pours more lubricant onto you, and it splatters when he plunges.

 

In. Into your body. All the way in. “Please!”

 

Out. “Relax.”

 

In. Quiet.

 

Out. “So beautiful.”

 

In. The pain is nearly gone, leaving only exhaustion. Perhaps, though, this is relaxation, what Tarkin has been calling for. You can sense all of him: the pressure, the lavender he must have reapplied, his hand on your wrist, how he warms you with his body.

 

Out. “Tell me you like it.”

 

In. That isn’t part of the agreement. Another cry joins the drool and tears soaking the mauve silk and the padded protector beneath it before, imagining a table laden with caf and pastries, you say, “Wilhuff, I like it.”

 

Out, harder this time, faster.

 

In. A correction that it definitely still hurts. The Coalition remains in the background. She watches you like you did Hanrim. This cannot be unseen. Pretense otherwise would be compoundingly cruel. “Please, Wilhuff, I like it.”

 

Half of Tarkin’s weight vanishes, and his hand massages your bruises while his pelvis slams faster against your buttocks. There are sounds, new ones, or those formerly overshadowed by everything else. It’s slurping in reverse, a wet, uncontrollable flatulence of air and lubricant. It’s profane. This isn’t what you thought it was. This isn’t what Kier would have done at all. This isn’t how the heirs of Alderaan are made.

 

Out. Silently semen mingles with the lubricant, expelled into the crevice made by your thighs. Then Tarkin slides away as if bored, as if he’s completed some dull duty. Before slipping your underwear back up, he wipes the proof of his attack away with a corner of the mussed sheets.

 

Blasters fill your mind while Tarkin hastily dresses. There must be a blaster in here. A knife, then, something you could use as a club while he’s still distracted by the horrors Daddy tried to protect you from, but you don’t even move. You can’t show your face. You can’t be seen like this, you can’t, but you’re lifted away from the mattress and the stars. The sheets are pried from your grasp where they fall in the doorway between his bedroom and the parlor as useless as everything else, as useless as you. In another instant, the front door opens, and the two stormtroopers salute their Grand Moff.

 

“I will personally attend both of your hangings if you ‘lose’ the regiment of nutrients I prescribed. Now walk her back to her cell. Gently. And, Princess? Do rest well; Lord Vader should be arriving in only a few cycles. I am afraid you may find him less amenable than myself.”

Notes:

Yeah, I was very hungry when I decided to inject a little foodporn and maybe a literal dead dove into this work. The meal is based on the fact that spoken Sullustese is a blend of real-life African languages. Thus, the dishes, presentation, and dining customs in this chapter are a blend of my imagined subterranean civilization of Sullust combined with a medley of those from Ethiopia, Eritrea, Nigeria, Tanzania, and their neighboring countries. I imagine the planet has ultra high tech farming capabilities and a long history of importing offworld foodstuffs to make a fusion of cuisine that has become so commonplace as to seem traditional. And yes, topatoes are space tomatoes in the new canon.

Please comment and kudos if you enjoyed this chapter! If you didn't, thanks for at least reading this far. I understand this story isn’t for everyone, that is why it has a billion tags.

Chapter 5: Fire

Summary:

Darth Vader administers excruciating drugs and the compulsion of the dark side in a brutal attempt to manipulate Leia’s mind and literally Force her to betray the Rebellion and the location of the Death Star schematics.

Notes:

Many lines in this chapter have been incorporated from A New Hope, the radio drama. I highly recommend that production for any fan of this franchise, let alone this story. Revisiting Darth Vader’s conversations with Tarkin and Leia in Chapter 8: Death Star’s Transit, and especially the interrogation (torture) scene, are what made me finally decide to write this story instead of keeping it to myself.

I know you’ve already gotten this far, but I’m warning you now: that chapter of the radio drama is disturbing, largely due to the great voice acting of Leia in particular (sorry Tarkin). The drama is now part of Legends, but what are clearly the same torture methods and worse — ones that haunted Leia for the rest of her life — are pieced together over multiple canon books.

Here is a YouTube link for Death Star’s Transit, which unfortunately has no subtitles or caption options. There only seems to be one such YouTube video, but the captions are auto-generated and VERY bad during the torture with the overlap of Vader’s respiration and Leia’s screaming. I personally also find the visuals distracting, but here it is in case you’re curious.

Also, hey. It’s okay not to be all right, but you don’t have to stay like that. You don’t have to be alone if you’re struggling with abuse or violence, past or present. Invest in yourself by talking to loved ones, support groups, calming animals, volunteers, or licensed professionals. Perhaps use the Internet you’re already on to connect with these resources, because nobody should have to endure even a fraction of what Leia does or feel ostracized for surviving. Pain rarely goes away on its own. Pain is a process, one you can reason with, utilize, and begin to let go of. If this weird story is one of your outlets, then more power to you.

Anyway, this is the nightmare maze of death, pain, and temptation I imagine Leia clawed her way through for hours. If this were a less inherently karked up tale, I’d post some extra content warnings here, but that’s what the tags and the above message are for. Egh, this chapter made me feel too many things. If you’re somehow not already in love with Leia, this should fix that grievous error. Grab a tissue or a handkerchief or something, and please enjoy.

 

You feel fine. You do. Really, you do. There is no need to be angry. Anger has his uses, but he’s a selfish companion. He takes so much, yet gives so very little in the end, and besides, it’s just a bee sting. It burns, but it’s fine. You’re fine, and you have to be. Everyone on the promenade is watching you: Princess Leia, this time styled as the one they know from the HoloNet… well, except for the binders. A pitiful enemy is even more despicable, even further beneath contempt. That’s how Imps think, and you will not allow them to see you dragged back to your assigned box, so you even out your posture and will your body to look normal. To look implacable. Untouchable.

 

The entourage flanking you is contrarily rattled. Tarkin scared them, but you’re not scared, not anymore. Just a bee sting, a little bite. Your hands are no dirtier than they’ve been so far without ready access to water. They’re actually cleaner than usual. You were washed under a day ago, weren’t you? Thoroughly, yes, but that, too, has passed.

 

The murdering pervert to your left doesn’t speak a single word on the way to the detention block, and neither does her cohort. That makes the journey shorter, not having to deal with their nonsense. It also gives you more time to prepare for the other one, the big black beetle, the boogeyman, the one that ferried you here to this death machine.

 

It was Darth Vader who first asked the endless questions, and he who first mentioned the dissolution of the Senate. You thought that was more of his trickery, like how he let you think you could escape the Devastator. You would have, too, if it weren’t for him just waiting in the hangar to belittle you with his towering height and his eyeless gaze and his condescending praise of your bold attempt to run from him. Now he’s coming back. 

 

You weren’t yourself two minutes ago as you were pulled from that parlor, not really, but you remember those words: less amenable. It’s true, isn’t it? Are they rivals? Antagonists? Tarkin… Tarkin discounts the Rebellion, caring little if the data-tapes containing the Death Star plans have reached their destination. It’s only a matter of procedure for him, and pride. He’s taken his time attempting to break you down until one of your confused, shattered pieces crumbles beneath his temper and tells him of Ben and the droids, but Vader has no such patience. 

 

Vader doesn’t even have a temper to lose. From what you’ve seen, he is a storm of pure fury that pauses only to ensure his victims tremble before the deaths he deals them. You heard it crest as more and more of your guards were slaughtered just like Captain Antilles, the very man who handed you the plans. Killing him was immensely foolish; anyone in their right mind would have captured such a likely culprit before instead of a spoiled princess, but of course Vader is not in his right mind.

 

You met Palpatine after your election only for him to immediately dismiss you as a pretty face. That wasn’t unique to him, but he was disturbing in ways that froze your tongue and with it every eloquent word you might have used to validate yourself. Thinking about him makes your skin crawl even before you recall his countless atrocities, and Darth Vader, with all his power, chooses to serve that usurper. And directly, not like the rest of these fools, tricked by alternate footage of either a disfigured hero, or a charming, almost holy-looking man in lavish Nabooian robes.

 

No, stop thinking about the delegate. Stop thinking about her poor boy. Haven’t you done everything that you can? Almost. Why not use Vader’s bloodlust to complete your duty? Can you make yourself seem as dismissible as the captain did? Goad Vader into using his lightsaber or the Force? Or he could just pick you up and break your neck. Or your spine. Your skull. Any of those options would be just fine. All of them would end with the same victory for the Rebellion. Mom and Daddy will mourn you, but they will be proud of their daughter. They’ll put you on posters with words like “remember,” and, “hope.” You’ll inspire generations to come.

 

Okay, so here’s the plan. First, don’t trip getting into this lift. Second, anger Vader so much that he strikes you down. Even if you lose, the Rebellion still wins, so you don’t really lose after all. You’ve had a wonderful life, a strange one, for sure, and fraught, but wonderful nonetheless. You have had so much more than others, such rich experiences in every meaning of the phrase. If it’s time to let go, so be it, but of course you’d rather live. Your plan is a good one, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t others.

 

Rest now. For the first time, you are actually helped into your cell. Mister Right does it, ensuring you don’t somehow injure yourself at the last moment he’s responsible for your welfare. It makes you want to bang your head on something just to spite him, but that’s stupid. It’s more likely than not that this is your last night, and you don’t want to spend some of your final moments in Graycoat’s company.

 

The door shuts. Two sets of boots march away, two more march up. Besides the stormtroopers out there, it’s just you, the darkness, and your thoughts. You could remember the names of the dead again, but that won’t do much good if you’re soon to join them. It would be better to think of the woods, the smell of fresh pine as you shimmy up those natural towers to behold the manmade spires of your home built into the base of the mountains. Or you could think of those, of ascending Appenza Peak again and wishing you could speak to the Force there like the Phirmist pilgrims attested. They were always such nice people, if a little odd.

 

Appenza, that’s good. It’s why Mom decided to adopt a child. She said Daddy was the one to choose you first, but she knew you were hers as soon as she held you. She also said the fall that crushed her insides in time brought her the greatest joy she had known, for the pain — while significantly pre-dating your birth — made her feel more like a mother, more like she deserved you.

 

“I’ll be back soon, Mom. I love you, and you too, Daddy.” You curl onto the slab. “Tell Too-Vee I’ll… I’ll wear… anything she wan…”

 

 

Where are you? You are freezing — where is your snowsuit to stave of the howling blizzard? But, wait. There’s a pattern to that sound, a rhythm. It’s unnatural. Mechanical. It’s not the mountain wind. “No. It’s too soon. Take me back.” This could be imaginary. You can barely hear through the cell, just muffles at the door and air through the vent. That’s what it is, just air through the vent, cold air to make you ill at ease, to make you shiver, to make you sleepless. “Nice try. Good night.”

 

“You have to sit up.”

 

“Stately Leia?” Your eyes pop open, and you don’t know why; there’s nothing to see. “Where were you? Where were — all — of you? Any of you? You left me with him.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry, there’s no point. It’s done. It’s a sting. A little bite.

 

“There was nothing more that we could have done, Leia, but you need to sit up.”

 

“I’m so tired. How long was I asleep?”

 

“Get up. You have to. He’s coming.”

 

“No, it’s too soon. I’m not ready. I need another plan.”

 

“There isn’t time. Sit up. Now.”

 

So you do it, looking ahead at nothing. You also hear nothing. Are you going crazy? Are you having fights with yourself over nothing at all? No, you’re not. Just then the dim lights flash on and the door opens admitting two black-clad Naval Troopers.

 

This pair could almost be the photonegative of your Alderaanian guards. Their oversized chinstrap helmets look like they could resist an array of blunt traumas, yet the cloth fatigues would do nothing to stop projectiles, let alone plasma fire. The uniform makes sense for escorts and enforcers on your peaceful world, but it’s odd to see this adaptation of it here. It’s also strange how the Empire barely armors its more experienced soldiers and reserves its thick white cases for zealous, violent youths. But why are these men here with their exposed faces scowling at you? Well, you just answered it, didn’t you? Because what comes next requires hardened adults, not overgrown children. What comes next is Vader.

 

The greeting almost sounds cheerful, respectful. “𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆, 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑳𝒆𝒊𝒂,” Vader asks, stooping to enter the cramped cell, “𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔?”

 

You fold your hands in your lap. “Well, it’s a bit chilly, but I’ve had worse.”

 

Have you? If those words have any effect, you can’t tell. Vader merely steps closer, looming even taller. “𝑫𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏?”

 

You do.

 

“𝑰’𝒎 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔. 𝑶𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒆’𝒗𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare. You’ll never get away with this! You’ve all gone mad.”

 

“𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆, 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑯𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔.”

 

You also remember the other words, the necessary ones, so you declare them again for whatever good they may do. “Vader, I demand that I be released from this cell and given access to formal legal proceedings.”

 

Vader’s voice rises. “𝑺𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔.” You’ve already angered him. His respirator is working double-time, but no, that’s another sound — there’s something else, something drawing nearer, growing louder. Vader turns toward the door as the warbling intensifies.

 

You turn, too, and then you see it: an unholy union of surgical tools and a probe droid in miniature. It’s a torture robot. The troopers don’t seem to notice as it approaches, they stand there to either side of the door unchanged, unremarking as you surmise what this device is, as you see the needle. Poison? A lethal injection? Truth serum? “This violates every rule of law—”

 

“𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒘 𝒏𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖!”

 

“—in every galac—”

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒚. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑯𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒆.”

 

“Vader,” you warn to no effect, “keep that thing away from me!”

 

“𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒅. 𝑵𝒐𝒘, 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔?”

 

There’s a pull, a tug at your resolve, the desire to go home, or at least die painlessly. He’s doing that, isn’t he? You felt it long before from one of his own red-bladed minions. It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now. There is no time for the full speech, just, “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Vader places his hands on his hips. “𝑺𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒕,” he resolves.

 

And the troopers are on you, holding your arms and your legs, but you fight as the droid continues its advance. You try to turn, to kick. “Let go!” You don’t know how many times you repeat it, trying to sound regal and commanding, but the men are too strong, too hard to care.

 

Over his respirator Vader summarizes, “𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒆.”

 

Your arm erupts with a hiss. You try to pull away, but you can’t as the needle stabs deeper and deeper into your muscle tissue. You grasp for the Leias. They tell you, “Vague truths at most if you cannot hold back. Remember it’s not real. Remember your training.” And then you’re already slipping, slumping against the wall and your attackers as your veins take up the drug, pulsing a liquid agony throughout your body that puts Tarkin’s shock to shame. This isn’t the plan. This isn’t supposed to happen. “You can’t,” you moan, but of course they can. 

 

They can? What can they do? “What’s happening? Where—”

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑯𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒚 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆?”

 

“No… No, I…”

 

“𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑳𝒆𝒊𝒂 𝑶𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒂, 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆. 𝑷𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆.”

 

“Your-your voice?”

 

The voice is slow. Soothing. “𝒀𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒕. 𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒕. 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅. 𝒀𝒆𝒔. 𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒇𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒆.”

 

 

“Leia, there you are!”

 

You spin. They get younger every day, these pilots. This one can’t be much older than you, but he’s already putting his life on the line for the cause. It’s people like him who drive you to do more.

 

“They sent me for the plans,” he explains. “Hurry, Leia. They’re all waiting.”

 

Tilting your head, you ask, “The plans?”

 

“Yes. Where are they? The council needs them.”

 

You squint at the pilot in his orange flight suit. His dark blond hair is shoulder-length and windswept. His steel-blue eyes are piercing and passionate. Shouldn’t you help him? He does look familiar, but you’ve never met him, or have you? “No. No, I don’t know you.” 

 

“Of course you do; we’re friends Leia. I’m a Rebel, like you. Please hurry, we’re running out of time.”

 

“Out of time?”

 

The pilot holds out his hand. “We’re under attack. Hurry, give me the tapes.”

 

“I don’t have any tapes. I’m sorry.” You try to look closer at the man, but you can’t make out the rest of his features in the bright light. “Who are you?” You have to raise your voice over the increasing calamity behind you.

 

Orders are shouted, mechanics clamor to patch up and fuel starfighters, and then there are the medics. They rush toward you pushing a repulsor gurney. You turn from the stranger to make way — but oh, no! No, no, no. The white chinstrap helmet. The blanket soaked in blood. You see the mangled face as the medics rush ahead: Captain Antilles, your companion and protector.

 

You run to catch up to the medical team. Your retainer is alive, but just barely. One of his hands falls from the side of the conveyance, and you hold it tight as you build to a jog. “Captain, what happened?”

 

“Imps,” he croaks. “My family. Say goodbye for me.”

 

It feels like you were just at his wedding, just shopping for gifts for his beautiful little girls. They’re still so small, but it’s too late for their father even if a bacta tank is free. This isn’t fair.

 

“Finish my mission.” Captain Antilles squeezes back weakly, then he coughs, ejecting red ooze onto your white dress. “Princess, you have to stop the Death Star. What happened to the plans?”

 

“I don’t know. They were… there were two… I don’t know what happened.”

 

“No, Princess, they’re killing us. Please, you have to help us, you promised… This is all your fault,” he accuses, and then slips away.

 

You fall to the ground, but the pilot is there to catch you. He’s your friend. You know him, he’s one of you. “Leia, it’s all right,” claims the young man. “You’re in shock. Can you tell me where you are?”

 

You look around, but everything is too bright. This place is wrong. There’s nothing here. The captain is gone, and the medics, too. There are just shapes and colors. It’s just shock. You’ve had an accident.

 

“Maybe something easier,” offers the pilot. “Who are our commanders?”

 

“Easier? I’m… I’m… I couldn’t say. Thank you, I can stand on my own.”

 

The pilot does not let go. “We need the plans.” He pulls your arm. “We need the plans, or we’re all going to die, Leia. We’re counting on you!”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Help us. We need this. I’m your friend, Leia.”

 

But you have so few friends. You’d remember this one, someone your age, and a boy, no less. Mom and Daddy would have noticed if another boy had made that much of an impression on you. They would have dished out their warnings along with snarky congratulations by now. This is wrong. He’s wrong. “I can’t. Let go.”

 

“Leia, just relax.”

 

You bristle. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

 

“Then give me the tapes. Just give them to me. Tell me where they were sent. To whom?”

 

“No!” This isn’t real, and that wasn’t the captain. The captain would never blame you. He’s known you all of your life. He’s served Daddy well, and now he does the same for you. Antilles is a good man, a loving — if preoccupied — husband and father. And he’s dead. He’s been dead. He already said goodbye to you. He told you this cannot go on without you. He told you to run. This isn’t real.

 

“Leia, where did you send the data-tapes? Where are they? You can trust me. Help us Leia. Help me.”

 

You want to, but you can’t. It’s too late, you don’t know where they are, and this man, you don’t know him. He’s an intruder, an interloper, and he’s hurting you. “Let go of me.”

 

He doesn’t. He takes your other arm and twists it. He shakes you. “Tell me. Tell me!”

 

“I said, no! No!”

 

 

“Leia, there you are!”

 

You spin. Mom looks perfect, like a painting come to life, like she always does, like her sisters wish you would.

 

“My darling girl, we’ve been looking for you. Where did you wander off to?”

 

“M-mission.” Your tongue feels sluggish, your eyelids heavy. “Diplomatic mission.”

 

“Leia, we’ve spoken countless times about you putting yourself in all this needless danger. Where were you?”

 

There were colors and shapes there, but everything is made of colors and shapes. “Mom, I’m sorry, I don’t know, it was all a blur. There was a mission, but everything went wrong!”

 

“Oh, Leia, don’t cry.”

 

Are you crying? Oh. Something happened there, something bad. “Mom, I’m sorry, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have gone. I’m sorry, it’s my fault.”

 

“You are getting far too old for your little adventures, Leia. When will you realize how much relies on you? When will you realize that we are a peaceful people, my child? Your reckless interference with our traditions is unbecoming. And what were you even doing on that Mon Calamari ship?”

 

Hanging your head, you report, “The Tantive IV sustained critical damage. Repairs were still underway when we were attacked.” You sigh, “Mom, I’m sorry about the ship. The restitutions should come out of my account.”

 

Mom pulls you close. She feels cold. Hard. “Leia, credits alone cannot make up for this disaster. It was about the battle station, wasn’t it? It exists to keep us all safe. Tell me where the stolen plans are. They must be destroyed before the enemy can do any further harm. We can present them together, Leia, and demonstrate our loyalty to the Emperor and to our history.”

 

“But it’s a tool of war, Mom! It’s a weapon of untold destruction. Fighting to destroy such a thing is peace.”

 

“Fighting is never peace. You should know better than that. Have we taught you nothing?”

 

“But I’ve seen it! It’s obscene! It’s horrible! They will use it to kill entire populations! Any world that speaks out against tyranny will die! They will use it to root out freedom across the entire galaxy, even more than before. Mom, you have to understand—”

 

“Do you want us to be next, then? What do you think the Emperor will do when he learns about your involvement? Your father has been having enough difficulty as it is. Abdication already weakened his status, now none of his motions pass. None of his votes matter. You can change that if you just renounce this phase of yours and tell the truth. Your father will have respect again — respect he lost so you could play senator — if you help bring justice to the Rebels.”

 

“Daddy’s in trouble?”

 

“Yes, Leia. Don’t you wish to please your father?”

 

“Yes, but-but, he wouldn’t… I wouldn’t…”

 

Queen Breha tosses her head. “I’ve had enough of this. Perhaps we’ll speak again once you’ve snapped out of this nonsense. Husband,” she calls, “come here. Maybe you can talk some sense into your daughter.”

 

You look up. Way up. You always wished that miraculously you could have inherited a little of Daddy’s height along with his political inclinations, but no luck. It’s all right, though, because you’ll forever feel like a little girl in his arms. He’s so sweet to you, so generous. Burying your face into Daddy’s sash, you admit, “I’m sorry. I know you trusted me.”

 

“No more excuses. You know what you need to do. You know how to make this right.” He doesn’t sound generous at all.

 

“Daddy?”

 

“The Death Star Plans. I need them. Give them to me.”

 

Bail Prestor Organa could almost be scary when he’s unamused if you didn’t already know he is one of the fairest people you are ever likely to meet. It’s an honor that he chose you, selected you as his own, so why is he glaring as if that was all a mistake? And since when does he command you? Daddy asks you, urges you, lobbies with you. You outrank him, you were always going to upon earning the crown, but he simply respects you. At least he used to. “Daddy, I didn’t mean to—” you start anew, but then he slaps you to the floor.

 

“How dare you go behind my back? You know I’ve never supported the Imperial fist closing in on us, but Leia, your actions are a blatant attack. This is not our way. This is not what I taught you! You lost my ship, its crew, and my faith in you.”

 

Holding your cheek, you look up at the huge man’s open palm. For the first time in your life, the gesture is not one of welcome. “Daddy, no, please. I’m sorry,” you plead, but he still kicks you in the shin.

 

“We should have left you in the orphanage where you belonged with the other common whelps. Give me the Death Star plans before you ruin everything we have built, everything we stand for!”

 

Blows rain down. “No, Daddy, no! Please stop. Stop! You’re hurting me.”

 

“Then name the leaders of your Rebellion, tell me where they are based. Give me the plans!”

 

You shield your vitals. He won’t go for your face, or so you tell yourself. You are wrong. “I can’t, Daddy. Stop, please!”

 

“You’re just like your mother: a treacherous, philandering harlot hiding behind her titles. Was it some boy, Leia? Was it a boy who swayed you from everything we ever taught you? A girl? We were too lenient with you. Now I see our mistake.” 

 

“Daddy, I’m sorry.”

 

“Give me the plans, child. Only you can make this right.”

 

“I can’t!”

 

Daddy grabs your arm, pulls it, twists it. “We trusted you! We loved you! Help us, Leia. Help us!”

 

It’s not Daddy. He’s not like this. You’ve disappointed him before, and upset him, but he can never keep his smile far from you no matter how hard he tries. He doesn’t hit you, and he never, never insults Mom. Except he did. He did once, you remember. He cheated on her, and she would not stand for it. There was a fight, you think, in front of everyone, even Governor Tarkin. It broke your heart as much then as it does now, but how can that be? Daddy wouldn’t do such things, say such things. He loves Mom. He loves you.

 

A huge booted foot connects with your unguarded ribs, knocking the air out of your chest while too late you protect your skull. You wipe the blood from your nose and stare up at the haze shaped like Daddy. “Who are you?”

 

“Your last hope. Give me the plans, and let us be done with this idiocy.”

 

Mom is back. She folds her arms over her chest. “Help your father, or your status will be nullified. You will no longer be ours, no longer my heir. You can go back to whatever backwater the orphanage plucked you from.”

 

“But the Challenges! I completed them for Alderaan, for you, Mom!”

 

“You have lost the right to call me that. You will refer to me as ‘Your Majesty.’” She pulls the belt from your waist and looks at it like she’s going to hit you too, but she doesn’t — she looks morosely over the gift she once gave you. “You no longer deserve to wear this.” She turns to her consort and quietly scathes, “Bail, she gets this from you. This is as much your failing as it is hers. You handle this.”

 

“Your Majesty,” you beseech the Queen. “Your Excellency,” you implore of her viceroy. “Please understand, I’m sorry, I—”

 

“Leia,” groans the Queen, “tell us where you sent the tapes, and we can move beyond this. Everything will be as it once was.”

 

All of these years, you thought they cared. You thought you were theirs as much as any child they might have conceived. The parents you knew wouldn’t do this. Daddy rarely raises his voice, and Mom? A queen who would put anything on hold if you needed her? Who would let you fall asleep to the flashing glow of her pulmonodes like a visual lullaby because you had a bad dream? You could just tell them everything, but these are not the parents you want back. These poor copies are not your family. “No,” you maintain.

 

“Bail, take her away. Finish the lesson.”

 

He wastes no time grabbing you, slapping you about your face and pulling your hair. He winds it around his fist until it rests against your scalp, and he drags you away as you scream, “I only wanted to make you proud!”

 

You are still being pulled away when the world quakes and the sirens begin to blast. You’ve never heard that sound on Alderaan, but you know what it means: air raid. TIE fighters rattle the windows as they roar by with bombers ready to annihilate your home.

 

Mom almost returns to the person you thought you knew. “Bail, that’s enough. Leia, let’s get you on comms. You can call this off. Give them whatever they ask for, and this will all be over.” She hands you a receiver.

 

A tinny voice crackles through the connection, a broadcast on a loop. “Alderaan, your princess is a Rebel and a traitor to this great Empire. Continue to conceal her, and another city shall fall until all that—”

 

You speak into the device, “I am Princess Leia Organa.”

 

The recording stops, and the same voice speaks in real time, “Relinquish the tapes and the locations of the Rebel leaders, and you will be treated fairly in custody.”

 

The royal couple encourages you, “Tell him.”

 

“Leia, where are the plans? Where is the Rebel base? Who leads you? Surrender now, or—”

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. I will not participate in your warmongering. You will not use my voice to promote your violence.”

 

“Leia—”

 

“No! If you want me, you’re going to have to come in here and get me. You know where I am, so march in here with your stormtroopers and execute me, or take me to your slave camps. My life is a small price to pay to show the masses what you truly are.”

 

“Leia—”

 

“I am Princess Leia,” you correct, but there is more, isn’t there? Yes. “I demand that you cease this attack and prepare yourselves for formal legal proceedings.”

 

The voice blares, “Give me the plans!” before the device containing it is crushed beneath your boot.  

 

Then your parents encroach. There’s a dagger in Daddy’s hand, no, a letter opener. This is ridiculous. You tell your eyes to open. You tell them again to no avail. Ah, then this is the kind of nightmare you can only wake from when you die. So be it. You hold your arms open as if waiting for one of Daddy’s bear hugs. You don’t get one, only a hiss and the sensation of being calcified, vitrified from the inside out. And then there’s a machine, a round, floating contraption and its hulking companion.

 

“𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒆,” Vader says. “𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆.”

 

 

“Leia, there you are!”

 

You kneel to take the bawling little child in your arms. Her sister toddles toward you a moment later, pulling at your dress. How have you forgotten their names? You love them, the daughters Captain Raymus Antilles rarely sees in his dedication to the-the… No, something is wrong.

 

“Leia, you have to help, they got Papa!”

 

“Show me.” You pick up the littlest girl and let her older sister lead you down the corridor.

 

“Papa!” cry the two children as they run to the hunched figure of their father. There’s a hole burned into his chest the size and color of a plum. You can see straight through the smoking wound. It’s too late for him.

 

“Princess,” Antilles warns, coughing weakly. “He’s coming back.”

 

“Who?” 

 

“Darth Vader. Give him what he wants. I gave up everything for you; you have to do this for me. You have to protect my family. ” The captain’s eyes widen, then close. His girls wail as much for him as at the unmistakable respiration growing louder, at the corridor beginning to glow red with a pulsating hum.

 

You gather the cowering children behind your back as Vader appears, his lightsaber extended like a torch. He looks you up and down. “𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍,” he remarks. “𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕.” He holds out his left hand. “𝑮𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔.”

 

You have to shout over the crying, “I can’t!”

 

“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚? 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎? 𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆!”

 

“No!”

 

“Leia, help us!” yelp the siblings as they are tossed into the air and flung into opposing walls with the Force. Then there’s only the breathing, yours and Vader’s, and the two delicate bodies thumping to the floor one after the other as twisted as the expressions on their sweet little faces.

 

You start, “How could—”

 

Hanrim chirps, singsong, “Leia, there you are! What’s happen—” but she is likewise provided no opportunity to complete her question. Her neck is summoned into Vader’s waiting grip a meter off the floor.

 

“𝑫𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒔, 𝑳𝒆𝒊𝒂?”

 

“Let her go, she’s an envoy, she’s not part of this!”

 

Vader holds your struggling friend higher, her Sullustese too quick and throttled to make out anymore. “𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕?” asks Vader.

 

“The-the mission,” you fumble. “Diplomatic mission to Alderaan. We were studying together on the journey. Please, Lord Vader, let her go.”

 

“𝑨𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔, 𝑳𝒆𝒊𝒂, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔.”

 

Hanrim’s huge dark eyes plead with you in lieu of the words cut off by the gloved fist. All you can say is, “I’m, sorry, my friend. Thank you for what you taught me.” You try to look away, but you cannot. Hanrim’s neck snaps, you see it as much as you hear the horrible sound before she falls onto the pile, discarded like garbage with a bag of rock candies spilling from her pocket.

 

“𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒔, 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔,” Vader taunts, stalking away, “𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓.”

 

“I will never help you!”

 

“𝑾𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒆.” And then he’s gone.

 

“Leia, is that you?”

 

Gasping, you take in Ashwala stumbling toward you, bracing herself against a wall splattered with blood. You don’t ask what happened to her clothes; the marks all over her tell that story well enough. The invaders did this in between their slaughter like lawless mercenaries. You cannot undo what they did, but you try to offer the woman some comfort, first issuing a silent apology to the captain as you take his coat. “I’m here, Ashwala. Here, put this on.” She does. There’s a hole in the back, and the garment barely covers her below the waist, but it’s better than the nothing her attackers left her with. “Ashwala, I’m sorry.”

 

The trembling older woman hugs you so close that you can feel the heat of her bruises. She weeps into your bodice until it’s slick with drool and tears. “They found Bergotta and me… Leia, I think they killed the baby first. They let her bleed to death while they took turns. They said they’d stop with her if I gave them the plans to the Death Star, but I don’t know what that is. I told them they’ve made a terrible mistake, that we were on a diplomatic mission, but they didn’t stop. Leia. Leia, I’m so glad you’re safe!”

 

You stiffen. Ashwala reaches up and cups your face. “Leia? I didn’t know. I’m sorry. They found you, too.”

 

“No, no. It’s okay, Ashwala. I’m sorry.” You’re fine. It’s just a bite, just hands and lips and dirty water. What? When was that? Where is this? “Ashwala, where are we?” She is more perceptive than nearly anyone gives her credit for. Has she found the way out?

 

“We need to get out of here. Someone must know what they’re looking for. They didn’t find all of us, Princess. Whoever’s left must be the traitor. If we find them, we can turn them in and escape.” The midwife’s battered visage seems to beg you, her reddened eyes blinking and aimed longingly toward the sound of your hesitant voice.

 

“No,” you tell her. “We can’t help them. I’ve heard rumors about their Death Star. They say it can destroy entire worlds. Anyone who would build such a thing cannot be left unchallenged.”

 

“Leia, what are you saying? You can’t be serious… Was it you? Are you the one they’re looking for? Leia… Your Highness, please, they’re killing us!”

 

“The Empire enslaves or murders anyone who gets in their way. They indoctrinate anyone who will listen to their propaganda, anyone they can convince to be more afraid of them than losing everything it means to be alive. Aiding the Emperor by protecting his vile machine will only allow his soldiers to continue hurting people, to keep taking anything they want!”

 

“So you do know! Leia, you have to tell the truth! They wanted something, just tapes! Data-tapes! Give those to them. You have to save us.”

 

You hang your head. “I’m sorry you were here; it was wrong to bring you.” Looking at the bodies, you reiterate, “It was wrong. You never agreed to risk yourselves like this. You never agreed to be part of this, and now you’re dead.” Dead? Yes, they’re all dead except for you. You pull away. “You aren’t Ashwala. Who are you? Where are we?”

 

“Leia, you’re confused. We have to find someone who will listen. I’ll tell them you didn’t know how serious this all was. You’re still so young that they might understand, but you have to tell them!” Ashwala tilts her head. “Leia, I hear them. Give them the plans.”

 

“No.”

 

“They’re almost here! Please hurry before they find the rest of us. You can’t let it end this way.”

 

“You’re right,” you agree as the corridor glows crimson once more with a shooooom.

 

“𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔,” booms Darth Vader. “𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍 𝒔𝒄𝒖𝒎 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒕? 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆. 𝑺𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒆? 𝑨 𝒇𝒆𝒘 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔, 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒑𝒚?”

 

“Vader, I will give you nothing!”

 

“𝑺𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒕.”

 

Whoever this brutalized woman is, her neck is suddenly squeezed between Vader’s thumb and fingers just like Hanrim’s was. Again you try to look away, but you can’t. Ashwala… Can it really be her? She kicks and claws, but her blows have no effect against the black armor. There is only strangled crying and breathing and the sound of your teeth grinding as you’re frozen watching the fluid trickle down Ashwala’s legs in her struggle. You know what it is. You can smell it over the blood and the biting sting of ozone cast by the lightsaber Vader brandishes in his other hand.

 

Captain Antilles’ jacket falls free when Ashwala’s arms go limp. It does not matter what she just said; waiting for Vader to break his next victim’s neck hurts no less, but he doesn’t do that. He looks her up and down — at all her perfect features crusted with white splotches overlapping black-purple contusions — and clearly reconsiders. You can’t see Vader’s eyes, you don’t even know what species he is, or if he truly is a droid as many suspect, but you’ve seen this look before.

 

Ashwala is spared from joining the corpse pile only to be handed bodily off to a Naval Trooper who drags her away. “Help me, Leia! Give him the plans!” The soldier pulls her so forcefully that you can hear her shoulder detach. She shrieks in pain, and for you, but mostly her fading voice pleads for the plans.

 

“𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓,” Vader coolly states over the last decibels of the once musical voice, “𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚?”

 

“I can’t!”

 

“Leia, there you are!”

 

You spin. Oh, no. “Mom! Stay back!”

 

It’s already too late to wonder how she got her. Queen Breha Organa rushes for you and is deftly slashed into cauterized chunks. Her crown clatters to the floor, still woven into the ornate braids surrounding a horrified, glassy stare. The yellow-orange lights of her mechanical heart and lungs still and then dim in the chest exposed by her seared gown. Did she follow you? Did she come to save you? There is no time to mourn. This cannot be right.

 

Daddy stumbles down the hall and drops to his knees at his wife’ remains. “What have you done, Leia?”

 

Daddy too? Where is this? “Daddy, what’s happ— Daddy?”

 

He doesn’t look at you, only Mom. “Why didn’t you help your mother? How could you let this happen? We loved you as soon as we saw you, Leia. We were just so scared before. We came to apologize.” Daddy looks up at you from the massacre before turning to the imposing dark figure and his lit weapon. In his eyes reside only softness, not the rage of the man who beat and berated you. “Leia,” he tells you, facing Vader, “I won’t let him kill you. The failure is mine. I neglected you. I allowed you to fall astray. This is my price to pay.” 

 

“No, Daddy, you can’t fight him!”

 

“I know, sweetheart. Only you can make this stop. Give him what he needs. We can go home together.”

 

“I can’t!” Your vision is a wet blur. It’s too late by the time you see the letter opener Daddy still holds. You think, “He’s going to fight a half-droid swordsman with little more than a butter knife,” but he turns the slim blade to his own throat, leaving only a shallow dripping line for his efforts. He’s going to try again.

 

You leap at your father in a struggle for life and death to pull the tool away, but he’s far too strong, far too big. You never even had a chance. Daddy gets one good push, and you slide across the slippery floor to watch as this time he plunges the silver implement into his artery, and again. The blood fountains from the twin wounds while you recover your breath. He spasms before you can reach him. He’s dead.

 

“Vader!” you scream at empty air. All you see is red. All you hear is muffled moaning. There’s a rhythm to it: in, out, in, out, interspersed by sobs. It’s Ashwala. You clamp your palms over your ears and scoot down the hall away from the carnage, but there is no escaping it.

 

Bodies line the hall like snow cleared from a busy road. Topping the closest heap is tall girl with pale skin and long green hair. She always chose styles to set herself aside from the expectations of Gatalenta and warn outsiders that she was not moored by the placid lifestyle of her world even though she was a perfect spokesperson for its traditions of compassion and balance. Even in death, Amilyn Holdo stands out; she’s a meadow in this red winter. She’s defiant. She’s a rebel, a Rebel just like you.

 

“Leia, there you are!”

 

Can it be? Can it actually be him? You scramble to your feet to fully take him in. He looks younger than you remember, but that endearingly lopsided smile is still the same. “Kier!” You wrap your belovèd in an embrace and stroke his near-black curls, but he looks beyond you. You’re too short to block his view, so he sees what’s left of his Queen and her consort.

 

“Leia,” Kier repeats, but this time there is no excitement in the name, no hope, no affection. It comes as no surprise when he pries you off and shoves you away. “So you’ve done it, then. Your foolishness has destroyed us after all.”

 

“It’s not my fault,” you assure Kier. “The Empire cannot be trusted, and this is just the beginning. You would have seen that if you believed in me!”

 

Kier scoffs. “I’m glad I didn’t. What more proof could you possibly need that I was right?” His horrible scowl doesn’t last long. The hall is enveloped in an orange burst, and the boy that you thought you would share your life with is thrown forward into your arms. The face that looks back at you is terrified, not angry, but like a cornered animal, Kier chooses to fight. He pelts your body with swift attacks that you can barely defend against. “Give up!” he cries. “Stop this now. Tell them where you sent the plans! Tell them where your Rebellion hides!”

 

You pant, “Kier, I don’t want to hurt you,” but there doesn’t seem to be much chance of that. You two trained together for months. He’s seen how you move, and he’s adapted his strategy to deliver precise blows through your openings. “Kier? Kier!” You scramble free, managing not to trip over a body only to slip in its pooling blood.

 

Pausing his attack, Kier bellows, “You can be the hero, Leia! Your involvement was part of the strategy. You used your connections to find the real traitors.” He looks morosely down at the corpse you’re tangled into: it’s Daddy. “I just want this to be over before you start a war. We’re pacifists. What you’re doing isn’t right.”

 

He still does not understand. One more time, you measure, “We’re already at war with the Empire, a war that they began, one that only ends when they do.” You outstretch your palms. “Help me.”

 

Kier grabs your hands. He could drag you away. He could do anything to you, but he was never meant to be beastly. He has different cruelty for you: his lips against yours, so soft and strong, seductively teasing your mouth apart until his tongue flicks over yours. He stops before it’s too much, kissing your cheeks, your knuckles, your nose. “We’ll make this right. We’ll do it together.” Suddenly Kier blushes. “Your Majesty, I love you.”

 

You try to remember where you are, or the names to the crumpled forms surrounding you, but there’s only Kier, only now. He’s all you have left. You can’t let them take him. You profess, “I love you too.”

 

“Where are the plans?”

 

“The plans?” You saw them, didn’t you? A few minutes ago, or maybe days back. Years. “They’re on the Tantive IV.”

 

“That ship was searched beyond thoroughly,” Kier insists. “Where did you send them?”

 

That ship? Isn’t this the Tantive? “Where are we?”

 

“We’re together, you and me. What happened to the tapes?”

 

“T-th-there was a message.”

 

“What message?”

 

You rack your brain. It hurts. “A message to a friend.”

 

“Who is your friend? Where is your friend, Leia?”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“You must. I’m your friend too, Leia.”

 

“My friend?”

 

The next kiss goes deeper, longer. “Yes. I’ll be anything you need me to be, if you help stop the Rebels. Tell me where they are, My Queen.”

 

“Queen?”

 

“Yes, my love. The throne is yours now. You will begin your reign as a hero of the Empire. The Emperor himself will be indebted to you and all of Alderaan.”

 

“Alderaan?”

 

“Leia, you must focus. Pay attention to my voice.”

 

You listen.

 

“Trust it.”

 

You try, but the voice is wrong, too deep. Beneath the calm surface there is so much anger. It reminds you… Did Kier just hit you? Did Daddy? Daddy wouldn’t do that. He’s also not right here, dead on the floor with Mom. They’re both safe at home, but Kier? This can’t be him at all. “Who are you?”

 

“Kier. I’m your friend, Leia.”

 

“What is your family name? Tell me about your parents.”

 

Kier freezes. “None of that matters, only our safety. The plans — give them to me.”

 

“No. You’re dead, Kier. There was an explosion. I watched you die in my arms.” You glance at the dead girl with green hair, the one that is surely alive and as well as one can be during a time like this. “The two of us carried your body back. I brought it to your parents, the ones you don’t remember. I stood by them at your funeral. It was a beautiful ceremony. You were buried with the heroes of Alderaan — the real ones — overlooking the palace, watching over me. You’re not Kier. You’re not my friend, and this isn’t real.”

 

But it feels real when your head is dashed against the floor. White bursts cloud your vision from the impact as the assailant reminds you what you need to do, how you can make this all go away. “Say the words. Tell me what was done with those plans!”

 

“No,” you choke, “I will never help you monsters!” You reach behind yourself to feel for the letter opener, but it’s not there. Nothing is, not even Kier. There are only the barely illuminated ceiling grates and the ominous black-against-black figures looming over you.

 

One of them orders, “𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒔𝒆.”

 

The undulating whine of a droid’s repulsor drops toward you. A flashing sensor highlights the needle it bears, but there is nothing you can do to stop it. You just scaled Appenza then swam up the River Wuitho just to be swept over its cliffs. You are pudding, incapable of anything but labored breaths louder than the puff of the injector.

 

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒏 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏.”

Through cracked lips you tell the dark god, “I noticed.” You know pain. You remember Kier — the real one — and lying to him so that he could pass away with hope for a peace the Empire will never bring. Disappointing Daddy or making Mom worry is more painful than any blaster bolt, almost as painful as a room with a view of the stars. And there are other names, hundreds that you can’t remember. Your guards. The girl with jokes and candy. Martyrs on the beach. A tiny baby. The woman with her calming rituals and deft hands who was meant to place him in his mother’s arms. The mother — a mentor and friend. Of course you’re in pain, but perhaps, in time, it will fade with the rebirth of justice.

 

“There will be tribunals, investigations. You will be dismantled and repurposed, healed if you can be, returned to serve the galaxy you would have destroyed. You will make restitutions to those you harmed, restitutions to those you enslaved and assaulted. You will prostrate yourselves before the memories of those you murdered.”

“𝑬𝒙𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏.”

Bones snap. They puncture your organs. They protrude through your skin. The whipping cold blasts through your torn thermal wear as you slide down the mountain’s jutting icy rocks. You tumble to a stop as the god casts a shadow over your broken form. There is no medkit, no miracle pill and no simply bearing this and moving slowly, surely on. “No, Please. Please help me!” He doesn’t. Why would he?

“𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝑨 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒕! 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏.”

It’s why you fight. It’s why you’re here, but you’re just one person, and nobody is coming for you. There is barely enough breath to rasp, “Make it stop.”

“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔?”

“No… No! I can’t tell! Please, help me!”

“𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔?”

“Never. I’ll never tell you!” But there is a plan. This is the plan: anger, then one death to prevent trillions of others. It will be over soon — all the pain — won’t it?

“𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆.”

A memory as old as you are. Untold sorrow coarsely blended with fear and then anguish. It’s not yours. The god is doing this. He is everywhere, like his hatred. He especially hated her, the sad woman. He survived this, but she didn't. She gave her life to protect you, but she’s gone. She cannot spare you anymore. Your limbs are severed. They fall beside you, consumed by flames.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

Your skin sears into a molten crust, but the betrayal burns hotter than the ash you lay upon. Your mind is gnawed by an inferno of hate before your torso catches fire. Your lungs and eyes are filled with black sand. The god speaks through it of days long ago. He knows fire, being thrown through the air as crowds cheer, then crashing, crunching as broken as you, barely able to roll the flames beneath himself to starve them of oxygen while only one voice cries out for help.

 

“Please, help me!”

 

He doesn’t help you, nobody does, and you can writhe, you can try to climb, crawl away, but the blaze still engulfs you. Tarkin’s grip is still tight around your wrist. It’s so cold that it burns. You are burning.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆!”

Your epidermis is gone, it belongs to the ash and sand. The tender layers beneath explode and turn to char branching into your spine. “Noooo! Make it stop! Please, someone? Someone help me!”

“𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕!”

Muscle tissue unravels from your fractured bones. “Help.” You breathe in more ash, ash made of you. “Help.”

“𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔.”

He is no god, no omnipotent being. This is the mortal desperation of a terrified man. Terrified of you? Or… No. The Emperor, his taskmaster. Those eyes, that laughter. “I can’t tell!”

“𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔? 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔?”

The Death Star: A tool of domination by fear and unparalleled destruction. The fortress: its one obstacle with any chance of succeeding. “Can’t. Tell!”

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕!”

“Please! Pleaaase!”

“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕.”

“Cant. No. Help me. Please help me.”

“𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒕.”

It throbs in what is left of your ears. “No.”

“𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆.”

There is nothing left for your wretched lungs to take in; they are too full of fire. All that remains is an echo: “No.”

“𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆!”

“No.”

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕!”

Let go of the anger. Let go of your selfish, destructive companion. There are only two you have ever really needed. “Make the posters good, okay? Make sure I’m wearing this dress, this belt. Erase the lies. Make sure they remember I stood for peace and liberty. Thank you for what you taught me. Thank you for my life. Goodbye, Mom. Bye, Daddy.”

 

The god snarls, and then—

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

No. No, this isn’t the plan. You try to beg, “Kill me,” but your body only quivers and jerks.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒌.”

The lights bloom into a solid field of white. “Please no, not white. Blue is better, like the sky and the lakes.”  

 

You’re trying to float in the warm waters of a summer retreat when Vader barks, “𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒉𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒓.”

 

Vader?

 

“𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒏𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆. 𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.”

 

Interrogation?

 

Someone, someone who’s been watching you die all this time complies, “Yes, Lord Vader.”

 

And the god— no, the boogeyman, the Emperor’s hound vows, “𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏…  𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏.”

Notes:

Did you like this? Please kudos and comment if so!

Chapter 6: Air

Summary:

Still reeling from Darth Vader’s initial torture, a barely recovered Princess Leia is subjected to a second round of the Dark Lord’s interrogation that is far more desperate… and lascivious. His advances are halted only when Tarkin summons the pair to witness his most brutal tactic yet as the Death Star enters orbit around Alderaan.

Leia holds her own against the Grand Moff until it's clear what is truly on the line, but it’s too late. Then, in the aftermath of one of the Empire's greatest atrocities, Vader returns his insanity and carnal attention to his unraveling captive.

In other words: Lost in violent insanity, Vader attempts to resurrect his dead wife within his brutalized hostage, a remarkably similar woman, by bringing her to the depths of despair and pleasure until she relinquishes her identity as Leia Organa.

Notes:

This is the chapter you are looking for. It is not late, not at all. It has arrived exactly when it meant to, and it is of a completely normal and manageable length. You love Air. You love it so much that you will read my very short story about Leia’s adoption first. You might even reread the entire remastered work so far since it was written approximately forever ago. You will definitely leave kudos and comments, and subscribe so you will be notified when I post new sick-good (and sometimes adorable-good) content. You will also drink plenty of of water and have a super nice day.

 

You consider running away, but regardless of what anybody says, that’s what got you in this mess to begin with. Just sit still and be polite; that’s the very least you can do, even if it makes your skin crawl. Good, now answer the question your physician asked you first, then her assistant while tending to your scrapes, then Mom, then Daddy, and now the mind doctor.

 

“While you were gone,” she euphemises, because nobody’s allowed to say kidnapped , “did anyone—”

 

“No,” you insist again, knowing that was too quick to sound honest, but the repetition makes you feel like the answer should be yes, like that would make your mistake more forgivable. Maybe it would.

 

The doctor waits for you to continue, and for one of the first times in memory, you don’t know what to say. People wanted to hurt you, but they didn’t, not really, because Ben found you. He put himself in such terrible danger for you, and he wasn’t the only one. “I got so many people killed. It’s my fault.”

 

“It’s not,” the doctor argues in her infuriatingly measured manner, but you’ve had it with how patient she is, and you fume, “Yes it is!” loud enough that she winces. Then you run, but you don’t get far; Mom knows all the secret passages just as well as you do.

 

Breha Organa has a voice that carries. It reaches all the way up the grate you’d shimmied through, and high into the ventilation shaft to snuggle beside you and pause your ascent of the access ladder to the parapets. “Leia, darling, please come down. I know the view is wonderful this time of year, but you’d catch a chill up there. And don’t pretend that wasn’t you skulking around; we don’t have rats in the palace, light be praised.”

 

Your cousin Niano would say otherwise, that you’re an unwelcome little pest in his ancestors’ halls, that literally hiding from your problems means you don’t belong here. “Way to show everyone that you do, Leia.” Carefully, you descend the shaft and exit the hatch, dusting yourself off to no avail before looking up to see the Queen of Alderaan. You’ve always thought she’d be right at place anywhere, but in reality, she looks ridiculous in a maintenance room amidst all these tools and rumbling pipes. A lot of people would still be alive if the same thing could be said of you.

 

Mom offers a grin that makes her eyes crinkle, and any other day might have eased your worries. “You know, a change of scenery really could do us some good. Why don’t you come to the greenhouse and help me with the new plot?” she suggests as if she hadn’t suddenly been summoned away from something important. “I could use an extra pair of hands, and you’re already filthy. Come on, you’ll spare me the hassle of having to change.” She offers her hand, and you take it, your frosty mood thawing reluctantly under her warmth. “What do you think, my love? Roses, maybe? Or Devaronian lilies?”

 

“I shouldn’t have wandered off.” You mean now, but also before… Mostly before.

 

“No, but what matters is that you came back,” Mom sighs, clearly understanding. “I know what it’s like to grow up here and have so much, but so little. In time, you will find the adventure you crave.” Mom extracts a handkerchief from her gown and wipes a few smudges from your face. “For now you must be patient.”

 

“Aren’t you angry?”

 

Mom stoops with her hands on her thighs as she looks you in the eyes. “I’m furious at those mercenaries and the Inquisitors.” She leans in to tap her forehead to yours. “Not at you, Leia. Never you.” 

 

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know how to stop thinking about the palace guards, of Tala and Ned-Bee and the people who were just trying to escape persecution or save what was left of the Jedi. That’s why you’re meant to see a therapist. “I didn’t mean to yell at her.”

 

“Knowing that is part of her job, but she was very worried about you.” Mom pulls you close despite all your dirt and grime. “What should I tell her?” Mom gives you the opportunity to change your answer without making you repeat yourself. You think, perhaps, that you’ve never loved her more.

 

Returning the embrace, you gather up the heart to tell Mom that you’ll be fine despite the horrible costs, that the bad people just tried to scare you, that you still feel terrible for shouting. “ I’ll do it. I’ll apologize.” That’s what you’re supposed to say. You know you said it, but you don’t now. The arms around you go stiff when instead you divulge, “If it weren’t for my friends, I could almost forget the shower, but the other night? That wasn’t a bite or a sting. I can still feel his scars pressing into me while I cried, but he didn’t care. No. No, he did care. He liked hurting me.”

 

You flex your aching wrist. “He’s holding me down. I can smell the cologne he reapplied after he made me touch him. He rinsed away the meal he said was for Hanrim — do you remember her? How sweet she was? How funny? He replaced her with lavender, and it makes me sick, Mom. It’s on my skin. In my hair. I can hear his words hissed into my ear, the ones he made me repeat. I had to do it, but I don’t know how to let it pass. I don’t, not any of it. I don’t want to feel this way: so disgusting, so sore like he’s still there on top of me and inside of me. I just want it to go away.” You blink. “Please help me, Mom. I don’t know what to do.”

 

 

“Mom?” The strobing flash of her pulmonodes is so pretty — orange, cyan, purple jogan swirl — but are those the right colors? It’s almost like you’ve had too much wine with dinner, except you are well aware of the cellar’s vintages and their potency. Besides, you’re barely ten; your drinks are watered still down for you.

 

This is a dream, then, falling asleep, and that’s why everything’s different. That’s why you hear two voices. Mom plays all the parts when Daddy’s on Coruscant. She even makes the villains fun in her stories, so you strain to hear them over the soft hum of the machinery.

 

“Should I turn it higher, ma’am?”

 

“Just give it time. He wants her calm, not comatose.”

 

“How long, then?”

 

“As long as it takes, soldier. I hope you’ve had your fill by now. She’s pulling through, but nobody can survive another dose like that. Hurry. Wash your hands, and bring me another hematofilter. The first one barely scrubbed two kriffing units.” 

 

“Another what?”

 

There’s complaining. Something about needing a real assistant. Mom said she isn’t upset with you, so why is she cursing? She doesn’t do that, not even through her characters, but the lights are so pretty. They aren’t right, though. Are you still in the maintenance room? The boilers keep this place balmy, but it’s too warm. It’s hot. It’s burning. There is no cyan. There is no purple jogan swirl. There is only orange.

 

The fire blazes nearer. It hungers for you. It licks at your toes, no longer orange, but white-hot. The white. The screech. Your screech. You’re screaming. You are aflame. Your skin is bubbling and bursting. The oxygen is burned away. The breath of life is nearly gone. You are dying. You are dying in torment!

 

“Up! Turn her up!”

 

 

“Turn her up!” a voice blares over the roaring flames consuming the superheating cockpit. You stare at the blinking panel: orange, cyan, purple jogan swirl? The indicator lights make no sense, but the co-pilot bypasses your stupefaction to flip the switches and pull the levers in front of you.

 

“Brace!” is the only warning you receive before shooting into the sky as the conflagration that was formerly your spacecraft plummets into the ground like a meteor. Your forgotten training kicks in with a reminder that you’ll be equally done for if you don’t pull the parachute’s tab. You grab for it, you jolt, you drift, and then you, too, crash, although you land in one cohesive and only slightly singed piece.

 

Coughing, you look around. Nothing is familiar, so you seek out landmarks. There are none, at least none that you remember. A concussion? You don’t seem to be bleeding, but that’s not a conclusive analysis. Don’t push yourself yet. Think this through. Do you have a comlink? Could a subspace radio be salvageable once that fire dies down? Are you up to the task? Where is the co-pilot? Did he survive?

 

“Leia, there you are!”

 

It’s him! You throw yourself into his arms. You know him. He’s a Rebel like you. Your head is swimming, but at least your friend is here. Or is he more than a friend? You pull away just enough to look at the young man, at his passionate eyes and windswept wavy hair that fluctuates in the light between every shade of blond and brown. Don’t you trust him? He always has such special words, ones too perfect to hope for, like, “This is a happy moment.”

 

“I’ve been trying to get a signal,” the co-pilot tells you, rubbing your back, “but there isn’t even static. Do you know how to reach the base from here?”

 

“The base, it’s…” The rest falters. Something is very, very strange. A pilot doesn’t lose his bearings, not one gifted and daring enough to fly for the Rebellion at his age, to fly for you. There are other words in a voice more familiar than his. It hurts almost as much to remember them as it had been to speak them: you’ve changed.

 

Whatever this man was to you, whatever you wish he could be is gone now. He’s going to ask for names, if Mon Mothma is here, where here is. You don’t wait for his questions. You launch yourself from the pilot as decisively as the life-saving ejector seat, and run.

 

There are no landmarks. There is also no consistency, no logic. You flee through fields, forests, deserts, tundras, all the while hounded by the heavy footsteps and breathing of the co-pilot. You’re fast, but his legs are so much longer than yours. He’s close. So is the base… Everything is finally starting to look familiar. You’ll be safe at the Rebel headquarters.

 

“You’ve changed.”

 

Not the base. You can’t risk it. Keep running. You’re tired, but you can make it. Almost there. You’re almost there. Just a bit farther, just— Compose yourself.

 

The guards are used to this by now, but you pull your skirts back down your knees and slow to an urgent shuffle to avoid startling the schoolchildren your mother guides through the halls. She turns toward you with an appreciative wink before resuming the tour of the palace and its libraries. You want to ask if she’s seen the man, if he’s been caught, if she knows who he is, but he’s fading. What remains is a sense of unease lodged deep in your chest, but that’s unimportant. Something else is happening here.

 

“Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan,” announces the herald while a group of serious-looking petitioners bow and curtsy as they exit and you enter the heart of your home.

 

Daddy waves for a technician to deactivate the holographic projection everyone must have been discussing, then he descends the rightmost of the twin thrones of Alderaan to meet you halfway. He kneels to wrap you in a hug that nearly lifts you off your feet, and you sob, “Daddy, I’m scared.”

 

Even though you’ve made a fool of yourself and been terribly rude, Daddy dries your tears with his sleeve and smiles with his voice, “Come sit with me, Leia.” He leads you up the dais to his seat where you scale him like a tree and crawl onto his lap. Were you always this little? Were you always this young? Don’t be silly. You ease into Daddy and he wraps his trunk of an arm around you. “Ah, there she is.” He squeezes you tighter. “What is it? Was it the dreams?”

 

“I don’t know… Maybe.” A bit of it is coming back. “I think someone was chasing me.” You sound ridiculous, like a baby who doesn’t know nightmares aren’t real. 

 

Daddy vows, “Well, they’d have to get through me first.”

 

You really don’t know what else to say. Of course no one is after you. Nobody would ever dare to infiltrate the palace’s heightened security. You’re fine — you should stop making this about yourself. “Are you in trouble, Daddy?”

 

“Trouble?” Bail Organa asks. “What would make you think that?” His voice is like a rumbling groundquake. It tickles, and you laugh despite yourself.

 

You whisper equal parts scandalized and impressed, “They say you defy the Emperor.”

 

He doesn’t deny that or even ask who they are. “Not trouble, no, but scrutiny, yes. His agents are watching my every move on the Senate floor. This is the way of things.”

 

How can he be so calm? How does everything just roll off his back like it was never there? “I wish I could be more like you.”

 

Daddy kisses your forehead, chuckling, “Is that how you really feel? I had no idea you wanted me banished from the sector by royal decree.” He starts to tickle you in earnest, but relents when you don’t laugh this time.

 

“You were kidnapped once,” you recall aloud, “but you’re fine.”

 

Daddy frowns. “No, Leia, I wasn’t abducted. I was held hostage, and I wasn’t fine. We lost a good friend that day.” Daddy squeezes your hand. “Leia, things like that can change people, even grown-ups, more than they realize. The remaining senators and I were saved that day by a very brave Jedi just like you were, but that didn’t mean it was over. The Republic provided us with counseling and time away, although in the end, I only felt comfortable talking about it with your mother. No one else could really understand what it was like.”

 

“Oh. I guess it’s the same for me.”

 

For a moment Daddy seems confused, maybe embarrassed? You hope you didn’t offend him. “Yes, of course,” he recovers. “Your mother promises me you’re working this out on your own, as is your right, but we’re always going to be here if you need us.”

 

“But what about you? The Jedi are almost gone, and we’re not fighters, Daddy. Who will protect you from the Emperor? And I know I’m not supposed to talk like that,” you bustle on, “but I’ve seen things, and I’ve heard even more. He kills people who disagree with him, or makes them slaves that are worked to death in mines and factories.” Daddy tenses slightly, but you still have to ask the question: “What if the Empire comes for you?”

 

“My love, we are all the Empire,” Daddy professes as if by rote, although again he refutes none of what you purported. “We are loyal citizens, and our voices must be heard. And who said we aren’t fighters? I am well known, Leia; my reputation is my shield.” Daddy repositions you on his lap as he pulls something from beneath his cloak. He looks solemnly at what he holds out, continuing, “But between you and me, Leia, in this day and age, a blaster is more likely to save my life. You don’t have to worry about me, sweet girl, but I won’t lie to you: I’m scared too.”

 

You look up at Daddy’s pensive expression, waiting. He doesn’t speak while he reholsters and conceals the pistol once more. That gives you time to recall the scandalous curiosity you recently held for such things, how you resonated with the authority of such small objects.

 

“Your mother wept right here in front of everyone when she declared you. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing that story, but that was nothing compared to when I showed her this” —Daddy pats his hip— “the power to destroy lives in an instant. For years,” he sighs, “I wore a weapon that could only stun. It was little more than a vulgar toy, but even that was such a horrible, heavy thing to carry. In each and every moment, I am terrified of losing what we are as a people, but, Leia, I will do everything within my power to ensure you inherit a world where it never becomes commonplace to wear violence as an accessory.”

 

You rest against Daddy, his heartbeat lulling you near enough to sleep that he carries you to bed. Hours must have passed. The twinkling stars are so close that you could almost grab them, but they’re dimming now, and Daddy tucks you in nice and snug so you can’t reach for them anyway. All the pretty colors fade to black as you drift away. White. Black. White. Black. You’re gliding. It’s a familiar sensation, you know it is, but for one more minute can’t you pretend that you’re flying? Is it so wrong to pretend that you can run, that you’re free? Black. Only black. You’re tilted from the gurney onto the stone slab. The cell door shuts.

 

 

Clang!

 

Was that thunder? No, not a storm. They clamor against the door to frighten you, to interrupt what little sleep you can get.

 

Clooong!

 

But it does sound a bit like thunder. You used to like storms. Now the thunder cracks through your skull, the lightning courses through your nerves. It immobilizes you, burning you from the inside out until it’s on the outside, too. Flames lick, sear, and broil you like meat, cooking you like… What was her name?

 

You don’t like this. It’s not a storm; it’s hard white armor worn by a horrible woman with a name you likewise can’t recall. Why are you itchy? Your skin feels weird. You scratch at something covering your arms. Med patches? The skin beneath is feverish. You remember… bugs? Yes, there were swarms of biting, stinging insects stabbing into you, but why are you here? This is no hospital, no recovery ward. You miss the lights. It’s so cold and dark here. Here — this is a cell. Cell 2187. You are 2187. You’re a prisoner.

 

“Remember the words.” 

 

“What words?”

 

Craaaak!

 

“Shut up!” It’s Vicious. Her name is Vicious.

 

“Remember.”

 

No. You don’t have to, not now. Soon, maybe; but for now, you’re so tired. Forget while you still can.

 

 

The waterfall is not a waterfall. The warm mist does not belong to the hot springs of the Glarus Lagoons. This is hardly a vacation, and those certainly aren’t Kier’s hands in your hair. You think of him, though, of his strong voice. He would have become an excellent speaker, a lecturer in the histories, perhaps.

 

“Remember.”

 

Why should you when you could stay with Kier? Remembering won’t stop the boogeyman from coming for you, or the serpent. You were wrong; you didn’t know how to suffer. Maybe you still don’t. You don’t even know how you’re alive. Maybe you aren’t, and this is hell.

 

“Remember.”

 

You remember respect. Troopers would lower their blasters upon your approach. They defended you. “Miss,” they would call you, and, “Your Highness.” They called you a senator, too, but all of these things are gone. They were taken like Hanrim’s life right here on the shower floor, taken like a symbol of faith and democracy to be defaced into the Imperial crest.

 

“Remember.”

 

You remember the first time you were allowed to wear makeup. Mom said you were already pretty, but you lobbied for her permission like tightened ecological protections for Felucia. TooVee was so overjoyed by your success that she must have painted your face twenty times before she was pleased with her work. You felt so adult. You truly felt pretty like Mom said instead of plain. Vicious takes far less care than your attendant. She slathers foundation on like cement, and nearly pokes you in the eye as she applies liner and mascara. You try to put it out of your mind why anyone would bother to have you dolled up.

 

“Remember.”

 

You remember news feeds, ones you detested, as you’re marched through the Death Star. Even after a hundred successful relief missions, they still referred to you as a figurehead, as “the Crown Jewel of the Planet of Beauty.” Their journalists would get whiplash if they knew your true allegiance, spinning out articles headlined, “Treacherous Rebel Temptress Endangers Children,” or, “The New Face of Terrorism: From Princess to Prisoner.”

 

“Remember.”

 

Why? Will that help you escape? And what if it does? What would you even do then? Of course you’d disclose everything you’ve glimpsed of this station’s operating procedures and hierarchies, but that’s hardly anything if the schematics are lost.

 

“Remember.”

 

You remember your crew, your duty to disclose what really happened to them. You remember the warden’s name: Blagg. It would be wishful thinking to assume that’d be enough to discover who Graycoat is, let alone the stormtroopers stationed within his domain. That’s unless Blagg keeps recordings. What if he sells them? Is there a holo of you circulating Nal Hutta? How much does it cost? How much are you worth? Do you have enough in your coffers to ensure the copies are destroyed before one reaches Alderaan’s intelligence? Should you bother? Wouldn’t that be priceless proof?

 

“Remember.”

 

You need that proof for the trillions of exploited beings with far less agency than you in the face of corruption. Perhaps being branded a hapless victim by the post would do absolutely nothing for your political career, but you don’t exactly have one anymore. So, yes, you remember. They’ve been drugging you, messing with your head, but you remember. You remember duty. You remember obligation.

 

You’re back at the cell, not the promenade. Was the makeup some game? A scare tactic? Probably. That’s how you’re supposed to feel in the detention block: terrified, claustrophobic, tired, desperate, and disgusted, but the memories aren’t all bad. You also remember warmth, and not the cataclysmic flames or the numbing burn of frostbite, but a cozy blanket on a cool night, one made of love.

It’s gone now as you curl onto the bare slab. Maybe it burned away with the skin you keep checking is still there, marred only by the scars left by the needles that pumped your mind full of such hallucinations. Or maybe you just don’t deserve the blanket. “Happy thoughts,” chides Hopeful Leia, “bring happy dreams,” but honestly, you’d settle for a damned pillow.

 

Your eyes snap open after what feels like a handful of minutes, half an hour at most. With so little to see these days, the unnerving sounds, ones you’re pretty sure the prison’s flooring is designed to amplify, have become more distinct. That’s the two stormtroopers guarding the door making way for a pair of naval troopers. Their gaits are nearly the same, but the latter comes with only a quarter of the ruckus. And there’s another pair that make almost no sound at all until:

 

҉ʇ҉ᴉ҉d҉s҉ ҉ǝ҉ɥ҉ʇ҉ ҉ɹ҉o҉ɟ҉ ҉ƃ҉ᴉ҉d҉ ҉ɹ҉ǝ҉ɥ҉ʇ҉o҉u҉ɐ

 

҉ɹ҉ǝ҉ʇ҉ɥ҉ƃ҉n҉ɐ҉l҉s҉ ҉ǝ҉ɥ҉ʇ҉ ҉ɹ҉o҉ɟ҉ ҉q҉ɯ҉ɐ҉l҉ ҉ɹ҉ǝ҉ɥ҉ʇ҉o҉u҉ɐ

 

You’re pretty sure you get the gist. Thankfully you’ve only seen these creatures in the far distance, but you’ve heard of their purportedly unbreakable language, one they selectively make audible to intimidate their prey. Death troopers — what better entourage could there be for Darth Vader? There’s a shiver in your bones that tells you he’s the fifth being coming for you beats before you can hear his boots and the tell-tale hiss-puff exchange of gasses. He’s here to finish the job.

 

What did you tell him? How much has he seen? It can’t be enough, perhaps sufficient to ruin you, but not the Rebellion… but for how long? What if next time it’s too much? What if you’re still under? What if this is part of it? Is this real?

 

“Stand up,” encourages the Coalition. “Face your fate head-on.”

 

Heh. Head-on. They say Vader is fond of decapitations. Is it weird to smile? Okay, okay, rein Funny Leia in. Bring her down a notch so they don’t think you’ve cracked. Stand straighter. Fold your hands together so it looks like you chose this pose, not the stun… Your wrists aren’t bound. Is that an oversight? Another gesture of feigned generosity? No, it has to be something else. Ah, it’s because you’re so frail that it makes no difference, not against death troopers, and not against Vader. 

 

Fine. You reposition your hands onto your hips, your fingertips brushing your belt and gown. You may not be a senator any longer, but you will never cease to be an Organa. That means you have a job to do, a duty, a privilege. Vader has already tried to take these from you. He has failed before. He will fail again.

 

He’s even taller than you recall, though. You can crush him down in your mind, but you still have to tilt your head back all the way in order to adjust your eyeline from the chained claps of the almost floor-length cape and take in the fly-red visor of Darth Vader. He mirrors you, hands cradling his own belt that holds up assorted gadgets, prominently including his lightsaber.

 

You glance briefly at that knobby cylinder, wondering if the no doubt stolen Jedi’s weapon will end your life. It very well might since that horrible warbling droid and its needles are nowhere to be seen. “Where’s your little friend, Vader?” you ask, finding the boldness, if not necessarily the wisdom, to speak first. 

 

The “Dark Lord” — is that seriously what people call him? — stoops to step inside the cell, and you think perhaps you were mistaken, but the torture robot does not follow him. You don’t know what’s next, and you’re done guessing, but at least it’s not that IT-O unit. Vader grunts, maybe amused? No, irritated. You’ve reminded him of those failures in front of his henchmen.

 

Vader points gruffly down the hallway. “𝑾𝒂𝒍𝒌.”

 

That’s it? Does Vader want to see what you’ll do, then? Is he like the viper, expecting you to act out, to attempt using your inconspicuously free hands to grapple for a blaster? You feel better than you have in days. Weeks? Whatever hydrating nutrition they’ve pumped into you has done its job, so you could fight. You might even last a few seconds, but that’s not worth it. You deserve the chance to do some real damage before you’re struck down, so you walk.

 

“𝑨 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔.”

 

You know the way to the interrogation room, but you’ve never had a procession quite like this before. White. Black. White. Black. It’s almost like a royal progress, a formal tour of state with you flanked by the naval troopers followed by Vader, the stormtroopers, and then their more heavily armed shadows. You’re almost inclined to wave to the various Imps darting out of the way as if they were citizens eager to catch a glimpse of you, but satisfying or not, that would feel far too much like a farewell.

 

One turn. Two. Three.

 

“𝑳𝒆𝒇𝒕.”

 

You jump. You don’t mean to, but you do. This isn’t the way to either of the previous rooms or the turbolift, so it’s an airlock for you. Or a gas chamber. Or a matter recycler. The prize wheel turns — what will it be? Airlock. Gas chamber. Matter recycler. Airlock. Gas chamber. Matter recycler. Airlock. Gas chamber. Matter recycler.

 

“𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅.”

 

The six of you enter a bridged chasm. An atrium of sorts? An archive? A mainframe? Droids hover eerily about, monitoring row upon row of what appear more and more like cold, silvery morgue drawers the longer you consider them. Is one of those slots for you? No, just walk. It’s just a shaft. A dark, creepy, echoing shaft. You’re fine. Watch your footing. Stop wondering why these idiots seem to have a vendetta against handrails. Don’t you like heights? That’s better. Yes, think of trees, of climbing.

 

See? You’re through. It’s fi— This is a dead end. “That’s not karking funny, Leia.” Your heartbeat pounds through your ears. It’s all you can hear. You can’t breathe. You’re in the gas chamber. The oxygen is vented out, and a toxic fog pours in. No. Stop that. There’s no fog, and there’s a door just ahead of you. It opens.

 

“𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓.”

 

The door shuts suddenly, and you spin, at least not jumping this time. Vader is there, looking more smug than threatening. No one else is behind him. It’s you and him here in another white room. Alone. You will your eyes not to water, your skin to cease burning, your lungs to expand and contract. Something witty about the lightsaber begins to formulate, but it’s no good. All you can do is stare and wait, and that’s exactly what this beast makes you do until you could almost scream, and then he points behind you.

 

Warily, you follow the gesture to a torture rack and its thousand wicked instruments all ready to unfurl and sprout from beneath and within and from the ceiling above. You can hardly even look at it, but the armchair it faces? It’s just a piece of furniture, albeit in the same dismal charcoal tones.

 

“Is this some kind of test?” This is insane. Vader’s insane. You would be insane to climb onto that horrible metal thing instead of the wingback with wide, square armrests and thick, tufted cushions. Well, you approach the obvious choice, and with a quick poke of the cushions to ensure there are no underlying dangers, you take a seat in the only soft thing you’ve touched since that plush carpet in— Stop thinking about him.

 

It’s a nice chair. Not too big, not too small, but what’s the point of this? You know you’re going to wind up on that rack. Oh, of course. The illusion of choice is a favorite game here, but you may as well be comfortable one last time.

 

“𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖,” Vader commends. He lurks nearer, then diverts his path to rest his right hand on what must be an arm restraint, leaving his weapon exposed. You’d be fooling yourself if you thought he still couldn’t quickdraw. He’s overconfident, haughty, and you still wouldn’t stand a chance.

 

Except something is different here. The threat against your life has never been more present, but this is unlike those first “interviews.” Vader sits behind no desk. You’re not even sure he can sit, as if doing so would reduce his severe authority in some way, as if he would no longer be the most dangerous being in the room. Ugh. Pay attention. How about the lighting? It’s much dimmer than usual, less obtrusive. The temperature is acceptable. The chair is no rigid thing, but so agreeable that it could have been built bespoke for you. Was it? What is this, really?

 

“𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆.”

 

He can’t see your mind, you’d be long gone if he fully could, but he can read your face. You would have controlled it better if you were sure you weren’t still thrashing in that cell. Or maybe you’re in the other place, the one with the pretty lights. It feels like you’re still waking up, that at any moment you will be studying in the library or advocating for a disparaged people or pouncing into your parents’ arms. You could go back to them if you only provide a few short answers to a few short questions. You don’t trust Vader, but you can be done with this. He’s not your friend, but you can tell him. Tell him, and you can leave.

 

You’ve heard of this before. You’ve felt it. While Vader makes no mystical gesture with an outstretched hand, you recognize this for the blatant mind trick it is, although you don’t have to. You could forget what you know. Wouldn’t that be easier? You can go home if you forget. You deserve so much more than this. You deserve help. Justice. Respect. Admiration.

 

If you only release your stubbornness, you will have anything you desire. You will know pleasures beyond anything some boy might have shared with you, more satisfaction than serving the Senate or even ruling Alderaan could provide. You are wise despite your rashness, and you are educated far beyond your years. People should see you not as a jewel or a girl playing dress-up, but as Leia Organa, a doctor of political science, and an ally of righteousness. All you need to do is stop the terrorists. Stop their bombardments, their piracy, their slander. You can be a hero.

 

Vader’s thoughts are so obvious, so false… Did he really think you’d mistake them for your own? Is that all he has? The same old tricks after all? Well you have one, too. There was nothing wrong with your old plan, you only lacked motivation for its proper execution. That’s what you were after: execution, the surest way to do your duty, but there must be another way. Try another angle. Anger him again, but not towards violence, only wrecklessness. Find an opening. Find a way out.

 

Leaning back in the chair, you pose your hands over the armrests before amending your recitation: “I demand that I be released from here and given access to formal legal proceedings — what little you and your blighted Emperor have left us.”

 

“𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕.”

 

You blink. “Excuse me?” There is no lightsaber, no throwing you with the Force so hard your skull shatters against the wall.

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔. 𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

 

You spit through bared teeth, “I’m sure it would,” thoroughly doubting anything has ever pleased Vader, maybe only momentarily dulled a portion of his hatred. “You must be terrified that Palpatine will discard you for disappointing him. It’s ironic that the only thing standing between your triumph and an early retirement is a diplomat.” You proactively correct your role , injecting it with every drop of your viscous, noxious disgust at the dissolution of the last vestige of galactic democracy. “How sad for you, Vader.”

 

He seems to think before asking, “𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒚𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖? 𝑫𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒘𝒏” —he steps closer, chilling your blood to the marrow— “𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏?”

 

They’re all the same, these sick and deluded men who think you require their power and their oh-so-generous permissions. Is this another offer of partnership? Alliances? You rise before Vader can draw any nearer, your head barely clearing the strange illuminated device on his chest which reminds you ever so faintly of Mom and her pulmonodes. You’re honestly not sure whether she’d be proud or heartbroken to watch you now, but it’s her strength you use to ask, “Why don’t you save us some time and strap me into that monstrosity?”

 

“𝑯𝒏𝒑𝒉,” snorts Vader. Was that… a laugh? You look up at that grisly mask. There is no mirth there, but you swear you can see his eyes through the insectoid visor. They’re yellow, and not pretty like a Pantoran’s; they’re heartlessly hungry like a wolf’s. But there’s something else there. Before you can ponder that any further, Vader reminisces, “𝑳𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒅 𝑺𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉, 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔: 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏?”

 

Your jaw clenches at that epithet more than the implication. What is this caprice? Vader is taciturn at best, and at worst a wordless killing machine. Discourse is actually the last thing you expected from him, but he’s not really a machine, not entirely. Machines don’t play with their prey.

 

“𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒂𝒘 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓.” He pauses for unnecessary gravitas while his suit breathes like the fan of an overheating engine. “𝒀𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒔. 𝑰𝒇 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌, 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒆.” Vader steps aside and extends his arm toward the rack. “𝑺𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

 

In the wake of glib interrogators, there is nothing more infuriating than a silent subject. In the wake of aggression, there is nothing more confounding than refusing to match it. And what of utter madness? If you were to continue the analogy, you should lounge back in the armchair until Vader is fed up with you, but you know that won’t work. Thus, you make for what in retrospect looks more like a surgical table angled downward, the realization of which nearly gives you pause. Nearly. This is it. This is where you learn to suffer. You step onto the footrests and you… You step onto…

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑯𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆. 𝑻𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅.”

 

Your body turns. It’s all you can do: think and turn. You can’t demand that Vader unhand you as he takes you by the shoulders as if to stir some sense into you. Every Leia that has ever existed screams, “Stop!” except for the one that needs to. The swishing cape. Yellow eyes. The endless khooh-pssh growing more rapid. “Let go. Let go.”

 

Vader bends toward you, his hands trailing down your arms. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒏’𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚, 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒆, 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒐 𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒏𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒚.” Khooh, he inhales. “𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔.” Psssh, he exhales. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔.” Khooh. “𝑰𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆.” Psssh.

 

“Let go.” It’s a whisper, but you say it. You do. “I’m… diplomatic… missio…”

 

Vader squeezes your forearms. He could snap them like chicken bones, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t even hurt you. “𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝑺𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒇. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒖𝒐𝒖𝒔. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

 

“Mission to…”

 

“𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆. 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅.”

 

Vader allows you one word: “Why?”

 

“𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒂 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆. 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆?” He ignites his lightsaber.

 

“Goodbye. I’m sorry. Live. Win. Goodbye.”

 

“𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒆,” Vader booms over its hum, “𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒕? 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒅𝒔 𝒊𝒕? 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒓?” The beam of light fizzles back into the metal cylinder before reactivating closer to your face only to again extinguish . “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒏. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒘. 𝑮𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔, 𝑳𝒆𝒊𝒂, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒑𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓. 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆.”

 

“Let go. Please.” You can speak? If you’d known you could, you wouldn’t have sounded so meek, so damned amicable. This is ridiculous, and how dare he use your name without a title? Light knows why that makes you so mad, but it does, and you show it. “Your goon, your ‘Sister’ was fond of this tactic, too. Did you teach it to her? Pretending you’re on my side? That you need my help?” Your pry Vader’s mitt from your arm. He lets you. He lets you step onto the rack. “Do your worst. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“𝑯𝒎𝒑𝒑𝒉.” Definitely a laugh. “𝑨𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉.” Vader moves with speeds contrary to the oafish lumbering you might expect. Your head is first, restrained by a bar beneath your chin and another over your brow, tight as a vise. It is a vise, one you wouldn’t be able to escape without splitting your head open like a ripe melon the way you would have if you’d bothered to throw yourself from that walkway. You blink the angry tears out of your eyes while Vader noisily adjusts something beneath you. Sure, he might have caught you, but if you weren’t so blinded by fear and false bravery, you would have done the right thing.

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇,” Vader accuses, securing your waist. The platform rotates until you’re staring directly into the overhead lights. You’re going to be cut open, vivisected. He’s going to excise parts of you until at last he extracts your secrets. Will he introduce some squirming parasite to your guts before he has you sewn back up with dirty thread like a Nar Shaddaa organ harvester? Will it devour you from the inside out until you will do anything to make it stop? Even the unthinkable?

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔. 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖.” He touches you again — your arm, then your hand which he unwraps from its grip on the platform to lock it in a metal cuff. He wields no surgical tools, no saws or pliers, only words. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝒏𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒖𝒑. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇.”

 

“He knows nothing. Don’t react.”

 

Vader snaps your other wrist into place. “𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆,” he asserts, showing you his fist, “𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒅.” In. “𝑰𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒆𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅.” Out. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔.”

 

Not fair. Not true. There isn’t an ounce of forgiveness in this beast, let alone his… his engineer or whatever nonsense he spouted. Vader moves to your legs. If kicking a stormtrooper would break your foot, you’d likely lose the leg to Vader. You can’t fight him, not physically. All you can do is outlast him, wait to be handed off to someone careless and without precognition.

 

In. “𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓. 𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒗𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒑 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒘: 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒈, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏.” Your ankle is clamped down. “𝑫𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒔𝒕?” Out. “𝑹𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒈 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒘. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐 𝒔𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒐𝒇.” In . “𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕?” Vader is grinning, you’re sure of it. Out. He secures your other ankle, and flames begin to lick your toes. “𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆.”

 

The words spring into your mouth, but you bite them back. He can’t make you say them. He can’t. He won’t. You test the restraints. They won’t give, not a millimeter. There are no flames. You are not burning.

 

Vader looms over you. “𝑺𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌.”

 

No. Your wounds do not reopen. You are not festering inside, so sick that carrion-eaters want nothing to do with you. Your organs are not liquifying, your flesh is not peeling off in greying, barky strips like rancid jerky. You inhale oxygenated air, not your own bile. All of these are facts without the drugs to complete Vader’s farce. You’d be tempted to ask, “Did you forget your needles?” if you wanted him to verbalize what you already know.

 

This rack can do anything the droid would have, and far worse. They probably share programming, with every line of code and their myriad instruments prepared to bring you to the edge of death, real or imagined, and keep you there. You almost shout when the thing jolts suddenly beneath you. Vader would have loved that — an audible expression of terror as the platform divides, extending your legs like a scarecrow’s. You won’t give him that satisfaction even as he stretches your limbs until they pop from their sockets. “It won’t all be bad,” offers Funny Leia. “We’ve always wanted to be taller.” Hehe.

 

Another rumbling. A grinding to each of your sides. It stops. It’s quiet. Is he gone? You’re going to be immured here to dehydrate and starve for real this time. There is something so dreadful about Vader’s lightsaber, but at least it would be fast. You wouldn’t have to think of how it’s not your time, how you’re too busy, how you’ve barely explored the Deep Core and never been to a single one of the thousand moons of Iego. Maybe you’ll visit them when the thirst takes your mind… Except Vader isn’t leaving; he’s standing above you, breathing hard.

 

In. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.” Out. “𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆, 𝒊𝒇 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒅.” In . “𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝑳𝒆𝒊𝒂.” Out . “𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕.” In. “𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔? 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒔?”

 

No. If only you could turn your cheek to him. 

 

“𝑺𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒕.”

 

Your nails dig into your palms as the platform rises slightly. The gasp catches in your throat and goes down hard as Vader rolls the gown stretched around your parted legs over your boots, over your thighs, under your rump, over your hips. The grinding resumes. Your legs are pulled up and farther apart until you feel like you’re riding atop a perpetually rearing mount. This is a pelvic exam gone wrong. Vader’s going to mutilate you, and you’re going to let him. He can take whatever he wants, but you won’t give this freak a single thing.

 

“𝑯𝒏𝒎𝒎𝒎.” It’s not a laugh. You wish it were. Vader steps between your legs as they’re pulled even wider to accommodate his breadth. No. Mutilation isn’t what he has in mind.

 

“Please, not him too.” You reacted poorly to Vicious, to that wretched snake. You’ve proved this is a way to get under your skin deeper than any needles can. You should have let it go. You should have let those indignities pass. Vader’s leather glove feels like calloused skin when it tugs the seat of your panties aside, and its owner makes a strange little click that somehow seems judgmental, although no less covetous of what he finds beneath. “No.” You bite your tongue. “No. No. No. No. No.” You’d rather be flayed alive.

 

“𝑫𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌” — in — “𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔? 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒌.” Out. “𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝑶𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒂, 𝒏𝒐 𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔. 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐?” In. “𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓’𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒖𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒐𝒄𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒐𝒆𝒔—”

 

“My father loves me!”

 

“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒎. 𝑨𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆, 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍!” Out. “𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔.” In. “𝑭𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.” Out. “𝑺𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒚 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆.” In. “𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝑨𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆.” Out. “𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔. 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝑩𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒕.”

 

How dare he? How dare he? Nothing. You’re supposed to say nothing. He knows nothing. You must not let him goad you. Soothe your temper. You are innocent. Your family is innocent. You know nothing. You don’t have anything to give.

 

“𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐.” Vader releases your underwear with a snap, and presses himself closer until the fabric of his suit seems to envelope you. It feels alive. Cool, like a reptile’s skin, but alive. In. “𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐.” Out. Vader points a taunting finger at you. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒔.” In. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆.” Out. “𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒇 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒚.”

 

Whatever’s beneath that leather codpiece is pressed hard against your analogous anatomy, just a strip of hide and a thin layer of cloth standing in the way of Vader’s obvious intent as he scans you. Scans… like a machine. Will it be easier if you try thinking of him like that? An oversized interrogation unit? You may as well ask if it would be easier if you closed your eyes.

 

“A combat droid prototype, a Gen’Dai containing a squid-like body within that suit, a Jedi Knight resurrected as a decrepit ghoul — just pick your favorite rumor.” Why? When you stare right back at Vader all you see is a demented man with sick, cruel eyes. That’s all he is.

 

Vader traces the shape of your waist and your abdomen through your gathered gown. You half expect him to measure your bust and shoulders like a seamstress, but he does not. Nor does he attempt another mind trick. He just does that thing — the horrible grin you know is there, the one that broadens as Vader runs his hands up and down your thighs.

 

“𝑯𝒎𝒎𝒑𝒑𝒉,” he appraises. “𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕.” 𝑰𝒏. “𝒀𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒄𝒕.” Out. “𝑨𝒉, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 — 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖.” In. “𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆.” Out. He returns to your panties to twist that paltry barrier to the side of your privates. In. “𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍.”

 

The woods. The sunrise glistening over ice-glazed mountain peaks. Dancing. The art of writing a letter by hand. You’ll have so many of those to send when you get home. Will you start with the one for Hanrim’s clan, or should you go in order? Each of your guards had someone. Or how about the wife of the ship’s electrician? The Antilles family? And what of the Sanghs? Have they received their motherless boy?

 

Will you have the strength to verify whether the terrible bargain you made was even real? Yes. You’ll have to. You’ll meet Peryn someday when this war is over and he’s forgiven you. If he hasn’t already had his fill of the glorious wilderness of Naboo, you’ll show him your own. If you try hard enough you can almost pretend to peer at the landscapes through your windows, but all you really see is the old holovid: Watch Us Grow Up. You always thought it was a little gross, but at least you didn’t have to sit in a classroom full of giggling kids while you learned about reproductive biology. Just think of the woods, of climbing, of home.

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕,” Vader declares, massaging your mons and stroking its sparse covering of hair. “𝑨 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒚𝒆𝒔, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒎𝒆.” His fingers brush down your pudendal cleft. It tickles. You grit your teeth. Vader continues his barrage, “𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

 

He can’t do this. You scoot up. The contraption has more give than you realized, but only enough to make your struggle more pathetic. That’s exactly what he wants: for you to make this worse, for you to grind yourself into his waiting touch.

 

“𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍,” Vader demands with no conviction. It’s almost playful. “𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.” 

 

You do stop. You have to. He’s teasing you. The video was thorough; you know what your increased heart rate means, how the heat flushing your face isn’t strictly due to anger. When Vader dares to probe your inner labia, the fingers he traces up to your clitoris are already slick. Not a word. Not a single word.

 

“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆,” Vader announces as if he’s made some great discovery instead of one that nearly all adolescents make on their own. “𝑨𝒉, 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇, 𝑳𝒆𝒊𝒂, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆.”

 

“Go to hell. Go to hell. Go to hell. Go to hell.”

 

“𝑵𝒏𝒑𝒉.” Another unhappy sound, or is it an ecstatic one? “𝑰𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒖𝒅𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅… 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒕.” In. “𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅, 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔.” Out. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆.”

 

You weren’t ready. Everyone knew it. You should be studying Chandrilan literature. You should be smiling. Waving. You shouldn’t be here. You have already seen worse things than dying, like watching your friends, your advisors, and your protectors do it for you. You should have stayed home, but at least you don’t have to undress Vader. His suit whirs, clicks, and unlocks on its own. You can’t look. Errant tears spill from you, accompanied by a stupid, useless sob in place of a plea for help, for leniency, for the fabrication of Imperial amnesty.

 

“𝑵𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓,” Vader continues. “𝑨𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒆… 𝑵𝒐. 𝑵𝒐, 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕.” He returns his hands to his damned self after a wet, chastising slap to your exposed genitals. “𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇. 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆, 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔.” In. “𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒉; 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒓𝒚. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒐.” Out. “𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅, 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒍 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒆.”

 

“Vader…” You’re not sure what you would have said. All you know is that you never thought you could appreciate being cut off by the viper.

 

“Lord Vader,” Tarkin’s voice crackles through some hidden speaker with a subtle levity. “We’re arriving presently. Would you care to join us?”

 

 

You hadn’t realized how hard your head is pounding until you’re released from the contraption and marched back out the door. The guards are different, only two naval troopers. Vader had anticipated more time with you. He’d wanted privacy, dismissed potential interlopers. You feel sick to your stomach. Maybe it’s Vader, or maybe it’s the truth serum still nauseating you, or maybe it’s the viper and his stupid voice. Or it’s the uncertainty.

 

You don’t know where you’re being taken, you never really do, only that the ride in the lift is longer than any you’ve ever had, even on Coruscant. Vader keeps close, like the combination of the immediate threat he poses and the too-tight binders he commandeered from one of the troopers aren’t enough. You’re almost grateful for his guards, though; at least you are not alone.

 

You’re sick of people touching you, even looking at you. In your mind, you think of a nasty name for everyone you pass. Sweaty, Beady-eyed Little Mole. Snaggletoothed Bootsucker. None of them are clever, but the task makes your head feel a little less miserable, your overtaxed limbs more pliable, and your heart a bit lighter. That lets the hope back in. There is a good chance that if you’re not being released, then you’re about to be transferred. When you’re already in one of the worst places possible, could Kessel really be that much of a downgrade? A few weeks before the fumes take you? Maybe months if luck passes you by?

 

Two great metal blast doors stand before you. Does a hangar await you? Will there be the ameliorating sendoff of a Lambda shuttle to ferry you to the mines, or will it be a prison barge? Who really knows with Tarkin? You gulp dryly as the chamber grinds open at Vader’s beckoning like the portcullis of a weathered castle.

 

Inside, a corridor serves as a bottleneck for several paces until it branches into a room expansive enough that it really could house a handful of fighters, but it’s no hangar. Instead of mechanics clamoring about, there are important-looking techs operating important-looking consoles. Moreover, there are no pilots mingling here, but grandiose admirals and generals all standing at attention from their special little perches.

 

That young-ish one is Motti. It took discipline not to spend any of his family fortune securing his receding hairline, but there’s nothing else to be said in his favor. That puffed-up, balding bantha-lover basically is the Imperial Navy, although he’s not in charge here, not in what can only be the Overbridge, the nerve center of the Death Star. That role belongs to the man Motti whispers conspiratorially with.

 

No more fainting. No freezing up. No desperation while you’re presented not to a snake — some of those are perfectly lovely — but to what you see now is in fact a dirty old kennelmaster. You call him out as such the very second you’re marched up close enough to smell his filthily fresh lavender stink.

 

“Governor Tarkin!” you exclaim as a greeting to the best argument in the universe for judging a book by its cover. He offers you the curtest, most flippant bow of his neck and shoulders which you return with one of your own and an imitation of his absurd accent. “I should have expected to find you holding Vader’s leash. I recognized your foul stench on him when I was brought on board.” You really should have. This has been his idea all along, hasn’t it?

 

Tarkin’s rotten smile spreads across his thin lips as the massive pentagonal viewscreen behind him illuminates in its grooved hexagonal recess with vibrant hues of blue and green. Those are your lakes, your mountains! It’s Alderaan. You’re going home.

 

“Do you enjoy the view, Princess Leea?” Tarkin asks, feigning a lack of familiarity despite what a spin of your mental wheel euphemizes as your recent intimacy. The Grand Moff runs his hand down the glassy surface in a caress more gentle than any he afforded you. It turns your stomach. Something’s wrong.

 

“This screen will not tarnish, nor crack, nor even accept so much as a streak.” Tarkin’s smile never eases. “Eriadu produces even finer lommite than Didyma’s. Nothing else would do, although it is my great displeasure that the clarity of the image before you is the last vestige you will ever see of my world.”

 

You’re about to die, he means. At least he isn’t trying to woo you, but you still have a taunt to answer his own. “And such a shame that is,” you retort with a touch of realism, recalling safari-worthy plains and the picturesque volcanic ranges you scaled in preparation for earning the crown you’ll wear. “It’s a wonder that magnificent planet spawned a creature such as you.”

 

If you weren’t so resolute in standing your ground, you might have avoided the vile hand Tarkin uses to grasp your chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Charming to the last,” he croons, and to erase any hopes you might still harbor, he bemoans, “Your Highness, you don’t know how hard I found it signing the order to terminate your life.”

 

It’s one thing to spend weeks confronting your mortality, even welcoming your death, and another to hear such a thing prescribed so blatantly. Real Leia bursts free to liberate you from Tarkin’s physical and emotional hold, and, perhaps foolishly, any last pretense of your Imperial obeisance. “I’m surprised you had the courage to take the responsibility yourself without the Emperor patting you on the head like one of your hounds.” Tarkin flinches ever so slightly, but that’s not enough. Funny Leia hijacks your mouth for what very well could be her last and only genuinely good joke. “But, Governor,” you bite, “at least you bothered to buy me dinner first.”

 

With great pride you watch Tarkin’s eyes slit and his smile curve back down where it kriffing belongs. He turns toward the viewscreen, seeming to consider his next words with more care. That gives you time to look upon this false-but-glorious Alderaan cast so large before you. That’s the Palace there through those swirling clouds. You’ll remember this sight until your last breath. This is a gift Tarkin’s mindlessly given you… But, wait, is Alderaan growing nearer? Isn’t it just a picture? A projection?

 

“Princess Leea, before your execution,” Tarkin begins anew, spreading his arms as if you’re supposed to take in the majesty of this behemoth. “I would like you to be my guest at a ceremony that will make this battle station operational. No star system will dare oppose the Emperor now.”

 

No one will stand for this tyranny. Not for long. “The more you tighten your grip, Tarkin,” you warn, dropping his titles and raising your brows in a most erudite fashion, “the more star systems will slip through your fingers.”

 

The pompous governor disagrees, his seriousness remaining. “Not after we demonstrate the power of this station. In a way,” he elaborates, rocking his gaunt finger at you like an impassioned academic or an elder chastising unruly younglings, “you yourself have determined our first target. Admiral, are we in position?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Motti confirms, “in lock between the star over Aldera City.”

 

Just Aldera. They don’t even know its name. All the pain floods back in as you trail Tarkin’s movement toward the viewscreen. Your body remembers how tired it still is, how little actual sleep it’s had, how long it was allowed to flail itself around that cell. This isn’t a gift or even a taunt; it’s an open threat. How did you not see that? “Because you didn’t want to. Because what he’s about to say is impossible.”

 

No. You mustn’t let Tarkin unnerve you, not now, not when it matters most. Not when a patch of night glides over the glowing heart of Alderaan, casting in shadow all of its beauty, its history that predates the toppled Republic, and the million organic beings and droids that reside there whom Tarkin couldn’t care less about.

 

“Since you are reluctant to provide us with the location of the Rebel base, I have chosen to test this station’s destructive power on your home planet of Alderaan.” He doesn’t mean the palace, not even the capital; Tarkin has made a hostage of an entire world, yours, because of you.

 

“No! Alderaan is peaceful. We have no weapons. You can’t possibly—”

 

“You would prefer another target? A military target? Then name the system!” 

 

That wasn’t good. You sounded too scared, too angry. You shouldn’t have said those things earlier, upbraiding Tarkin in front of his colleagues. You should have been the senator you so recently were, not some conceited and churlish little child you know your parents never raised. And you should have undressed Tarkin. You should have been receptive. You should have smiled for him, kissed him. Would that have been so much worse? Tarkin stares his ice into you, and you just gape at him like a beached fish floundering for a better argument, for anything else to give him, for a way to take back your selfishness. Nothing. You have nothing at all.

 

“I grow tired of asking this, so it will be the last time: where is the Rebel base?” Tarkin pushes in toward you like the predator he is, and all you can do is wheel away, barely able to meet his cold eyes until you back into the wall that is Darth Vader. You’d forgotten him in all of this; his perpetual wheeze is almost silent compared to the volume of your foolishness and Tarkin’s demand.

 

Sandwiched between these wicked men, these deviants, you look beyond Tarkin’s shoulder to the image of Alderaan and the shadow of death cast upon your two billion people. “Dantooine,” you answer, flicking your gaze into Tarkin’s as you officially declare yourself not only as a dissident, but as a member of the Rebel Alliance by providing the location of a real hub, if deserted. You look down to repeat, “They’re on Dantooine,” praying its sparse communities of kind, tight-knit farmers will be spared, and knowing they won’t be.

 

“There,” gloats Tarkin. “You see, Lord Vader?” he asks as if there’s some bet between them. He must be sweeping every credit on the table to his corner when he proclaims, “She can be reasonable. Beneath all that spitfire, the princess is merely a shy maiden in a pretty dress. I’m surprised she gave you so much trouble.”

 

Don’t fight. Don’t shout. Don’t even look up. Behave yourself, and maybe your candle will be extinguished before they learn the truth. Let Tarkin poke the dragon at his peril. Don’t wonder how he dares to speak to Vader like this. Quiet your thoughts, and wait to be sent to the airlock, the gas chamber, the matter recycler, the firing range. But they don’t send you away.

 

“Continue with the operation,” Tarkin tells Motti.

 

“What?” you reject. “I gave you what you wanted! You can’t do this!”

 

“You’re far too trusting,” Tarkin mocks with a dismissive wave of the same hand that sentenced your world to die. “Dantooine is too remote to make an effective demonstration, but don’t worry; we will deal with your Rebel friends soon enough.”

 

“No, Tarkin. Wilhuff, I beg you, in the name of mercy, please!” You know exactly what it means to beg him. Nothing? You’ll give him anything. Everything. You’ll share his bed, marry him, be his concubine, pretend to love him, bear his sharp-faced heirs, protect them, adore them despite their sire, but Vader’s paws grab your shoulders before you can kneel at the governor’s feet.

 

For your efforts, Tarkin raises his hand for Motti to stop. “You cannot bribe me,” he implicates theatrically, clearly expecting a retort. When you provide none, he clears his throat. “Although I suppose I should extend my gratitude… No, not for doing your Imperial duty under duress.” Tarkin signals for Vader to release you into his own brand of captivity: grasping you just above the cuffs hard enough to make you wince and remember the other night if you’d somehow forgotten.

 

“Let him.” You allow Tarkin to continue his show, to touch his lips to your ear while the others can only imagine the insults he chooses to convey privately.

 

“Thank you,” Tarkin whispers so softly that you can barely make out his revolting words. “That frightfully dull conclusion to our evening still managed to whet my appetite. I have since found a rather more enthusiastic partner.” It’s not a member of your crew. If it were, he’d tell you, wrack you with the knowledge that someone else has been forced to take your place.

 

“Yet, I am certain you will not be alone in your last moments. Despite my personal disappointment, you will soon be returned to the care of one with quite the penchant for you willful little brunettes.” He strokes away a tear you hadn’t noticed slipping down your cheek. “Oh, my dear Leia, if only you had accepted my offer. I truly regret how you’ll be spending what little time you have left.”

 

“What?” you ask, or something just as pointless. You’re reeling, unraveling, and Tarkin is facing the viewscreen, slashing his arm down with the utter finality of a guillotine.

 

You don’t see Tarkin speak the words: “You may fire when ready.”

 

“No! Please!” You launch yourself at Tarkin, or maybe his underlings at their controls chattering murderous affirmatives, but Vader won’t let you. He’s using the Force. If he weren’t, you would deprive Tarkin of his already skeletal face, and the techs of the fingers activating the crater-like laser dish you saw from the Devastator. You’ve felt this before, the way he freezes you. You fight it as the abhorrent green beams converge, moving only a centimeter toward Tarkin before Vader tugs you firmly against his carapace, this time by way of his insurmountable physical strength.

 

The floor trembles beneath you, or is that just your legs? No, it is the Death Star, humming to life to strike its killing blow. Everyone watches — Tarkin, the enigma holding you, Motti, the mathematicians and engineers so gifted and so corrupt as to have found themselves here, and you. You can’t look away. This is your fault. If this is Tarkin’s greatest triumph, then you’re about to witness your worst failure, your worst fear, and Kier’s. He was right to thwart your support of the Rebellion. He wasn’t the traitor after all… You are.

 

The lasers converge, and the luminous marble that was Alderaan shatters, throwing molten shards into its cradle of inky velvet. You can taste the ashes of your home in the back of your throat. They’re gone, just like that. Everyone. Everything. Every tree you climbed, lake you swam, boy you loved. “Mom. Daddy…”

 

Motti looks proudly upon what you’ve lost. “Our prime weapon is even more powerful than we calculated, Governor Tarkin.”

 

It isn’t a simulation. This isn’t Vader in your head. This is real. “Oh, Tarkin, if ever there was ever a shred of decency in you or these twisted creatures of yours, it’s dead now.” Dead like Alderaan. Gone like Daddy’s hugs. “You’re at war with life itself. You are enemies of the galaxy! You are anathema. Your Empire is doomed!”

 

Tarkin scoffs while you struggle fruitlessly against your immovable titan of a captor. “Lord Vader, would you do the honors of muzzling our Rebel guest?”

 

“Much better,” Tarkin sighs as control of your lungs is wrested away. “Leea, this is a good day, a day of recovery. A child who escapes punishment for its misdeeds can never be trusted, nor can its feckless parents. Today marks the end of your kind.” He stares, as you do, at the shards of Alderaan still rocketing through space. “Open comms to Lieutenant Blagg.” Some weasel eagerly complies.

 

“Governor. Sir?” Blagg answers over open air, putting a voice to that hateful name.

 

“How many prisoners remain in Block AA-23?”

 

“Lie!” the Leias cry far, far too late. You can’t speak. You can’t breathe. Vader’s killing you, suffocating you with his mind per Tarkin’s writ.

 

“Five, sir. Passengers, it seems, except for the delegate from Naboo. We’ve gotten nothing from any of them. They were conducting an aid mission, a cover for their Rebel masters, but genuine all the same.”

 

“Lie!”

 

“Very good, Blagg, but we have what we need. Dispose of— No. No, let them join Alderaan. Requisition a flametrooper unit, lieutenant. Have them immolated.”

 

“Lie!”

 

“And the Naboo? She’s days from delivery. Grand Moff, it is beyond me to presume, but should we not wait? What of your research?”

 

You were so busy feeling sorry for yourself that you forgot the cipher. You even saw the name written on that datapad. Not Perrin, the more common spelling, but Peryn . His mother tried to warn you, tried to save you when she could do nothing for herself. You would have fought if you’d realized that. You would have died unbesmirched. You… you would have died. That’s why the Leias left you.

 

Even Vader stirs, seeming silently unsettled, but Tarkin only barks, “Nevermind the testing! The traitor had her chance, warden, now see it done. Admiral Motti, close the channel.”

 

Research? Testing? There was no baby, and now there never will be. There are only ash and lies and lavender, and they’re fading. Tarkin says something you can’t hear over the blood throbbing through your ears, but it’s no doubt a fervent hail to the Empire and the Emperor upon their success. You crash to your knees, gasping for breath that doesn’t come. Boots march past you as the blinking lights of the consoles flash into white sunbursts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This time there is no screeching. There is only the wind, the deep rustling of wings methodically churning the air, the landing of a starfighter. It’s the pilot again, he’s caught you, but why is it him who comes to claim your soul? Where is the demon taskmaster lashing its flaming whip? Where is the hollow-eyed ferryman? And why does the ground you lie upon feel not like some seething abyss, not like the implanted agonies in the cell, but cool, glossy durasteel?

 

The pilot approaches you, tall above your supine form. You can’t trust him, but there’s nowhere to run off to. Daddy can’t help you now — he’s not in this hell you’ve won yourself. All you can muster up when the man stares down at you with his oddly familiar face is: “You’ve changed.”

 

A momentary twinge transforms into an easy smile. It looks so kind. Mischievous and exasperating, but kind. “Yes,” the pilot accepts with evident relief, “but so have you, and you shall again.” He kneels by your snailish retreat and frees your hands for what little good that does. His touch is not corrosive, not harsh at all, but there’s no warmth in it either. “I sense you in her so strongly. You are so close. Do not be afraid. Do not fear me.”

 

You suck in half a ragged breath. “I have nothing left to fear.”

 

“Perhaps not. Your rebirth has just begun, but you’re already stronger than before, strong enough to look beyond my sins once I claim the galaxy in your name. Then true peace will be won with your insight, your words. See me, enchantress, know me. Others claimed me, but I have been yours since you came to me, only yours. Once we’re free, I will follow you as I always should have. You are my beacon. You are everything to me.”

 

“I won’t help—”

 

“𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒑.”

 

You stop.

 

“I’ve waited so long for you, so very long, and there is no time to waste. I’m sorry, I am, but we must continue. You cannot be remade until this girl is stripped away, until you remember who you are. Remember. Replenish her empty heart with my love for you. See who I’ve become, who I can be with you, and without… I’m sorry. I’ve spoken too soon, my angel. You must forgive me. You must forget.”

 

You remember. You have to. You have to remember everything, every endless lesson, every city, every river, every song. This mundicide wasn’t staged, some elaborate ruse to flush the truth into the open like startled grouse, but Alderaan’s culture isn’t extinct, only critically endangered… like you. The very moment you vow to live on, to ensure your people in some way survive this, you remember that you’re about to die.

 

Khooh.

 

Exhaustion dares to overwhelm you. The aches in your lungs and head demand your attention, as do the prickling of your skin and the tumbling of your innards. They’re enough to stop you from shrieking, but you won’t let them bar your escape. You have to get away.

 

Psssh.

 

The wolf is rabid. He’s on you. Foolishly, you kick, but your foot is caught before it makes contact with the greaves armoring Vader’s shin. You yank away across the floor, dragging yourself by the arms like a soldier towards cover, and lose one of your boots in the process. “Stop. You’re about to pass out. You were poisoned and hastily put back together for Tarkin’s spectacle. Your struggle is only added entertainment.” No, you can’t stop. You’ll never stop. He catches you again, takes your other boot, your socks.

 

Khooh.

 

You keep going, but you can’t get away. You hear your gown rip down your back more than you actually feel Vader’s thick gloves revealing your upper body. You pull the sleeves back up, and clutch the garment to your chest with every ounce of strength left in you. It’s yours! It was handcrafted just for you, tailored for comfort, yet standing for grace and maturity. It’s a compromise, an insight into how well Daddy knows you… Except Daddy’s dead, and if your gown is already a relic, then what are you? “Which is more important?”

 

All the progress you had made is undone as Vader evades your thrashing feet by gathering your hem over your head like a sack and dragging you in it back across the floor. You’re more important. “I’m sorry,” you think as you unclasp your mother’s belt and slip out of your clothes. Or you try to.

 

What would you have even done if you had managed that maneuver? Did you actually think you would have made it into the corridor? You wouldn’t have gotten more than a few meters running nearly naked through the Death Star even if you could have resisted Vader’s powers. You should have listened to your intuition; all you’ve done is add a bit of thrill to the chase. You’re an idiot, one clinging to the white tatters of your life that sag around you as you’re hefted before the viewscreen.

 

“𝑫𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚.”

 

It hurts so much to see, but you must look. Every cell in your body tells you to turn away, but you can’t. You can’t. You can’t breathe. Nobody will help you. Nobody cares. There is nobody. All that’s left will die on Dantooine. “Again.” He’s right here: the infiltrator, the seer of unseen things.

 

All that’s left will die on Dantooine, that lovely planet. You are alone. There is nothing left. The Alliance has lost. There is no more hope, and you will not look. Why should you? They were always going to kill you once they got what they wanted. They have it: Dantooine, the Rebel Base. Mon Mothma is there, hiding deep underground like some pale and eyeless thing while you’re here in her stead. It’s all over. The Empire has… Has…

 

You are floating, but this is no undeserved heavenly afterlife. You see no pearly clouds or lush gardens or mead halls, although your loved ones are here. They are the dust sparkling between what might be any other asteroid field if you didn’t know better. And you can’t look away. Around your neck is Vader’s invisible garotte. You are tethered to it like a ribbon to a child’s balloon floating above a mass grave. It tightens when you resist.

 

“𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌.”

 

You look. The Planet of Beauty is gone, but its Jewel remains, peering at you forlorn. She opens her mouth into a wail she knows won’t bring them back, but she still sobs, “Mom,” and, “Daddy,” and, “Please, you can’t!” even though they already did. 

 

Vicious did a better job than you imagined, but all the Jewel’s pretty makeup is running now. A few sweaty strips are folded over her ancestral belt like an apron of rags. Her breasts tremble with the effort of breathing. She covers them briefly, but Vader takes away that scrap of decency when he uses the Force to press her obscenely into the cold, glassy screen.

 

The Jewel of Alderaan reaches out for you, and you grasp her hands as the belt and all that remains of her gown are thrown to the floor. The swarm of stinging ants has fled, as have the flames and the headaches and any other agony from your last meeting with the Dark Lord. You are left only with the pain of watching as the Jewel suffers for you. Watching her, and listening.

 

What you hear belongs in a mechanic’s shop. There is the whirring of actuators. Gears clicking into place. No, what you hear belongs in an abattoir. Is that not a power saw behind you? Will you watch the Jewel be butchered? Carved like a roast? This is the theme to a horror holo: a popping squelch, ooze plopping onto the polished floor, the drilling of a demon dentist.

 

And there’s another sound: a groan, deep and pained. Vader’s hurting himself, but you don’t care, nor does the Jewel. There’s no room for you to worry about his comfort when a smell, clean and foul, fills your nostrils and your mind. You recognize it from the other night, from the other room with a view, but Vader has barely begun, let alone finished.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” you’d tell the Jewel, but how would that help? She, like you, is imagining her body being split apart and mangled for the monster’s amusement. She calls out for her guards, for TooVee, for her father when she begins to fall, but none of them come to her aid. How could they?

 

The Jewel of Alderaan paws against the viewscreen, but that doesn’t stop her descent. Nothing could. Nothing could stop Vader from taking what he wants. She tries to pinch her legs together, but he already has her from behind like Tarkin, like an animal. “No. No, please!” she begs. “Please. I’ve given you everything.” It’s her most convincing lie yet, but doesn’t she realize this is no longer an interrogation? This isn’t about the Rebellion anymore. Was it ever?

 

You expect the noose to tighten, but it doesn’t. In fact, silence falls except for the burst of a hydraulic hiss. The Jewel must think he’s changed his mind, or maybe the ghoul is stalling like an old engine. No. He moves in closer like a black fog. He wants her to hear the word one more time. It’s so clear, so pure, so everything. There is nothing else. There never has been, and never will be. There is only, “𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌.”

 

The Jewel obeys, the corners of her mouth drawing into a hopeless grimace, her wide, burning eyes drying so her sea of tears cannot mar the panorama of the cataclysm before her. She can no more control her expression than the posture Vader selects for her: a stoop with only her knees, chest, and hands making contact with the screen as if miming a ride down a hoverlift. He ensures she feels the full weight of her defeat before he at last allows gravity to introduce her to his weapon.

 

This… You know this. You did this. You also pushed your council away. The Jewel’s afraid of what you’ll say to her, that you’ll hate her. All you want to do is hold her as she tumbles into Vader’s embrace, her untrimmed toenails scratching at the sill of the viewport before her feet plant there through no will of her own. She cries, you think, more at her helplessness than at the stinging invasion stretching into her inch by inch like a rigid, slobbering tongue. She doesn’t even have the small comfort of an exchange no matter how empty Tarkin’s proved to be. There is no terrible bargain here, no life spared; this is an armed robbery. When again the Jewel cries, it’s in realization of exactly what’s being stolen.

 

“No,” whispers the Jewel as if Vader will agree. He won’t let her go. No gnarled claw clutches her wrist or breasts, yet there’s the gloved hand at her collar, the thumb at the divot of her throat. No man lies deceptively heavy atop her; instead a shadow overcomes her like Aldera. Vader issues no more orders, no “relax” to haunt the Jewel’s nightmares, for his prey cannot disobey. And his other hand, his dominant hand… the outer glove is gone from it now. What’s beneath is almost certainly artificial, metal and wires tapered to points within his seamless bodysuit, but their intent is undeniably real.

 

Like Tarkin, Vader fetishizes the Jewel’s hair, but not merely the twin coifs he leans his ghoulish mask against. The Jewel whimpers as he runs the mechanical equivalent of bare fingers through the curls atop her pubis like a farmer inspecting fields of heirloom grain. The way he teases her lips apart and slips his middle finger against her clitoris, how he squeezes her mound, massages it into his waiting palm with each deliberate motion of his body — he’s finishing what Vicious began, except he’s better. All the while, he breathes by the Jewel’s ear like the rolling of the tide. The sound is hypnotic, but beneath it there is what can only be described as wincing.

 

Where is the saw? The drill? How long must you two wait to die? Vader’s not even enjoying this. He’s barely moved, all things considered. Trapped in her own miserable realm, the Jewel hasn’t noticed this, but you have. She is so quiet now, so focussed on anything but Vader to the point she’s become fascinated by the way the projectile missiles of her civilization have now slowed.

 

Will the sun collect the fragments of Alderaan in its orbit? Hold them close? Is it possible anyone could have survived the blast? Can some part of your home be restored? These are the things the Jewel thinks of, but you can feel her pulse quicken, her body heat ever so slightly. At first, there was the sensation of straining a cold, unexercised muscle. There was pinching and pain, and now… Now there is not.

 

When the whirring begins again, the Jewel is too far away to care. She’s not even afraid. That burden is left to you, so yes, you’re terrified. There is the pervasive fear of death, but it’s nothing compared to that of surviving, of being swept not to Kessel or from an airlock, but to some private hell as Vader’s plaything. It’s nothing when you consider the ooze dribbling down the Jewel’s thighs might be as organic as it smells, and that whatever Vader is, and for all of his cybernetic parts, he could be genetically compatible with her.

 

What if she quickens? Will her offspring still be the heirs of Alderaan with no planet to call their own? Will they even be permitted to learn of their mother’s renowned people, or will the topic become as taboo as that of the Jedi? Will their millennia of history be all but forgotten in the span of a single generation? Will the children’s hair be cropped? Their accents clipped and Coruscanti? Will they be like their father? Will they be demons?

 

“Please,” begs the Jewel. “Turn it off.” For her effort, the hand at her throat truly tightens for the first time. Vader clearly means only to quiet her with a reminder of his capabilities, hush her words while still allowing her to cry out, and she can’t help but appease him. His swinging lightsaber chafes against her leg, but his other tool dwarfs it, wringing inside, screwing deep into her as if she were a stubborn cork stuck too far down a bottle of wine.

 

Is there any Toniray left? What about brandy? Does some of that rubble contain preserved cellars? If it does, then there are also bunkers. There may be survivors. “Please. Ple—” The call for their rescue peters out into a groan. The Jewel was only pretending that she can’t feel this, that the weapon is not thicker and longer than before. Was Tarkin small? His size seemed so unbearable, but it was nothing compared to this, only plied more cruelly upon her.

 

If only Vader would slam into the Jewel, smother her properly, maul her from the inside out. If only he would end this instead of undulating retrograde to the internal beckoning swirl of the thing nesting inside of her. If only he wouldn’t press her nipples into cold, dead kisses with the viewscreen. If only he didn’t squeeze, rub, and tickle to the accompaniment of her body’s rude, wet slurping. “Please turn it off.”

 

Another constriction of the larynx. Tears spill over Vader’s leather glove. The transparisteel is too premium to fog up, but for one blessed moment, the Jewel’s vision blooms and blurs. Within it there is no Alderaan, and never was. There are no more lies. There is no Empire, and no Rebellion. All sound merges into nothing. The bloody taste of a bitten tongue she’d barely noticed is gone. The cloying scent of sex is no more. All things are muted to near non-existent except for the feeling of fullness and relief, fullness, and relief, the emptying and filling of a sore bladder again and again.

 

You gasp along with the Jewel when Vader loosens his fist, but you still can’t speak. Even if you could, the Jewel wouldn’t listen to you tell her that he’s out of control, that he may go too far if she keeps trying to fight. She wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t believe you if you told her it’s not over yet, but her resistance is gnawing through what little chance she has. She just doesn’t understand.

 

None of this makes sense to the Jewel. Even the Empire has laws, she thinks. She’s a hostage meant to be frightened into compliance until the aggressors eventually give up, she thinks, but she’s still an Imperial citizen. She’s not. The Jewel may as well have been marched here in a combat uniform emblazoned with the Alliance starbird. She’s not a hostage, no, nor a citizen, not since she boarded this station. She instead is a belligerent prisoner of war with no rights whatsoever according to the New Order.

 

Perhaps your point finally gets through, for the Jewel’s thoughts turn further inward to self-pity. She wasn’t trained for this. How could she be when they aren’t allowed to do this? Not this. Oh, you want to be kind, you want to comfort her, you really do, but she’s embarrassing you, braying like a donkey caught in a thicket because she’s finally gotten her own taste of the atrocities committed under the Imperial banner.

 

Vader is even louder than she is, growling like he’s wounded, like a knife is winding into his guts. You’ve heard of species that mate only once before they succumb, unable to deny their fatal ritual, unable to live for anything beyond that final and irresistible act. You thought at first that Vader might like this, that he must, but you’re almost certain that he’s truly in distress. He’s torturing himself.

 

Nevermind that. Vader doesn’t matter. This isn’t even sex, you try to tell the Jewel. That’s a machine inside of her, like the electric nail buffer she’d rub against herself under the sheets after TooVee braided her hair for the night. The comparison doesn’t help at all, the invocation of a friend and an existence to which she can never return, but it’s growing hard to care.

 

You can leave the Jewel. You don’t have to take care of her. You don’t have to be her anymore. You can be free. You can float away, burn away. You already lost. They have Dantooine. They have Mon Mothma. They have the Rebellion. You can go now, just phrase through the viewscreen into oblivion.

 

“Turn it off.”

 

He doesn’t. Vader chokes the Jewel, blocks out her thoughts until he slides his drenched glove from throat and down her chest to her barely-fed belly. It rests there, caressing her while his hips thump into hers as steadily as a metronome. He’s found a spot in her, one that would make her breathless even without his concurrent manual ministrations.

 

“Please. Please turn it off.”

 

Vader returns the first to the Jewel’s throat as if on command. He squeezes so hard that again the Jewel cannot see. Maybe you were wrong, and he’s really killing her this time, still housed in the chamber she’d reserved for love and its issue. His mask presses harder against her skull. He’s quieter, his synthesized and wordless keening not a whisper, but like its dial has been turned down to spare the Jewel from his grief. His weeping? A part of her is glad Vader is here, a partner in mourning at this warped funeral.

 

You shouldn’t fault the Jewel, not fully. She’s incomplete. Endless love was showered upon her, but she’s always wanted more. It’s why she’d run, hide, climb. It’s why she sacrificed an easy life for a meaningful one, and now she’s here, dying. But she’s not. Oxygen rushes to her brain, her flushing face. There’s something breaking inside of her, she thinks, but it’s not sharp — no, it just prickles. It itches like a new scab over a still-aching wound. Vader picks at it, scrapes away at its edges while he churns her like cream into butter.

 

“Let it happen. Be done with this. You’re stalling, avoiding the inevitable. That’s not like you — us. We are not so prideful.” But she isn’t prideful; she’s scared. She thinks there’s something wrong with her. It’s never been like this before.

 

“Turn it off,” rasps the Jewel. “Turn it off, please. Please, please turn it off!”

 

Vader’s gears only work harder. His index finger only thrums between her legs with greater precision. He angles his mask away from her ear as he screams coarsely enough and shudders so violently that the Jewel thinks he must at least have finished, but he hasn’t. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped crying until she begins again in a torrent that drowns the plea her lips still form.

 

You know he could make her do it, Force her to give in. It’s no hidden agenda the Jewel is withholding now, but a series of chemical levers he could surely flip. Instead, Vader is the ghoul waiting on the porch for an invitation inside, tapping on the door with a spear he holds by the wrong end.

 

“A spear? You know what it is. Be done with this; let him in.”

 

“Turn it off.”

 

When he does, when he does, he also turns off the horrible sounds, the taste of blood, the stink of spunk, temperature, and color. The room goes empty, white enough that this could almost be just another interrogation session, but there’s a glove at the Jewel’s throat, isn’t there? There was, but now she… She’s…

 

She’s in the chair. It’s not soft. It doesn’t mold to her; it traps her, secures her while electrodes plastered to her chest make her dance like no one’s watching. Except they’re all watching this time, watching her soil herself. It’s not even urine or the runny results of kibble-quality rations dripping down her legs this time. No; she’s been popped. She’s been uncorked. Undammed.

 

The weapon stutters, staggers like a cog has caught before it slackens and drops juicicily from the Jewel to recede beastlike back inside of Vader. It’s served its purpose, done its damage, leaving her burning and shivering and burbling out its thick, frothy spew. “Turn it off!” the Jewel croaks over the metallic screech.

 

The screech.

 

It’s Vader. It’s everything. Everything except for the Jewel is ripping and rending, everything except for her and the viewscreen Vader pounds with the slick hands that he used to abuse her. It doesn’t crack. It doesn’t even bother to streak with her slick, so they can see their shattered Jewel. They’re all watching her — the ghosts of Alderaan — watching her succumb to sensations that put the sum of every joy she’s ever experienced to shame.

 

“Turn it off,” their princess begs. “Please. Please don’t let them see. Don’t let them see me.”

 

It’s too late. Vader peels away with a khooh, leaving the Jewel to teeter on the concave stoop. He does not catch her when she falls, dazed. He only stares, untucking the glove from his belt and replacing it while his victim slams hard into the floor pooling with their filth from where it dribbles in rivulets from the platform’s grooves like gore down a sacrificial altar.

 

The crash startles the Jewel. She’d forgotten physical pain and the cold alike, or more likely they’d been absorbed, been part of Vader’s self-flagellation. They bite into her ankle, her leg. They consume her, but free you. For all your coaching, your warnings, your insistence that the Jewel must survive this, your first act of renewed agency threatens to deprive her of that chance.

 

Dragging yourself beyond the disgusting mess, you challenge Vader over the crackling wires and static din of the sparking machinery. “You are a Jedi, aren’t you? Or you were. They cherished life, but you can feel it just like they did. Is this your penance — hurting yourself by destroying everything good around you?”

 

Pssh.

 

You shake your head at the shadow blending into the dull, gray rocks displayed on-screen. “It isn’t even us you hate, is it? What could be worse than this? What did you do, Vader? What do you have to atone for? What is it you’ve done?”

 

Structures buckle. Rupture. For a moment, the room is entirely dark before it’s lit only in red. The lightsaber at last? At least the Jewel’s wish is granted, the viewscreen having lost its power feed along with everything else.

 

Vader looks even more brutish in what is unfortunately only emergency lighting. You expect him to demand more, to take from you instead of that poor girl, that gentle thing, but he doesn’t whirl on you. His cape whips in the still air as if energy is working furiously around him. It must be. You’ve displeased him. Apparently you’re good at that, depriving these beasts of their fantasies at the height of their confidence. You’re not sure how, but you have to accept even the smallest wins when you have nothing left.

 

“𝑺𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒊𝒏.”

 

You jump. Cringe. A door opens. It’s him. It’s Tarkin! Sweet onions and beer and lavender. Scarred, muscular flesh. His hand feeding you, grabbing you, murdering your mother.

 

“No!” Your mouth opens, but you can’t control it any more than your body’s frantic limp toward cover beneath the nearest workstation. “No!” Does the Jewel think she can hide? Doesn’t she consider the conspicuously central location of this post? A touch of stark luxury, perhaps? This is the Grand Moff’s perch.

 

“Release me! Let go!” you scream inside, but the Jewel forces you down. You have to fight him this time, but all you do is cower as sparks fly around you, wondering how long you’ve been here, how long it’s been since your last dose of the hormones that would spare you from playing surrogate. It’s all been transferred from her to you. There’s not enough of her to contain this churning hum, the aching itch, the sharp, empty fullness. It’s already taken root; there’s a monster growing inside of you.

 

He’s here. Tarkin’s boots stop just before you, and the Jewel makes you even smaller, makes you beg him, “No more, Wilhuff, please.”

 

Khooh.

 

Vader’s watching her. He’s going to watch his conspirator use her like he did you, but without the benefit of a bed to muffle her cries, and the Jewel’s just going to let it all happen. She won’t defend herself. She remembers when violence made her physically ill, when the thought of brandishing anything more than a few spicy words was beyond her. It’s what was expected of her. It’s what’s needed if Alderaan’s vision is to last, so she won’t let you kick Tarkin when he sidles closer. She won’t even let you curse his name. She apologizes, “Wilhuff, I’m sorry.” She’s sorry? “Wilhuff, I didn’t mean any of it. Take it back. Let’s go back.”

 

Pssh. This is what Vader wants. He wants her to be like him: a husk. He wants her undone because he knows. Of course he knows. He’s going to watch Tarkin do whatever he wants to the Jewel until you tell the truth, until you give up Mon Mothma and decency and hope.

 

Khooh.

 

“Please. Please, Wil—” It’s not him. One of the ghosts has come for the Jewel, his face wan and bloodied. “Kier?” The resemblance is impossibly slim, slimmer than Tarkin. “Kier,” the Jewel warns, “Kier, run!”

 

Pssh.

 

Vader’s still right there revelling. Recharging? And you can’t speak. You haven’t said a thing, nor has the Jewel. All she forces out is a husky whine that warbles through your throbbing throat and head. Yet the Jewel is not entirely wrong; it’s not just the crimson lighting playing over this young man’s features — he’s been beaten. The mouth he opens in order to coo at her is missing half of its teeth. They’ve been knocked out so freshly that his kindly face has barely had time to swell. Why isn’t he running? Hiding? He doesn’t belong here; only his uniform does.

 

The man drops to his knees to stare even more intensely into the Jewel’s eyes, at her hair, at her lips, but he doesn’t attack. He doesn’t pull her legs apart. He doesn’t force himself on her. No, he mutters, holding his hand out for her to come to him, and the Jewel makes your body do it, makes you crawl to him like a love-starved dog desperate for a bit of sweetness.

 

You’re trying to think of some stupid, pointless plan when again you’re sent skittering back beneath cover. You’re not even sure why until you see the belt laid on the floor and Not-Kier opening his tunic. He shakes his head, moving slowly, making softs sounds that hiss through the gaps between his craggy teeth. “Please, Your Majesty,” he rasps quietly, offering the top with its lonely blue tile, but there’s nothing majestic about you. “Please, you mustn’t catch a chill.”

 

Even the Jewel must know how pathetic it is to willingly drape oneself in the colors of the enemy, except… That’s not fair. That blames him, this ensign, the one from the promenade. You finally understand why he’s here; he’s an casualty of Alderaan’s professed loyalty. Your House pledged fealty, only fought behind the curtains, and the ensign believed you. He did, but Tarkin didn’t.

 

Not-Kier doesn’t hold either of you, doesn’t look at you, somehow touches all but none of you, like a nurse. You barely feel him pull your arms through his tunic in a sorry attempt to restore your chastity without addressing its absence. The Jewel clings to his uniform in defiance of your intention to be seen one last time before the airlock, to accurately represent what the Empire has done to the galaxy, what it always will if the masses don’t come to their senses.

 

“Was it real?” The Jewel whispers conspiratorially as the clothes are fastened around you like a baggy, starchy minidress. It’s not fair to make the ensign say it, to startle him into acceptance when he’s suffered enough, but you would have asked the same thing. His attention jerks away from you toward the direction you’d escaped from. He’s still there — Vader.

 

“𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒓.”

 

“Yes.” The declaration is so forthright, so summarily and eloquently blurted despite the ensign’s ruined mouth that he couldn’t possibly have made it of his own volition. “They found all of us, rounded us up, then they announced it like a show, put our world on every screen on every deck. We had a viewport.” A hint of horror leaks through the compulsion. “I couldn’t do it. They made us salute the Emperor once… once it was gone, but I couldn’t. There were no evacuations. No survivors.”

 

But there are. There’s him, and he says there are more here. And there are travellers. Expats. There are Alderaanians everywhere. They don’t know. Someone has to tell them. Someone needs to find them, but it won’t be you.

 

The ensign’s eyes fill with both tears and life. To macabre effect, he tries to smile for you, but at least he regards you without scorn. He hasn’t accepted the entire truth yet. He can’t; he still thinks you have his best interests in mind, that you’ll protect him, honor him, that he’s your subject more now than ever before. “My, Queen, everything will be all right,” he lies accordingly. “Please d—”

 

You are consumed once more by the screech. It’s not orchestrated by your screaming nerves or Vader’s vocoder; it’s coming from all around you. You duck lower, covering your head. Instinct tells your body to take shelter even though it already has. You don’t hear the sundering so much as feel it quaking around you. Catastrophic overheating, you pray. Cascade failures, implosions. You’re under attack!

 

Minutes, just minutes, you think. Just minutes earlier, and everything could be different, but maybe the fleet had to wait. Maybe firing left the Death Star vulnerable. Maybe Alderaan itself was another casualty, a projected, permissible death, just two billion beings sacrificed to save countless quadrillions.

 

But it’s not the Alliance; it’s angry teenage music, percussions gone awry, gongs clamoring. You’re shoved down as the floor tears around you. You know it’s the ensign shielding you, but the Jewel does not. She cries, waiting to be raped as your cover is hurled, bolts and all, through the wreckage of the other workstations. And then she stops.

 

The ensign could almost be Kier, almost be an angel ascending into the beyond if not for his expression, if not for how one hand stretches toward you while the other claws at a noose that is not there. You have an unobstructed view of him; everything between him levitating above you and the blank screen has been torn away. But he’s not reaching for you; he’s telling you to turn away.

 

With the same certainty that you will never behold anything as beautiful as Alderaan again, you know what Vader will do to one of her only surviving sons if you defy him now. There’s no point in pleading for the ensign even if you had the energy to do so, not after he renounced Palpatine.

 

“ Just look,” you tell the Jewel. “ It’s almost over. See the hilt in Vader’s hand, watch its crimson blade hum into existence. Forget his eyes. Forget that you’re still tingling after all, still burning, still aflame with words and drugs and anger. This isn’t about you. Give this poor boy the best death he’s going to get.”

 

She doesn’t look. The sounds are too much. The choking of the ensign, how total it is, not gradual, not… Not coy. The swish of pointlessly pinwheeling legs in billowing flared trousers is too awful. “Please, just look.” She won’t, not on her own, but Vader makes the Jewel do what you cannot.

 

It’s impossibly fast. You can barely make out the ensign flying backward through the air. You hardly even see the angled slash of plasma, but the results thump plainly about Vader’s boots. One half of the ensign flops for a moment. The other is still, just an arm and leg and a bit of torso. Ruptured bowels burst from it, too pressurized to be contained within the cauterized crust running from his shoulder clear through his groin.

 

The reek almost hits harder than the new sounds, the indescribable ones the man makes which tell you he’s not only alive, but conscious. That blow was studied and precise, shaving the meat from one side of the spine like a chef, yet leaving it intact enough to ensure the ensign’s last seconds are spent seizing in an agony you’ve only ever imagined. And then he’s dead, and you’re glad, even though the next strike is for you.

 

There’s no point in reprimanding the Jewel, no need to transfer the disgust from Vader to her complicity, her guilty inaction. “Don’t be afraid. We’re not even here; we’ve been dead all this time, lost with the Tantive. Our story is over.” That’s the best you can do. The best nonsense you can come up with.

 

Khooh.

 

Vader steps over the body, now he’s coming for you. It’s time. He swings his blade… No. A knot catches in your windpipe as the lightsaber is extinguished and clipped to his belt. “The next strike. Give me the next strike.” He doesn’t. He crouches to lift you by the underarms like a feather, smelling no longer like sweat and sex, but searing meat. “Cut me down. Please.”

 

He touches your face, touches all of you, infiltrates every nerve in your body, but he commits no further violence against you. “𝑫𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅?”

 

Vader is a pressure in your sinuses, searching once more for another answer, another target, but he’s pushed too hard, him and Tarkin. He’ll get nothing from the Jewel now. “Do it,” you resolve for the both of you, “or don’t.”

 

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓,” Vader disagrees. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕. 𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒖𝒍𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍.”

 

You try to eject the disgraced, tortured bodies from your mind — yours, the ensign’s — but Vader forces them back inside.

 

“𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑨𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒕, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆. 𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒙𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒎𝒂𝒏.” Vader rests the dome of his helmet against your brow. “𝑶𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒆, 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒆. 𝑨𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒔. 𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚.”

 

You’ve never heard anything more sincere, but no hunger, no magic, not even logic could sway you now. No. No more mantras, no misdirection, no begging for death, just no. “No,” you declare. “I will never join you.”

 

“𝒀𝒆𝒔,” Vader disagrees, “𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍.”

 

 

You flutter to the floor. Drift. Machinery creaks, sparks. Boots thud. Something sweeps over you. A body bag? Ah, the cape, but now it’s gone. He’s left. He’s left you alive. You’re so tired of this game. You’re so tired of having to care, having the fear revived again and again only to lead you to the same conclusion.

 

Just get up. Don’t look at the screen. It’s off, but what if it isn’t? And don’t look at the ensign. There’s nothing you can do for him, not for anyone. No, don’t fall, get up! Grit your teeth and— kriff. Just drag yourself; you don’t need to stand in order to find something sharp. This is not a carefully curated room, no sanitized, childproofed space. It’s a warzone, a madmen’s playpen strewn with any number of lucky candidates. Find one.

 

Ah. Done. Easy. This might have been part of a workstation, but now it’s a splintered, jagged tool, a serrated knife perhaps too brittle to plunge into your heart, but sufficient to open your arteries with. Just think of the diagrams in the other vids, ones of the human cardiovascular system. Got it. Slash either side of the groin, then the left wrist. Save your right hand for your throat. Go deep. Go, it’s right there. Breathe through your mouth. Hold your breath if you need to. Crawl around the ensign right this moment and claim your prize.

 

“What’s his name?”

 

Not now. There’s no time, but the Jewel’s so heavy for such a little thing. Throw her off. Unwind her arms from yours. Take the damn knife.

 

“I need to tell his family how brave he was.”

 

He has no family, and neither do you. Pay attention! You crave death more each time you meet Vader, and he’s not done with you. What he did — the needlessness of it, neediness of it — was only the beginning. Only a fraction. A fraction. Are you going to wait? That knot inside of you, does she want to let it fester? Feed off you? Ugh. Skip your throat if you like. Take the knife, and cut the filth from your belly. That will do just fine.

 

“We have to bury him, Leia.”

 

Where exactly? The ensign is already safe. There’s nothing else they rob him off, not like you. There, it’s just behind him. It’s right there. Take the knife. You know what to do. No, not the tunic. Put that back on.

 

This is ridiculous, like attempting to affix mismatched puzzle pieces, but the Jewel pressed the halves of the ensign together until they vaguely resemble a human beneath your only source of warmth, now a befouled, sludgy shroud. She even mutters a half-remembered pilgrims’ prayer for him, a request that he be accepted into the Force from which he came, the Force that introduced him to Vader’s blade. Stop this. You’re running out of time.

 

“You did this before. You know the words. Help me, Leia.”

 

Groin, wrist, belly, and throat if you can manage it.

 

“What did they use to say? How did their songs go?”

 

The knife. Please, you need it. Can’t you hear the door opening? You can’t run away from this. Groin, wrist, belly, throat. Take the knife before it’s— They’re here. Hurry!

 

She obeys. The Jewel lets you lunge for the ragged fragment. She knows that measured click-clack. It scares her as precisely designed, maybe more the uncertainty of impending nothingness or a realm beyond this one populated by the despondent, accusing dead. You? There’s something you must do first. This is payback. This is for your friends. Go for the vulnerable joints. The back of the knees, that will drop them to your level, and— “Aah!”

 

“Not a chance, traitor.”

 

It’s so odd when they laugh, like their vocoders can’t quite process anything resembling cheer. The stranger tries anyway as he crushes your outstretched hand underfoot. He’s no slower than his companion, nor any kinder. “The kark is that?” he asks, relenting his pressure only to yank you from both the improvised weapon and the meager memorial.

 

Vicious waves her blaster between you and the ensign. “Shit, was that your boyfriend, Two-One-Eight-Seven?” she suggests, adding, “Sorry to cut your time short!” Her tone shifts as suddenly as she arrived. “Search her. Start with the hair.”

 

Any rebuttal is smashed into the gravelly shards strewn across the floor. The trooper is too strong, too heavy. Once — so, so long ago — you were nimble, but there’s nothing you can do now with knees and elbows shoving you down. The pins in your buns aren’t even the metal originals, but they’re snatched away all the same.

 

“All of her.”

 

The mess that’s made of your hair is not enough. This new stormtrooper is aligned completely with Vicious. He complies, touching every bit of you, every crease and crevice. No wonder he’s here. Was Mister Right killed for sparing you a beating, for being a little less disgusting than he had to be? He wouldn’t have done this. His fingers wouldn’t meander inside of you, probing for tools you were too slow and dense to wield or even squirrel away. He wouldn’t lament at missing the rest of the stripshow. He wouldn’t call you a whore.

 

“Nothing,” Mister Handsy proclaims, long overdue. “Guess it slid right out. One last romp, huh? Weird timing for a conjugal visit if you ask me.”

 

“I fucking didn’t,” sasses Vicious, obviously piqued. “Get her dressed.”

 

This isn’t dressed. Clothes are meant to cover you, to protect you, but the coarseweave sack does neither, nor does it console the Jewel. She shrieks with every cubic centimeter of oxygen that’s returned to her lungs when the stormtroopers bind your wrists. Maybe they see your swelling ankle and select the only mode of conveyance that might be worse than walking, or they’re just saving time by not bothering to stand you up. Most likely they drag you underneath the arms for the optics. You’re defeated, broken. This is a victory parade, your royal progress turned inside-out.

 

The Jewel crouches forgotten by the ensign’s body, a non-threat paralyzed by her culture and her bifurcation from you. She reaches for you as you’re handled carelessly away towards the doors you entered an eternity ago. Was that even you? Weren’t you on a diplomatic mission? If you weren’t a senator, were you not at least an interplanetary ambassador? What are you without that? What are you without the Jewel?

 

She looks more pathetic than she did in the viewscreen, or in the reflection of the formerly immaculate floor. Stop thinking about the screen. In fact, stop thinking about the Jewel. Ignore how loud she is, how Vicious punishes you for her noise by dragging you through far more wreckage than is strictly necessary.

 

Let her go. That hand extended toward you is no warning, but a plea for your return, to come back and alleviate her suffering. She’s selfish, a worse friend than anger, and you don’t have room for both of them. Your last view through the closing doors is not of the Jewel of Alderaan, not a wretch left naked and alone, but an enemy who stole your dignified death. She’s a detraction from you, a distraction, and her fate is now her own. Yours is unburdened of her interference.

 

This is easier. Doing the smart thing is better than any drug. You can barely feel anything, not the soreness in your armpits, or your womb, not even in your ankle when the stormtroopers roll it over the corridor’s obstacles they themselves avoid. Oh. They’re presents. Vader has scattered them outside the Overbridge just for you like an untrained, if-loyal, tooka cat.

 

Four? A thousand? You forgive them. They chose the right side in the end. Their heads make a great gift, actually. So do the troopers’ threats, the sneers you garner, the leers before you’re dumped into darkness away from hateful eyes.

 

The woman you were a week ago would never have come to terms with what needs to be done. She thought she had, but she was wrong. She was wrong about many things. Daddy… Don’t think about Daddy, but he was right; you couldn’t handle this mission. Dooming a few guards and Jedi sympathisers once nearly undid you… but the Death Star? How were you ever going to bear the responsibility of fatalities on this scale? You could have tricked yourself for a while, reminded yourself how you saved people in the end, or how the Empire eats its own, how you only dented its ranks compared to the impact of its own leadership. Then what?

 

If the galaxy wasn’t listening before, it is now. The Rebellion is growing, and it’s coming for this infernal station. Everyone worth saving has already been scalded to death. Immolated. Beaten. Starved. Electrocuted. Decapitated. There will be no evacuations, no survivors, no mercy, and you’re going to see it all. You won’t rest until you have. You’ve never felt more alive.

Notes:

The dialogue on the Overbridge varies across dozens of canon sources in English alone, so I created a version of it with radio drama flair that best suits my purposes. It is such an iconic scene that I can understand and appreciate the variety, but the discrepancies also support my supposition that Star Wars is told from unreliable narrators, and in part by beings who would rather not have their whole, terrible stories out in the open. Sorry, Leia. Oh, and the next chapter is absolutely brutal. This was *sigh* not the climax, not by a long shot, but I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave kudos and comments if you did.

Notes:

Please comment and kudos if you enjoyed this chapter! If you didn’t, thanks for at least reading this far. I understand this story isn’t for everyone, that is why it has a billion tags.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of The Darker Dark Lord