The Fondor Shipyards were burning.
Not literally—that would come later—but metaphorically, in the sense that the entire administrative structure of the facility was currently experiencing the kind of catastrophic failure that occurred when Darth Vader decided to conduct a "routine inspection" with extreme prejudice. Alarms blared through corridors that had been designed for efficient starship construction, not desperate evacuation. Workers scrambled for escape pods that were already being tractored into the Devastator's hangar bays. And somewhere in the executive levels, a group of would-be rebels were learning a very important lesson about the consequences of sedition.
Vader strode through the chaos like a black-armored god of destruction, his cape billowing behind him in defiance of the station's artificial gravity, his respirator providing a steady rhythm of mechanical breathing that had become the soundtrack to nightmares across the galaxy. In his wake came a squad of stormtroopers who were doing their best to appear useful while simultaneously staying far enough behind their commander to avoid any stray acts of violence.
The intelligence had been solid: a cell of rebel sympathizers had infiltrated the shipyard's management structure, using their positions to divert resources and sabotage production schedules. They had been clever about it, hiding their activities behind bureaucratic incompetence and statistical noise, building a network that Imperial Security had taken months to unravel.
They had not been clever enough.
"Lord Vader," the stormtrooper sergeant reported, his voice crackling through his helmet's communicator, "we've secured the primary suspects in Conference Room Aurek-Seven. They're claiming diplomatic immunity."
Vader paused mid-stride, his helmet turning slowly toward the sergeant in a motion that conveyed absolute incredulity despite his complete lack of visible facial features.
"Diplomatic immunity," he repeated, his vocoder making the words sound like a death sentence being pronounced.
"Yes, my Lord. Apparently, several of them hold minor titles from various Outer Rim worlds. They're demanding to speak with the Senate."
For a moment—just a moment—Vader allowed himself to appreciate the sheer audacity of the claim. Diplomatic immunity. As if pieces of paper and political connections meant anything to a Sith Lord with a lightsaber and absolutely no patience for legal technicalities.
"Escort me to Conference Room Aurek-Seven," he commanded. "I will... address their concerns personally."
The walk took approximately four minutes, during which time Vader entertained himself by reaching out with the Force to sense the emotions of his targets. Fear, naturally—fear was the baseline for anyone awaiting his arrival. But beneath the fear, he detected defiance, self-righteousness, and the unshakeable conviction that their cause was just and their martyrdom would inspire others.
Idealists, Vader thought with something approaching contempt. The galaxy is full of them. Little people with big dreams who think they can challenge an Empire with good intentions and strongly worded manifestos.
He was going to enjoy crushing them.
The conference room doors slid open at his approach—because of course they did, everything opened for Darth Vader whether it wanted to or not—revealing a scene that was almost comically pathetic. Twelve beings sat around an oval table designed for executive meetings, their wrists bound with stun cuffs, their faces displaying varying degrees of terror and determination. Most were human, but there were also two Twi'leks, a Bothan, and something that looked like a Rodian who had made some unfortunate life choices.
At the head of the table sat the apparent leader: a human male in his fifties with gray hair, distinguished features, and the kind of expensive clothing that screamed "inherited wealth and misplaced confidence." He rose as Vader entered, his bound hands held before him like he was about to deliver a sermon.
"Lord Vader," the man said, his voice carrying the cultured tones of Core World aristocracy. "I am Baron Aldric Veers of the Veers family of Denon. My cousin is—"
"General Maximilian Veers," Vader interrupted, because he absolutely knew who General Veers was and had always considered him one of the few competent Imperial officers in the original timeline. "I am aware of your family connections, Baron. They will not save you."
The Baron's composure cracked slightly, but he pressed on with the kind of stubborn dignity that the aristocracy seemed to cultivate like a particularly useless crop.
"These charges are baseless. We are loyal citizens of the Empire, businessmen seeking only to—"
"You diverted seventeen million credits worth of construction materials to a hidden depot on Ryloth," Vader cut him off again. "You sabotaged the production of three Star Destroyers, delaying their completion by an average of four months each. You provided classified shipping schedules to known rebel sympathizers. And you did all of this while congratulating yourselves on your moral superiority."
He stepped closer to the table, and every being in the room seemed to shrink backward despite their seated positions.
"Did you think the Empire would not notice? Did you believe your titles and connections would protect you from the consequences of treason?"
"We are fighting for freedom!" one of the Twi'leks shouted, her purple skin flushing with emotion. "The Empire is a tyranny, and every being with a conscience has a duty to resist!"
Vader turned his attention to her, studying her with the clinical interest of a scientist examining a particularly deluded specimen. She was young—late twenties, perhaps—with the kind of passionate fire in her eyes that suggested she had never experienced the true cost of the ideals she espoused. Her lekku trembled with emotion, and her figure—like every woman in this Force-forsaken dimension—was absolutely ridiculous in its proportions, her simple worker's coveralls doing nothing to conceal curves that would have been considered physically impossible in any sane reality.
Even the rebels are built like holovid starlets, Vader noted with the resigned acceptance that had become his default response to this universe's aesthetic choices. The Force really does have a twisted sense of humor.
"Freedom," he repeated, letting the word hang in the air like a blade waiting to fall. "You speak of freedom as if you understand its meaning. As if you have any conception of what true freedom requires."
He raised one hand, and the Twi'lek rose from her chair, her body lifting into the air as the Force closed around her throat with the gentleness of a durasteel vice.
"Freedom is power," Vader continued, watching her feet kick helplessly above the deck plates. "The freedom to impose your will on the galaxy. The freedom to crush those who oppose you. The freedom to take what you want without asking permission."
He released her, and she collapsed back into her chair, gasping and clutching at her throat.
"You have no power. You have no freedom. You have only delusions and a death sentence."
The Baron was on his feet again, his aristocratic composure now fully shattered. "Please, Lord Vader—we can be useful! We have information about other cells, other networks! If you spare us, we can—"
"You misunderstand the situation," Vader interrupted. "I am not here to negotiate. I am not here to interrogate. I am here to make an example."
His lightsaber ignited with a snap-hiss that silenced every voice in the room.
"The Empire does not tolerate traitors. It does not bargain with rebels. It does not show mercy to those who would undermine its authority."
He moved.
What followed was not a battle—battles implied some degree of resistance, some possibility of an alternative outcome. This was an execution, pure and simple, conducted with the brutal efficiency that had become Vader's trademark. His crimson blade sang through the air, leaving trails of light that ended in screams and the sizzle of cauterized flesh.
The Baron died first, his expensive clothes providing no protection against plasma that could cut through starship hulls. The Twi'lek who had spoken of freedom died second, her passionate words cut short along with everything else above her shoulders. The others fell in rapid succession—businessmen and idealists, aristocrats and true believers—all of them reduced to cooling corpses in the space of approximately fifteen seconds.
When it was over, Vader stood alone among the dead, his blade casting crimson shadows across walls that were now decorated with considerably more abstract art than they had been moments before.
The stormtrooper sergeant appeared in the doorway, took one look at the conference room's new decor, and wisely decided not to comment.
"My Lord," he said, his voice admirably steady. "What are your orders regarding the remaining shipyard personnel?"
"The facility administrators who enabled this treachery will be executed publicly," Vader commanded, deactivating his lightsaber. "The workers will be questioned and reassigned as appropriate. And send a message to the Denon planetary government informing them that the Veers family's holdings are now forfeit to the Empire."
"At once, Lord Vader."
As the sergeant departed to relay orders, Vader allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Twelve rebels eliminated, an entire network exposed, and a powerful noble family brought low—all in a single afternoon's work. The message would spread across the Core Worlds like wildfire: no one was too wealthy, too connected, or too clever to escape Imperial justice.
This, he thought, is how you maintain order. Not through laws and courts and bureaucratic procedures, but through fear. Pure, simple, undeniable fear.
It was a philosophy that Marcus Chen would have found horrifying in his previous life. But Marcus Chen was dead, and Darth Vader was very much alive, and the Dark Side's approval hummed through his circuits like a lover's caress.
He had work to do.
The Devastator's officer mess was not a place where Vader typically spent his time. The atmosphere—filled with the nervous energy of subordinates trying to eat their reconstituted protein cubes without drawing the attention of their terrifying commander—was not conducive to either relaxation or productivity. But today, he had a specific purpose: observation.
Mara Jade sat alone at a corner table, her meal untouched, her green eyes fixed on a datapad that she was clearly only pretending to read. She had been aboard the Devastator for three weeks now, shadowing his operations with the kind of intensity that would have been concerning if he hadn't already known exactly what she was.
The Emperor's Hand. Palpatine's personal assassin, spy, and instrument of targeted violence. Trained from childhood in the ways of the Force, conditioned to absolute loyalty, and assigned to "observe" Vader's activities in a way that was definitely not surveillance.
Except it absolutely was surveillance, and they both knew it, and the elaborate dance of pretending otherwise was becoming increasingly tedious.
What Vader had not anticipated—what no amount of Expanded Universe knowledge could have prepared him for—was the fact that Mara's observation had taken on a distinctly... personal quality.
She watched him constantly. Not just during missions, not just during briefings, but during every moment she could arrange to be in his presence. She found excuses to visit the bridge when he was commanding, to train in the gymnasiums when he was practicing, to walk the corridors when he was making his rounds. And her emotional signature in the Force had shifted from professional detachment to something considerably more complicated.
She's developing feelings for me, Vader had realized approximately one week ago. The Emperor's personal assassin, trained from childhood to be a weapon of the Dark Side, is developing romantic feelings for a seven-foot-tall cyborg who breathes like a malfunctioning ventilator.
It was simultaneously flattering, disturbing, and absolutely ridiculous.
"Lord Vader." Mara's voice cut through his contemplation as she approached his position near the mess hall's entrance. She moved like a predator—all coiled grace and contained lethality—but her eyes held something that wasn't quite predatory. Not yet, anyway. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. I assumed you didn't require... sustenance."
I don't, Vader thought. My suit handles all nutritional requirements through chemical injection. I'm here specifically to observe you, which you probably suspect but can't confirm.
"I observe my crew from time to time," he said instead. "Morale is a factor in combat effectiveness."
"Of course." Mara's lips curved into a smile that was entirely too knowing for a fifteen-year-old. "Speaking of combat effectiveness, I reviewed the Fondor operation. Your technique was... impressive."
"The rebels were not challenging opponents."
"No, they weren't." She stepped closer, close enough that he could sense the heat of her body through his suit's external sensors. "But that's not what I found impressive. It was your efficiency. Your economy of movement. You eliminated twelve hostiles in less than twenty seconds, with no wasted effort, no unnecessary flourishes. It was..."
She paused, searching for the right word.
"Beautiful," she finished.
She finds mass murder beautiful, Vader thought. She has been trained from childhood to see death as art, and she's looking at me like I'm Michelangelo with a lightsaber.
It was profoundly concerning. It was also, if he was being honest with himself, slightly gratifying. Marcus Chen had never been the object of anyone's admiration in his previous life—not for his IT skills, not for his Star Wars knowledge, certainly not for his physical appearance. Now he was being admired by a beautiful, deadly, and absolutely unhinged young woman who saw his capacity for violence as an attractive quality.
The universe really did have a sense of humor.
"The Sith way is efficiency," Vader replied, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Wasted effort is wasted power. Every motion should serve a purpose."
"That's what my Master taught me." Mara's eyes flickered with something—devotion? Resentment? Both?—at the mention of Palpatine. "But watching you, I feel like I'm only beginning to understand what he meant."
She's comparing me favorably to Palpatine, Vader noted. That's either incredibly useful or incredibly dangerous. Probably both.
"Your Master is wise," he said. "You would do well to remember his teachings."
"I always do." Mara's smile widened slightly. "But there's value in learning from multiple sources, don't you think? The Emperor teaches wisdom. You teach application."
Before Vader could formulate a response—preferably one that would discourage this line of conversation without drawing suspicion—his comlink chimed with an incoming priority transmission.
"Lord Vader," Captain Screed's voice crackled through the device. "You have an urgent communication from Imperial Intelligence. Classification: Omega Black."
Omega Black. The highest classification level in the Imperial system, reserved for matters that could affect the stability of the entire Empire. Whatever this was, it was serious.
"I will receive it in my private quarters," Vader replied. "Inform Intelligence that I am en route."
He turned toward the exit without acknowledging Mara's presence further—a deliberate snub that he hoped would cool her increasing interest. Based on the flash of determination he sensed in her Force signature, it had the opposite effect entirely.
Brilliant, he thought, striding through the corridors toward his quarters. Playing hard to get apparently works on teenage assassins. That's definitely not going to create problems later.
The Intelligence report was waiting on his private terminal when he arrived, its contents protected by encryption that would have taken a dedicated team of slicers weeks to crack. Vader entered his personal codes, dismissed the security warnings, and began to read.
By the second paragraph, his mechanical hands were clenching into fists.
By the fifth paragraph, he was seriously considering traveling to Coruscant just to strangle someone.
By the end of the report, he had to actively suppress the urge to tear his quarters apart through sheer Force-powered rage.
KAMINO DECOMMISSIONING ORDER.
The words burned in his vision like accusations. According to the Intelligence summary, Emperor Palpatine had authorized the immediate cessation of all clone production facilities on Kamino. The remaining clones would be phased out over the next several years, replaced by conscripted and recruited stormtroopers from across the Empire's population.
The justification, according to the official documentation, was "economic efficiency." Clones were expensive to produce, required specialized facilities to grow, and represented a potential vulnerability if the Kaminoans ever decided to rebel. Recruited soldiers were cheaper, more numerous, and could be drawn from a population that had obvious self-interest in the Empire's continuation.
It was, Vader realized with mounting fury, complete and absolute bantha fodder.
The clones are BETTER, he wanted to scream at whoever had authorized this idiocy. They're genetically engineered for combat, trained from birth, conditioned for absolute loyalty! They don't question orders, don't suffer from morale problems, don't desert or defect! A single clone is worth a hundred regular soldiers, and you're throwing them away for BUDGET REASONS?!
He remembered the Clone Wars from Anakin's memories—remembered fighting alongside men who would have walked into reactor cores if he ordered it, who protected their Jedi commanders with fanatical devotion, who never hesitated and never faltered. He remembered the 501st Legion, Anakin's personal command, soldiers who had followed him into battles that should have been impossible and emerged victorious through skill and determination.
And now Palpatine was replacing them with... what? Volunteers who signed up for three meals and a retirement plan? Conscripts who would bolt at the first sign of serious resistance? Academy graduates who had never seen real combat before their first deployment?
It was insane. It was strategically suicidal. It was the kind of short-sighted decision that would come back to haunt the Empire when—
Vader paused, his rage cooling slightly as realization dawned.
This is deliberate, he thought. Palpatine isn't stupid. He knows the clones are better. He's replacing them BECAUSE they're better.
An army of perfectly obedient, incredibly capable soldiers was a threat. Not to the Republic's enemies, but to Palpatine himself. The clones answered to their chain of command, and that chain of command could be altered. If a Moff or an Admiral—or an apprentice—ever convinced the clones to follow them instead of the Emperor, Palpatine would face a military coup that he might not survive.
But an army of regular soldiers? An army of individuals with families and futures and self-preservation instincts? That kind of army could be controlled through politics, through propaganda, through the threat of consequences for their loved ones. It was weaker militarily, but safer politically.
He's crippling his own military to protect his throne, Vader realized. He'd rather have a mediocre army that can't threaten him than an excellent army that might.
It was, objectively, a rational decision from Palpatine's perspective. The Empire faced no external threats significant enough to require clone-quality soldiers, and internal security was better maintained through fear than through firepower.
But knowing the reason for the decision didn't make Vader any less furious about it.
He had spent decades in his previous life reading about the Empire's eventual defeat, analyzing the strategic and tactical mistakes that had led to its downfall. The switch from clones to stormtroopers was one of those mistakes—a decision that seemed sensible in the short term but created long-term vulnerabilities that the Rebellion would eventually exploit.
The stormtroopers who missed every shot at Luke Skywalker hadn't always been that incompetent. The clones who preceded them had been elite soldiers capable of taking on Jedi and winning. The decline in Imperial military effectiveness wasn't an accident—it was a consequence of this exact policy, a choice to prioritize political control over operational excellence.
And there was absolutely nothing Vader could do about it.
Oh, he could protest. He could bring his concerns to Palpatine, point out the obvious military disadvantages, argue for maintaining at least some clone production for elite units. But the Emperor had already made his decision, and challenging that decision openly would only draw suspicion.
He's testing me, Vader thought suddenly. He knows I'll disagree with this order. He's watching to see if I complain, if I show initiative, if I demonstrate independent thinking that might threaten his control.
The realization cooled his rage further, replacing it with cold calculation. Palpatine was always playing games, always probing for weakness, always looking for signs that his apprentice might become a threat. The clone decommissioning order was bait—an obviously bad decision designed to see how Vader would react.
Fine, he decided. I'll play along. I'll express mild concern, accept the Emperor's judgment, and make no effort to circumvent his orders. Let him think I'm properly broken and obedient.
But somewhere, in the back of his mind, Marcus Chen was filing this moment away as yet another reason why Palpatine needed to die. The Empire could have been great—could have brought genuine order and stability to a galaxy plagued by chaos. Instead, it was being systematically weakened by a ruler who cared more about his own survival than the survival of his creation.
When the time comes, Vader promised himself, I will remember this. And I will make it right.
Three days later, the Devastator received new orders that pushed all thoughts of clones and military policy from Vader's mind.
Alderaan.
The transmission was routine—a standard diplomatic inspection of one of the Core Worlds, the kind of show-the-flag operation that the Empire conducted regularly to remind its member systems of the price of disloyalty. Vader was to meet with the planetary government, assess their loyalty, and report any signs of rebel sympathies.
It was, on the surface, exactly the kind of mission that should have been assigned to an Imperial Governor or a Moff rather than the Empire's supreme military enforcer. But Vader knew the real reason Palpatine had sent him.
Bail Organa.
The Senator from Alderaan was one of the few surviving members of the old Republic's political establishment, a man who had been instrumental in the transition to Imperial rule while simultaneously harboring sympathies that were decidedly treasonous. In the original timeline, Organa had become one of the founding members of the Rebel Alliance, using Alderaan's resources and his political connections to build an opposition movement that would eventually destroy the Empire.
Palpatine knew. Of course Palpatine knew—the Emperor's spy networks were extensive, and Organa's sympathies were hardly subtle to anyone paying attention. But proving treason was different from suspecting it, and Alderaan was too politically important to accuse without solid evidence.
That was why Vader had been sent. Not to find evidence—evidence was irrelevant when you could sense lies through the Force—but to intimidate. To remind Organa that the Empire was watching, that his position was precarious, that one misstep would bring consequences that no amount of political maneuvering could prevent.
And Vader knew something else about Alderaan. Something that made this mission considerably more complicated.
Leia.
Princess Leia Organa, daughter of Bail and Breha Organa by adoption, daughter of Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala by blood. The girl who would grow up to become a leader of the Rebellion, a hero of the Alliance, and eventually the mother of a new generation of Skywalkers.
His daughter.
Vader had been aware of her existence since his awakening—Anakin's memories contained the knowledge that Padmé had given birth before dying, and Imperial Intelligence had long since confirmed that the Organas had adopted a newborn infant in the immediate aftermath of the Empire's founding. Connecting the dots had not been difficult.
What he hadn't known, until now, was how he would feel about meeting her.
The shuttle descended through Alderaan's atmosphere, and Vader found himself experiencing something that he refused to categorize as nervousness. Darth Vader did not get nervous. Darth Vader was a Dark Lord of the Sith, the terror of the galaxy, the monster who haunted children's nightmares. He did not experience anxiety about meeting an infant who had no idea who he really was.
But Marcus Chen, buried somewhere beneath the layers of persona and adaptation, was absolutely freaking out.
That's my daughter down there, the inner voice whispered. Or she will be. Or she already is? The metaphysics of reincarnation are confusing. But the point stands—there is a child on that planet who shares my genetic material, and I have no idea how to handle this situation.
The problem was multifaceted.
Option One: Ignore Leia entirely. Pretend she was just another face in the crowd, pay no special attention to her, complete the mission and leave without revealing any connection. This was the safest option from a cover-maintenance perspective, but it felt wrong in ways that Vader couldn't quite articulate.
Option Two: Take Leia. Claim the child as his own, remove her from the Organas' custody, raise her in the ways of the Dark Side. She was Force-sensitive—she had to be, given her parentage—and with proper training, she could become an incredibly powerful Sith. A worthy heir. A partner in eventually overthrowing Palpatine.
But this option had problems of its own. The original Leia had been instrumental in the Rebellion's success, a leader who inspired loyalty and sacrifice from everyone around her. If Vader took her now, that future would never happen. The Rebellion might still form, but it would lack its most important figurehead—the princess who gave the movement legitimacy and purpose.
And there was another consideration, one that surprised Vader with its intensity: he didn't want her to become what he had become. The Dark Side was power, yes, but it was also corruption, isolation, endless pain that could never be satisfied. Leia deserved better than that. She deserved a childhood, a family, the chance to grow into the hero she was meant to be.
I want to be a good father, Vader realized, the thought crystallizing with unexpected clarity. Even if I can never acknowledge her. Even if she never knows who I am. I want her to have the life that I... that Anakin... threw away.
It was a strange feeling for a Sith Lord. It was probably a weakness. But it was also the first genuinely good impulse that Vader had experienced since his awakening, and he found himself unwilling to dismiss it entirely.
Option Three, then: Meet Leia, ensure her safety, and leave her with the Organas. Let her grow up as a princess, let her become the leader that the Rebellion needed, let her live the life that would eventually lead to the Empire's downfall.
It was, objectively, a terrible decision from the Empire's perspective. Vader was essentially allowing a future enemy to develop right under his nose, choosing sentiment over strategy.
But he was going to do it anyway.
Because somewhere, beneath all the armor and the anger and the Dark Side's seductive whispers, there was still a man who wanted his children to be happy. Even if that happiness came at the cost of his own empire.
The Alderaan Royal Palace was exactly as beautiful as the holovids had depicted it—all white stone and flowing water features, elegant architecture that spoke of a civilization devoted to art and culture rather than military power. The Organas met Vader in the main reception hall, a space designed to awe visitors with its grandeur and remind them of Alderaan's proud heritage.
Bail Organa stood at the center of the hall, his bearing regal despite the obvious tension in his shoulders. He was a handsome man in his forties, with dark hair graying at the temples and eyes that held considerably more steel than his pacifist reputation suggested. Beside him stood Queen Breha Organa, a woman of striking beauty—because of course she was, this universe apparently had laws about female aesthetics—whose curves were barely contained by a gown that would have been considered formal wear in any other context but here just emphasized how ridiculously proportioned every woman in the galaxy seemed to be.
And in Breha's arms, wrapped in blankets of softest Alderaanian silk, was Leia.
Vader's first thought, upon seeing his daughter for the first time, was that she was impossibly small. Barely three months old, her face was a tiny pink oval dominated by dark eyes that seemed to focus on him with unusual intensity for an infant. Wisps of dark hair curled around her head, and her mouth was open in what might have been curiosity or the precursor to crying.
His second thought was: She's adorable.
There was no other word for it. Despite everything—despite the Dark Side, despite his new identity, despite the persona he was supposed to maintain—Vader could not look at that tiny face without feeling something dangerously close to tenderness.
She's beautiful, he thought, and the thought came with Anakin's voice, with Anakin's emotions, with a surge of love so powerful it threatened to crack the carefully constructed walls he had built around his new identity. She looks like Padmé. She looks like an angel.
"Lord Vader," Bail Organa said, his voice carefully neutral. "Welcome to Alderaan. We are honored by your... visit."
The hesitation before "visit" was telling. Organa knew this was not a social call. He knew that Vader's presence meant scrutiny, suspicion, potential danger. And yet he stood his ground, projecting a calm that his Force signature did not support.
He's terrified, Vader noted. But he's hiding it well. No wonder he became such an effective rebel leader.
"Senator Organa," Vader replied, his vocoder stripping any warmth from the words. "Queen Breha. I am here on the Emperor's business. I trust you will provide full cooperation with my inspection."
"Of course." Breha stepped forward slightly, shifting Leia in her arms in a way that was probably meant to be protective but only served to give Vader a better view of the infant. "Alderaan has always been a loyal member of the Empire. We have nothing to hide."
Yes you do, Vader thought. You're hiding my daughter from me right now. You're hiding your connections to other rebel sympathizers. You're hiding a whole resistance movement beneath this veneer of pacifist compliance.
But he said none of this. Instead, he found his attention drawn inexorably to the child in Breha's arms, his optical sensors focusing on details that his conscious mind catalogued with something approaching desperation.
The shape of her ears. The curve of her chin. The way her tiny hands opened and closed as she processed the world around her.
She was three months old. She had been born in the ashes of everything Anakin Skywalker had loved, orphaned by his own actions, adopted by people who had every reason to hate her biological father. And yet here she was—alive, healthy, apparently happy, completely unaware of the monster who was studying her with the intensity of a man who had never expected to feel anything again.
"A beautiful child," Vader heard himself say, and the words emerged before he could stop them.
Bail and Breha exchanged glances that held volumes of unspoken communication.
"Thank you, Lord Vader," Breha replied carefully. "Leia is our greatest joy. We are... blessed... to have her."
You are, Vader thought. You're blessed because I'm choosing to leave her with you. You're blessed because I'm choosing her happiness over my own desires. You're blessed because even monsters can love their children, and I love her already, and I hate that I love her because it makes everything so much more complicated.
Leia chose that moment to make a sound—not quite a cry, not quite a laugh, something in between that drew everyone's attention to her tiny face. Her dark eyes seemed to focus on Vader's mask, studying the black helmet with the fearless curiosity of someone who had no concept of what that mask represented.
And then, impossibly, she smiled.
A tiny, gummy, three-month-old smile, directed straight at the most terrifying being in the galaxy.
Something cracked in Vader's chest. Not physically—his artificial heart was functioning perfectly—but emotionally, spiritually, in whatever part of him was still capable of feeling things that weren't rage or hatred.
She's not afraid of me, he realized. She has no idea what I am, what I've done, what I will do. She just sees a person standing in front of her, and she's smiling because that's what babies do.
It was, without question, the single most devastating attack anyone had ever launched against his defenses. Lightsabers he could deflect. Force techniques he could counter. Rebel assassins he could crush without effort. But the smile of an infant daughter who didn't know she should fear him?
That was a weapon against which he had no defense.
"Lord Vader?" Bail's voice cut through his internal chaos. "Are you... well?"
No, Vader thought. I am absolutely not well. I am experiencing emotions that I was fairly certain I had purged from my system, and they are extremely inconvenient.
"The child is Force-sensitive," he said instead, because it was true and because it was the kind of observation that Darth Vader would logically make. "The Emperor should be informed."
Terror spiked in both Organas' Force signatures—pure, primal, protective terror that any parent would feel when a predator noticed their child.
"Many children show traces of Force sensitivity," Breha said quickly, her arms tightening around Leia. "It usually fades as they grow older. I'm sure it's nothing—"
"I will monitor the situation," Vader interrupted, and he allowed his vocoder to soften slightly—not enough to be noticeable, but enough to ease the razor's edge of threat in his words. "Force-sensitives are valuable to the Empire. If the child's abilities develop, she may have a future of great importance."
It was, technically, true. Leia's Force abilities would develop, and she would become important—just not in the way the Empire would prefer.
"Of course, Lord Vader," Bail said, his voice strained but controlled. "We will keep you informed of any developments."
You won't, Vader thought. You'll hide her abilities as best you can, keep her away from Imperial attention, raise her to be the leader the Rebellion needs. And I'm going to let you, because that's what a good father would do.
A good father wouldn't have murdered thousands of people and plunged the galaxy into tyranny. A good father wouldn't be serving the Sith Lord who destroyed everything his family represented. A good father wouldn't be standing here wearing a mask of death while his daughter smiles at him.
But I'm what she has. And if being a good father means letting someone else raise her, letting her become the hero who opposes everything I represent... then that's what I'll do.
"Continue with the inspection," Vader commanded, turning away from the tableau before his emotions could betray him further. "I wish to see your industrial facilities and government archives."
The rest of the visit passed in a blur of manufactured concerns and routine surveillance. Vader found nothing actionable in Alderaan's records—Bail Organa was too clever to leave obvious evidence of his treasonous activities—and he reported as much to Palpatine in his evening transmission.
But through it all, a part of his mind remained fixed on the image of his daughter's smile, and the decision he had made.
Leia would stay with the Organas. She would grow up as a princess, learn politics and diplomacy and leadership. She would become the woman who would one day stand before him on the Death Star, defiant and unbreaking, carrying a message of hope that he would pretend he didn't want to hear.
And he would let it happen. All of it. Because that was what she needed.
I can't be your father, he thought, the words shaped by something that felt like prayer. I can't protect you, or teach you, or be there when you need me. But I can give you this—the chance to become who you were meant to be. The chance to stand against everything I represent, and win.
Be strong, little one. Be brave. And when the time comes... do what you have to do.
I'll be watching. Even if you never know.
The return journey to the Devastator was silent, Vader standing alone in his shuttle's meditation chamber while his pilot navigated the hyperspace routes back to the Imperial fleet. His thoughts were a tempest of conflicting impulses—the Dark Side screaming at him for weakness, the ghost of Marcus Chen congratulating him for doing the right thing, and somewhere in between, the remnants of Anakin Skywalker simply feeling grateful that his daughter was alive and safe.
It was complicated. Everything in this new life was complicated.
He emerged from meditation to find Mara Jade waiting for him in the shuttle's main cabin, her red hair catching the lights in ways that should not have been as distracting as they were, her developing figure already showing signs of the ridiculous proportions that apparently awaited her in adulthood.
"Lord Vader," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "You seem... disturbed."
Of course she noticed, Vader thought with resignation. She's trained to observe, and I just spent four hours barely containing an emotional crisis.
"The Alderaan mission revealed concerning intelligence," he replied, deflecting with half-truths. "Senator Organa bears watching."
"The Senator is a known sympathizer," Mara agreed. "The Emperor has suspected him for some time. But he's too politically connected to move against directly."
"Indeed."
Vader moved past her toward the cockpit, but Mara fell into step beside him, her presence in the Force a curious mixture of professional duty and something warmer.
"Lord Vader," she said, her voice dropping slightly. "May I speak freely?"
He paused, turning to regard her with the expressionless attention that had become his default response to unexpected conversations.
"Speak."
"The Emperor assigned me to observe you because he wanted to confirm your loyalty." Mara met his optical sensors directly, her green eyes holding steady. "He was concerned that your injuries might have... affected your commitment to the Empire."
"And what have you observed?"
"That his concerns were unfounded." A small smile curved her lips. "You are everything the Emperor believed you could be, and more. Efficient. Ruthless. Unstoppable." The smile widened slightly. "Magnificent."
She's flirting with me, Vader realized. The Emperor's personal assassin is flirting with me, and she's doing it quite skillfully for a fifteen-year-old.
"Your observations are noted," he said, keeping his voice flat. "Continue your duties."
"Of course, Lord Vader." Mara stepped back, but her eyes remained fixed on his mask. "I look forward to learning more from you. Much more."
She departed, leaving Vader alone with the uncomfortable realization that his collection of dangerously interested women had grown by one, and that this particular addition was both the most dangerous and the most inconvenient yet.
The Emperor's Hand is developing feelings for me, he thought. Palpatine is going to be absolutely thrilled about this.
Actually, on reflection, Palpatine probably wouldn't be thrilled at all. Which meant Mara's interest was either genuine and problematic, or manufactured and testing him, or—most likely—some combination of both that would require careful navigation.
Nothing is ever simple, Vader reflected, settling into his meditation posture as the shuttle continued through hyperspace. I'm a reincarnated Star Wars fan pretending to be a Sith Lord, surrounded by impossibly attractive women who seem to find my horrifying appearance appealing, secretly protecting my daughter from a throne she doesn't know I'm serving, and now I have to deal with a teenage assassin who thinks I'm 'magnificent.'
Marcus Chen died arguing about Star Wars on Reddit. Darth Vader lives in a universe that's apparently determined to make his existence as complicated as possible.
The Force hummed around him, vast and amused and completely unsympathetic.
He was going to need more meditation.
A lot more meditation.
[END OF CHAPTER TWO]