The Wookiee home planet offered a scent that was that of damp fur and burning wood. Starkiller's boot-covered feet sank into the wet moss, his dark cloak becoming entangled in the thorny vines, while above him the immense wroshyr trees sagged beneath their own weight, the ancient limbs creaking in a motion that seemed to suggest the cracking bones of a dying creature. Indeed, he was in such a fundamentally raw environment, wherein the Force seemed to throb to the beat of something far more ancient than the Jedi or the Sith.
The clearing opened suddenly, a circle of trampled ferns marking the area where the apparition waited. Not offered the stage magic of levitation, nor bathed in the otherworldly light, the figure simply existed as a solid presence, as real as an ache, his presence humming through the fringes of Starkiller's mind like the half-recalled refrain of a tune.
"You're late," his father said, his arms crossed. His appearance faltered for an instant, the outlines of his translucent form blurring into the muggy atmosphere. "Did you think this was a joke?"
Starkiller breathed through his nose. The taste of petrichor and death clung to the back of his throat. "You're dead," Starkiller went on. "It was hard enough believing you were alive, much less calling me here." Starkiller's fingers twitched, resting on the hilt of his lightsaber, but the deceased man didn't react. The dead didn't fear blades, even his own.
The ghost of his father bowed his head. His edges seemed to shimmer, rather like a mirage from the dunes of Tatooine. "You have grown," he noted, looking at Starkiller's face with a level of pride that bordered on embarrassment. "Stronger than I ever was. That's why he wants you."
His jaw clenched harder. He sensed the import of the words before they had finished being spoken, like the precursor to the drop in air pressure that precedes the storm that is about to arrive. "Vader." It felt like ashes on the tongue. "And what about you? What do you want? You're supposed to be dead."
The ghost flickered again, his face a mask of amusement and sadness. "Dead? Yes. But not gone." He drew closer, his very presence filled with the smell of ozone.
"The Force is not that simple, boy. Vader... he has cheated death. Not through the Dark Side, nor through Sith alchemy—but through something older."
His voice dropped to a whisper, his words slithering into Starkiller's ears like snakes. "He is the servant of a hunger that has no name. And now, he craves your surrender before it."
Starkiller was shocked. The idea of Vader, his Vader, the ruler of his torment, yielding to anything was ridiculous. But the spirit was not deceiving him about this. It was the underlying truth of the Force itself, an unfinished thing pushing against his chest like a second heart.
The ghost watched him, emptily eyed, waiting for the realization to sink in. Starkiller spat into the moss. "So what then? He cheats death—fine. That doesn't mean I'm going to give his newfound religion a stamp of approval."
"Do you think this is a choice?" The ghostly figure trembled in the air, fists clenching. "He took everything from us. He twisted you into his tool. And now he laughs while something worse than Sidious ravages his loyalty." Those words coiled in front of Starkiller, repulsive and primal. Starkiller had nurtured a long-held resentment of Vader, but he had never considered him to be a pawn.
A gust blew through the trees, carrying the musk of predators. The ghost turned, thin robes aglow as if an unseen breeze caressed him. "Kota is alive. You didn't kill him, because a part of you couldn't. The same part of you that remembers the sun." These words insinuated themselves into the corners of Starkiller's mind and took up residence like parasites. He remembered the weathered face of thie old Jedi, the way he had looked upon Starkiller, not in terror, but in sadness, as if he had seen the boy through the monster's suit.
Starkiller's fingers twitched. "You want me to ally with him?" He heard a brittle laugh escape his lips. "After I let him fall? After Vader forced me to hunt his rebels like animals?"
The form of the ghost shimmered, and the sound of leaves crinkled as he spoke: "Kota never stopped believing in you. Even when you struck down his soldiers, even when you left him in darkness."
There was a pause, full of something that Starkiller couldn't quite recognize, maybe regret or maybe hope.
"He is on Nar Shaddaa, in the lower levels, where the light never reaches. You will find him where the lost go for comfort."
Starkiller took a consideration required in this case because on one hand, he did not want to face Kota again in light of his previous confrontation with him, while on another, he could not overlook the chance to find out more about Vader and his place in the Empire.
***
Mara Jade's boot skidded on the dirt, sparks flying as she barely avoided the downward slice of Darth Vader's red lightsaber. He was not clad in his armor, preferring loose-fitting black robes that hugged his sweat-dampened musculature. His mask was also absent, his face unmarred, his golden eyes glinting with mirth as Mara barely parried his next blow. His movements rippled with the soft whisper of his robes against his skin. A moment later, Mara matched his blow with one of her own.
"Your footwork is sloppy," he commented, though the smirk evident at the edges of his mouth helped to cushion the criticism.
Mara spat a mouthful of blood onto the packed earth beneath her and wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. The taste was metallic—enough force in his last blow had struck her teeth to split her lip.
"Maybe I would learn faster if you did not fight like a rancor on spice," she snapped, rolling her shoulders to release the tension. Spots of fatigue throbbed within her muscles from all the training she had been putting herself through, but she refused to let him see her falter. Especially not while Shaak Ti sat on the nearby cargo container, lekku slung over one shoulder, black eyes watching from behind that serene mask.
Vader's lightsaber went dark with a hiss, and the red glow died as he twirled the handle with his fingers, like a nonchalant swordsman. Mara had barely blinked her eyes when the cool touch of the metal settled against her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "Best?" he mused, his voice a low rumble that sent a sudden shiver through her. "No, Mara. Only."
His thumb followed the gash across her lip, painting blood across her flesh with deliberate intent. "Your fighting style is that of a Jedi—honorable and cautious. But the galaxy does not conduct itself with honor, nor will your enemies." He withdrew, sweeping his hand across the scarred training floor with grand flourish. "Each bruise, every drop of blood—is a teaching, a reminder."
Mara Jade took a sharp breath, but did not argue with him. The truth of what he was saying sank into her very bones, like shrapnel. It took years of honing her skills under Palpatine's cold, precise tutelage, but Vader, Anakin, was as unpredictable and deadly as a storm made flesh. She could loathe him for this, or she could learn.
"Rest," he commanded, flipping his fingers away. "Watch."
Mara's breathing was ragged, but she did as Vader instructed, backing away as the tension between Shaak Ti and Vader reached a crescendo. Shaak Ti slid down from her perch with the fluid ease of a cat, her long limbs extending as she dropped silently to the dirt floor. No lightsabers came out—not yet. The path her fingers slid along the belt was almost teasing. Shaak Ti tilted her head, her montrals casting harsh shadows across the training hall. "Bruises are more effective than pleasure, my lord?"
Anakin's smile was so sharp, it might have cut blood. He shrugged, and the darkness of the robes moved, revealing the corded muscles. "Depends on the student," he retorted, and the saber ignited with the snap-hiss that always made Mara's heart beat just a little too quickly. "Mara takes discipline. You?" The red blade moved in lazy circles in his hand. "You need to be reminded."
Shaak Ti's lekku flickered—a blink before she acted, the only warning she gave before she drew a lightsaber in a blaze of blue light, the blade slicing through the air in deadly arcs until Anakin leapt back, the plasma from the blade singeing the air where his chin had rested, his own lightsaber ignited in response, casting a flickering red glow through the training courtyard.
Sparks flashed as their blades crossed, the tang of ionized air filling the space quickly. Shaak Ti pressed forward, her motion smooth as river water, one strike blending into the next with perfect integration.
Anakin parried, his attacks not with the bone-jarring force Mara had expected, but instead with a gentleness that was almost, well, delicate—it was as if he was keeping time with Shaak Ti, as if he was leading a dance. The blue of her blade streaked across his skin, lighting up the gold flecks in his eyes, his smile. He was not trying to defeat her; he was having fun. He always did love a good fight.
"You hold on to the Light the way a child holds on to a blanket in the dark," he whispered, his sabers entwined with the hum filling the air. His other hand drifted down the underside of her wrist, a light stroke that bordered on reverence. "I know what's behind your calm, Shaak Ti. The hunger. The way your pulse quickens when you engage with me—not out of fear, but from longing."
"You could be so much more." He traced the flicking beats of her pulse with his thumb. He spoke low enough that only she was able to hear.
Shaak Ti's lekku quivered, a small, controlled motion, but the tension was palpable. The Force buzzed between them, dense with unexpressed challenge. Shaak Ti withdrew, ending the saber lock with a fluid turn of her wrist, her blue blade raised in defense before her.
"You are mistaken in the meaning of discipline, my lord," she said, slickly but the stop in her breathing betrayed her calm façade. His fingers had touched the sensitive area of her wrist where the Togruta veins were nearest the surface. It was no accident.
A chuckle, dark and powerful, slid around her montrals, curling into the corners. "Restraint?" He spun his lightsaber hilt, the red blade disappearing into the emitter with a soft hiss. The silence left by the absent hum was thick with meaning. "No," he whispered, moving closer. His body heat was enough to set her lekku quivering. "Armor cracks."
Shaak Ti did not draw back, though his proximity sent a shiver through her nerves. His golden eyes locked on hers, mirroring the light as if two suns were behind veils of darkness. "I can show you," he breathed, his hands on the shape of her shoulder. The sensation seared, not in pain, but in promise. "How it feels to stop holding back."
She breathed slowly, attempting to calm her racing heartbeat, though it was no use. The strength of the Force was weaving between them like a snake, whispering frequencies she'd repressed years ago. He was smiling, his lips curving with a knowing expression. He knew it—the way her body was betraying her.
"I will… consider your offer," Shaak Ti hesitated, her voice coming out lower than she wanted. The words were bitter, like confessing a weakness. Her grip grew colder, her lightsaber handle slick between her fingers.
###
The cantina had its own smell, a mix of lum spillage and the stench of synthesized flesh sweat, with a density to the air that was almost tangible. A crumpled stim packet was pushed out of the way by the sole of Starkiller's boot as he entered, the faint neon glow showing the scars on his knuckles. The darkness gathered in the corners, but light was not necessary to see Kota, an old Jedi who was alone at the end of the booth, with the milky whites of his eyes hidden by the blindfold.
"You're here," Kota growled, raising a goblet of dark, intoxicating liquid. "You're just in time for the best part of the evening," he said, his voice dripping with nonchalance. Starkiller's jaw clenched in displeasure. Kota's monastic garb was worn at the hem, his stance was slumped, but the power of the dormant predator was still within.
Starkiller sat down across from Kota, cutting straight to the point. "You knew I would come."
Kota did not look up. As a Jedi Master specialized in the hidden paths of the Force, he would not concern himself with details.
Kota sneered, sipping on his beverage. "You reek of ghosts, kid." His voice was rough, but lacked any sort of condemnation, only fatigued curiosity. "So. Have you come to finish the job, or has something finally shaken in that Sith-trained head of yours?"
Starkiller's fingers spasmodically twitched on the tabletop, the durasteel cold and unforgiving beneath his gloves. Breathe out, exhale; the smells of stale alcohol and burnt circuits was all that was here. "Vader is different," he said matter-of-factly. "Not just alive—but wrong." Leaning in, his words became a snarl. "Something is controlling him, like a puppet."
Kota's blindfolded face was expressionless. He drank another deliberate sip of his drink. The glass clicked against the tabletop. "You expect me to believe that the Emperor's attack dog has turned over a new leaf?"
"Not a new leaf," Starkiller bit out. He dug his nails into his palms to the point where the flesh began to break. "Corrupted. Twisted by forces more powerful." He paused—how to explain the warning of an eldritch god to a man who had seen his colleagues slaughtered by him. "A mysterious power works through him. It is ancient and insatiable. And it hungers."
Kota carefully placed the glass on the table. Then, to Starkiller's shock, he laughed harshly, like sandpaper scraping concrete. "And you came to warn me?" The elderly Jedi shook his head in turn. "Boy, I have been watching darkness longer than you've been alive. The Force has been screaming for months." The fingers danced across the table in a familiar patter, which Starkiller barely recognized—a code of old rebels: Trust but Verify.
Before Starkiller could answer, the cantina's door slid open with a hiss. Three Imperial uniforms—troopers, their plastoid coloring dirtied by the grime of the lower levels. Starkiller's back stiffened. Kota had not yet been spotted, but this would not remain the case for much longer.
Kota exhaled. "You have brought companions."
"Not mine." Starkiller's hand went to his saber.
The closest trooper's helmet turned their way. "Hey—"
Starkiller struck. His lightsaber ignited in mid-leap, a bloody arc slicing through the first stormtrooper's chest even as the first word was spoken. The second fell gasping, suffocating under a convulsive cough as Starkiller's lightsaber bit through his throat. The third was raising his blaster when Starkiller smashed his windpipe in a burst of Force energy.
"Subtle," Kota growled, already standing. He finished the last bit of his drink, his action a final, grim ritual. "Let me guess—Plan B is a quieter massacre?"
Starkiller made no verbal response, simply hauling Kota backwards towards the back exit of the cantina with a strength of grip that could bruise the average man. The alleyway behind was ripe with the smell of trash and speeder exhaust, the walls greasy with filth. Voices shouted in the distance, more storm troopers responding to the smell of blood. Kota stumbled, but made no sound, his awareness of the Force leading his footsteps through the rough pavement as if born in the dark places of the universe.