A Taste of What You Paid For Chapter 1, a star wars rebels fanfic

Note: This is my means of coping with season two, that which I was originally aware of spoilers a few months prior, but am still hurting. Very badly. Naturally, in my grieving state, I'm here writing angst to worsen the wounds. Oops. Consider this somewhat AU-ish, in that I guess doing the math here it'd mean the Empire lasts a few years longer than it did canonically (I guess a larger difference of years between each of the original films then) but other than that yeah.

"Did she deserve to die?"

Yes.

"No, sweetheart."

It never seems to sit well with him - it's a girl, they tell him excitedly - because it had never been what he wanted. Not the daughter, the entire concept of fatherhood, he could not will himself to be an affectionate and influential figure as one is supposed to be. The fault did not lie in some tragic mishap regarding his own childhood, his parents had been ordinary. His mother presumably at least, as she was dead before he was able to remember her in a speeder accident; there was a thrill, a selfish passion she had for dabbling in races at times, that she was unable to let go of to choose her firstborn son over it. But the absence of a mother figure, again, has nothing to do with his dislike of children. He is - admittedly, hopelessly - devoted towards his occupation in the Empire over anything else, and wasn't willing to sacrifice it for a bothersome child that would cling at his leg and demand his entire attention.

Perhaps he's no better than his own mother then, perhaps. But he's not one to recognize hypocrisy within him.

The reaction upon learning the gender had not been a joyous one, but was neither verbal nor outright to express disappointment. There hadn't been a need for any words to be spoken though; just about everyone could tell by the unconscious expression on his face seconds after hearing the news. To some, the reaction was the equivalent of a report regarding the steadily increasing numbers of riots. The shape of his mouth had pressed into a thin, tight line of silence before pinching into a curled scowl. If he believes it that there had been an effort to hide his dismay, he was fooling no one. Even a med droid, programmed only to focus on its duty over anything else, would wince in some form.

A boy had potential, at least. At least, knowing the path that which the imperial academies were beginning to take. Favor fell onto them as opposed to the girls; save for an exceptional few with high intelligence, so his pride and hope depended on a son. This was an unfortunate setback that he would have to deal with then, for the first would be the last. He wouldn't be making the same mistake twice.

She cared little for his reaction, but no matter how well she could mask her emotions, there was an undeniable flash of pain in her eyes over his bitter disappointment. For that, part of him wants to laugh. What had she been expecting out of this? That this mess of a situation would work out itself and evolve into them becoming some sort of an unlikely family? This was an unplanned accident, resulting from one too many drinks at an otherwise dreadfully uneventful cocktail party, they weren't in love. He'd even told her directly - although subtlety, of course – that she was under no obligation to even keep this child, perhaps it would be better if this entire situation somehow disappeared. But there's a stubborn pride in her, though different to his no less passionate, that refused. She didn't care for what he had to say or what he would do, their little one was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Their daughter, born with a tuft of wispy blonde hair and eyes that would eventually darken, hardly uttered a whimper after her birth.

There's a part of her that almost feels victorious when he comes around, eventually, when the icy exterior of his personality melts. He surrenders into her steel glared will into at least giving it a chance in holding the infant, and before long there's the slightest hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. While there was much of her mother present and probably here to stay, he can see the beginnings of formatting freckles on her face in splattered, little patterns like his. The sight causes his heart to pound beneath his armor with a pride that seemed to make up for what was lost in her not being a boy, because she was undeniably his. Yet, strangely, any paternal feelings did not surge through him. Maybe it was a numbing shock he was still under, that it hadn't sunk in to him that - whether he wanted her or not - his child was here and his.

So help him, she will become something extraordinary in serving the Empire someday.

Maketh is, unsurprisingly, absolutely enamored by their daughter. Her duties as a minister are demanding as ever, the outside influences don't seem to care that she just spent nearly eleven hours in absolute agony nor that she ought to be resting as a result. And honestly, it isn't as though she treats herself any better, she will push herself to get a task done if she must and there's an abundance always waiting to be done. She pulls herself through grueling tasks, preoccupied by the longing thought of her cherubic faced child and her musical laughter, suffering hollowness in her heart when separated. She'd much rather hold her little one as opposed to a datapad.

I love you, I love you with all my heart and bid you never forget that. But of course a squirming babe can't comprehend their mother's words, even when brown eyes seemed to focus upon the matching pair. A smile still makes its way onto Maketh's mouth, mixed by the unadulterated happiness of these moments and saddened by the bittersweet fact of how few and short they are. Surely the troubling events of Lothal will come to an end, won't they? They can't possibly escalate much further than from what has happened now, dare she think and pray, don't let them worsen. She doesn't want to be constantly absent in her daughter's life, leading her to feeling neglected or unwanted. She'll come to understand, won't she? That she is the one pure thing in her life, above anything else, and that whatever so-called love Kallus might spare occasionally for her can't match her own. It is, in fact, superior by a thousand times.

My poor little one, she'll think at times. You weren't what your father wanted, but you are no less dear to me.

She isn't even two; she's in fact less than two, when her mother is so cruelly taken from her.

There is but an odd, distant memory that lingers in her young mind. She can't quite distinguish anything specific, the occasion or the circumstances surrounding it; the memory's existence fades away from the child's head as quickly and quietly as dust is carried away by the wind. But for a while, it was there; being in her mother's arms - it had to be her, at least, there is no other who held her with such care - but there's something off. Her arms are shaking, struggling to hold her up despite her lightweight. The infant bobs along in her mother's arms as she seems to be making quick pace, her voice light and frantic. The fear laced in her voice - even when she can't remember the exact words - was more upsetting over anything.

"Kallus! Please!"

Her lip quivers from the raised voices, the strain in her mother's as she masks fear and the introduction of her father's; a low growl, much like an untamed animal that is best left be. Her mother persists and there's an argument that seems to follow, with a disregard to the babe in her arms entirely.

"For the love of our child, for the love of Marcella - "

Their voices became an incoherent mix from thereon out; between the pleas of her mother and the obvious, thinning restraint in her father's voice. It's not like the either to act this way, for what little she knows of them, and there's a sense of chaos and dread in the memory. Perhaps it's no wonder that the memory is eventually lost, because she really didn't want to remember it.

"These are circumstances beyond my control, minister."

"No!"

The noise eventually drowns itself and cuts to an abrupt end; the voice of her mother's voice is lost, she buries her head against the crook between her daughter's neck and shoulder, drawing her closer. A thousand forces of this galaxy couldn't pry her away from her arms in that moment, but before long something would.

This was the last time Maketh would ever hold her.

There is never the chance to give an official goodbye - there are no goodbyes in murder - and all the remains is a hollow grave, but a baby can't possibly comprehend that. It doesn't seem to dawn on her that her mother is gone, save for a few instances where she weeps and there doesn't seem to be a single caretaker that can find the resolution. But she can't possibly carry any actual memories of her mother, beyond what lies ahead in her future as playback holos from events, there's otherwise nothing. She can't possibly recall any of the moments of her mother's unconditional affection for her, the sound of her melodic voice or sight of her enthusiastic smile at the sight of her. There are vague pieces here and there - a mixed imagery of various shades of blue and yellow, probably the locks of hair she grabbed onto - but nothing more.

And, Kallus supposes, he ought to be feeling a form of guilt over this. She too is motherless and carries no memories of her, as he does. But where does guilt come into play over what is rightful justice? Of course there isn't a twinge of guilt at his heart, there isn't a need for it. There's dignity and his loyalties withholding onto the Empire, for the Empire knows that what he did was what had to be done. In death, Maketh ought to consider herself lucky for as merciful of an end as she was granted and how afterwards she's painted as a martyr. Her death itself now a symbol against the insurgents. When he thinks her name, when he thinks of her he sees tainted ink spilled over her name. Traitor, he thinks so viciously that had he said it aloud would sound almost like an inhumane whisper. It almost hurts him that she had been so foolish, so selfish to deserve death. It wasn't just an act against the empire, against everything they stood for, no. It was a sense of abandonment to him, to their little girl.

He stops.

For a moment, there's a sound that emanates from his mouth that's like a low, quiet chuckle. What a fool of himself he's making, over their child. This term them, implying some form of togetherness that clearly never was. There was an incident that was never intended to have happened, that was never supposed to happen, that entangled the two of them into a predicament that they were somewhat learning to tolerate and cooperate together. Much like a pair of bickering, separated lovers - no, he's doing it again. He's placing incorrect terms and giving off the wrong impression to his own subconscious, he refuses to think of her beneath him in his arms a breathless beauty. She was one amongst many. She wasn't the first and, if anything, it should fill him with disgust that he lay with an enemy in the making. Instead, he dictates his subconscious into thinking exactly that. A notoriously dedicated individual, the hateful thoughts spread through like a slow, altering poison that cannot be undone.

Before long, the slip-ups of moments that he thinks of her as beautiful will be gone.

Still, as cruel as he can proudly be at times, his arrogance also strives from - at least what he claims - his talent in being begrudgingly kind when he shouldn't have to be. He won't expose his daughter to the truth of what her mother was, as much as he'd like to do so to ensure she'll never be anything like her. Of course she won't, he thinks to himself assuredly. Her image may practically mirror her mother's, but she is no less his. In fact, she's all his now. Kallus can easily recall the promise that he'd sworn when holding her in his arms that first time, the small swaddled bundle with a touch of freckles beneath the pink, how he promised she'd become something extraordinary. She would not be like him, she would be better. But she will be forever blind, like all the rest, that her mother was innocent and done wrong by the insurgents. After all, where's the harm in a little vengeful passion in her spirit? If she's anything like either parent, surely there's a spark in her soul that can be ignited by a thirst for vengeance to injustice?

At the end of the day he returns to the nursery, lifting her from where she was sleeping fitfully to rest her upon his shoulder. There was a sense of comfort that she always seem to draw from him, despite how cold and hard the surface of his armored shoulder pad was, perhaps feeling safe and secure that way. There was no harm that the little one's imaginative mind could think of that could penetrate through armor like that; in her father's arms was where she was safest. Although, in her mother's, she was warmest and happiest.

My poor little one, he thinks with a sullen expression. Papa's going to destroy the bad things in this world for you.

Although a man of his word, he would not keep to the promises he made onto his daughter. Many of which were involving dedication to her life in some way. But he insists that there isn't any way to fault him with this. After all, had he not from the very start always said that he could never become that figure a child would need? Besides, these situations have become direr. Sending her away is the safest option as of the moment. Lothal is beginning to give off a vibe of an inevitable ticking time bomb since her mother's own death - ironic it being a set detonation - an instinctual feeling warns him that time is short. Before long all that stands before him right here will be nothing more than a lost cause and ashes, he would rather not see her bones become part of this.

Others are skeptical of his choice, but are wise not to voice their opinions. He won't pretend to ignore the bewilderment in their eyes, no matter how noble his apparent motives are. Maybe it's because within the empire's lines someone knows something, rumors spread like wildfire. There are either those that know or those that think they know, the former at least are smart enough to keep their mouths closed on what's factual. Unfortunately, this time both are right. There are those that know and there are those that say he was involved with her death. Now it all seems to add together; it's convenient for him to get rid of the last piece of her, the very last thing that can possibly haunt his mind, daresay make him feel guilt. But he doesn't feel guilt, he certainly doesn't waste his time pitying the dead. The dead don't need it anyways.

No, no it isn't Maketh he could possibly feel guilt for. It's for Marcella.

It's better this way, he thinks forcibly and it's a wonder over who he's trying to convince here. Is it him reciting how he'll answer any concerns from anyone who ever dares voice their opinions, or is it him nurturing his mind into ease so he can fall asleep easier? As if the so called Butcher of Lasan, who raises his head high with a boisterous pride over such a horrendous act, has ever been haunted by any form of remorse.

It's not all his fault either. His superiors aren't amused over the idea of a high ranking ISB Agent balancing between imperial priorities and attempting to manage parenthood, in that he occasionally attends to his daughter when he hasn't abandoned her to other caretakers. Once in a great while he'll parade her about the room in his arms, as if she's a symbol of the empire on display. Generally it stirs sympathy from any audience, regardless of their stance on policies or if they're aware of the conflicts with rebellious uprisings, because in that instance it doesn't seem to matter. At the end of the day there's a motherless child - because of the monstrous insurgents - who has the potential to lose her father as well in a similar sense and that, in spite of being aware of the risks, he still is willing to lay his life out on the risk.

It makes no difference, she loves him no less because at the age, all children are oblivious and forgiving. Or, if he's being honest with himself, once more it's a bit of her mother showing through her in how she acts. Naïve and forgiving in a sense.

He can only hope that eventually she'll forgive him on his decision in sending her off of Lothal. The sense of foreboding he can't seem to shake away - that seems to have spread to others like a plague - that inevitable doom approaches leads to just about every sane individual here wanting to abandon at the first opportunity. At least he can polish off his actions here as being noble, of a protective father wanting to save his daughter from becoming entangled in this madness. She'll be sent off world onto an academy - one which, she'll take part in when she becomes of age, and cleverly leaves no record or name as to her current location. He can't take any risks - with paranoia eating at him - that suddenly that Jedi and his crew will tempt her as they had with her mother. I won't lose you too.

It's as if there's a part of him that's beginning to begin his own conspired lies; slowly disassociating himself with the involvement of what became of Maketh, wanting to share the same mindset as all the tricked citizens and sharing their same reactions and emotions. There's a different sense of inevitably, ticking by slowly with time that someday Marcella will know. Maybe that's the sense of loss that he dreads over physical loss.

Maybe - for the man who knows no remorse - there's an ache in his chest each and every time he's ever glanced at her, at her mother's eyes in her and always knowing.

There are days where he forgets he's a father; that, now and forever, there will always be a part of him associated to the lowly Lothal-native girl through a mistake. Where sometimes his men are strangely considerate and sentimental, going as far as acting out of professional guidelines to ask how his daughter is doing. At first, there's an unease about others inquiring - as if bringing up her name will jinx her safety, that somehow her hidden whereabouts will become exposed. Maybe that's not what really bothers him, but the fact that he's being reminded. Or that he has to be reminded - bah, he wonders what sort of disgust his parents would think of him like that - simply because he doesn't want to be.

The responses are practiced and rehearsed lies because, in truth, he doesn't quite know how she's doing. He can't comprehend the damned feelings of a verbally unresponsive toddler - well, save for the few phrases she had learned prior to their departing - and doesn't have the time to attempt to distinguish them either. Eventually it progresses to him forbidding anyone to ever mentioning Marcella with or without his presence, lest of all that the enemy ever learns about her. Ah, there's the guilt trip that works into shutting them up. Not everyone was involved in the conspiracy, after all, and they too only know of the one-sided tragedy. They know he only means well in protecting her.

He distances himself, rarely ever hearing of her. Her caretakers and nurses are too intimidated by him to make the initiative without risking the chance of bothering him, so everything is left be. By this point he supposes she talks some by now, eats solid foods and is capable of running rampant; something that academy she's taken sanctuary at surely won't stand for. That sort of behavior probably would've embarrassed her mother, Maketh told him stories of how the only sort of rude behavior she could've ever considerably demonstrated was correcting one of her professors - it was given, she was smarter than that bumble headed fool anyway - not that…. Not that whatever she told him ever mattered anyways. It was merely a thought that came to mind.

There isn't a feeling of lonesomeness that lingers over him. There isn't a hollow ache that superstition commonly tells of parents separated from their children. By now Marcella could've uttered Daddy amongst her slow growing list of vocabulary words, and he would feel nothing at the thought that he's missing it.

There are nights spent where he turns in his sleep, where he jolts awake and finds one arm outstretched and draped across the other side of the bed. An empty space for one who had never truly been a lover. Odd. To have and to hold, but she'd never been his anymore than he'd been hers.

Elsewhere Marcella thrives; much like a flower in bloom of early spring. Her nature is somewhat wild as a toddler, with a habit of running freely down halls and giggling merrily all the way. Her caregiving nurses are always sharp on their feet on the task of retrieving her, scolding her for her misbehavior. The academy isn't particularly pleased by the rambunctious behavior; this is a fine establishment for education after all and not an amateur drop-off babysitting service. They know better than to file a word of complaint to her father though, knowing how he works closely with Lord Vader as of these days, and remain patient under the promise that she will become a fine student when she comes of age.

For all of her untamed childishness, there are signs of her mother showing subtly and slowly. At her most calm, she's inquisitive and attentive to the adults that's come to learn as "officials" - granted, even when she hasn't quite mastered saying the phrase yet - and at her worst, there's a stubbornness that's the shadow of her mother; tiny fists clench, posture straightening and stamping her foot out of defiance because she won't tolerate being denied something. A bratty child, one professor huffed beneath his breath. His colleague glanced at him with an amused expression and contradicted; it's the spirit of a politician in the making.

Everyone presumed that she doesn't know or care what became of her mother. She did not weep in the days after her mother's death, she is still at an age where the news of it is still over her head. For all everyone else could've known, perhaps she didn't care at all. She's not the first orphan to have no memory - then all the adults correct themselves, remembering she's still got her father. Even if, given his lack of attention to her, she might as well be considered one.

There was only one disturbing incident, however, that proved those presumptions wrong. She was three going on four, with all her teeth grown in and her reading skills advancing rapidly. One uneventful night she stirred awake, shaken by nightmare and weeping Mama! over and over. There was not a single person that could console her, but could only watch on helplessly as they held her until she eventually tired herself out from crying and fell back asleep.

The incident goes unreported to her father. It's highly likely Kallus would have never responded to it anyways.

Time passes, twelve years approximately, until fate once again intertwines between father and daughter. The Empire maintains, but by aged and exhausted pillars bound to crumble sometime soon, as any and all ancient dynasties have fallen in history. The Rebellion has spread like wildfire - from star system to star system - fear and submission have transformed to unsatisfactory and a stubborn anger that refused to back down. With every one leader captured or killed, five more seemed to spur with a hundred followers each. But the empire has always maintained, it always has for over two decades; this merely a passing strain, exhausting and overwhelming as it may be, it could go on until half of the damned galaxy lay in ruins and so be it.

Perhaps a little bit of Tarkin's influence - cruel madness - has rubbed off onto him.

Time has not been merciful to him; the youthful, violent, vivacious spirit in him has settled much like an old warrior - as he so boastfully and arrogantly thinks of himself as one - gone battle weary. There are creased lines by his eyes and the corners of his mouth, said to be made from the countless scowls of fury, and his strawberry hair is greying early. Countless scars don his body beneath his armor - there's one or two he cynically thinks of as the ones I was intended to die from - and why is it, as of recent years, there's a nagging feeling within him that insists he won't be met with a glorious end? To him, it's almost anticlimactic to die a natural death at a time like this.

By now, Lothal is ashes and ghosts of people he could once faintly recall. It's a scrapped project, an embarrassment of wasted potential. He can hardly remember much of his daughter, much less the voice of her mother. Maketh, he still thinks with such spite because of how her name is an imprint - a stain that can't be washed away – onto him. Because of the bastard daughter that's more of a trivial piece of information about him than something well known to the younger recruits, because she's there nonetheless - the piece of them both. No, he could not fill his heart with such malice onto Marcella after all this time nor can he fault her with any of this. But her mother - her damned mother - the image that won't leave, even when he can't entirely remember her anymore. Even when he got what he wanted in the hopes of forgetting her, she never quite left him. Even when he never thinks of her so fondly, when he never remembers their affairs - strictly carnal, unprofessional, tender - or whatever petty words dabbled from her mouth. When love was a word that was never even uttered between them, or if it had been perhaps he's forgetting, it was him ignoring her little proclamation of it. How is one even haunted by a ghost that's never hovered over him in his sleep? She's deadand it was well deserved.

No it wasn't, one part of his conscience dared to argue once.

Lord Vader summons him for a private briefing via Holo; even after all this time that man's presence, the mechanical pattern breathing is an unsettling noises that never leaves his mind hours after. Distance is never an issue in the Sith's ability to bring harm onto someone. From what he understands of the latest rumors, the man simply needs the willpower and telekinetic abilities to strangle someone to death. There's a moment that Kallus pauses before actually addressing the message, a hand brushing over his neck - a nervous habit Tua had once done as well - being a tad optimistic to presume that he isn't being brought forth to be executed.

Nevertheless, Vader appears unpleased. Luckily, that's not uncommon nor is that the first time Kallus is witnessing his displeased mood. At least, thankfully, it's never his wrath. He has been a bystander to other victims of it, never wincing at the horrors inflicted onto them by the Sith or the all too familiar snap that eventually follows. Always the bystander, never the target and hopefully never to become one.

Until the message itself involves being tasked an assignment at Marcella's academy.

Rumors of rebellious uprisings, communications with notable leaders, supposed business, leaked intels. It's a series of phrases that sink into his mind one by one, of his worst fears. Of the rebellion's ideals spreading onto the academy, onto her like a disease. It was something he thought he'd isolated her from when sending her away. She wasn't within his reach, and somehow he'd foolishly decided that that was enough to qualify as nobody else being within her reach. But these wildfires spread, they'll always find a way. Someone was out there possibly filling her head with these ridiculous ideas that could lead to a revolt, a revolt that in turn could lead to immediate response by imperial forces. Executions in riots were a common response to demonstrate authority, to break up the crowds and destroy the idea's spirit. Usually the most spirited, vulgar ones were the targeted ones, or perhaps the loudest demonstrators that are presumed the leaders. The foolishly bold and spirited ones, he thinks and the horror slowly dawns on him. Foolishly bold, foolishly bold, foolishly bold.

Just like her mother.

"If your daughter is involved in the conspiracy, know that there will be no clemency spared for her."

Just like her mother.

"Of course, Lord Vader."

And he, the response and submissive agent as usual heeding to the words. He, her father, once more choosing his sacred duty above her. That was the kind of man he claimed to be once, not so long ago. A man uninterested and not fond of children, by the claim that it was a nuisance to be the affectionate and influential figure a child would need. Is that not what he'd always thought? How annoying it was to have a demanding child clinging at his leg and interrupting him from performing his job properly?

And shouldn't he, in keeping up with proving his loyalties as usual, feel nothing for her is she's a traitor? Traitors are traitors, regardless of their relations. Jovan, a name he hasn't thought of in years is the first to come to his mind. Someone that he once called a friend, who had lied and manipulated the means of the Empire, of him. When word of his execution came through, he can recall a bitter sense of satisfaction he felt. What had his original words been about that subject? Ah, yes. Something along the lines of how his only regret was not being granted the honor in proving he would go all the way to being the one to actually handle the executing job himself, but that was beyond his profession anyways.

Maybe those officials who heard him had taken those words to heart. Perhaps they'll remember his longing request and offer up the chance this time onto his daughter; to prove his devotion. Because it's always been about proving devotion, because of those suspected otherwise have been taken down and destroyed like the useless tools they'd been. Tools, not people.

Of course he'll intervene on imperial behalf. He'll intervene on and for Marcella's behalf for her own good, to save her from doing something that she doesn't fully realize the consequences of. Something that she doesn't quite understand, about the drastic means she'd be taking to turn against everything that has helped raise her, that's protected her for all her life. Because the very thing that's been protecting her all along has the very same potential to end her without a second thought. Perhaps a morbid concept to think of, but it makes sense to him. It's the empire's natural right to condone and punish troublemakers, given the state that it's fallen into. It's just… it's just… it doesn't need to become like this. It doesn't need to end with a firing squad, with a blade, with Vader's effortless abilities in the Force… No. No. He won't let it become like this. He won't let her fall in such a foolish way.

He dreams of her that night, of Marcella. Strange, that a man can even dream of a face he hasn't seen in so long, of a face that he's never seen. Perhaps what was stranger was how he couldn't even remember what he thought he saw from that dream, there was only an instinct that he knew it was her. Who else would be running down corridors, pushing past security with what strength she had, screaming for him? No! Father, please! Don't let them take me! Her pleas go ignored as her pursuers finally capture and arrest her, all while he coldly watches on. Something within him in that dream state won't permit him to intervene, something forces him back - not someone, there's only himself - his morals, he realizes.

Tomorrow will lead him to an inevitable choice. One unlike any other, because… because there isn't an obvious right. There's only right and wrong, there is no grey moral to him; his decisions reflect off on what he believes the Empire would commend him on for choosing - what the likes of Lord Vader would approve - and defects are defects. They must be punished all the same regardless of their identity, as Lord Vader himself just warned him. Lord Vader wouldn't grant mercy onto a defiant youth, regardless of her age or the manipulative influences that implanted these ideas in her head. The Empire wouldn't let her off with a warning. His superiors wouldn't let her get away with this inexcusable, possibly threatening behavior. Agent Kallus wouldn't ignore the threat of a defect.

But what would a father do? What was he supposed to do?

The instructors speak highly of her - which is quite a difference for some and their original opinions of her when she'd been a toddler - and her potential. The information is drowned out in his ears, nodding along occasionally as a means of pretending to pay attention to the conversations, and it isn't to say he doesn't believe them. He'll take their word for it on all their praises, that she is so clever. She's so ambitious. She's spirited. She's like her mother in so many ways. The last remark would've been enough to make his blood run cold, but he doesn't allow an expression to indicate that. Every high compliment and regard of her builds up a nervous tension in him, there's always a pattern in the riots started by the youth; it's the bright, educated ones that turn against everything they've learned. They decide they've got a little arrogant wisdom of their own that's superior; it only leads to a costly end.

One instructor, grey-haired and a stutterer in his presence, swallows and adds shakily; "And we highly doubt she'd be involved in any of these… possible affairs."

He'll decide for himself on that last one.

Then a girl - on the verge of becoming a young woman, really - is introduced to the room, presumably an escort. There's something fondly amusing at the sight of top cadets like her, of how stiff and stern they attempt to appear to prove their worth. By no means does this one shake by any chill air of the presence of superiors, she exerts her own capable confidence.

"Hello, Father."

Oh.

Kallus takes a good look at her, a good honest look for the first time in how many cycles, how many years. There's much of her mother in her, he decides, too much. From the shape of her face and elegant shape of her neck, to the attentive but skeptical look in her sharp, dark eyes. There was not a trace of him in her, save for the dusted freckles on her cheeks a touch of red in her gloriously long, blonde hair. He searches for an expression, a sign of some sort to understand the state she's in and her true feelings. Just for something, but comes up with nothing. Calm, calculating, and void of any personal feelings - altogether the perfect expression for someone that could take a position of power someday, with no remorse in doing whatever must be done.

Upon being left alone, there's an immediate change. As if a curtain was unveiled, her expression darkened drastically and ah, there was some of him in her. That pinched scowl of hers was mirroring his from his youth. She looked at him as though he were a stranger and not her father, and perhaps somewhere deep down he knew he was undeserving of the latter title anyway. It had been what? Nearly twelve years? If he didn't know any better, he was staring at the ghost of Maketh as opposed to her only living child.

"This is a classified mission, I take it?" she inquired with a falsified Core accent. There was an ease in it, more rehearsed and smoother than her mother's had been; but Marcella hadn't spent the first twelve years of her life on the planet she was born on, after all. But then, then the depth of her words sink in. Oh, her first presumption of him bothering to see her wouldn't be personal, it would involve an order. Which… which was undeniably true, but the more he reflected on it, a bitter taste surged in his mouth that he realized was him automatically biting down on his tongue. Because of course he would've responded truthfully, as an agent addressing a cadet. Not a father to a daughter.

"Perhaps I wanted to see my daughter." he concurs, sounding harsher than intended. It was the only way he knew how to mask pain, and it wasn't doing him any favors here. Yes, it actually hurt him, the truth hurt him.

"Hmph." Marcella retorted, raising her brows in false interest. With a tone dripping in sarcasm she added; "I wonder who's the lucky girl."

Ouch. There was her mother in spirit, for sure.

"The one with a more mature attitude, hopefully." Kallus answered with a tone of finality, laced with something along the lines mixed of a warning not to test his patience further. Disappointed was only a light term used to describe what he felt for how she'd turned out. In less than a few minutes he'd determined that every possible irritable trait of her mother was present in her, save for the whining - something he hadn't heard yet. Oh, he had a feeling that would eventually turn up in a conversation, so long as he stuck around to continue said conversation.

She looks to him with absolute resentment. He can practically feel her glare boring directly into his skin, so searing and malicious. She couldn't possibly be aware of the circumstances surrounding her mother's death, let alone care to know. She can't possibly carry any memories of her, all that she has is the word of mouth from others over their resemblance and that's it. But still, she looks at him as though she knows. That shouldn't be such a frightening prospect for him, not when there's nothing to even prove such a thing. But there is, he reminds himself. Maker forbid, she's had any form of contact with the insurgents and all these accusations are true. Especially if it were them. But they couldn't have even known about her then, they're much too preoccupied with an abundance of other issues to bother with now.

Her eyes, he can't help but dwell on. While not her most distinctive features, the expression depicted by them tugs at his memories. That stubborn defiance. Her mother had, in a sense, fought for her own life until the very inevitable end. He wouldn't be surprised if such a fight lives on in her. No, no, no. She's not one of them. He made a promise not to let her fall from grace. And so help him, if need be, he'd assert authority over her for her own good - much like the disciplinary father he was supposed to be all along … and then it hits him. Supposed to be. He'd never been the father he was supposed to be to her. She looks to him as though he's a stranger to her, which he is, and he doesn't know her any better than she knows him.

The Marcella he wants wouldn't be a rebel and he won't let her become that. But the Marcella he has standing before him, who walks with a high stride and the intent to ignore his attempts to reach out to her, isn't the one he wants. She's just like her mother.

And oh, he had a bad feeling about this.

[ NEXT CHAPTER ]

"You realize if all else fails, we will be caught."

"I know."

"You really want to do this, huh?"

"I know what my father's done. I want to hear it from him first."