The circuit was fried.

Vader felt his precariously-balanced emotions coursed through his system, releasing little by little through gritted teeth, creating an sshh-sshh-sshh sound through his mouth. He was seething, fuming, as he stormed back to his chamber; because the circuit, the one he was supposed to meticulously, carefully disengage and dismantle so he could disable the main missile launcher, was fried.

He should have been more patient, should have taken a couple of deep breaths to control his anger, but he didn't—the second he saw that the system needed biometric scans of the Governors—something he clearly wasn't and did not have—he had lashed out in frustration—and now it was fried to nothingness.

Everything—everything he had done for the past couple of hours; the tampering with the navigation system, the error in general computing, the ruckus he caused in the fuel transfer system—it was all for nothing if the main launcher could still fire.

The only way to blow the station was now through the destruction of the plating covering the external thermal exhaust post from the outside, and he—he couldn't pull that off without being seen, discovered, questioned—

And then his daughter could be known by the Emperor, could be targeted, marked, destroyed—

Death or capture?

Images of Alderaan—blowing into pieces, danced in his mind. Remnants of people's screams not long ago, echoing in his mind. And his daughter—his wonderful, spirited, rebellious daughter—

"It seems that in your anger… you killed her."

Not this time, Vader was quiet, but his soul was loud; begging, pleading to whoever was willing to listen. Not this time, not her, not again, please, I just found her, I just saved her, I can't lose her the way I lost her mother, please—

"Sir?"

He stopped, right in front of his office, and turned to see Piett looking as nervous as always. "I just think you would like to know that we're—" the officer gulped, seemingly almost fearful at his own next words, "we're about to enter the Yavin system." He took a deep breath, "and according to the calculations, we would probably reach the planet within—within three hours."

Something in Vader's stomach dropped—twisting into a tight knot before stabbing him right in his chest because—because now it was real. Any hour now, they could approach the place of the rebel base. And when they had—when they had—

Leia Leia Leia Leia Leia—

"Governor Rancit also—also requested your presence, Sir. At his office." Said Piett again, his tone unsure. Vader clenched his fist, almost snarling at him but held back—no, no, no.

The last time he let his anger got through him, he tortured his daughter. The last time he let his anger got through him, he blew the chance he had saving her life. He couldn't let his anger resurface, couldn't let his decision be based on rage—

But then, what? A small voice in his head piped up, rage had been your main fuel for decades. What now, if you refuse its presence be known?

"Sir?"

When he opened his mouth to speak, he was almost thankful for the vocal modulator, because at least it could hide the tremble in his tone, the dryness in his voice. "I will be there shortly." He felt like he was being strangled, which was almost ironically funny, in its own way.

Piett nodded, before scurrying away.

In his wake, Vader took a deep breath. He unclenched his fist, trying to let go of the rage, but letting other emotions—concern, worry, care, love—guide him to reach the force—any side of the force, except for the Dark.

(he would rather get struck by a Sith lightning than letting the Dark touch her again.)

Something had answered, then—Vader couldn't really pinpoint it; like something Light, but not quite. Like something almost.

Shaking his head, he steeled his resolve. No matter; he could figure it out later. For now—

Leia—he called, softly, desperately, trying to say so many things that culminated only in one word;

Run.

Space was—well. Space was wide. And vast. And a little bit—scary. Luke gripped the console tighter, gulping the nerves down, trying to focus himself to shove down the fear.

He knew he asked Ahsoka himself, knew he was the one practically begging to be involved. He knew that this was what he wanted—to help, to fight back. But— "Is it always so large, Artoo?" He muttered to the Droid behind him, so soft it was almost inaudible. "The space?"

[It is a limitless, continuous area,] Said Artoo, quoting the literal description of the word. Luke watched the nav screen on his ship be filled with words as Artoo's beeps continued. [according to my database, the space can only expands and grows bigger as time passes.]

"Always expanding, huh?" Luke mused, chuckling weakly. He could feel the knots in his stomach tightening, the fingers clutching the steer growing clammy.

Artoo was quiet for a while, and then, [you are afraid.] He said, matter-of-factly—leaving no room for Luke to debate.

Not that Artoo's assessment weren't right, but it was just—sort of humiliating to be so predictable even a Droid could read him. Luke made a non-committal hum, hoping that Artoo would drop it.

[You should not be here, if you are afraid.] Said Artoo, his beep soft and almost sad. [You are supposed to be safe. Protected.]

My oath is to protect the variants!

Luke took a deep breath, seeds of doubt starting to spring in his mind. Maybe Ahsoka was right. Maybe he wasn't ready for this, for any of this—

But—

"I want to help." said Luke, exhaling loudly. "I want to—be able to do good." He glanced at the rearview mirror, at the Droid who was blipping at him expectantly. "Besides, fear is what drives us, right?"

The fear to fall under tyranny. The fear to lose. The fear to dissipate; be gone, forgotten.

Artoo trilled something rather wearily—but at the same time proudly, and Luke watched the nav screen. [You possess similar codes with the primaries.]

Luke didn't get that, but he had a feeling that it was a compliment. So, "thanks, Artoo," he said, blowing out some breath. Trying to steel his resolve, Luke pressed his lips tightly.

"Red Five?"

"In position." Luke replied Commander Dreiss' call. The man affirmed, then continued calling the rest of the squadron, making sure that they were all in line and ready.

"Approaching target in eagle formation. ETA fifteen minutes. Be prepared, soldiers." Commander Dreiss sounded grim. "This is for the fighters lost in Scarif. For the civilians lost in Alderaan. For those silenced by this war."

For those silenced by this war.

Luke tried to make his voice as firm as possible when he replied, "Sir, yes Sir." He said, grimly. For Aunt Beru. For Uncle Owen. For Ben—

"Lu—Red Five?"

His laments were cut by a tentative voice, calling out for him. It wasn't Commander Dreiss' baritone voice—instead, it was a voice Luke had known so well, could almost recognize anywhere. The voice that had accompanied him since childhood, to back-alley podraces and the days of moisture farming.

Even now, in an upcoming galactic battle faraway from the deserts of Tatooine, it seemed that the force had wanted for Biggs Darklighter and Luke Skywalker to continue frolicking their way together across the galaxy.

"Yeah, Bi—Red Three," Luke replied, relief filling his voice. "How are you holding up?"

"Scared shitless." Replied Biggs, truthfully. Luke always appreciated that from Biggs; his blatant, unfiltered honesty. "This is probably the biggest battle I have ever been—then again. It's probably the biggest battle everyone in this Squadron has ever been."

Looking around him, at the speeding planes that were his crew members, Luke realized just how accurate Biggs was. None of these people had ever faced something in the same calibre as the Death Star, before—had ever faced something of such peril before.

Knowing this fact, somehow, soothed Luke, because suddenly he didn't feel so left out, so alone. "At least we have each other, right?" He said, almost cheekily. "You and I; the Menace Duo."

"Tatooine's youngest podracers. The source of Owen Lars' constant headache." Biggs replied, his voice sounding wistful. Luke's eyes misted at that, recalling a childhood long gone, an innocence long evaporated. "Think we can pull the shits we did back then?"

"Only one way to find out, isn't it?"

Biggs hummed in agreement, and it was silent for a while, and Luke thought that he was already disconnecting, until— "Hey Red Five?"

Luke almost hit his hand as he rushed to press the reply button on. "Yeah, Red Three?"

"In case if we—if I—" Biggs sounded like he was halting himself, pausing for several milliseconds. When he came back, his voice was thicker, dryer, more raw. "I just want you to know that—I can't imagine doing this with anything else but you." He said. "It's always been us, after all."

Something inside Luke stirred, an old feeling he'd long buried since Biggs had left the coarse lands of Mos Espa. There was something clogging his throat, something almost like longing when he opened his mouth to reply. "Me too, Bi—"

"Sorry to cut the romance, boys, but—" It was now Commander Dreiss, breaking Luke from his reverie and causing him to blush a bright scarlett across his cheeks. Oh, Kriff, had everyone else—? "We're entering the battle perimeters now. Be ready."

At the Commander's information, Luke's eyes snapped up, straight to the view before him. The space was just as dark and vast as it had been before, but now—now he could see it.

Luke didn't really pay attention, back when he was inside. But now, viewing it from where he was flying, he realized how right Han was;

Even from afar, The Death Star was humongous.

For a split second, Luke's resolve wavered, and Ahsoka's grim words rang in his head; "This is war, Luke. People can die. You can die." He felt a new wave of fear settling in, gripping him, but—

For those silenced by this war.

"Squadrons, Ready?"

For Aunt Beru. For Uncle Owen. For Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben—

Luke took a deep breath. "Ready."

"There are reports of foreign planes approaching." Said Governor Rancit before Vader could even fully enter the room. The Government didn't look up, didn't even acknowledge Vader's presence. Instead he was aptly viewing the navicomputer before him, where twelve small dots were rapidly closing into the station. "Isn't it fascinating?" Added Rancit, eyes almost sadistically gleeful as he followed those dots' movements. "They're very determined, I'll have to give them that." He snorted, "But just like pesky pests—they have no concept of self preservation."

Vader stood still, the only noise coming out of him a sshh-sshh-sshh of his breathing.

"And for that foolishness," Said Rancit, leaning to his recliner, "They will be destroyed. Annihilated." His smile was growing wide, almost maniacally, "Including that pesky, pesky Princess."

The way Rancit had described Leia, like she was a worthless nuisance—Vader clenched his fist, his anger teetering into the force. Around him, the walls trembled—crackling in response of his barely-contained rage.

How dare he insult what was his.

Governor Rancit must have misread him, because he was cackling. "My, my, they were right; you do shake every room you're in." He stood up from his seat, walking at Vader's direction. "That's the exact spirit I need Lord Vader—" he said, placing a hand to Vader's shoulder like he deserved to, like they were old friends. Vader shrugged him away, almost immediately, his sshh-sshh-sshh growing louder.

Rancit's smile soured, raising his hands in a surrendering motion. "Not a fan of physical contact, I see?" He said, tilting his head.

"What do you require from me?" Hissed Vader, his voice modulator barely hiding the grit in his teeth, the thinness in his patience. If Rancit was only here to gloat, to say a couple of degrading words about the rebellion, then—

But then Rancit shrugged, almost nonchalantly. "I want to give these scums an appreciation of sorts. For making it this far, you know." He said, tilting his head slightly. "I plan to have TIE-planes dispatched to fight them. I want you—" He pointed at Vader lazily, "to lead the squadron."

Inside his mask, Vader blinked.

Once, twice, thrice.

"You want me to—" He said, head turning, working, thinking, "lead the battle against the Rebels."

Nodding, Rancit waved a hand. "That's about right. You can even choose the members and everything." He said, sitting back in his chair. "I'm sure they're way below your usual battle, but—a little easy-mode games can't hurt, every once in a while, am I correct?"

Vader wasn't really listening. His head was suddenly full, so many thoughts clashing in at once.

He could use the battle as a cover could cover his trace could attack the thermal post and not be seen suspicious—

"Lord Vader—?"

"Yes." Vader had said, almost breathlessly. "I will do it."

Rancit grinned gleefully. "See, Lord Vader?" He said, could. "I know a well-oiled soldier like you would like bloodbaths."

Any other day, Vader would have snarled, would have choked Rancit for his objectifying description of him—one that eerily reminded him of slavery—but today was not that day. Today he vowed that rage wouldn't be the frontman of his decision making, that his dignity wouldn't be the priority of his choices.

Leia.

All that mattered was her.

Walking out of Rancit's office felt like a trance, as Vader closed the door behind him. Piett—that oddly loyal officer—was startled at Vader's sudden appearance, looming over him. "Lord Vader, Sir, uh, what—"

"I want you to round up Eleven of your best men to leave this station." Said Vader, not bothering with any pleasantries. "Make sure that they're loyal to me and only me." His tone was almost threatening. "Take one of the evacuation ships; disable the tracking devices, then go to Mustafar."

Piett's eyes narrowed, "Mustafar...?"

Vader waved a hand. "It will be in the maps. Go to the palace at its southeast side." He instructed. "Wait until the hangar is open and the TIEs are deployed. Depart with them, and be discreet." He emphasized the last word. "Do not let anyone find out."

Do not let the Emperor find out.

Nodding, the frown was still present in Piett's face. "And what about you, Sir?" He asked, hesitantly. "Will you be staying here, or—?"

Vader looked at the hallway, already mapping the men he was going to take with him; must have decent record to not raise suspicion, but still lousy enough to guarantee that none would eventually survive and witness what he was about to do— "I will lead the TIE squadrons." He said.

"Sir—?"

Leia, Leia, Leia, Leia—

"I will lead the squadrons," Vader repeated himself, "And I will blast this station to the ground."

"Commander are you—" Luke said, narrowing his eyes. "Are you seeing that?"

As they approached the battle station, it was clear that it wasn't the only thing flying. Around them were TIE planes, only starting to fly.

"Kriff." Cursed someone from the comms. Luke wasn't sure who, but—as he watched more planes being dispatched before them, possibly double their amount, Luke would have to agree at the sentiment.

Kriff indeed.

They were clearly outnumbered—outdated, even. Their X-Wings were of last year's model, equipped with proper tools to attack, yes—but nothing compared to the sleek and intricate designs of the TIE crafts.

Luke grimaced, thinking of Leia, back at the base, waiting for him. Thinking of Biggs' precautionary words. Thinking of Ahsoka and—

This is war, Luke. People die. You can die.

He could feel his nerves thrumming, his heartbeat hammering in his ribcage. Death. He used to be so afraid of it, as a child; he saw it too much, with slaves in Tatooine dying before his watch, writhing and begging for help to no one that would listen. Luke always thought that death was scary.

But—

"I want to help!"

For Aunt Beru. For Uncle Owen. For Ben.

"Pilots of the Rebellion." True to Ahsoka's grim predictions, the enemy did intercept their commlinks to announce their arrivals. "This is your last opportunity to surrender in peace. Do not hinder the wills of our leader."

Luke held his breath as he heard Commander Greiss' defiant, "and if we choose to not surrender?" responding back to the Imperial fighters.

There was a sshh-sshh-sshh voice, almost like someone was being muffled by their mouth while breathing through it, and Luke realized a little too late on who had taken over to speak. "Then," Darth Vader—kriffing Darth Vader—spoke, his robotic voice echoing through the small compartment of Luke's plane. "you will be met with a swift death."

Death, Luke thought. The lingering stench of death seemed to follow him anywhere, but especially lately—with his aunts and uncles, with the genocide of Alderaan, with Ben—death was such a staple of permanence these past few days, Luke wasn't sure he remembered a time before it. Fear laced his nerves, stuttered his breathing.

But—

"Your father was a Jedi, Luke." There was a twinkle in Ben's eyes as he spoke, bright and sombre. "A brave one." He shook his head, almost reminiscing. "People called him 'The Hero with No Fear.'"

Luke looked at him; the coldness of the Falcon suddenly less threatening, with stories of his father warming him. 'The Hero with No Fear,' he thought. "Was he ever afraid?" He asked, voice so small as he suddenly feel inadequate; For he was no hero, nor did he have no fear. He was just Luke Skywalker, moisture farm boy who's pretty good at flying things up and fixing things out.

But then Ben chuckled, his eyes now glinting with an unexpected amusement. "Of course he was, Luke." He said, softly. "Everyone were. Your father was no different." He smiled, tilting his head slightly to take a look at Luke better. "But it never stopped him from doing something he believed was right." At this, his smile wavered, and then he looked up to the ceiling, as if reminiscing something darker, something more sinister. "In a sense, you can even say—" he took a deep breath. "Fear was what drove him."

Luke closed his eyes, feeling the vastness of the space, truly, for the first time. It was eerily silent, and yet he didn't find it as threatening, or as mortifying as before. Instead, in the silence, he could almost hear echoes of a voice, of Ben, in the Falcon's dejarik table (except he wasn't?) saying—

Do not let your fears define you, Luke.

"Bold of you to assume," Luke had found himself pressing the comms button, blasting his own voice across the X-Wing and, consequently, the TIE planes. "That any fight of ours would be swift."

He didn't know where he got the courage from, where he got the bravery, despite his still clammy hands and his still antsy legs. Didn't know how conviction could be so well-mixed into his nerves, like a grind working, supporting each other. But he clung onto to it like a vice, savoring all the bravery he could get.

"Very well then," it was Vader again, sounding almost mildly—amused? "You have been warned."

There was that sshh-sshh-sshh sound again, the heavy, almost mechanical breathing that seemed to always follow Vader everywhere. Luke was always wondering why did he sound like that. Was it necessary, was it an attempt to be more menacing—?

"Soldiers," Luke's idle wonder was cut short as he once again heard Vader's voice echoing through the comms. "Begin the attack."

Vader knew that voice.

It was the same one that screamed for Kenobi with all his might, the one that had to be dragged by the pilots alongside the Princess—his Princess, his—as stormtroopers pursued them left and right.

He wondered who it was, and what his relations were to Kenobi. Maybe an apprentice? He couldn't really tell.

(Still, something nagged him, something odd and kind of concerning. It felt almost like he was missing something, forgetting something, overlooking something—)

Vader shook his head. He had more pressing matters to be concerned with.

Leia.

The battle strategy was fairly simple—lead the rebellion to the eastern part of the Station, the one that was concealed by the shadows. Vader told his men that it was because of the static field surrounding that particular part would make it difficult for older plane models to maintain smooth flight, and the lack of light around the area would harden their attempt to view their surroundings.

None of those were true—and Vader was thankful that none of his men were bright enough to check the validity of his claims.

"Lord Vader," said one of his men, he didn't really care who it was, who any of them were— "We've hit down five X-Wings, one of which was their Commander, sir—but CL-6389 and DV-4215 were shot, and are now experiencing engine malfunction—"

"Focus on your individual tasks, Soldier." Vader snarled, cutting off the anxious officer. He didn't care if some of his men would fall, or that some of them already had. He had planned to kill every single one of them, after all; rebels and troopers alike, because no one could be a witness of what he was about to do and lived to tell the tale.

Correllian hells, he himself didn't even feel like he could say it himself.

Treason, an amused voice piped up in his head, almost like it was reaching up to him. You're about to commit treason.

Vader's breath hitched, shock getting to him. But he buried the feelings away as quickly as it came, not sparing any indle wonderment to question who or how. Instead, he simply replied what had been spinning in his head since the beginning of the day.

This is to save my daughter. He argued, almost instinctively.

And what does that say about you, Lord Vader?

Shaking his head, Vader banished the voice to a locked part of his mind. Instead he focused on trying to locate his target; that two-meter wide thermal exhaust post he'd been so desperately searching for.

From up here, it was practically impossible to distinguish the blasted post against other components, what with the fact that Erso had made the plating almost similar to one another. Vader let out a distinct sound of frustration, a mix of growls and groans muffled by his vocal modulator as he tried to keep up the facade of shooting the rebels back while still keeping an eye to seek for the post.

For a split second, he averted his gaze to the enemies, and had his heart stopping for a second too long.

Because he could see the moon where the rebellion resided. Could see the moon where his daughter was currently residing.

Around him, the X-Wings were losing, one by one falling or being engulfed in flames, or a combination between the two. There were only very little of them now, perhaps less than five, and even with them as the last defense of the rebellion, he could see how futile their stance were, how they, too, will soon be obliterated by this forsaken murder machine.

Vader felt his heart plummeting down at the pit of his stomach. No, he gulped, no no no no no—

Leia, Leia, Leia, Leia—

"Wahoo!"

The maniacally joyful scream startled Vader to his bones, as he instinctively looked up to try and find the root of the voice. The Millennium Falcon greeted back at him with a shot that he had narrowly missed.

"Ladies and gentlemen this is your Captain speaking," Said the pilot, almost cheekily, "if you look at your left you will see the beginning of total annihilation of the Imperial Scums." and then he proceeded with more fire, some hitting his men and even grazing his own body. "Two down, Baby! That was for you, Chewie!"

There was a wookie roar at the back, a Shyriiwook Vader was far too occupied to comprehend. "Han! Chewie!" There was another voice—the boy, sounding like he was fully, wholly relieved. "You came back!"

"Hey, Kid, how's it hangin'?!"

"Sir—" said one of his men amidst the chaos. "We're badly hit, Sir. NS-1260 and QR-7784 have engine failures—"

"Where are you?" Vader asked, clippedly, gritting through his teeth.

"Second and fourth planes of your northeast, sir, the ones with—"

Vader didn't wait. He swiveled his ship and blasted them with his own missiles.

Hmph. Said the amused voice in his head, the one he knew so damn well but had refused to acknowledge. You and—what did senator Amidala usually say? Ah, yes—aggressive negotiations.

Shut up, Vader hissed, entirely focusing on trying to eliminate the threats against him. Shut up.

Fine. Said that voice, and Vader could almost imagine him raising a hand, as if posing for surrender, his eyes twinkling in almost mischief, I won't say anything.

Vader growled, swerving to check on his surroundings. Most of his own men were down, sans maybe two, and there were only three more X-Wings at his side, one that was seemingly approaching where he was hovering.

Something told him that it was the boy's ship. And he couldn't let the child ruin his plans, couldn't let him ruin his already slight chance of saving—

Leia, Leia, Leia, Leia—

So he reloaded his arsenal, ready to blast the boy to crisps—

If you shoot that boy, Anakin, and now Kenobi wasn't playing coy, wasn't hiding himself anymore—he sounded dead serious, and Vader could almost see his face, wrinkled and mirthless and almost sad. You will find yourself sinking in a pool of regret deeper than the one you're already drowning right now.

"Bi—Red Three, how are you faring?!"

Luke almost yelled at his comms, adrenaline fully coursing through his veins. There were dread, too, somewhere in there—and anger, and desperation.

He saw Commander Dreiss' freighter falling right before his own eyes, after all.

Scratch that; he'd seen most of his fellow fighters fallen into their demise—or burned, depending on how the attack affected their ships. And Luke could already feel anxiety clawing on him and fear, fear, fear whispering next it's your turn boy—

But then—then Han showed up. Flew the Millennium Falcon amidst the battle with the loudest cheer ever and showed up. And managed to hit two, three, four, five, six—

"I'm fine, Red Five." Replied Biggs, sounding breathless. "How are you?"

"Fine as well." Luke spoke through his comms, relief seeping through his veins at Biggs' voice. He swept his vision around, finding that Lieutenant Antilles' ship was still hovering, and punched the comms once more. "Lieutenant, are you alright?"

"Peachy," Replied Lt. Antilles. "Listen, Red Five; as of now you're the closest to our Target. Red Three and I will try to hit the remaining enemy off, but you—your main concern should be finding and hitting the post."

Luke frowned, "but I thought the plan was to—"

"This is a battle, Red Five. Plans change." Lt. Antilles sounded like he was almost pleading, "most of our men are down. You're the closest to make the shot. You're our only hope."

You're our only hope.

Leia—suddenly he was reminded of Leia, in that recording, bending her knees slightly to reach Artoo's height, begging Old Ben to help the rebellion. You're my only hope, she had said, pleading, help me.

Taking a deep breath and clutching his consoles, Luke strengthened his resolve. "Copy that, Lieutenant." He said, before punching the comms off.

He would do this. He could do this. He had to do this.

For Aunt Beru. For Uncle Owen. For Ben.

Maneuvering his freighter so he could inch closer to the general target area, Luke asked for the schematics from Artoo's archive. "Come on Artoo. Show me that blasted post."

Artoo beeped in compliance, and pulled the schematics before their eyes. Luke narrowed his eyes at the blueprint, trying his best to match the drawing with the real life object he was faced with—but it was hard; it was almost impossible, with the similarities of the external plating and the chaos around him.

Still, he tried his best to find it, using his nav system and the schematics. Inching closer to the place, Luke narrowed his eyes, hoping somehow that they would appear to him.

And then something loomed behind him, something big and threatening.

He whipped his head up and saw the sleek, black plane that had led this attack since the very beginning. Watched as his shooters lightened up, as if preparing to shoot.

At him.

Darth Vader was going to shoot him.

Luke scrunched his eyes shut. Bracing for impact. This was it, this was it, he would never make it back to the base with the remaining squadron, never meet Leia again—

He's not gonna shoot you.

Luke opened his eyes, little by little, shock getting to him. He looked at Vader's plane again, and—found that it had halted its fires—as if stunned by something.

But beyond his surprise at Vader's sudden hesitation, he was surprised by the man who was whispering to his mind. Because above everything else, Luke knew that voice.

"Ben?!"

Quite. Luke could almost see the twinkle in Ben's eyes as he heard his reply. You are doing so well, Luke.

Luke spluttered. "But you—but you—" he said, struggling to get the words out. "But you died!"

To a Jedi, there is no death, my boy. Said Ben rather cryptically, there is only the force.

Luke wanted to ask what the hell did he mean by that, but then he could feel something shifting, around him; as if turning more sombre, more serious. We don't have much time, Luke, Ben said, softly. The station is about to fire at the base any minute now.

"Yeah, I kind of get that part figured out." Luke was now grumbling in annoyance. "Kind of the reason why I'm here, risking myself to be close to Vader's ship and this blasted station, actually."

There was an amused chuckle replying him, and Luke could feel warmth being transferred to his mind, as if trying to soothe his frayed nerves. You have your father's sarcasm, I'll give you that. Said Ben, but another thing you have in common with him is the force you wield in your wake.

"The force?" Luke asked, almost bewildered. He knew of the force, he knew that some people were blessed to wield it—heck, he saw it in action himself as Vader practically lifted Ben from the ground without even touching him, but having the force? Him?

Yes, Luke, the force. Ben now sounded rushed, and Luke could feel his patience thinning. You have to reach out to it. Let it guide you.

"How am I supposed to—?"

Empty your mind. Listen to your surroundings. Urged Ben, it wants to help, Luke. Let it help you.

"But how do I know that it's the force and not just—random feelings?" Luke pressed on, "I've never even felt it before!"

You have, Luke. Ben said, all your life, you have. And then there was a long pause, before Ben spoke again. How else would you know of Leia before you have even met her?

Luke took a sharp intake of breath, his heart skipping a beat. "How did you—?"

Because he wasn't supposed to know. No one was supposed to know; his dreams about the meadow, about her, was never spoken to anyone else, not even out loud, to himself.

But Ben wasn't about to let him be distracted, it seemed. The force, Luke. He told him, almost like a command. Let it guide you.

Shaking his head, Luke breathed in, then out, closing his eyes. He shut the comms out, trying to empty his mind just like Ben had said,

Let the force guide you…

And then, like there were strings guiding his hand and a pointer leading his sight, Luke felt himself reaching to his console, driving himself in a trance.

There. Said Ben, but even without him telling, somehow Luke knew; could figure out the target he was about to shoot, even if it seemed to be exactly the same as its surroundings. Now fire.

Luke maxed out his shooter, and did just that.

He knew the obstacle; the plating was a pretty hard steel to remove with just standard ammunition, which meant that Luke would have to keep on firing until it came off before he could actually fire the post below it.

He could feel his hands tiring, and his dread climbing as he mentally counted the ammo he had released, fearing that it would not be enough to fully carry the mission.

Five left, four left, three left, two left—

But then.

But then.

Luke felt that looming presence again behind him, and winced as he thought that this time would be definitely it; Vader would shoot him when he was so close, so close—

He's not gonna shoot you.

Luke heard a blast shooting, and braced for the impact, but—but nothing happened.

Instead when he opened his eyes, he saw Vader not facing at him, but at the station, and the shot he just released was to—was to—

Luke saw as the plating fell off to the vast, depthless space below them, revealing the thermal exhaust post that was his target. He didn't hesitate. He took the shot.

Everything felt like a slow motion. His shot hit the target straight in the bullseye, and it started to set itself aflame. Luke imagined the fire coursing through the pipeline, tracing their way to—

It took approximately 5.6 standard seconds for the Death Star to explode.

Luke had never been more relieved at the sight of something being engulfed in fire.

For his daughter, Vader thought to himself, as he watched the Station tore itself apart into little pieces. For her. For her safety. For her survival.

He tried not to think about the stormtroopers inside, the officers who were just there for administrative duties. Instead he convinced himself the way he used to have, a long time ago, in a different life and a different name—

This is war. He remembered his older (weaker?) self telling his Padawan. And in war, people die.

(The fact that he had to once again repeat that mantra, after almost two decades of simply disregarding the lives around him, was a discussion for another time.)

Instead, he focused on the remaining X-Wing Pilot, the one that released the killshot. Red Five, that was his codename, the boy who had yelled for Kenobi. The boy who had saved his daughter.

The boy who Kenobi prevented him from murdering.

Perhaps that was his purpose, Vader thought; perhaps he shouldn't kill the boy back then because without him, he wouldn't have located and fired at the Post.

But even now, as the boy maneuvered back, sparing Vader one last look, Vader couldn't bear the thought of shooting him.

(Something nagged in his head, as if he missed something, had forgotten something—)

All his men were dead. He was the only one left. No one would know.

He watched as the boy and his remaining crew sped away from him, back at the base. Vader drank the sight of Yavin-4, untouched, tried to seek for his daughter and finding her spirit lifted, her joy coursing through his veins.

Joy, Vader thought, reveling on the tingles on his spine, the fullness in his chest. He hadn't felt that in a while.

Vader reached out to her, sending her the softest nudge he could muster. For you, he tried to convey, this is for you.

And then—for the first time in two decades, he reached out to Kenobi, intentionally.

Who was that boy? He asked, their connection remaining just as strong, even when one of them was long gone. Why did you not allow me to kill him?

His only reply was a somber my boy, as quiet as the deep space around him.

"Luke!"

He hadn't even climbed down from the ladder when Biggs ambushed him, pulling him down and hugging him tight. "You son of a bitch, you did it!" Said Biggs, grinning widely. "You did it!"

Grinning, high on adrenaline, Luke grabbed Biggs by his jaw and angled his face to him, kissing him with all his might. The base, which was already cheery, exploded into even more yells and wolf-whistles.

When they finally parted, Biggs looked as dazed as Luke had felt, and then he licked his lips, saying lightly, "can't believe you beat me up to that."

Luke laughed, chest felt light, wanting to hug him again, but then there were three voice calling for him—voices he was painfully familiar with.

"Kid!"

"Luke!"

A screech of Shyriiwook, and then Han, Leia, and Chewie ambushed him, hugging him tightly from all sides he could barely breathe. But it was alright. It was alright, because they were here.

Together.

"You did it, Kid, you did it!" Han's voice was loud, and his face was red from the happiness. Chewie yelled an agreement, and Luke laughed at the Wookie's colorful choices of words.

"You both are amazing!" Leia said, excitedly, her buns somehow still looking impeccable as always. She turned to Han, her grin turning mischievous, "see, I know you're not all about the money!"

Han waved a hand at her before ruffling both their heads, and Luke laughed at that, leaning at the affection.

Ahsoka and Captain Rex came not long after, and Luke found his head being kissed over and over again by the older togruta, who spoke reverently in a language Luke did not recognize but could feel the gratitude anyway. Luke hugged Ahsoka tightly in return, reveling on her warmth and familiarity.

The base was so loud, with people hugging and jumping and cheering, and Luke was almost swept away by the adrenaline and euphoria because they did it, they won—

But then someone tugged him and it was Leia, pulling his sleeves down so he would look at her, and somehow, even when she was whispering he heard her the loudest.

"The results are out."

Luke's world stopped, and suddenly everything narrowed down to her, to her brown eyes and her beautiful, familiar face. "And?" He asked, almost breathless.

Pausing, perhaps for suspense, Leia looked at him intently in return. Then.

"I bet," she said, cheekily, "that I was born first."

It took a full second for Luke to comprehend before oh.

Oh.

"No, little sis," he said, almost tearfully, as he hugged her tighter. I'm not alone, not alone, not alone— "I bet it was me."

Interlude.

This was a shrine.

Piett watched his surroundings with awe. Mustafar was a smoldering planet filled with fire, and why Lord Vader would choose to build his personal palace here was beyond him.

But looking inside, that wonder was pushed far behind his mind, replaced by something new, something even more intriguing—because around him was a building decorated with an image of a woman. A woman everyone knew so well in the times of the old republic.

"These are—" said one of his men, "these are all pictures and depictions of Senator Amidala."

Piett didn't reply, instead looking at the designs around him. Yes, indeed, these were all of senator Amidala; of the milestones in her life, of all the looks she pulled out in the Senate. He ventured near the framed documents and found that it was copies of her bills, of her contribution to the societies of the past.

Forget a shrine. This was a temple, made to worship a Queen long gone and forgotten.

Piett wondered what prompted Lord Vader to build this; obsession? He didn't seem to emerge until after Senator Amidala had died, and during her reign, Piett had never really seen anyone resembling Lord Vader to be a close acquaintance of hers.

Then again, he's monstrously tall with an exo-suit worn at all times, it was kind of hard trying to figure out the man under it.

Looking around, Piett tried to catalogue the things he saw. More signatures, paper clippings, tons and tons of drawings and paintings—

He stopped.

Because there, at the end of the hallway, almost camouflaged by the large painting behind it, was a holopicture; small and eternal, depicting Senator Amidala using a veil and smiling brilliantly—

At Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker.

Piett had known who Knight Skywalker was—hell, everyone knew him. Hero with no Fear, greatest war General only on par with Jedi Master Kenobi. He was a legend, an aspiration for children to be and hope for adults to live—before the Republic collapsed and the Empire rose.

This was a wedding picture, Piett had realized, but why would a Sith Lord display the wedding picture of a Jedi and a Queen? Even more, weren't Jedis forbidden to—?

and then—then something clicked.

The viewing dock fell silent after Lord Vader choked Governor Tarkin to death, smashing everyone who dared to pursue the Princess in her escape.

"Shut the trackings." Lord Vader had said with no hesitation, when Piett informed him of their pursuit for the Princess. "I want all navicomputers that keep their tracks be turned off."

And the princess herself; strong and defiant, with brown, brave eyes even when they were filled with tears, eyes that reminded him of another politician of a different time, and at the same time a legendary fighter of another time—

Leia Organa, her name was, but she was not of the Alderaanian royalty blood. Her status as a war orphan was well known, as well as her sister's. They had been adopted into the Kingdom, taken by the grace of the Queen and the Viceroy—

"Senator Amidala had died pregnant." Piett spoke out loud, "hadn't she?"

There were collective murmurs of affirmation from his men. But Piett didn't really need it, his mind turning, thinking.

No one had known who her husband was.

Oh, Piett could feel his heart stopping for a milliseconds, skipping a beat, because suddenly he understood.

Thinking about his own daughters at home—two of them, bright eyed and brimming with joy—he had begun to understand Vader for the first time.

"She does look like her, huh?" He muttered to himself, hand hovering over the still holo. He conjured up the face of the Princess in his mind, picturing her eyes at those final moments before she escaped. sad, beautiful, tragic.

"The snark, though," he mused to himself more than to anyone else. She had creatively insulted Governor Tarkin on her first meeting with him, and he seemed to recall a certain Jedi General who was famous for his rather runny, undiplomatic mouth.

"It's all his."