I sat cross-legged in the Rogue Shadow's meditation chamber, the ship's engines thrumming like a pulse in my bones. The air hung heavy, stale with the metallic tang of recycled oxygen, and the red Sith glyphs carved into the walls pulsed faintly, their glow stinging my eyes. I reached into the Force, desperate for clarity, a path through the chaos of my choices. But darkness crashed over me, cold and suffocating, dragging me into a vision. A colossal space station loomed, its durasteel hull spiked with turbolasers, swallowing starlight whole. The void tasted of ash, and Palpatine's laughter—sharp, cruel—sliced through my skull. Rahm Kota's scarred face materialized, wrists bound in mag-cuffs, his blind eyes blazing defiance. "No… Kota!" I gasped, my voice a strangled echo. The vision tightened its grip, durasteel walls groaning as if the station itself hungered for my soul. My eyes snapped open, sweat plastering my hair to my forehead, my black tunic clinging to my chest like a second skin. My breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale burning my throat. The chamber's shadows writhed, the glyphs' red light now a taunt, echoing Vader's hold. My heart hammered, the vision's weight pressing down, crushing. The Death Star. Vader had taken them there: Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, Garm Bel Iblis, and Kota. I'd led him to them, my every mission a thread in his web. Felucia's blood-soaked vines, Raxus Prime's junk heaps—all for this betrayal. I stood, my boots scraping the grated floor, the sound grating against my nerves. My trembling hand found the cold bulkhead, its chill grounding me, but not enough. The Force churned inside me, a storm of guilt and rage, threatening to tear me apart. What if I fail them? What if I become him—Vader, a shadow consuming all I love? My lightsaber, clipped to my belt, thrummed softly, its kyber crystal a faint pulse against my fear, its crimson glow a reminder of the blood I'd spilled for him. I wasn't his weapon anymore. I'd save them, or die trying. But the vision lingered, a splinter in my mind, its ash-taste coating my tongue, whispering of a doom I couldn't outrun.
I stepped into the cockpit, my boots heavy on the deck, the faint creak of metal underfoot echoing my unease. Juno sat at the controls, her blonde hair catching the console's blue glow, strands falling loose from her tight bun. Her hands moved with practiced grace, but her shoulders were tense, betraying her. Her eyes flicked to me, worry etched in their depths, searching my face for something—strength, maybe, or reassurance I wasn't sure I had. "You look like you've seen a Sith holocron," she said softly, her voice a lifeline in the ship's sterile hum. "Just a vision," I muttered, slumping against the co-pilot's seat, the leather creaking under my weight. The console's lights flickered, casting shadows across my scarred hands. "The Death Star. Kota's there." Her hands froze on the controls, her knuckles whitening. A strand of hair fell across her face, and she didn't brush it away. "Kota? With the others?" "All of them," I said, my voice raw, scraping my throat. "Bail, Mon Mothma, Garm Bel Iblis. Vader took them all—to the Emperor." Juno's breath hitched, a soft sound swallowed by the ship's drone. Her eyes widened, reflecting the console's glow, and for a moment, she looked lost, as if the galaxy had shifted beneath her. "So that's why he let us hit those Imperial outposts," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was all a lie." I nodded, bitterness clawing my throat, a sour taste I couldn't swallow. "Every mission—Raxus Prime, Felucia, Cloud City—I was his hound, sniffing out the Emperor's enemies. I built the Rebellion, and he used me to trap it." The words burned, each one a shard of glass. I looked away, my gaze catching the viewport's star-streaked void, but it offered no escape from the guilt gnawing my chest. Juno stood, her chair scraping softly, and her hand found my shoulder, warm through my sleeve, grounding me. Her touch was light, hesitant, as if she feared I'd shatter. "You didn't know, Galen," she said, her voice steady now, though her fingers trembled. "You're not his tool anymore. You're fighting for them. For something worth believing in." Her words sparked a flicker of hope, dulling the guilt's sharp edge, but not enough to silence it. I met her gaze, her blue eyes fierce with faith—faith in me, when I had none. "Thanks, Juno," I said, my voice rough. "I need to hear that." But inside, the doubt gnawed at me, a persistent whisper: What if I fail them? What if I become him? She gave a small smile, but worry lingered, shadowing her face like a cloud. "Back on the Empirical, you were… cold. A shadow." She paused, her hand tightening on my shoulder, her thumb brushing my collarbone, a gesture so brief I might've imagined it. "Now, I'm proud of you, Galen." I chuckled, warmth spreading through me, a fleeting shield against the cold dread. "Coming from you, that's high praise." We stood close, the ship's hum wrapping around us like a cocoon. Her hand lingered, her fingers brushing mine, a quiet promise that made my chest ache. I wanted to hold her, to anchor myself in her steadiness, but doubt held me back. What right do I have, after all I've done? She stepped back, her scent—faint, like engine oil and starlight—lingering. "We're almost there," she said, her voice brisk, though her eyes betrayed her. "PROXY's got a training sim ready if you need it." I nodded, straightening, my hand brushing the saber at my belt. "Good call. I need to be sharp." As I turned, she called, "Galen?" Her voice was soft, almost lost in the ship's drone. I looked back, her silhouette framed by the viewport's stars. "Yeah?" "Be careful," she whispered, her eyes glistening, a tear catching the light. "Please." "I will," I said, but doubt gnawed at me, sharp as a vibroblade. I wanted to say more, to promise I'd return, but the words stuck, heavy with the vision's warning. I clenched my fists, the leather of my gloves creaking, and forced myself to focus. I have to do this. For them. For her.
I stepped into the training room, the door hissing shut behind me, sealing out the cockpit's warmth. The chamber was stark, its durasteel walls scuffed from countless spars, the air sharp with the scent of burnt circuits. PROXY's holographic form flickered to life, his skeletal frame glinting under the overhead lights, his metallic voice clipped and precise. "Master, I am ready for combat training." I crossed my arms, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly, though my pulse still raced. "Stormtrooper mode," I said, my voice rough. "Make it quick." PROXY shifted into a stormtrooper, his white armor gleaming, blaster raised with mechanical precision. "Engaging," he said, his tone flat. "Success probability against Death Star forces: 3.7%." I smirked, the familiar jab loosening the knot in my chest. But beneath the humor, anger simmered—anger at Vader, at the Empire, at myself for being their pawn for so long. "You never give me better odds." "And you never fail to defy them," PROXY said, his helmet tilting slightly, almost mocking. He fired, the blaster bolt's red glow searing the air. I ignited my lightsaber, crimson plasma hissing to life, its blood-hued glow casting jagged shadows across the walls. I deflected the bolt, the impact vibrating through my wrist, and lunged, the Force surging through me like a current. My blade sang, carving an arc of light as I slammed PROXY against the wall with a telekinetic push, the durasteel ringing. His blaster clattered to the floor, and I disarmed him with a swift strike, the motion fluid but heavy with purpose. Sweat stung my eyes, my breath ragged, the burn in my muscles a reminder of how far I'd pushed myself. I stepped back, deactivating my saber, its hum fading into silence. My chest heaved, the air tasting of ozone and metal. "Good enough," I said, wiping my brow, my hand trembling slightly. "Performance: satisfactory," PROXY said, reverting to his droid form, his optics glinting. "The Death Star harbors stormtroopers, officers, and likely Lord Vader." My jaw tightened, Vader's name a cold weight in my gut. I could feel him, a shadow in the Force, waiting. "He's there," I said, my voice low. "I can feel his shadow." "Then you must be ready," PROXY said, his tone unchanging, yet there was a flicker in his optics, something like concern. "Another simulation?" I shook my head, my fingers brushing my saber's hilt, the metal cool against my skin. "Later," I said. "Keep the ship's systems hot." "Affirmative," PROXY said, his frame whirring softly as he powered down, his loyalty a quiet constant. I stood there a moment, the silence pressing in, my thoughts spiraling. Was I ready? Could I face Vader, Palpatine, and not break? The vision's laughter echoed, a taunt I couldn't shake.
I sat on my bunk in the cramped quarters, the durasteel walls closing in, their scuffs and dents a map of my years aboard the Rogue Shadow. My lightsaber rested in my hand, its weight familiar, its kyber crystal humming a steady pulse against my scarred fingers, its crimson glow a bitter reminder of my Sith past. The sound was a lifeline, grounding me as my mind churned, guilt and resolve warring within. Kota's face haunted me, his blind eyes fierce, unyielding, even in chains. He'd chosen the light over the Empire, his gruff voice echoing in my memory: "You're not a Jedi yet, boy, but you're getting there." He'd shown me a path I hadn't dared dream of, and I'd repaid him with betrayal. Bail's quiet strength, Mon Mothma's vision, Garm Bel Iblis's cunning—they were the Rebellion's soul, men and women I'd gathered on Corellia, believing I was building hope. Instead, I'd led Vader to them, my every step a trap. The guilt was a vibroblade, twisting deeper, its edge honed by memories of Felucia's blood-soaked vines, where Shaak Ti's last breath had cursed my blindness. I traced the saber's hilt, my fingers lingering on the etchings, worn smooth by years of war. This blade had carved my path—through Vader's brutal training, hunts for Jedi who'd begged for mercy, and now, a fight to undo my sins. The Empirical's betrayal burned in my chest, Vader's cold voice, his saber piercing me, the void swallowing me whole. I'd been his weapon, honed to kill, but I'd survived, clawing back from death. Juno's faith, her steady hand pulling me from the wreckage, had given me a reason to fight. Kota's grit, his refusal to break, had shown me how. I closed my eyes, sinking into the Force, its currents swirling around me. The Death Star's darkness pressed in, heavy with Palpatine's malice, a suffocating weight that made my skin crawl. But faint lights flickered: Kota's defiance, Bail's resolve, Juno's warmth—like stars in a storm. They were worth fighting for, worth dying for. My hand tightened on the saber, the metal biting my palm, a promise to myself. I wasn't a Sith anymore. I was their shield, their last hope. I stood, clipping the saber to my belt, its weight steadying me. The air was thick, the ship's hum a constant undercurrent, but my resolve burned brighter. This was my path, and I'd walk it, no matter the cost. The vision's laughter lingered, but I pushed it down, focusing on the fight ahead.
The Death Star filled the viewport, a durasteel moon blotting out the stars, its surface bristling with turbolasers like spines on a beast. Its cold gleam sent a shiver through me, the dark side's presence a tangible weight, pressing against my ribs. The Force stirred, a cold ripple that tasted of ash and blood, warning of Vader and Palpatine, their malice a noose tightening around my heart. Juno gripped my hand, her fingers trembling, her skin warm against mine. "Promise you'll come back, Galen," she said, her voice breaking, a plea wrapped in courage. I met her gaze, her blue eyes fierce but shadowed, doubt heavy as duracrete in my chest. "I'll try, Juno," I said, my throat tight. "But this place… it's a grave." Tears welled in her eyes, catching the viewport's starlight. "I can't lose you," she whispered, her voice barely audible, each word a wound. I squeezed her hand, my own trembling, the warmth of her touch a fleeting shield against the cold dread. "You won't," I said, forcing conviction I didn't feel. "Not if I can help it." She nodded, but her grip lingered, her fingers curling into mine as if she could anchor me to her. I wanted to stay, to lose myself in her strength, but the Force's warning pulsed, relentless. She let go, her hand falling slowly, and I felt the absence like a blow. Later, alone in my quarters, I stared at my saber, its crimson glow steady in the dim light, casting long, blood-hued shadows across the bunk. The Force whispered of sacrifice, of endings, its voice a blade against my resolve. Fear clawed at me—not of death, but of failing them, of becoming the monster Vader had forged. My hand tightened on the saber, the metal biting my palm, grounding me. Duty drowned the fear, but not the doubt. I'd face whatever waited—Vader, Palpatine, or the void itself—but the vision's laughter echoed, a promise of ruin.
Juno guided the Rogue Shadow into a maintenance hangar, her hands steady despite the blinking proximity alerts on the console. The ship's cloaking held, a faint whine underscoring the tension. "Patrols are close," she whispered, her voice taut, her eyes scanning the sensors. "Cloaking's holding. We're in." "Keep her ready to bolt," I said, moving to the airlock, my saber's weight a comfort at my belt. The air was thick, the ship's hum a steady pulse, but my heart pounded, each beat a call to action. "May the Force be with you," Juno called, her voice soft but fierce, carrying a weight that made me pause. I glanced back, her silhouette framed by the cockpit's glow, her eyes locked on mine. "And with you," I replied, my voice rough, heavy with the unspoken fear that this might be goodbye. The airlock hissed open, revealing a cavernous hangar, its durasteel floor gleaming under harsh white lights. The air was cold, sterile, biting my skin through my tunic, carrying the faint tang of oil and plasma. Machinery hummed, a low drone punctuated by the distant clank of stormtrooper boots on catwalks above. Their voices echoed faintly, orders barked in clipped Imperial tones, oblivious to the intruder in their midst. I paused at the threshold, my hand hovering over my saber, the Force pulsing through me, sharp and clear. The Death Star's darkness pressed in, a weight that made my chest ache, but I pushed it aside. I thought of Kota, his blind defiance; Bail, his steady calm; Juno, her faith in me. I can't fail them. I ignited my lightsaber, crimson plasma flaring, its hum a defiant song against the silence, its blood-red light casting my shadow long and sharp, a reminder of the man I'd been, and the one I needed to be. I am not his weapon anymore, I thought, the words a mantra. I am their shield. "Let's do this," I muttered, my voice low, swallowed by the hangar's vastness. I stepped forward, the deck cold beneath my boots, plunging into the chaos, ready to carve my path through the Empire's heart.
Within the Death Star's iron heart, a labyrinth of durasteel veins thrummed with the Empire's cold malice.
The command chamber's durasteel walls gleamed under harsh, flickering lights, their cold expanse scarred by the faint hum of consoles, pulsing like a wounded beast. I stood at the threshold, my boots scuffed from the Death Star's hangar, where blaster bolts had seared the air and my saber had carved a path through stormtroopers' ranks. My ribs throbbed, a dull ache from a stray shot that had grazed me, my tunic damp with sweat, the faint coppery tang of blood lingering on my tongue. The Force churned within me, a restless storm, heavy with the weight of what I'd done—and what I still had to do. Vader loomed at the chamber's heart, a colossus of black armor, his presence a void that swallowed the light. His crimson saber ignited with a hiss, its blood-red glow casting jagged shadows across the consoles, their screens flickering like dying stars. His mechanical breath—slow, deliberate—rasped through the silence, each exhale a chain forged in Kashyyyk's fall, binding me to a past I'd sworn to shatter. I gripped my saber, its hilt biting into my calloused palm, and ignited it, crimson plasma flaring with a defiant hum, its kyber crystal pulsing in time with my racing heart, its red light a mirror to Vader's own. The air was thick, ozone and smoke mingling with the ashen reek of Vader's malice, a noose tightening around my chest. Fear clawed at me—not of death, but of becoming him, a shadow consuming the hope I'd fought to kindle. I stepped forward, the deck cold beneath my boots, my resolve a fragile shield against the dark.
My mind flashed to the detention block, hours ago, where I'd carved through guards, blaster smoke stinging my lungs, to reach the Rebels I'd doomed. Kota's scarred face had met mine, his gruff "You're not a Jedi yet!" a verbatim jab, his blind eyes fierce with defiance despite my betrayal. Bail's calm "Thank you, Starkiller" had carried gratitude I didn't deserve, Mon Mothma's nod a quiet resolve, Garm's gaze a trust that burned. The sterile air had been heavy, mag-cuffs clattering as I freed them, my guilt a vibroblade—I'd led Vader to them, my Corellian Treaty a trap woven by his lies. Their shuttle's glow as I urged them to escape, saber ready, was my hope, a spark I'd die to protect. Kota's "Fight, boy!" had echoed, a memory now spurring me as I faced the shadow that had forged me. The Force pulsed, my resolve hardening, the Rebels' freedom a weight I carried into this duel, my defiance a fire to burn away my past.
Vader lunged, his saber a crimson arc, his verbatim "You were weak when I found you… Now you are strong" cutting deeper than durasteel, a taunt etched in years of servitude. But I was not that boy anymore. I was not his apprentice. I was Galen Marek, and I would break free. Our blades clashed, crimson against crimson, the screech of plasma deafening, sparks raining like stars, stinging my face. Durasteel walls buckled, consoles sparking as I shoved with the Force, panels ripping free—shattering, groaning—but Vader deflected them, his saber unyielding. My ribs pulsed hot, my arm burned with each parry, sweat slicking my brow, stinging my eyes. I countered with Juyo, my blade a blur of crimson, weaving Shien's deflections, but his strength was a tide, relentless, his black helm gleaming, unblinking. The air grew acrid, smoke curling from scorched metal, my breath ragged against his mechanical rhythm. A memory of Felucia's vines, soaked in Shaak Ti's blood, flashed—my Sith past a shadow—but I shoved it down, my lightning crackling, ozone's tang sharp, my saber carving defiance. The Rebels' shuttle glow lingered in my mind, their freedom my anchor, Kota's blind trust a spur to break Vader's chains.
Vader's blade struck my guard, the impact jarring my wrist, pain blooming like a supernova. He pressed closer, his breath a chilling hiss, the Force heavy with his intent to crush me. "Your destiny is with me, Starkiller," he intoned, his scripted words a fire in my chest, his saber grazing my shoulder. Destiny? No. My destiny was my own. I would forge it with my own hands, even if it meant dying here. Pain erupted, blood seeping through my torn tunic, the slick warmth mixing with sweat, stinging my skin. I staggered, my vision swimming, but Juno's voice—"Be careful," her eyes fierce with faith—flashed, a lifeline in the storm. I roared, "I'm not your slave anymore!" my voice raw, my saber flaring brighter, the Force surging, its electric tang filling the air. The chamber groaned, durasteel bending like foil, consoles exploding in showers of sparks as my power clashed with Vader's darkness. I lunged, Ataru's leaps driving my strikes, my crimson blade a whirlwind, but his saber met mine, each clash a thunderclap, my arm trembling, my ribs cracking under the strain. The shuttle's glow—Bail's strength, Mon Mothma's vision, Kota's scars—burned in my mind, their freedom a hope I'd die to defend. Fear of Vader's legacy lingered, a whisper of doubt, but my defiance drowned it, my saber screaming, my heart a drumbeat for the Rebellion.
My strength waned as Vader loomed over me, his crimson blade humming inches from my chest. "You cannot defeat me. I am your master," he rasped, his voice a heavy chain dragging me back to the moment my father's light faded. My knees scraped the durasteel deck, its icy surface biting through my torn tunic. Blood trickled from my shoulder, splattering onto the floor in a slow, crimson pool, the metallic scent sharp in the air. His "Surrender…" reverberated through the command chamber, a cavernous space lined with jagged consoles and flickering holoscreens. Beyond him, through the viewport, the Rebels' shuttle gleamed faintly—a distant star of hope. I clenched my fists, the Force igniting within me like a wildfire. With a ragged breath, I thrust my hands forward. Durasteel panels ripped from the walls with a screech, hurling toward Vader in a chaotic storm. Consoles sparked and shattered, glass shards glinting as they spun through the air. He stumbled back, his armored boots skidding across the deck, his saber dipping as he braced against the onslaught. I seized the opening, staggering to my feet and lurching toward the shadowed corridor ahead, each step a jolt of pain through my cracked ribs. Blood trailed behind me, marking my path as I pushed toward Palpatine's throne room.
The corridor stretched long and narrow, its walls closing in like a vice, the air thick with the acrid tang of scorched metal. My boots thudded unevenly against the floor, the sound echoing in the tight space. I leaned against a bulkhead for a moment, my chest heaving, then pressed on, the throne room's entrance yawning ahead—a dark, arched portal framed by cold durasteel. I stumbled across the threshold, and the chamber opened into a vast, frigid expanse. The ceiling soared high, lost in shadow, while the polished floor reflected the dim light like a black mirror. At the far end, Palpatine sat enthroned atop a raised dais, his gnarled hands resting on the arms of his chair, yellow eyes piercing the gloom. The Rebels' shuttle pulsed in my mind, their fate teetering. I dragged my saber up, its crimson blade flaring to life with a shaky hum. "You will die!" Palpatine's voice boomed, rolling through the room like thunder. Lightning erupted from his fingertips, jagged tendrils clawing toward me. I swung my saber up, the plasma sizzling as it caught the bolts, the Force straining to hold a trembling shield. My boots slid back an inch on the slick floor, the electric heat scorching my forearms. Pain flared through my chest, my ribs groaning under the pressure. Palpatine leaned forward, his sneer cutting deeper than the lightning. "Kneel before me!" he spat. Never, I thought, my jaw clenched. I would not bow to him, not while the Rebels still fought, not while Juno believed in me. I gritted my teeth, shifting my stance to brace against the onslaught, my blade slashing through the air to redirect the energy. The lightning intensified, crackling against the durasteel walls, casting wild shadows. My knees buckled, but I pivoted, channeling the Force into a desperate push. The air rippled as I shoved back, my saber carving a defiant arc. Juno's fierce gaze flickered in my mind, her "Be careful" a tether. My body screamed, but I held firm, the shuttle's glow my guiding light.
I crumpled to the floor, the lightning's fury fading into a dull ache. My saber clattered across the durasteel, its crimson light snuffing out as it rolled to a stop against a support column. My cheek pressed against the cold, unyielding surface, my breath shallow and ragged. Blood seeped from my shoulder, pooling beneath me, warm against the icy deck. Palpatine rose from his throne, his robes rustling as he descended the dais steps with deliberate slowness, his shadow stretching long and dark. Through the towering viewport behind him, the shuttle's faint glow persisted, a fragile thread of hope. My ribs throbbed, shattered and useless, my limbs heavy as lead. Juno's eyes, Kota's faith, the Rebels' spark—they burned in my fading thoughts. I'd shielded them, my defiance a wall against the dark. The Force flickered one last time, a weak pulse through my broken body. Death's weight settled over me, crushing and final. I did it, I thought, a faint smile tugging at my lips. They're safe.
A faint pulse stirs in my haze, barely a flicker in the dark's crush. A familiar chemical tang burns my senses, a sour wisp. Is that Medi-gel? Voices erupt—frantic, sharp: "Synaptic conduits firing!" A woman's scream slices through: "We're losing him! Divert energy to the auxiliary injectors now!" My thoughts fray, a fading ember swallowed by the abyss.