Chapter Text
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She's young when they take her.
Just before her third birthday. Just old enough to remember her parents' names. Their faces.
Their bodies, littering the floor of their tiny apartment on Coruscant.
Her name is forgotten. Expunged. She is given a number instead. 18. One of many children, corralled into a room she's never seen, but which is oh so familiar.
Of course, the Chūnin Exams weren't quite as fatal.
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Years pass.
As do the lessons.
The propaganda – history – amuses her. It's not as good as Konoha's. There are enough dissenting voices out there to require an 'explanation' as to who they are and why they don't matter. Not as effective as a single, state authored historical narrative, but then, Konoha didn't exist within an information age, so perhaps she's being a little harsh.
The rhythm of military indoctrination is one she's familiar with.
For a time, she follows it, content with the knowledge that she will eventually escape.
Until–
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–a human girl introduces herself as 'Lily' instead of 'Number 2'.
She is taken her outside and executed.
It's the first time they're allowed outside. So they can watch.
Number 18 doesn't cry until she reaches her cot. It'll be the last time she cries in quite a while, so she allows herself the luxury.
Then, she begins working on a plan.
After all, she's going to need one if she wants to bring down an Empire.
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Lily isn't the last to die. Dragged out into the open air with a blaster to their head. Some simply fall too far behind and are repurposed as motivation for the rest.
Eventually, the executions begin to peter out. More and more of them are relocated to the Imperial Academy for more conventional training.
Number 18 marks it; the point where they became too useful and too expensive an investment to simply waste. Especially when they might be useful elsewhere.
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Soon, she one of two.
Number 5 is a human boy with a scar running vertically along his neck. His enthusiasm marks him apart from the others, even her. A perfect example of the kind of weapon they'd want.
Sometimes though, she thinks she sees something beneath that. A kind of calculation in his sycophancy.
Or, perhaps she's projecting. Maybe he really is that eager to serve the people who killed his parents.
She never finds out.
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"Too soon," The Grand Inquisitor – a Pau'an with blood red tattoos adorning his face – concedes as they drag a child's corpse away for disposal. "The program is still young. We'll add another year of training and try again."
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Another batch of children filter into her training sessions and 18's heart sinks.
She hadn't really thought the program would end with her, but until then…
well…
it'd been nice to think about.
Hope without commitment.
Some ask her questions.
"What happened to the kids before us?"
"How come you're still here?"
"Are you allowed to help me or is that against the–"
And so forth.
She speaks in hushed whispers and grave tones. She can't save them. Not yet.
But she can skew the odds.
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They're divided into three groups.
The first is dead within the month. Not smart enough, not strong enough. Wouldn't listen. 18 did what she could, but they're watching her closely now and death is the least of the horrors they might visit upon her for displaying any sort of kindness.
The second group is the majority. The ones that fail out, but not before enough time and money is spent for killing them to be a grievous waste of resources. They're sent to the Imperial Academy to be recycled into something the Empire will find useful. Some listen to Number 18's hushed words of advice and fail out at just the right time. The smart ones, she thinks.
Two join Number 18 in the third group this time. Numbers 22 and 19; A Twi'lek girl and a Mandalorian boy.
They watch 18 as she once watched 5, escorted into the Chamber of Trials.
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"This One." Vader says, from some dark corner of the room. It should be a question, but lacks the correct infection, as if the statement were its own answer.
He feels cold. Like a blizzard in armour.
"Yes" the Grand Inquisitor replies, more out of formality than a real need to answer.
She's tossed a small vibroblade, which she catches with barely a thought – Empire drills were a decent enough refresher. It's worn and chipped from overuse and, for a moment, Number 18 wanders if this isn't the blade they'd given the First Brother, Number 5. Then, just as quickly, she dismisses the notion. This, of all places, is not one for sentiment.
The Grand Inquisitor's lightsaber ignites. "Defend yourself, Second Sister."
Twin trains of thought run through her mind: The first, is that it's strange to promote someone and then test them. Why waste the slot? Is it a show of confidence in her? No, that can't be right – a question for later.
The second, is that throwing her against a lightsaber with an oversized switchblade might not be entirely fair. Perhaps she should file a complaint with HR.
Or, she should dodge the incoming strike.
Decisions decisions.
The vibroblade dances across her hand as she weaves in between swipes and thrusts. Tacitly, she tries for a parry – glancing, the kind that would miss her hand if it cut through the blade.
The vibroblade ricochets backwards, but most definitely doesn't break.
Good to know, she thinks, weaving backwards before her world turns to ice.
[ Red and malevolent and angry and evil – you would commit suicide to escape – so thick and potent in the air it feels physical. Like cement blocks tied around your feet]
He towers over her. Unmoving. Unspeaking. Hatred, burning cold.
HerShikakoNumber18SecondSister heaves in a breath, attempting to shake the ice from her soul and failing. She'd understood that the force was different from chakra, but maybe it wasn't all that different because that had been killing intent by any other name.
She recovers, darting perpendicular to her opponent and The Spectator, buying herself some distance.
At a cost.
The Grand Inquisitor's saber draws a line across her cheek. A tally against even that brief distraction. An admonishment; petty and stupid and all this hostility and bald faced sadism in the air is starting to piss her off so if they want to play that game then by all fucking means.
The cold loses its bite, becoming almost… refreshing as she lets it calm her. Centre her. Sharpen her. Outwardly, she does not react. Gives no impression she'd even noticed the wound.
[ I could kill you. If I needed to. And it wouldn't be because I enjoyed it or because I wanted to, it would simply be because you were in my way.]
The Grand Inquisitor's lips lose their casual upward curve as he attacks once more.
You.
The first attack is a feint, so she ignores it. Allowing the blade to pass her by without incident.
Are.
His second move is faster, but flawed. If she had to guess, she'd say it was part of a form designed to play upon the feint. If she'd reacted to it, she'd have been cut in two.
In.
Instead, it glances off the edge of her vibroblade and, once again, the blade ricochets backwards, her arm caught in the reversal of momentum.
My.
The third swing is an overextension. Even if he's holding back – and she's sure he was – She's done too well and now the Grand Inquisitor is overcompensating. She's called his feint and now that he's apparently suckered her into a parry, he's gone straight for the final blow.
Way.
Bracing her leg against the ground, The Second Sister launches herself inside the third swing and, with a flick of the wrist, the knife switches hands. Too late, does the Grand Inquisitor realise his mistake as she draws the knife across his throat.
Except… she does not.
She is frozen. A trickle of blood rolling across her blade as it holds, just at the edge flesh.
The Grand Inquisitor stares at her, eyes flared, paralyzed in place. It's the first time she's seen him afraid.
She likes it.
"Enough," Vader intones and, with an almost casual gesture, the knife snaps from her hand, embedding itself within a nearby wall. "She will suffice."
The Grand Inquisitor drops, his strings finally cut, into a bow so low it's almost to the point of grovelling.
"Yes. Lord Vader."
"Then our business here is finished." He moves to leave the room before pausing at the exit. "And do take care of your student, Lord Inquisitor. Or I shall have her take care of you."
The doors slides shut behind him and the Grand Inquisitor rises, regaining some measure of composure as he thumbs his neck, wiping away a small trail of blood.
He looks to her and his eyes narrow. Considering.
"We shall begin immediately."
The Second Sister straightens.
"Understood."
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