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Chapter Text

Consciousness comes to Vader not in stages, but all at once. It is disorientating, to say the least, because the last thing he remembers before snapping into consciousness – naked on a freezing cold stone altar – is his Master’s voice, low and urgent in his ear, and feeling his Master’s desperation and determination in the Force.

The taste of ash still burns in the back of his throat and he sits up, body wracked with hacking coughs as he trades fresh air for the smoke trapped in his lungs. The deep pull of damp, musky air is a blessed relief even as goosepimples erupt across his skin. His head is pounding and through his watery, stinging eyes, he can make out a humanoid form standing a few steps away.

He pushes himself off the slab and faces the other being, stretching out to the Force to get his bearings. The Force feels… different, the ebb and flow of it like an agitated beast and it surlily responds to him when he reaches for it.

The being in front of him keeps their face hidden in the deep shadows of their cowl when they greet him with a low bow, ‘Darth Vader.’

The voice is feminine, gold eyes flashing from under the dark hood.

‘Who are you?’ he demands, his tone made harsher by the smoke he has inhaled.

‘Asajj Ventress, my Lord,’ she says, pushing down her hood and Vader can recognise the pale skin and facial tattoos of a Nightsister. ‘And I pledge myself to your teachings.’

Vader somehow inhales wrongly and he chokes, coughing inelegantly on his own saliva.

‘What?’ he demands, hacking out the word, his chest spasming painfully.

‘Haven’t I proven myself a worthy Apprentice? I have broken the curse that has kept you asleep, My Lord.’

Vader blinks at her dazedly. She takes a step towards him and he shuffles two steps away, pausing when he belatedly notices the bundle of dark material in her hands and well, he is naked and he’s freezing. He doesn’t quite snatch it from her but it is a near thing. The cloak settling around his shoulders is a relief and he swaddles himself in the warm material with as much dignity as he can.

He reaches for the Force again, ignores the sting of it when it snaps and bites at his touch. He feels the edges of her sharp and cold and hungry presence, and he pulls away when she tries to latch onto him.

And then he registers the other signatures, diffused and muted the way Non-Sensitives are, but there’s something more there that tugs at his senses. One of the signatures is nearby – just to the side of the stone altar, actually – fluttering and thready, only a handful of minutes from slipping away from existence.

Vader turns to it, his bare feet squelching on the wet ground. There’s a figure slumped on the ground at the base of the altar. The man’s pulse is weak and barely there under Vader’s fingers when he goes to check.

‘I used him to pay the blood price,’ Ventress says, coming closer.

Vader glances at his feet, at the blood-moistened sand trapped between his toes and scrunches his nose. ‘You didn’t actually have to use that much blood,’ he mumbles, squashing his nausea and discomfort at the amount of blood spilt.

He lifts his gaze up to look at the man bleeding out in front of him. His dark skin is made sallow and pale by blood loss and his brown eyes flutter weakly when he tries to focus on Vader.

And despite being half-dead, the man hitches up the sides of his mouth. It’s a grin, sloppy and tired and challenging.

‘H’llo. C’mere often? Haven’ seen ya ‘round before,’ he slurs.

Vader snorts. His amusement slides away to concern then the man’s eyes suddenly roll back and his head flops to the side. Vader hauls him back upright when he starts to sag alarmingly sideways, settles him carefully back against the stone.

‘Don’t touch him!’ someone snarls, angry and fearful.

Vader throws a glance at the source of the noise, and he starts to turn away again when he freezes. His gaze goes from the dying man and then to the pair of men on the other side of the room. They are restrained; short lengths of chains attached to the wrist binders behind their backs that force them to remain kneeling on the ground. His eye skitters over their faces. There are some differences in their hair styling and colour, and there are scars and other marks on their skin but… their base facial structures are identical. Too similar to not be related to each other.

‘They are the sacrifices for you, my Lord, to break the curse,’ Ventress says, seeing his attention on the men. She tilts her head as she regards them, something cruel sliding into her light tone as she says, ‘But it seems I only needed the blood of one. We have no need for the remaining ones now.’

That’s… too many concerning things for Vader to consider at the moment. Instead, he shifts his focus to the man before him and frowns at the weakening heartbeat that flutters against Vader’s senses. He places his hands on the man’s chest, rising in pitiful shallow breaths, reaches out to the Force and then slams it into the body.

It’s not the easy sort of healing, not at all soft or comforting. This has no finesse and is all brute Force – ha! – but it does the trick, even if his patient howls silently and struggles under his hands. He slumps when Vader removes his hands.

The man is still pale, shaking and shivering even when he’s unconscious, but at least he isn’t actively dying now, which is good enough for Vader.

‘I haven’t seen Force Healing done that way before,' Ventress says, intrigued. ‘Looks useful. Can you teach me that?’

Having Ventress behind him like this makes his hackles rise and it’s hard not to tense up. He stands to face her, makes a show of his survey of her, of testing her shields.

‘You already have a Master.’

Ventress scoffs, a flash of anger and resentment making her eyes burn gold.

‘He will not make me his Apprentice even though I know I am ready. He has taught me some things, but he has been less than generous in sharing the rest of his knowledge. I want more. And he since has shown me that he will not give it to me, I must take it,’ she says, her lips curling in a snarl.

‘I know I have already surpassed his teachings,’ Ventress says and she gestures at the stone slab on which Vader had awoken, her tone sharp and vindicated. ‘I broke the curse. I succeeded where he had failed.’

Vader is silent as he considers and then he turns to the slab. He runs his fingers along the sharp-cut runes carved into the stone, frowning when he realises that he cannot detect even the faintest trace of his Master in the working, as if enough time had passed for it to have faded away.

‘—I followed the instructions,’ Ventress is saying and Vader realises she’s explaining how she lifted the curse, ‘to wet the stone in blood—’

‘—Whet, not wet it. And just this line of writing, really,’ Vader says, interrupting her, his fingers still tracing the wordings of the spell. He turns his head to look at her face, huffs when he sees confusion there. ‘It was not actually necessary to soak the entire slab in blood,’ he says rather drily.

‘It still worked,’ Ventress snaps angrily, after a few seconds, her pale face flushing like she’s embarrassed.

He hums and crosses his arms and leans his hip against the slab. ‘It did,’ he allows. Then he wrinkles his nose. ‘Unnecessarily wasteful and… messy, but it did work.’

His gaze drifts to the man again, the one unfortunate enough to have been almost bled dry because of a translation error. To his mild surprise, the man is awake, not quite yet recovered from the ordeal of Vader’s version of healing, but aware. His expression settles into something carefully blank when he sees Vader watching him.

‘I was trying to be polite,’ Ventress says, her injured pride making her voice sharp. ‘It would have been better if you had just accepted being my Master. But I can just make you teach me everything you know.’

Vader feels a flare of irritation at her tone and the eyebrow he arches at her is sardonic.

She flashes him a smile, a flash of fangs peeking past her lips. She tilts her head at the scrawl of runes and says, ‘I’ve got three wishes, djinn.’

Vader stills.

There is something in the way she had said “djinn”, not like a name, but something else, and it makes him hesitate, wary and uncertain.

Still, he eyes the long lines of script she had indicated, trying to decipher Ventress’s meaning. He finds a part of him bemoaning with fond exasperation the overly vague turn of phrases his Master always favoured when casting a working. Qui-Gon Djinn always fancied himself something of a wordsmith.

‘—blood-bound, creed, wishes three, freed,’ Ventress says, soft and sibilant and insufferably smug.

Oh, Vader thinks, with a twist in his chest that he tries not to dwell on at the moment, as he reads his Master’s words for himself. He tries not to let his reaction show, but it is hard. He feels a deeper twinge of irritation when Ventress’s smile slants victorious, and it makes something in him want to tear that expression from her face.

He glances again at Qui-Gon’s working, rereading the runes carved into the stone. Vader’s own workings are always much simpler and straightforward – but he has to admit that maybe for once, Qui-Gon’s approach that makes room for creative interpretations is a good thing.

Qui-Gon never did like putting things down in absolutes.

An oddity, for a Sith.

‘Who taught you to read Sith?’ he asks, and the grin on his face only grows when Ventress eyes his smile suspiciously. ‘Was it your previous Master? Because they did a really terrible job.’

He bites back on a laugh at the expression on her face. Then he sighs and shakes his head, tutting mockingly. ‘Firstly, you used too much blood. The working only needed enough to trace out the words on this line here,’ he says, tapping on the slab.

And then, because Vader is determined to find his amusement somewhere and it would really piss Ventress off, he says lightly, ‘And secondly. You really should have used your own blood.’

He sees the moment it clicks for her, a furious scowl taking over her face.

‘You will do my bidding,’ she hisses, the Dark side snapping around her, drawn in by her anger.

Vader tilts his head, smiles a slow smile. ‘Mmm…’ he hums thoughtfully, ‘No… I don’t think I will. You should’ve paid attention when your Master was teaching you, Ventress. Perhaps he would’ve taught you more things if you had been a better student. And maybe then you wouldn’t have mistranslated so many things today.’

She snarls and her gaze slides then to the man she had bled and Vader can see the way her thoughts turn. Vader is already moving and his hand dips into the folds of his cloak as he lunges forwards.

The bright burn of her lightsabre sears towards the man, aimed to bisect him through his middle—

—Vader catches her blade with his own, his kyber screaming a challenge at hers.

‘Where did you get that?’ she demands, eyes wide. ‘You aren’t wearing anything under that cloak!’

Vader smirks at her and waggles his eyebrows. ‘Hidden in a secret place,’ he tells her, and then realises maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all because her lips curl in disgust, clearly coming to the wrong conclusion. ‘I meant that it’s a trade secret!’ he hurriedly says, mortified, but it is too late.

She tries to shove him away and Vader is bigger than her, taller, but he allows himself to be moved, though he keeps himself between her and the man.

‘When he is dead,’ Ventress says lowly, her gaze locked onto the man, her golden eyes glittering, ‘you will be mine to command, djinn.’

Vader pauses minutely, thinks about correcting her—

‘Actually.’

Both Ventress and Vader turn to look at the man who had spoken.

‘Fives!’ one of the other men hisses, his signature swirling with fear-annoyance-exasperation. ‘Shut up!’

He – Fives? And actually, yeah, there’s a number 5 tattooed on his temple – ignores his companions as he climbs to his feet. He is leaning heavily on the stone slab, still a bit pale, but his eyes are sharp.

‘Actually,’ Fives says again, and he’s watching Ventress intently, ‘me and my brothers are clones. My blood is the same as theirs. That means Vader’s ours and that you’d have to kill all of us.’

A short silence falls as everyone digests that.

‘That’s not how that works—' Ventress snaps.

‘—Right?’ Fives asks, interrupting what is sure to be a tirade, his gaze meeting Vader’s.

A pause and Vader shoots the pair of chained men a glance before he looks back at Fives. He’s incredibly conscious of the way everyone is watching him closely. He raises the hand not holding his sabre and scratches his cheek as he thinks.

He hadn’t expected clones, but—

Between Ventress, and Fives and his brothers, the choice of who to humour is easy.

He shrugs loosely.

‘Yeah. Sure. Makes sense?’

One of the clones chokes and splutters on his own spit and the air is thick with shock and disbelief.

There’s a glint in Fives’s eyes and his grin is full of teeth.

‘Alright,’ he breathes out, something vicious-victorious-vindicated rushing through him. He lifts an arm and points at Ventress. ‘Get her.’

The burn in Fives’s signature slants a little too malicious to be pure mischief, but it is obvious that Fives is thrilled.

Biting back his own amusement, Vader rolls his shoulders and steps forward, his lightsabre still thrumming in his hand.

‘Sure thing, boss,’ Vader drawls.

Chapter Text

Vader might have… miscalculated. Just slightly.

There were three clones in the chamber where he had awoken, and one of their names had been Fives. That should have clued him in to the fact that there should be at least a few other clones out there.

And Vader is good at math. Great at it, even, because magic is a lot more like math than people would think, but the trio of clones that turned up just as Vader had managed to lead his trio out of the labyrinthine passages of the Sith archives had been wholly unexpected.

Still, dealing with half a dozen clones isn’t too bad, he thinks, settling back on the rock he’s leaning against. He shivers when a cold draft blows past, lifting the hems of his cloak and exposing his bare legs. He makes a disgruntled sound and wraps the cloak tighter around himself.

His movement makes the pair of clones – clones that he doesn’t know the names of yet – guarding him twitch, their weapons bristling threateningly. He ignores them, focusing on Fives instead, who is talking to a clone named Rex. Rex sports blond hair and a profoundly unimpressed expression.

‘Why not?’ Fives whines, pouting.

Rex pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. ‘Because. That is a Sith. We can’t bring stray Siths back with us.’

They glance over at the Sith in question, and Vader lifts a hand in a small wave.

‘Yeah, but he’s a djinn,’ Fives stresses. ‘And he’s gotta follow my orders – our orders!’

‘Says who?’

‘The stuff on the stone table! You know, the Sith magic table drenched in my blood?’

Rex looks a bit ill at that before he visibly shakes it off. He folds his arms across his chest, squeezes himself tight like he’s stopping himself from grabbing Fives and checking him over again.

‘And you’ve read the script yourself and verified it?’ he asks drily, once he’s steadier.

Fives falters, just slightly, then rallies. ‘Well, no. But Vader saved my life. And he chased off Ventress. And he got us out of that underground maze. A Sith would rather kill a clone than listen to one.’

Rex huffs at that, but he doesn’t disagree.

‘Besides,’ Fives says, sensing weakness. ‘Everyone knows that djinns have to do as they’re told.’

‘You believe really those fairy tales, vod?’ Rex asks, dry, but Fives knows him well enough that he knows Rex is giving in.

‘Think about the advantage we would have, Captain. A Sith, fighting on our side. Kriff, the 501st would be unstoppable. And he can heal up our injuries, just like this,’ Fives says, emphasising the last word with a slap of both his palms against Rex’s chestplate.

Rex stares at him unblinkingly until Fives removes his hands.

‘He called me “boss”,’ Fives throws in, clasping his hands in front of his chest, eyes wide.

Rex rolls his eyes. Then he sighs and glances over at Vader again.

The Sith has been strangely docile, and he has been following their instructions. But something about that prickles against Rex’s instincts, as if Vader is merely humouring them with his cooperation.

Vader is a Sith and that makes him dangerous, and Rex knows that, his hindbrain twitching every time the Sith locks his bright gold eyes with him. Rex doesn’t want Vader anywhere near himself or his men, doesn’t want to deal with containing a Darksider onboard the Resolute. But it’s not like Rex can solve the problem by just shooting the man and getting the kriff off the planet. Especially since Vader has essentially surrendered. There are war conventions and galactic laws, no matter what the Separatists insist on ignoring.

But also… no Sith would debase themselves and listen to Fives of all people, if they actually had a choice.

Rex grunts, coming to a decision. Fives perks up, scrambling to follow after the Captain as he goes over to the Sith.

‘Vader,’ he greets with a curt nod. ‘You’re coming with us. Jesse, Hardcase, prep the prisoner for transport.’

‘Right, you heard the Captain,’ Hardcase says to Vader. ‘Squat and cough.’

‘Excuse me?’ Vader asks, pushing himself upright, narrowing his eyes.

‘You heard me. Gotta make sure you don’t have anything else stuffed up your “secret place”,’ Hardcase says, stern. The shade of amusement in his signature is masterfully absent from his tone. ‘So. Squat. And cough.’

It turns out, Vader has miscalculated vastly.

There are millions of clones, apparently.

And on the Resolute, there are almost ten thousand of them.

He is absolutely surrounded by clones. Clones everywhere. The pit crew and maintenance workers, the grunts all the way up to the officers, it’s a literal entire army of clones. And while cloning isn’t exactly new technology, even back in his days—

—and okay, that’s something else he is working to come to terms with; he’s been asleep for how many centuries?—

—but he has never heard of a cloning project of this scale.

There’s probably a very gobsmacked expression on his face but he can’t help it. His gobs are smacked. Like, who the hell would commission millions of clones?

‘The Republic,’ Captain Rex tells him, flat.

‘But why?’ Vader asks, following along after the captain as he’s led deeper into the bowels of the biggest karking ship he’s ever been inside of. Who the hell would commission a ship this size? Vader doesn’t ask this question out loud. He suspects the answer would be the same as the previous one.

‘Because we’re at war.’

‘Why are you at war?’

‘Because. A few thousand systems wanted to secede from the Republic.’

‘And the Senate wouldn’t allow them? That doesn’t sound very democratic.’

Rex gives him a look. ‘Politics is the very big and complicated part of it. But the situation basically boils down to negotiations breaking down and hostilities flaring up and then the Separatists suddenly had a droid army and a Sith was leading them.’

Vader pauses and the six-man squad playing his escort detail stops with him. They’re twitchy, fingers on the triggers of their blasters but Vader ignores them, frowning as he tries to work through the information.

‘Ventress’s Master?’ he asks, testing, because that seems like a likely candidate.

‘Keep moving, Vader,’ Rex says sharply and Vader huffs but starts walking again.

‘Count Dooku,’ Rex says, after a moment and Vader looks over to find the captain watching him. ‘He’s an ex-Jedi. He also goes by the Sith name Darth Tyrannus.’

The expression on Rex’s face is slightly suspicious and it makes Vader feel a little defensive.

‘Hey, don’t look at me like that. I don’t know the guy. I just woke up from my nap, remember?’

‘So, you wouldn’t know his master, either?’

Vader lifts a shoulder in a shrug. ‘No clue, Captain. But I’d tell you if I did.’

Rex turns fully to him then, and their little procession stops in the middle of the hallway.

‘Would you?’

The question is sharp and testing, almost challenging and Vader pulls back a half-step at the tone, almost bristles defensively but—

Vader is… displaced in this time.

Everything and everyone he knows is long gone, there is nothing and no one left for him.

He knows Qui-Gon is dead but he still can’t stop himself from reaching out along their bond—

It’s almost a relief to run up against the barrier of the Force-nulling effects of the binders they’ve got on him. At least then he doesn’t have to experience the frayed end of the bond that drops off into nothingness.

Their lives’ work - their line’s lives’ work - the Aradian Archive… everything had been destroyed or looted over the centuries Vader had lain trapped in the stasis spell. Nothing but dust and ashes, now. Seeing all those halls and chambers empty as he had guided Fives and the others out had felt like a punch to the gut. All that collected knowledge, all those books, artefacts, holocrons, gone.

Vader had very much wanted to just… stop. Just stop and never move again. Like maybe curl up and go back to sleep on the stone slab and then hope that when he wakes up again, he’ll find everything back to normal. But.

There was Fives and Echo and Tup, their small sparking signatures seeming like stars in that moment, against the hollowness of the Archive and it had somehow made the ache in Vader’s chest a little less ragged—

He swallows past the tight knot in his throat and meets the clone’s gaze as steadily as he can. ‘Yeah,’ he says, and it comes out quiet, slightly raw, ‘I would.’

Rex looks at him, his gaze intense enough that it feels like he’s looking through him. Whatever he finds on Vader’s face makes his features soften at the edges, just a little. He glances over Vader’s shoulder for a moment before meeting his gaze again.

‘Alright, then,’ he says, accepting, and Vader releases a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

They start walking again. This time, Vader thinks the air around them isn’t as tense as before.

Fives visits him every day. So does Echo, but Vader suspects that’s more because Echo gets dragged along by Fives’s enthusiasm.

Vader finds himself looking forward to those visits. His cell is boring and bare and there’s nothing in it to distract himself from his thoughts. It feels good to be able to just set aside his anxiety for a while, to just ignore the building worry of meeting the Jedi.

All he needs to focus on right now is deciding if he wants to spread his battle points over several shiverpedes, or use them all on one skriton. He glances up at Fives’s face over the holotactics deck, hoping to see some hint of the clone’s intent for their next round. Frustratingly, for how animated and expressive Fives usually is, his face is studiously blank. There’s a glint in his eyes, though, that has Vader looking down at his dashboard again, weighing his options.

‘Skriton,’ Vader decides. ‘Front and centre.’

‘Ooh,’ Fives says, punching in Vader’s instructions into the game. ‘Bold strategy. We’ll see how that plays out.’

The round starts, revealing Fives’s choice of champions, which turn out to be a small horde of gorgers. They set upon Vader’s skriton, harassing the larger beast. It’s not even a close fight, the gorgers unable to do much damage against the skriton’s armour stats, but it is entertaining.

‘Oof!’ Fives cries, watching with delight as the last gorger gets crushed in the skriton’s claws. ‘Now that’s a holokill! Good choice on the skriton.’

There’s a huge smile on his face and Vader finds himself returning it with a grin of his own.

‘Food’s here,’ Echo announces, straightening from where he had been leaning against the bulkhead and a trooper appears with a covered meal tray a moment later.

‘Against the wall, please,’ Echo says to Vader.

‘Aww, vod. Leave him be,’ Fives protests, twisting around to look at Echo. ‘He’s not going to try to escape. He promised!’

Echo transfers a dry look over to his brother. ‘Protocols are there for a reason,’ he says, but it’s directed more to Fives than to Vader. Then he catches Vader’s eyes and jerks his head. ‘Step back from the ray shields, Vader.’

Vader flaps his hands lazily at Fives like he can wave away Fives’s grumbles of displeasure and rolls to his feet, taking the opportunity to stretch out his legs after sitting so long on the floor. Echo waits until Vader has obligingly shuffled to the far end of the cell before he deactivates the ray shield.

Vader looks over the new trooper with open curiosity, taking note of the pristine white plastoid armour. The food-bearing trooper ducks into the cell and deposits the tray on the edge of Vader’s bunk before hurrying out again. The line of his shoulders slope relieved to have a ray shield between him and the Sith staring at him.

Vader collects his tray and returns to sit on the floor again, in the spot opposite Fives, crossing his legs under him. He eyes the contents of his tray, giving a moment of study to the blue mash and accompanying yellow paste before he starts eating.

‘Can’t believe you have to eat nutrislop,’ Fives says, looking at Vader’s tray with both pity and disgust.

Vader shrugs. ‘It’s not too bad. Besides, my gut bacteria can’t handle the trash you guys are calling food these days.’

It’s Fives’s turn to shrug. ‘I would feel insulted by that but it’s not like we have a choice in choosing what we get to eat. We’re just happy when the Senate doesn’t cut our food rations.’

Spoon halfway to his mouth, Vader pauses.

Echo sees his expression and clears his throat. ‘There’s shortages and sometimes supplies are tight, but that’s just the reality of war—’

‘Yeah, it’s not just that, Echo,’ Fives cuts in. ‘There’s budget cuts all the time. The politicians want us to win the war but they sure as hell ain’t making it easy for us. Kix was bitching at firstmeal about our med supplies getting slashed again.’

‘Not to offend or anything,’ Vader says carefully, ‘but if the Republic treats you guys so badly, why don’t you just… leave the army? Quit? Find another job elsewhere?’

Fives stares at him for a few seconds and then bursts into laughter. There’s definitely amusement, but it’s also shaded with bitterness and it makes Vader stare at him in confused consternation.

‘We’re clones. We’re not considered “sentient”,’ Echo says, speaking louder to be heard over Fives’s chuckles. He emphasises the last word with quotation marks with his fingers. There’s a slant on his lips, a bit sardonic and all mirthless.

Fives hums. ‘We’re property of the Republic. If they ask us to jump, we don’t even ask how high, we just do it.’

Vader slowly unclenches his hand from around his spoon and puts it down.

‘You alright?’ Fives asks. ‘You haven’t finished your food.’

‘I’m not hungry anymore.’

The clones exchange a glance and then Fives scoots nearer. He nods encouragingly at Vader’s abandoned tray.

‘C’mon. You don’t want to make Kix mad. You haven’t eaten in centuries.’

‘I’m pretty well-preserved, I think,’ Vader retorts. But being reminded of that makes him think of Qui-Gon and that makes his mood sour further. ‘I’ll finish it later.’

Fives stares at him for a bit and then flicks a few handsigns towards Echo that has Echo groaning.

‘Fives. No.’

‘Yes,’ Fives insists stubbornly. The two of them glare at each other, some kind of wordless communication done with eyebrows between them, and then Echo sighs.

‘On three?’ asks Fives.

‘Yeah, on three,’ Echo agrees and Fives nods. ‘One—’

The ray shield deactivates. Fives flings something at Vader’s face and the shield snaps back on.

‘Ow! What the kark!’

Vader rubs his bruised nose as Fives beams at him.

‘A little treat. A pudding cup. For saving us from Ventress,’ he says. ‘You didn’t have to.’

‘Actually, he kinda did,’ mutters Echo but Fives ignores him, so Vader does too.

‘And… thanks for saving me,’ Fives says, low and serious, earnest in a way that makes it hard for Vader to maintain eye contact. ‘I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.’

Behind him, Echo falls quiet, growing sombre.

As Vader curls his fingers around the small plasticup, he tries to imagine if things had gone differently, if he had left the Archive with Ventress instead—

He immediately crushes the thought.

Qui-Gon’s last words to him are written to him in the stone, a blessing and a curse, and impossible to ignore—

‘You’re welcome,’ he says, equally quiet and he can’t make himself look to up meet their eyes.

Chapter Text

‘Don’t worry too much, you’re going to do great. Just be nice and answer his questions. I know Sith and Jedi have been mortal enemies since the dawn of time but please don’t attack him. No stabbing, maiming, kicking, biting, or lightning allowed,’ Fives says, listing the things Vader shouldn’t do on his fingers. He frowns and then leans forward to pick lint off Vader’s shoulders. He casts a critical eye over the Sith and then steps closer to fuss at Vader’s hair. ‘I know you’ll do fine, so there’s no need to be nervous.’

Vader stands still as Fives fixes his hair. It's not quite the full truth when he says, ‘I’m not nervous.’

‘That’s good!’ Fives says encouragingly, patting him on the upper arm before stepping away. ‘Don’t let the fact that General Kenobi is known as the Sith Slayer scare you—’

‘He’s the what?’ Vader demands, whirling to look at Fives.

‘—he’s actually pretty reasonable. A bit uptight, but decent and fair. Helluva flirt, though. He can charm the pants off anyone. Plus, he’s stupidly good-looking—’

‘Fives,’ Vader grits out, closing his eyes and visibly trying to gather his patience. ‘Please stop talking.’

‘No,’ says Fives, though he does fall silent when he reaches out to adjust the fall of Vader’s cloak, smoothing down the fabric restlessly and suddenly, Vader realises that Fives is nervous too.

‘It’s gonna be okay,’ Fives says, quieter, more to himself than to Vader. Then he looks up and catches Vader’s eye. ‘Be nice and don’t lose your temper or something. We can handle the rest of it. We’re going to make sure that you’ll stay with the 501st. Right, captain?’

The last part is directed to Rex, who is watching their interaction with a stoic expression. He looks between the Sith and the ARC trooper. He’s more or less immune to the wide-eyed looks Fives utilises. It’s the look on Vader’s face, something vulnerable and anxious around the edges of his expression, that makes him bite back on his automatic retort.

‘The decision will ultimately be up to Command,’ he says and because he’s watching Vader closely, he sees the way the Sith slides a slightly panicked look at Fives, as if he expects to be immediately carted off to a cell on Coruscant right there and then. It makes Rex add, ‘But I can put in a request to have you remain on the Resolute… until we conclude our investigation on Aradia.’

The mention of the planet makes Vader’s face twist, an expression of desperate loss and grief before the Sith turns his face away, hiding his face from Rex.

Rex considers the possibility that Vader is playing them, getting them to lower their guard around him, getting them to trust him, but—

Rex doesn’t think so.

He’s not sure whether it’s because Vader is a djinn, or a Sith from the distant past, or simply because Vader is young, but whatever it is… Vader isn’t like the Darksiders that Rex and his brothers have faced.

As long as Vader doesn’t start trying to skewer them with a lightsabre, Rex is willing to give the Sith a chance.

And Fives is right, having a Force user attached to the 501st would be valuable. He’s seen what the Sith and Jedi are capable of – a one-person army unto themselves – but even if the 501st never gets the clearance to let Vader loose onto the battlefields, Rex will gladly take having Vader work under Kix’s supervision.

The kind of Force healing that was done on Fives… Rex had seen Fives himself, seen the wet sheen of his blood-soaked blacks, and it is still stomach turning to think about that—

Fives is alive because of Vader.

Fives and Echo and Tup are alive because Vader fought off Ventress.

It’s kinda hard to dredge up much distrust for Vader after something like that. The 501st doesn’t have a Jedi General and no one has ever really done anything like that for any of Rex’s men before.

A small part of him, the small and secretly bitter part of him, is snapping at the irony of a Sith doing more to help his brothers than the osik sucking Senate.

His vambrace chimes with a notification and he roughly shoves away his frustration. He checks his comms text and then turns to Vader.

‘Cody is calling us in. The General is ready for us.’

Vader straightens, an expression of easy confidence hurriedly arranged on his face. ‘Lead the way, captain.’

‘I should go in there with him,’ Fives says, and it’s not the first time he’s said the same exact thing. And like all the other times, Rex’s quelling look does nothing. ‘I was the one who claimed him, it was my blood that was used, I should get first dibs—’

‘That is enough, trooper.’

Fives falls silent, jaw clicking shut. His slightly mutinous expression fades when Rex flicks watch-cover in battlesign to him, head tilted to indicate Vader.

Vader doesn’t notice the byplay, his focus drawn inwards. He draws in a short breath and releases it. He uncurls his clenched fists on the exhale and forces the tense line of his shoulders to relax.

It’s an interview, Vader reminds himself. Not an interrogation.

The relations between the Sith and Jedi of his time may not exactly have been amiable, but they were not at war with each other. Nothing so formally declared as what has apparently happened now, anyway.

Would the Jedi accept that Vader is only in this… situation due to external circumstances? Or would he be judged merely by his being a Sith?

What do the Jedi do to the Sith in this time, besides slaying them?

Vader walks himself through the doorway and into the interview room, takes one look at the Jedi, and promptly turns around to walk out. Unfortunately, Rex is already blocking the exit, his armoured bulk filling up the door frame.

‘I don’t think I can do this, Rex,’ Vader hisses at the captain. The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably and he knows the Jedi is watching him.

‘Yes, you can,’ Rex says firmly. ‘Take a seat, Vader.’

Rex stares him down. Reluctantly, gnashing his teeth, Vader slouches into a seat. No one says anything. The silence stretches and becomes literally unbearable, until finally, Vader forces himself to look up across the table. He locks eyes with Rex first and the captain gives him the smallest encouraging nod, then Vader flicks this gaze to the other clone in the room, a stony-faced “Cody” in white and yellow armour, and finally to the Jedi.

Dammit, Fives, Vader thinks sourly, because, the Sith Slayer really is stupidly good-looking.

The Jedi delicately curves an eyebrow, like he is reading Vader’s mind and Vader grinds his teeth.

‘Hello there,’ the Jedi says, his polished accent warmed by his friendly tone. ‘I am Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, Councillor of the High Council of the Coruscant Temple, High Jedi General of the Grand Army of the Galactic Republic, General of the Open Circle Fleet, General of the Third Systems Army, and General of the 7th Sky Corps.’

Vader stares.

The Jedi tilts his head to indicate the clone sitting beside him. ‘And this is my SIC Marshal Commander Cody.’

Well.

Kriff.

Master Kenobi – High Councillor Jedi General Master Kenobi? Just what is Vader supposed to call the man? – gives him an expectant look. The expression on his face is open, his blue-grey eyes watching Vader with interest.

Okay, so apparently, Vader’s future depends on making a good impression on this Jedi. And by extension, the Marshal Commander, too, because somewhere in the depths of Fives's ramblings over the past few days, Vader got the impression that the two of them are inseparable and unhealthily co-dependant.

Vader clears his throat when he sees the Marshal Commander starting to frown at him. He tries for a polite smile. He’s not sure how successful he really is when his whole face feels stiff and awkward. Still, Qui-Gon did drill manners into him and there are standards and honour to uphold so—

‘Well met, High Councillor Jedi General Master Kenobi,’ Vader says, smooth, despite the clunky mouthful of a title he hopes he is getting correct, turns slightly to meet the commander’s gaze and nods. ‘Marshal Commander Cody.

‘I am Darth Vader, Aradian Archivist— Head Archivist,’ he corrects, feeling a twist in his chest at the reminder that Qui-Gon is dead. His title seems simple in comparison to the long string of Kenobi’s responsibilities, but he is proud of it—

—until he remembers that the Archive is gone too.

‘I am sorry that the Aradian Archive did not survive the centuries as you did. Our scans of the structure indicate it must have been a grand repository of data and artefacts, an immense trove of knowledge,’ Kenobi says and his sympathy sounds genuine.

‘Yeah,’ Vader croaks quietly, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. ‘It was.’

Kenobi hums but he doesn’t actually say anything, just allows Vader the time and space to gather himself. It’s definitely an interrogation technique, but Vader doesn’t care. He just needs to fill the silence.

‘My Master was the Head Archivist,’ Vader says, low and subdued. ‘I guess I’ve inherited the title, but… the Archive is lost?’ The last bit comes out more like a question than he had intended. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. ‘So, I’m a Head Archivist without an archive.’

‘Who was your Master?’ Kenobi asks.

‘Darth Arcanis,’ says Vader, though, like always, it feels slightly awkward on his tongue. Qui-Gon had always been just Qui-Gon, to him. Steady and unflappable in the face of anything—

Well.

Almost anything.

Vader swallows tightly, closes his eyes, but it isn’t enough to stop himself from hearing Qui-Gon’s voice echoing in his head, or from remembering the cold fear Qui-Gon couldn’t stop himself from projecting into the Force, even as his working wrapped tighter and tighter around Vader, binding him down—

‘—Vader?’

Vader starts, his eyes flying open. He sucks in a desperate breath and feels his chest expand, the phantom constriction of the spell easing away.

The clones and Kenobi are looking at him with expressions of concern.

‘You okay?’

‘Was that your master?’ Kenobi asks, his expression something a mix of concern and disturbed. It makes Vader want to be angry at having his privacy exposed but finds he can’t really summon the energy to even be annoyed. He was probably projecting loud enough for the Jedi to hear, anyway.

He brings his bound hands up to scrub at his face, swipes roughly at his eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he says, suddenly feeling tired and drained. Kenobi’s expression though, compels Vader to elaborate a little more because he won’t stand for the Jedi to misconstrue what he saw, ‘He did what he had to, to save my life.’

A pause, and then realisation breaks over Kenobi’s face. ‘That was him, casting the… spell.’

Vader jerks his head in a nod.

‘Your master made you a djinn?’ Rex demands, something sharp in his tone.

Vader frowns at him, finding that he feels rather sharp and defensive, himself. ‘I don’t see how that is any of your business.’

The captain narrows his eyes at Vader.

‘Why did he have to do it?’ Kenobi asks, smoothly interrupting the start of a staring match.

Vader transfers his gaze away from Rex to Kenobi, trying to set aside his irritation to stew upon at a more convenient time later.

‘Cognus. She broke the Agreement,’ he says shortly, bitterly. Then he huffs when he remembers where he is, when he is, that these people have no idea of the context of what was happening in his time. ‘The Aradia Agreement. The Archive was supposed to be kept out of Sith squabbling,’ he says sombrely. He clenches his hands and continues, ‘She was probably the one that stole everything and destroyed whatever was left that couldn’t be removed.’

Qui-Gon would never have allowed himself to be removed from his post, would never have abandoned his duty. His Master must have died protecting the Archive, protecting Vader.

‘And by your Master’s doing, you were kept safe from the Burning of the Archive of Aradia,’ Kenobi says and the way he says it, the inflection of it, makes it sound like it is some historical event, significant enough to qualify for capital letters. For Vader though, it’s been only a tenday and he still has a bacta inhaler on hand for when the chest pains and coughing from smoke inhalation gets too much.

Vader grunts. ‘So, you do know what happened to the Archive.’

Kenobi leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. ‘Records of that time and of the Aradian Archive are few,’ he says, something like apology in his tone. ‘More like folklore rather than facts from verifiable sources.

‘They tell of a Dark Lord who laid siege on the Archive for thirty days and thirty nights. And on the thirty-first day, the Dark Lord brought lightning down from the sky and tore through the stone mountain sheltering the Archive. The guardians and djinn made their final stand in the Thirty-First Hall with an army of creatures made of clay brought to life. They eventually succumb to the onslaught of the Dark Lord’s powers and the Archive was plundered.’

Vader’s hands are trembling and he curls his fingers into fists to hide the tremors. It’s an embellished retelling, even with just the bare bones of it, but—

‘Yeah,’ he croaks. ‘That’s pretty much what happened.’

‘With “creatures of clay brought to life”?’ Commander Cody asks, speaking for the first time. The arch of his eyebrow is dubious.

‘A difficult working that requires a lot of time and preparation and skill in sculpting,’ Vader says absently, his thoughts already running ahead. He turns to Kenobi. ‘Do your stories say what happens to Cognus— to the Dark Lord?’

Kenobi speaks cautiously, so carefully that it sounds like he is hedging. ‘The stories never named the Dark Lord as Darth Cognus—’

‘It’s her,’ Vader says, flat. ‘It was very definitely her.’

‘—but if it was her, the Jedi Temple records lists her as a disciple of Darth Bane’s Rule of Two.’

‘Yes?’ Vader agrees, though it comes out questioning because there’s something expectant in their faces when they look at him. ‘A rather radical approach,’ Vader admits, ‘but it is not for Sith Lords to comment on how others choose to teach their Apprentices. My master was also considered… unconventional.’

‘Yeah, I’ll bet,’ mutters Rex under his breath and Vader glares at him, unwilling to let what he perceives to be a slight against Qui-Gon go. Rex has the grace to look contrite when Cody elbows him in the side. ‘Sorry.’

Vader looks between them, frowning. ‘It isn’t surprising that she’d follow Bane’s Chwayatyun ideology; her Master was Zannah, who was herself, Bane’s student.’

‘Right. Of course. Well…’ Kenobi trails off, actually looking rather awkward. ‘The Sith of Bane’s line has, over the millennia, destroyed all of the other Sith. Presently, the Banite is the only surviving Sith line.’

Vader freezes.

All those thousands of Sith lineages, destroyed? The Kaans? Kaox? LaTor? Qordis?

Inconceivable. Impossible.

Vader’s racing thoughts grind to a halt, backtracks—

‘When you said, “only surviving Sith line”,’ Vader says slowly, his gaze focused intently on Kenobi, ‘…does that mean Ventress…? Darth Tyrannus?’

He’s not sure how to frame it properly, cannot find the words through the buzzing in his head, but thankfully Kenobi understands.

The Jedi nods. ‘Yes, Darth Tyrannus and his unnamed master are of Bane’s direct line.’

The noise in Vader’s head grows louder.

The Banite Sith have destroyed everything. They have destroyed the Sith, their way of existence. They sacked the Archive and stole every kriffing thing, trying to hoard all that knowledge and power for themselves, those greedy karkers. And then a millennia later, some upstart wannabe Apprentice comes to try and force Vader to teach them?

Maybe he says all of that out loud because Kenobi and the clones are staring at him, and he does feel slightly out of breath like he has been ranting, but he doesn’t care, because—

‘The audacity,’ Vader hisses, vibrating with anger.

Chapter Text

‘So.’

Rex huffs and dips his head at Cody. ‘So,’ he echoes. He draws in a deep inhale and blows out the breath, uncrossing his arms. ‘So, that meeting actually went a whole lot better than I had expected—’

‘Small tantrum aside,’ Cody interjects, sinking into the seat beside Rex. They’re in one of the small conference rooms onboard the Resolute, just the two of them. He gives Rex’s ankle a small kick.     

Rex wrinkles his nose but acknowledges, ‘—small tantrum aside.’

‘Surprisingly non-destructive, as far as Sith tantrums go,’ Cody admits.

‘Refreshingly so,’ Rex agrees.

‘Still a tantruming Sith, though,’ Cody says, and his tone slides into something serious. Rex turns his head to look at Cody. His brother’s dark eyes are sharp, sombre. ‘He’s an unknown factor. Unpredictable.’

Dangerous, Cody doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to.

‘What does the General think?’ Rex asks after a moment, slightly muffled because he’s in the process of removing his gloves by biting the fingertips of his gloves and jerking his head away.

Cody makes a face, both at the unsanitary habit and at the question.

‘Kenobi is intrigued,’ Cody says, sounding exasperated.

‘That’s because he’s a nerd and the potential of having access to all the things Vader can tell him about clay creatures or Force religion symbolisms is making him giddy.’

Cody huffs but doesn’t actually defend the General’s nerdom. That’s because Cody actually finds it endearing. ‘They kinda lost me at the literary stuff,’ Cody admits.

‘What the kark is a “chiastic structure” anyway?’ Rex grumbles but without actual heat.

‘You could ask Kenobi. I am sure he’d be happy to explain it to you,’ Cody says, amused.

‘Kark no. I don’t want to learn about poetry.’

‘Literary techniques,’ Cody says with a snort, then pauses, then says, ‘Or you could ask Vader.’ Rex shoots him a look but Cody looks serious. ‘If he really is compelled to obey clone orders, there are a lot of things you could ask him, ask of him.’

Rex has a lot of experience in giving orders. It comes with the role of being an officer in an active war, sending men off to die on his orders but—

This is different.

Vader isn’t a clone and the idea that a natborn, never mind a Sith, following his orders like that feels weird. The fact that the djinn seemingly has little choice but to obey feels like a gross infringement of rights. It feels like too much potential for abuse of authority. The thought of that makes Rex uncomfortable, a little too familiar under close scrutiny, so he cordons it off and backs away from it.

Out loud, he says, ‘Would need to convince Command to formally place him in our custody first. Do you think Kenobi is inclined to endorse the idea?’

‘The Jedi Council would want Vader secured in their Temple. That’s the safest place to hold a Sith,’ Cody says. ‘But I think Kenobi is willing to speak for Vader if you are. That is, if you still want to keep Vader with the 501st.’

‘I do,’ Rex says, firm. He’s sure of this, at least. He’ll have to brief his men on how to handle Vader, come up with some kind of framework so the Sith won’t be harassed or hazed, but Rex is willing to do all that and more.

‘Alright then,’ Cody says, settling back in his seat. ‘I will pass the word on to the General.’

‘Thanks, vod,’ Rex says, clamping down on the rush of anticipation he feels.

‘Hope you’re ready to handle a tantruming Sith,’ Cody says, only half-jokingly.

Rex scoffs. ‘I already handle plenty of tantrums from our other vod’ike every day,’ he says drily, picking up his discarded gloves from the table. He doesn’t see the way Cody’s eyebrows twitch upwards. ‘C’mon, let’s go get a caff from the mess or something. And I need you to sign off on a couple of things, Commander.’

‘Sign your own shit,’ Cody gripes but rolls himself to his feet to follow after his brother anyway.

There is a pair of ARC troopers flanking the Sith when Obi-Wan arrives at the holding area with Rex and Cody.

Vader is standing perfectly still, with a blank sort of expression firmly on his face, golden gaze unblinking. The outward show of stillness is at odds with his Force presence. In the Force, his nerves are obvious; a swirling, cycling, and confusing mix of anxiousness-dread-resignation that rises into a burning roar before it is smothered into something smaller, banked and flickering, and tentative with hope.

The interview yesterday was… enlightening. Far more pleasant, at least, than some of the meetings with politicians Obi-Wan has hosted. Their debates had been civil, even if Vader proved to be… passionate about certain topics.

Obi-Wan finds himself somewhat mournful when he considers the loss of the Sith culture of Vader’s time, especially when the Sith he’s dealing with today seem only interested in destruction and domination.

He is obviously a Sith; Darkness shrouds Darth Vader like a comfortable cloak. He speaks casually of spells and workings and wards and curses, unaware that he is describing Force skills that have been lost to time. And he is… frighteningly powerful, judging by his Force signature, a supermassive black hole dampened and held in check by the suppressing cuffs.

Darth Vader is a Sith.

But Obi-Wan also sees the young man. The Apprentice who has only recently lost his Master in a deeply traumatic way and then thrust into a situation for which he is completely unprepared.

Temporal displacement aside, in a very personal way, Obi-Wan understands Vader, relates to him. Understands, at least, something of what the man is going through.

And it is simply not within Obi-Wan to withhold compassion from anyone, even if they are a Sith.

He sends a gentling wave to Vader, sees the way the man’s shoulders relax a fraction. His gold eyes flicker up to Obi-Wan’s face and Obi-Wan gives him a kind smile.

‘Darth Vader,’ Obi-Wan greets with a bow.

‘Master Kenobi,’ Vader returns with a bow of his own and Obi-Wan notes the hand on the Sith’s elbow. ARC Trooper Fives’s hold on the Sith is less a restraining hold and more a supportive touch, the clone buzzing with a sort of possessive protectiveness in the Force.

‘I have conferred with the High Council. After careful consideration of the evidence gathered on Aradia, as well as the interviews conducted by myself, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Council has reached a judgement. The decision also takes into account the testimonies of ARC Troopers CT-5555 “Fives” and CT-1409 “Echo”, and Private CT-5358 “Tup”.

‘The High Council finds Darth Vader, Head Archivist of Aradia to be a non-hostile entity against the Galactic Republic, with no links to the Banite Sith, nor to the Confederacy of Independent Systems—’

A relieved breath escapes Fives in a loud crackle of his vocoder, and he squeezes Vader’s elbow. ‘Oh, thank fuck!—’

‘—An investigation paper has been opened under Section 3436 of the Republic-Jedi Code on Asajj Ventress, whose actions in the Aradian Archive is believed to have revived Darth Vader from a state of suspended animation. Pursuant to Galactic Republic law and procedure, the Council acknowledges that any named Sith – thus being Darth Vader – be remanded immediately into Jedi custody until the conclusion of the investigation—’

‘—Oh, the fuck?—'

‘—However, it is the request of Commander CT-7567 “Rex”, as well as with my personal endorsement, that Darth Vader remains in the custody of the 501st Battalion.’

Rex steps forward then, his eyes on Vader, who is frozen still. ‘I will make it clear now that this is your choice, Vader. You can go with Kenobi back to the Jedi Temple and stay there until the war ends, or the Senate votes to change the law. Which… Well, frankly, the war will probably end first. The Jedi are good people. They won’t mistreat you. They’ll probably want to park you in their own archives, actually.

‘Or… you can stay here on the Resolute with the 501st.’

‘Well, of course, he’s staying! Right, Vader? Tell them—’

‘Fives.’

Rex’s tone shuts Fives right up, a seriousness usually reserved for the battlefield. The look Rex gives him is serious. When he slides his gaze over to Vader, it is no less weighty.

‘I need you to understand that you have a choice,’ Rex stresses. ‘You won’t be treated as a prisoner here, more of a… consultant. And that you will be entering under my command.’ Rex clears his throat. ‘I know that your… condition,’ he says, grimacing a little at the phrasing, entirely annoyed at the inadequacy of it, ‘requires careful handling, but I want to assure you that I will do my utmost to ensure that you will be supported and defended, from within and without the GAR.’

Vader’s eyes are wide and Rex holds his gaze steadily. It is important that Vader understands that Rex isn’t going to allow any sort of abuse to happen under his watch. Having to follow the whims and wishes of Fives is bad enough, but the djinn is tied to all of them, to the 501st, to the entirety of the GAR.

Rex doesn’t have to try very hard to imagine how it feels to be in that situation, of having to obey orders without question. 

Vader glances between Kenobi and Rex, consternation on his face and conflict in his chest.

The idea of having access to the Jedi archives is a tempting one. From what Kenobi has told him about it, Vader thinks it is the best place to start, if he wants to reassemble the collection of Aradia. He could examine the items they have in their vaults, catalogue and curate from there—

But.

The message Qui-Gon had carved into stone for him, careful and clear despite the urgency of Cognus bearing down upon them—

He can’t just disregard it either, not when they are Qui-Gon’s last words to him.

He draws in a breath and then draws himself up. ‘I accept the position offered with the 501st and agree to your supervision, Capt—’ Vader blinks, and then says questioningly, ‘Er… Commander? Rex?’

A smile tugs at the edges of Obi-Wan’s lips when the Jedi says, ‘He has finally been convinced to accept the promotion.’

‘Oh,’ Vader says, then smiles genuinely. ‘Congratulations, Commander Rex.’

Rex huffs and says, dry, ‘It’s just an extra square on my rank plaque. I’ve been doing all the damned datawork of a commander already.’

‘Your hard work should be officially recognised,’ Obi-Wan says.

‘It is very important that these things are recorded correctly,’ Vader agrees solemnly. ‘To avoid discrepancies and to maintain accurate preservation of facts.’

Rex eyes Vader. ‘Is that some kind of… archivist joke? Are you cataloguing me?’ he asks, incredulous and amused.

The look of mischief that flashes over Vader’s face is jostled into a strange mix of exasperation and fondness when Fives knocks his shoulder into Vader’s hard enough to send him bumping into Echo on the other side.

Fives lets out a small whoop. ‘Welcome to the 501st, rookie!’

‘Rookie?’ Vader demands, sounding offended, shoving Fives back.

‘Thank you for accepting,’ Rex tells Vader, stepping forward to remove the binders on Vader’s wrists. ‘And I think this belongs to you,’ he says, holding something out to him.

Vader automatically extends a hand and Rex drops the item into the open palm. It’s his lightsabre, double-bagged in plasti and sporting several biohazard stickers. He closes his fist around the hilt, the plasti crackling around his fingers a background to the soothing and familiar screech of his kyber, a scream that intensifies when he feeds a tendril of the Force to its hunger.

Obi-Wan twitches, giving both Vader and the lightsabre a wary look, the expression quickly tucking away under a smile when he approaches Vader.

‘I hope that the collaboration between you and the 501st goes pleasantly,’ he says sincerely. Then he leans closer, his voice dropping low for just between himself and the Sith. ‘If it doesn’t, if you break your word and betray us, betray Rex, I will hunt you down myself,’ he promises, the edges of his smile growing blade sharp. ‘There will be no end of the galaxy where you may hide from me, Darth Vader, no place I will not exhume to find you, to bury you myself.’

‘Are you threatening me? And I thought revenge is not the Jedi way?’ Vader breathes, wide-eyed and awed, voice low to match the Jedi’s.

‘This is… a promise of aggressive justice,’ Obi-Wan says, a flash of teeth in his smile before he pulls back. ‘I wish you well,’ he says with a demure nod and then strides away.

Vader stares after the Jedi before the sound of a throat clearing draws his attention to Cody. There’s a sort of glint in the clone’s eyes that has Vader sighing in resignation.

‘I already got the shovel talk, commander. Do I need another one?’

‘Needs to be reproduced in duplicate. Standard procedure,’ Cody intones flatly. His gimlet stare drives off Vader’s ARC escorts, Fives and Echo beating a hasty retreat to give them some privacy.

The commander stares at him in silence for a long moment, his feelings tucked behind impressive mental shielding. When he finally speaks, it isn’t the death threats that Vader expects. It isn’t even a stern warning.

‘I know what you are. You are a Sith Lord. A Head Archivist. But I don’t know who you are, Vader. I only know what you have done. You healed a clone. You battled Ventress. You led three troopers safely out of a collapsed underground maze.

‘For the first and the last; thank you. Thank you for saving my brothers,’ the commander says, serious and quietly raw.

‘I wouldn’t let Fives die because of a mistranslation,’ Vader stresses, looking rather awkward at the heavy sincerity he is presented with. ‘It would have been a terribly stupid way a die, honestly, and it wouldn’t even have been his fault. And I wouldn’t just ditch the others there after Ventress dipped. They needed to be escorted out or they would’ve gotten lost or worse, triggered a ward and gotten themselves eternally cursed or something.’

The commander pauses and a strange expression flits across his face, gone too fast for Vader to parse.

‘Nonetheless, things could have gone a lot differently.’ Cody says slowly after a moment. The look he gives Vader is considering, measuring.

Vader huffs in agreement. ‘Yeah but I’m here now, aren’t I?’

Cody nods then, the sharp edge of his study softening into something satisfied, and he straightens and looks Vader in the eye.

‘Then I suppose… May the Force be with you, Vader. And welcome to the GAR.’

Chapter Text

Kix tabs through his datapad again.

There’s still a twinge of incredulity every time he sees “VADER, DARTH” in the name field on the patient form. If someone had told him a few weeks ago that he’d have a Sith as a patient, sitting in his medbay, he’d have sent that trooper straight for a mental eval.

He glances up, finds the unsettling gold eyes of the Sith watching him, and then quickly looks down again to his screen. He pretends to amend and add some notes.

It’s not that he’s avoiding the Sith.

Kix knows what’s in the reports he’s read about the djinn, but being near Vader is making Kix’s instincts itch like crazy. It makes the back of his neck prickle, his hair stand on end. It's like being on a landing deck on Kamino before an electrical storm hits.

Kix is the CMO and he’s seen and fixed a lot of shit, but none of that has actually prepared him to attend to a Sith.

… Even if the Sith is sitting on a cot and idly swinging his legs as he waits patiently for Kix’s attention.

He huffs at himself and then saves the file before putting the datapad away.

‘You’re more or less caught up with the required basic vaccines. You do need to come in again next week for the C5H4 booster shot.’

‘Great! I’ll bring him around again, same time next week,’ Fives says, straightening up from leaning against the wall.

The ARC had accompanied Vader to the medbay but Kix is internally relieved that Vader hadn’t minded Fives staying in the room for his appointment. Kix very much prefers not being alone with a Sith.

‘Thanks,’ Vader says, moving to hop off the bed, but Kix waves a hand to stop him.

‘Not so fast,’ Kix says and his heart maybe skips a beat when Vader looks at him.

The Sith is a little scary, Kix can admit, in the privacy of his thoughts.

It’s the unnatural way the flame-gold eyes flicker and burn. Kix doesn’t have a particularly active imagination, doesn’t really have the time for it when he’s too busy scooping up and dumping his brothers’ guts back into their abdominal cavities, but he imagines it’s what hell fires would look like, trapped inside a mortal body.

And it’s the tattoos that Kix has seen on the Sith’s body when Rex had brought him in for a checkup when Vader was first brought in, the ones that look like they’re actually sliding around under the surface of the skin. They make Kix’s eyes hurt and go blurry if he tries looking at them for too long.

Fucking creepy. But—

Kix can also admit to himself that maybe some of his fear stems from his own ignorance.

Rex and Fives and Echo and the others are stunningly accepting about this entire thing, in Kix’s opinion, but that could be down to the others simply having a lot more exposure facing Sith one-on-one in battles. Kix has always mostly been somewhere in the middle or at the back of operations, patching up wounded brothers and reattaching limbs.

… Well, kark it, right?

The Sith hasn’t killed them all in their sleep yet.

Vader can save lives – has saved lives – and Vader is gonna be part of the staff here, part of Kix’s staff, so Kix will just learn to not be uncomfortable with having a Sith lurking around his medbay.

He clears his throat and determinedly pushes through his unease. ‘I’ve already read the Aradian reports and Fives has been cleared, medically… but I think I’m missing a lot of context to understand what actually happened. I need you both to walk me through it,’ Kix says, folding his arms across his chest.

Fives and Vader exchange a glance, some kind of silent communication passing between the two of them.

Kix doesn’t have the time to be properly horrified by the implication that these two have seemingly become close enough to communicate this way. Fives and Echo is enough of a headache—

Fives nods like he’s agreeing with Vader.

—stars, what the fuck. Is the Sith already in Fives’s damned head??

Fives turns to Kix and says, ‘So. Aradia. I was lying there and dying—’

‘You were actually sitting,’ Vader corrects mildly but it is obviously baiting, and Kix can feel the vein pulsing on his forehead, the rush of something hot like disbelief and aggravation rushing through him in automatic response.

‘—from blood loss. Everything is kinda blurry, actually, and I don’t really remember what happened that well, but I do remember Vader putting his hands on my pecs and pumping what felt like an entire galaxy of stars into my veins.’

‘I am sorry for touching you without your consent,’ Vader says solemnly before Kix can say anything. ‘Jesse made me sit through the sexual harassment prevention training slides yesterday.’

Kix opens his mouth and then abruptly changes his mind about what he was about to say.

‘It was a medical emergency,’ Kix tells the Sith, woodenly, professionally placating, because he refuses to be drawn into whatever this is.

Fives nods. ‘Yeah. The next time it happens, you can touch me anywhere,’ he says, grinning at Vader and waggling his eyebrows.

The professional mien immediately drops away from Kix. He growls in irritation and reaches to cuff Fives on the side of his head. ‘Report to Jesse for a refresher on the sexual harassment prevention training later.’ When he turns to look at the Sith, Vader blinks guilelessly at the CMO.

‘Please describe,’ Kix says flatly, finding that his patience and fear has evaporated, ‘as best as you can, what exactly you did when you stuffed Fives full of stars.’

‘That sounds highly inappropriate. I could think of somebody else needing a refresher,’ mutters Fives under his breath. There’s an air of smugness around Fives though, that Kix refuses to address.

Vader looks like he’s fighting the upward tug of his mouth. Then the expression slides into a frown as he considers Kix's request.

‘What do you know about the Force?’ he asks.

The clones glance at each other and then Fives says, a bit hesitantly, ‘I've heard General Kenobi saying that it's everywhere, all around us, in every rock and tree and creature, and that it… communicates? With him. Or if what Cody says is true, it gives the General Bad Feelings, when things are about to go pear-shaped.’

Vader hums thoughtfully as he rolls his head backwards to stare at the ceiling as he thinks. Then he drops his head back down and nods. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s a simplified enough description of it.

‘The Force is everywhere around us; it is the thing that binds everything together. It is inside atoms. It exists in the spaces between stars, in the interstellar medium. It is there at birth, at death, and then beyond. It is the past, present and future, all at once.

‘Force-adepts, if they are fortunate to receive training, are taught how to touch this energy, to become its conduit.’

‘What I’m still hearing,’ Fives says slowly, ‘is that you zapped me back to life with some kind of magical cosmic energy.’

That startles a laugh out of Vader. ‘In essence, true,’ he says, amused.

Then, he catches the impatient glint in Kix’s eyes and hurries to continue explaining, ‘Many things are possible with the Force. Force healing is a skill and there are… different ways of doing it. The way I know how to do it, is to… sort of seize control of the body’s systems and force it into an accelerated healing process. It’s not fun. And it takes a lot out of the body to do that.’

A pause, and then he turns to Fives. ‘Actually,’ he says. ‘I am amazed that you didn’t just die from shock and that you actually regained consciousness so fast. You really were in a terrible state.’

Kix frowns at this, though his current discontent at what had been Fives’s poor state is unproductive. He pushes his feelings aside, reminding himself that Fives is here and standing in front of him, that he had returned from that encounter with Ventress.

… thanks to Vader.

‘Can a Jedi do this?’ asks Kix.

‘Can they Force heal?’ Vader asks, then shrugs. ‘Yeah, sure. But do they do it the same way I do? No.’

‘Why not?’ Kix asks but he thinks he already knows the answer. Seizing control of someone’s body and its system doesn’t sound like it aligns with Jedi principles at all.

Vader reaches up to scratch his nose. ‘Well. Everything is based on our root approach to how we perceive the Force and our relation to it. Different philosophy, different beliefs.’

‘“There is no emotion, there is peace”,’ Fives says, nodding sagely. ‘That’s the Jedi code, right?’

Vader hums, and then—

‘N̸w̷û̶l̸ ̸t̶a̸s̵h̴.̸ ̸D̸z̶w̵o̸l̸ ̵s̵h̸â̵s̸o̵t̷k̸u̵n̷.̷.’

Kix doesn’t think the medbay lights actually flicker, because for one, they’re not under attack and two, the medbay is hooked up to the backup generators in case of an attack, so they shouldn’t flicker.

But it definitely seemed like the lights flickered.

It also feels like the temperature has plunged a few degrees colder.

Vader’s eyes are burning a bright hell-fire-gold and Kix freezes, pinned in place by that intense gaze. His hand instinctively drops to his side, fumbles for a blaster that isn’t there—

Fives shivers dramatically and then turns a crooked smile onto the Sith.

‘Ooooh… Spooky.’

Vader snorts, blinks, and the lights and temperature return to normal. The ember of his eyes are banked low when he turns to look at Fives with a smirk.

Kix shivers, too. He draws a shaky breath and releases it, uncurls his fists, firmly tells his heart to stop overreacting—

‘Okay,’ he says, and he’s really proud of how steady he sounds. ‘What the fuck was that.’

‘The Sith code.’

Kix turns to Fives because it had been the ARC that had answered, not Vader. For whatever reason, Fives looks thrilled.

‘Creepy, right? Vader says words have power in the Sith language. Like sure, he can just recite the words normally, but if he imbues whatever he’s saying with the Force, the Force actually reacts. Show him, Vades!’

‘No, I don’t think he needs to—’ Kix starts to say, alarmed.

‘S̸h̴â̴s̸o̶t̴j̴o̶n̵t̶û̸ ̵c̴h̷â̷t̶s̷a̸t̷u̷l̶ ̵n̴u̸ ̷t̶y̵û̸k̴.̵
̵T̵y̶û̷k̸j̵o̸n̴t̸û̷ ̴c̴h̴â̸t̵s̴a̸t̵u̴l̷ ̵n̷u̶ ̵m̴i̷d̷w̴a̷n̷.̴
̴M̷i̸d̸w̷a̸n̶j̴o̵n̷t̵û̶ ̵c̵h̵â̸t̴s̷a̴t̵u̶l̷ ̸n̴u̵ ̶a̴s̵h̴a̶.̶
̷A̴s̶h̸a̸j̶o̵n̴t̴û̶ ̷k̵o̴t̴s̴w̸i̶n̵o̵t̷ ̸i̵t̴s̸u̷ ̴n̷u̵y̷a̶k̸.̷
̷W̴o̷n̶o̶k̵s̷h̶ ̵Q̵y̸â̷s̸i̸k̷ ̷n̷u̴n̷.̵’

…

…

…

‘… Are my ears bleeding?’ Kix finally manages to croak out, after a few failed attempts, some indeterminate amount of time later. His eyes are squeezed shut against the vertigo and nausea that had literally swept his feet out from under him. There’s some shuffling sounds of someone crawling closer and then he feels clammy hands on his face. He pries his eyes open to see Fives peering down at him.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Fives says, patting him on the chest after checking his ears. Kix would maybe believe his flippancy if he didn’t look so pale and shaken himself.

Kix straight up feels like shit.

He lays on the floor for a few more moments, giving himself some time to make sure his grey matter doesn’t decide to leak out of his ears or nose. It’s also time that he uses to try to sort out where his limbs are.

‘What,’ he whispers, eyes watering and squinting against the harsh overhead lighting, ‘the fuck was that.’

Something moves to eclipse the light, something dark and it looms to cast a shadow over Kix. Kix instinctively recoils, but his spine is still trying to figure itself out so the movement ends up more like a feeble twitch.

Vader peers down at him, something like concern on his face. ‘Are you alright?’

Kix gives the question some serious thought. ‘No,’ he answers finally. ‘And I don’t think I ever will be again.’

‘Stop being so dramatic,’ Fives tells him.

Kix hisses and swats at him when the other clone pulls him to an upright sitting position. Kix clutches Fives’s pauldron and holds on for dear life as the room spins around him. Kix makes a sound of misery as his head throbs and something threatens to come up his throat.

It feels very much like the pain and discomfort Kix suffered the day after Hardcase broke out his moonshine to celebrate their win on Felucia.

‘Vades,’ Fives says, shoving his hands under Kix’s armpits and holding the limp medic out to the Sith, ‘Fix the Kix, please.’

Vader makes an acknowledging sound and he reaches out to touch his fingertips to the back of Kix’s hand. There is a painful snap like static at the contact, and then a brief sensation of pins-and-needles prickles across Kix’s skin, there and gone, and then suddenly Kix feels… energized. Like he’s been hit with a pack of stims and a carafe of caff, both. He squirms out of Fives's hold and straightens from his slouch.

His mind is so clear it has tipped over into a sort of ringing clarity.

‘Me next, me next,’ Fives says, holding out his pointer finger to Vader and Kix watches as Vader touches his own finger to Fives and—

There’s nothing his eyes can actually see, the Force working outside of his mundane perception but Kix can see the effects, minor as they are, when Fives heaves a sigh of relief and the green tinge to his cheeks fade.

Kix flexes his hands in his lap, brow scrunching as he thinks. An instantaneous cure for a hangover-like ailment was a low-stakes application of Vader’s skill, but it’s still something Kit got to actually experience firsthand.

And it was… pretty cool.

He looks up at the Sith. ‘I’m not sure what the point of that demonstration was,’ Kix says, gesturing at the lights and the room in general. ‘But this,’ he says, wriggling his fingers to indicate Vader’s healing thing, ‘was pretty cool.’

Vader preens and then offers Kix a hand up. Kix eyes it briefly before grasping it and allows the Sith to haul him to his feet.

‘So, your healing skill ranges from a vitality zap to healing sharp force trauma,’ Kix says, mentally already trying to fit Vader into the med team’s duty roster, trying to weigh Vader’s skill against the medical supplies they can save, trying to determine which role to assign the Sith in the case of activation—

His Force-zapped brain feels like its running parsecs a second and he struggles to reign in his racing thoughts to ask, ‘What else can you do?’

‘Healing isn’t exactly my forte,’ Vader says slowly, looking a bit awkward at the admission.

He looks uncertain for a moment and Kix nods in understanding because yeah, the Sith is a trained archivist, not a healer—

Then Vader seems to rally, straightening his shoulders, ‘But I’ve been assigned here and I do think I can actually help. And not just with healing but with… other things.’

Kix raises an eyebrow. He’s heard the rumours of the clay creatures and he wonders if Vader will suggest something similar. He is a bit dubious of the compatibility of creatures made of clay with the strict sterility required in his medbay. Dirt getting into open wounds runs the risk of infection.

‘What other things?’

‘Oh, so many things,’ Vader says and he’s starting to sound enthusiastic. ‘Tell me, have you heard of wards?’

Kix pauses at the odd question because Kix is a medic who works in a medbay.

‘…Like a treatment ward?’

Vader’s eyes glitter with excitement. ‘Like a magical ward.’

Later, Kix thinks Vader’s eyes are still a little disconcerting, if only because of the way the gold fire seems to dim and blaze with the Sith’s mood. But it’s something he will get used to pretty quickly.

It’s the tattoos that Kix finds fascinating now, once Vader has explained what they are.

Would a bunch of magic runes written in magic ink stop blaster bolts from making holes in the troopers?

No, wards doesn’t work that way.

But a bit of protection? A small bit of luck?

…That is apparently doable.

Chapter Text

Sunk deep in a state of meditation, Vader binds the Force tightly against his consciousness. He reaches out with his heightened awareness towards the device on the worksurface before him. His consciousness curves into every crevice, slips in between the springs, glides around the gears.

He sets it in motion and monitors closely, surveys the way the Force winds through the alethiometer, the string of spells humming to life—

A discordant note. The workings within the mechanism catch, hitch—

Vader pins everything in place to search for the cause of it. Something is causing a minor misalignment within the dials. A close examination eventually reveals a spot of eroded lining and a bit of dust caught in what should have been a hermetically sealed chamber.

Another mind slides up against his.

Vader shares his findings and his intent with Qui-Gon. He feels the sharp mind of his Master turn over the proposal thoughtfully, and shortly after, his agreement.

With Qui-Gon’s approval and support, Vader moves to wrap more of his awareness around the alethiometer, seizing hold of each individual part. And then, sure, he pulls apart the compass. Before him, the device fractures into something resembling an exploded schematic.

Vader’s brow scrunches with concentration as he works. Carefully, the particle of dust is expelled, and the lining replaced. Then slowly, methodically, filament-thin wires are reattached, fine filigree etchings realigned, and the compass comes back together again.

He blinks and relinquishes his grip on the Force he had gathered, releasing it to drift and merge back into the ambient currents.

The alethiometer whirls silently to life in Vader’s hand, the spinning dials on its surface moving smoothly. He can sense the way it tugs on the Force, how it pulls on the thousands of threads that make up its weaving.

‘That was very well done, my apprentice.’

The words sting in a way that is contrary to Qui-Gon’s praise.

For a long moment, Vader doesn’t move, doesn’t return the device to its stasis case. His fingers tighten slightly around the aleithium compass, and then he turns to his Master.

‘You don’t think I’m ready, do you?’ he asks. It doesn’t come out as neutral as he is trying for. There’s a tightness in his chest and in his throat when he swallows.

Qui-Gon’s gold eyes flick down to the alethiometer cradled in Vader’s palm before going back up to his face. His gaze is hard to hold, but Vader tries his best, tilting his chin up. His heartbeat quickens into a dull roar in his ears, but he can’t take back his question, couldn’t hide the hurt and accusation that had slid into his tone.

Qui-Gon’s side of the bond is tightly shielded, his Master inscrutable in the Force.

The moment stretches uncomfortably.

‘Do you?’ Qui-Gon finally asks, infuriatingly turning the question back onto Vader instead of answering.

‘I am ready,’ Vader replies immediately, maybe a bit too quickly.

In his hand, the alethiometer whirrs, clicks. Vader ducks his head for a quick look at its judgement—

Qui-Gon’s hands slide over his, his large hands wrapping over the compass and Vader’s hand. His touch is cool, his palms dry and calloused. Vader stills, not looking up at his Master.  He locks his gaze instead on their hands, at the neat lines of ur-Kittât inked onto the back of Qui-Gon’s hands that scroll up and disappear under the hem of his Master’s sleeves.

‘If you say you are ready, then you are ready,’ Qui-Gon says, giving Vader’s trapped hand a brief squeeze before letting go. ‘Ludojontû saraai.’

Vader looks up then, studies Qui-Gon’s expression for a moment. Then he nods decisively.

‘I am ready,’ he repeats, sure this time, feels the certainty settle in his chest. He ignores the clicking of the compass as it calculates the veracity of his answer. He turns to tuck the device into the stasis case for safekeeping.

The bond between them is warm with Qui-Gon’s approval.

‘Hey, uh… Darth?’

Someone is calling him. Their tone is cautious; their signature is flickering uncertainty.

‘Shh shh shh! Don’t break his concentration. He is working.’

That is someone else, shushing the first. This signature is familiar.

The concentration of Vader’s consciousness is spilt out across the vast storage hangar, soaked into every crate and crevice, and it takes a while for Vader to drag the name up to the surface of his thoughts—

Echo.

Echo’s presence is languid, steady. Whatever the reason for the interruption isn’t urgent, isn’t a medical emergency for Vader to be called in, so he returns his focus to his task.

It is probably close to an hour before he draws his awareness back. He takes a moment to settle himself under his skin before he blinks open his eyes. Echo is already standing next to him with a datapad that he readily hands over when Vader gestures for it.

It is not hard to hold the hundreds of numbers in his head, especially since he has plenty of practice doing something similar in the Archive.

This part is… familiar. Almost meditative.

It’s the transcribing of the results of his inspection that Vader finds a chore. It’s the need to type all of it down that feels like it takes forever. He shifts from the kneeling position he had assumed for his meditation, shifting to sit on the floor with one leg stretched out before him and the other bent.

‘You needed me for something?’ he asks, looking from his screen to glance up at the trooper standing beside Echo.

Echo, however, makes a noise and gestures to the datapad in Vader’s hands.

‘Uh…’ the trooper says, his eyes darting over to Echo before back to Vader. ‘I don’t want to interrupt your work,’ he says.

Vader snorts. ‘This?’ he asks, holding the datapad aloft and waving it about. ‘It’s scutwork. I did this all the time in the Archive. The hard part of stock checking is done anyway. Now I’m just updating the inventory list. I assure you; I can multitask.’ He lowers the pad and updates a few more entries to demonstrate his point.

The trooper looks impressed. ‘Wait, you… Are you saying you inspected this entire storage area? With the Force?’

‘Yup,’ Vader says, popping the word with his mouth, tabbing down the extensive list nonchalantly. ‘Every blaster, barrel-shroud, and powerpack. Every hydrospanner, magwrench, and spool of wire… every nut and every bolt. It’s actually easier than the stuff I had to handle in my Archive. At least here, I don’t have to worry about triggering a curse or disturbing a particularly irritable Sith Lord’s holocron.’

Echo arches an eyebrow. ‘There are the tibanna canisters and plasma packs. Those are pretty… irritable.’

Vader grins up at him. ‘Yeah, but not as unstable as Darth Momin. We had a bunch of his sculptures donated to the Archive.’

‘Dare I ask?’

Vader makes a face. ‘Better that you don’t,’ he admits. ‘That guy was seriously messed up in the head.’

The trooper clears his throat awkwardly and holds out another datapad.

Vader groans but takes it. ‘This better not be for another inventory check,’ he grumbles as he juggles the two devices in his hands. ‘Why are you guys so lazy? Go do your jobs, dank farrik.’

‘Because we have you to do it. It’s an efficient allocation of resources. Why should we spend days sorting through this shit when you can use your brain magic to sort it out in a couple of hours?’ Echo retorts.

‘I feel like this classifies as abuse. I am being bullied. I am telling Fives about this,’ Vader threatens, holding a finger up at Echo accusingly. He pauses, then adds, ‘And Kix. See if he’ll agree to let me trade shifts again next time.’

He uses the same finger he is using to threaten Echo to jab at the button on the newly acquired datapad to activate it. He glances down at the screen and then he goes very still, his half-hearted grouching dying in the back of his throat. His fingers tighten around the datapad.

It’s not another inventory list.

Echo notes Vader’s reaction and he shifts his weight, his signature going alert and concerned. Vader clumsily tries to fold up his feelings, tries to stop emoting all over the place.

He’s probably affecting the ambient temperature.

‘That’s the report from the team on Aradia,’ the trooper says helpfully into the sudden silence, in case Vader can’t parse the information displayed on the screen.

‘So it is,’ Vader agrees, mild. He doesn’t look up from the datapad, though, and his hands are shaking a little.

‘Right. You’ve delivered the ‘pad, you can go now,’ Echo tells the other trooper.  His signature flares with something like protectiveness. He waits until he and Vader are alone again before he says, ‘You know what? You can go. I can do the rest of the inventory—’

That jerks Vader out of his stupor. ‘What?’ Vader asks, head snapping up. He looks incredulously at Echo, whose expression is… unreadable. ‘No, you can’t—’

‘I think you’ll find that I can. Managed just fine before you came along, Lord Vader.’

‘I told you not to call me that!’ Vader says, feeling his face flush red.

Echo raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s your title, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes. But it’s the way you say it—’

‘How else am I to say it, my Lord?’

Vader makes an aggressively aggravated noise. ‘I’m telling Fives you’re bullying me.’

That actually makes Echo stop, the man holding up his hands. ‘Fine, fine. I’ll stop,’ he says, though there’s still amusement in his eyes and in the quirk of his lips. ‘But really, you can go if you want. I’ll round up some boys to continue sorting through the stuff. Rex only wants the report by the end of the week, anyway.’

The offer is… kind. There’s sympathy softening the edges of Echo’s presence, and the clone’s intent in giving Vader some time and privacy is clear.

Echo’s expression is as bland as his tone, but Vader finds that he still has to look away. It’s hard to seem unaffected when he is conscious of the way the bond he shared with Qui-Gon is withering away, the frayed tendrils of their connection decaying even further with every passing second.

‘Lûrkahoimoitsa. Nyâshsavakaisk,’ Vader thinks firmly to himself and he can almost hear his Master’s admonishing tone in the words.

Vader draws in a slow breath and then releases it, hands spasming around the datapad.

‘Thank you,’ he says quietly, sincerely, meeting Echo’s gaze. He straightens his spine and carefully places the datapad screen face down on the floor beside him with a soft clink. ‘But I’m still on shift. Let’s just get this done quick.’

Echo eyes him carefully but does the favour of not insulting him by asking Vader if he’s sure. ‘Alright then,’ he agrees, and something in Vader relaxes at the easy acquiescence. ‘Do you need to meditate again or…?

Vader scoffs and picks up the other datapad. ‘Nah, I’m good. Still got the quantities for everything in here,’ he says, tapping the side of his temple.

‘Then get typing, vod.’

Vader attempts to read the report in the privacy of the tiny quarters afforded to him. The calm that he had managed with the repetitive work of stock taking and data entry is gone now. He considers trying for a light meditation but it is only a brief passing thought.

He feels inexplicably jittery as he flips quickly through the report, skimming through the pages. Vader impatiently skips the entire geotechnical section on soil stability and the exterior ground conditions, the section filled with dense blocks of dry-looking text, interspersed with equally boring looking tables.

He goes straight for the section prepared by the ExplorCorps that charts out the interior of the Archive. There’s a list noting all the items the Jedi team have found – a depressingly short list – as well as where they were located. Vader glances at the attached floor plans and is surprised to see his name tagged in multiple areas of the plans that have been clouded, flagged for his input.

There is AREA IN ABEYANCE AWAITING ARCHIVIST VADER’S ADVICE printed across what had been the Restricted Area of the Aradian Archive, with comments noting that the entrance into the chamber had collapsed, sealing off the area, with a further note of STRUCTURAL REPAIR WORKS TO ARCHIVIST VADER’S APPROVAL.

There are other parts of the plan clouded for his attention, quite a lot, actually. Things like SURFACE RESTORATION TO ARCHIVIST VADER’S SPECIFICATIONS and PROPOSED NEW INGRESS/EGRESS TO HALL 35 TO ARCHIVIST VADER’S APPROVAL.

Something twists inside Vader’s chest and he swallows hard.

Choosing to stay with the 501st over going to Coruscant with Master Kenobi had been a difficult choice. It had felt a little like he had chosen to abandon his vocation, abandon Qui-Gon’s teachings, abandon his home.

There was fear, also, that the Jedi would just… trample over everything, even if whatever was left was mostly dust and rubble. Some part of Vader had been grimly braced to be told to accept that the Jedi Order had taken possession of the Archive, and he already had half-formed ideas on how to argue against such a scenario, but—

All these things here, listed for ARCHIVIST VADER’S ADVICE and APPROVAL and SPECIFICATIONS—

Vader hadn’t even dared to expect.

It’s one thing for Rex to tell him that “the Jedi are good people”, and another thing entirely to actually witness it. There is respect and consideration here, afforded to Head Archivist Vader, and care and reverence to the Lost Sith Archive of Aradia.

He sniffles quietly and his eyes are blurry as he tabs over to the query list.

Madame Jocasta Nu seems to have a lot of questions.

He swipes at his eyes and then frowns. He grunts and then furiously begins to type a response to one of the questions because someone on her team had mistranslated something, a seemingly minor inaccuracy, really, but the Sith language is just tricky that way. Best to get that cleared up.

Chapter Text

The hour is late and he is tired, but it’s not the drag of exhaustion, so he is unwilling to surrender to sleep just yet. Who knew that waging a galactic war generated so much kriffing datawork?

Stifling down first a sigh and then a yawn, Obi-Wan reaches for the next report on his desk and pauses when he reads it. He brings a hand up to rub at his eyes.

‘Why,’ asks Obi-Wan, ‘do I have a collections notice?’

Cody, sharing the cramped desk with him, lowers his own datapad to peer at the other man’s screen. The edges of the Commander’s presence sting with his own blend of fatigue.

‘I believe you are overdue to return some materials, General,’ Cody says, bland.

Obi-Wan huffs, waving his hand vaguely in the air like he can wave away his crime.

‘No, why is it mixed in here, together with the…’ he glances at the stack he had plucked the datapad from and he trails off, his face falling slightly.

Cody, having returned to his own datawork, signs off on his form and picks up another. He makes a questioning hum when Obi-Wan doesn’t finish his sentence, though he doesn’t look up from his work.

Obi-Wan scowls at him because Cody’s signature is sparking lightly with amusement, though none of it is visible on his face.

‘Why is this included together with the reports from the 501st?’

His Commander lifts a shoulder in a shrug. ‘Filing error?’ he offers unconvincingly, finally looking up at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan gives him a dirty look because he knows that’s pure banthashit.

‘I’m sorry that I sometimes forget to return my library books,’ he says drily. ‘These things might slip my mind when I am running the Third Systems Army and kept very busy trying to keep the Separatists out of our spaces.’ He glances down at the datapad in his hand and then says, a thread of wariness in his tone, ‘I am not sure how Jocasta has convinced Vader to slip this notice in with Rex’s reports.’

‘Maybe General Nu has deputised him,’ Cody says, leaning back in his seat and he makes no effort to hide his amusement now. ‘So Vader can chase after the bounties on outstanding books.’

‘Deputise— No, that is not a thing,’ Obi-Wan insists incredulously. He pauses and then with less certainty, ‘It’s not a thing, I don’t think.’

The grin Cody gives him is pitiless. ‘They’re working together now, aren’t they? I heard there’s a few things from Aradia that turned up in her collection. I imagine Vader is only too happy to do General Nu a few favours.’

Obi-Wan groans and drops the datapad onto the desk with a clatter. ‘No, I am not in the right place to think about this,’ he declares. ‘Sith and Jedi Archivists working together, Force have mercy.’ He ignores Cody’s quiet chuckles. ‘Hand me something else from the pile. Make it a good one.’

The Commander dutifully riffles through the stack of datapads and randomly pulls one out for Obi-Wan.

‘Cody,’ Obi-Wan says, exasperation and betrayal in his tone. ‘This is literally the worst one.’

‘Perhaps it is the will of your Force,’ Cody snipes back immediately, but he’s also already leaning over to read the text on the screen, brow furrowing in concern.

‘It’s not my Force,’ Obi-Wan grumbles back, even as he obligingly tilts the screen for Cody.

Cody stills, all traces of levity gone. His expression shutters and his shields slide neatly over his emotions. Obi-Wan finds himself instantly missing the loss of the easy atmosphere in his office.

‘You’re being called to Coruscant?’

‘It appears so,’ Obi-Wan say, tone even. He realises his fingers are taping a restless rhythm on the side of the datapad case and quickly catches himself, works instead to release his agitation into the Force. ‘It seems the Supreme Chancellor requires my presence.’

Sharp dark eyes flick up to Obi-Wan and Cody straightens, lips pressed into a thin line. ‘Is this about Vader again?’

Obi-Wan exhales a long breath. ‘It probably is,’ he says, mouth twisting unhappily. His gaze remains on the datapad, contemplating the summons.

‘You’re not going to agree to his demands, are you?’ Cody asks, watching him intently.

That makes Obi-Wan scoff and he looks up to meet Cody’s gaze. ‘His curiosity is understandable. The Republic has not known a Sith who isn’t an enemy. And Darth Vader’s decided lack of enmity is especially noteworthy considering we are currently waging a galactic war with another Sith at the head of the CIS.

‘But… it is his incessant insistence to meet Vader that is what concerns me. The young man has been through enough. He has lost his Master and his home, lost his place in time. He needs a period of adjustment, some stability in routine, and the support of companions. What he doesn’t need is to be dragged to the Core to be paraded in front of politicians.’

‘So, it has nothing to do with Vader being a potential security risk, being in the same room as the Supreme Chancellor?’ Cody asks, casual in the way that means he is testing for a certain response. ‘The kid is a Sith, after all.’

That makes Obi-Wan pause, weighing his thoughts carefully. ‘I do not think Vader has any personal investment in the war, or that he has intention in causing harm,’ Obi-Wan says finally. Something inside him relaxes when the Force doesn’t contract around him in contradiction. Eased by it, he finds himself quipping, ‘If anything, I am more concerned about Chancellor Palpatine’s intentions for Vader.’

He freezes, breath stuttering, as the Force suddenly tightens around him in warning.

Cody jerks upright, his hand automatically dropping to the blaster strapped to his side.

‘What’s wrong?’ Cody asks, terse and alert, a half-second away from sending out a ship-wide alert. He’s learned to trust his General’s Force-attuned instincts. If something has Obi-Wan looking like that, it’s because Obi-Wan has caught some Bad Feelings and some shit is going to go down.

He removes his hand from his weapon when the Jedi flicks a battlesign to him to stand down, but he doesn’t quite relax all the way. He gives his comms a quick check but there is no message from the bridge crew reporting enemy ships materialising out of hyperspace in front of The Negotiator.

When he glances at the General, he finds that Obi-Wan’s attention has drawn inward, a deep frown creasing his forehead.

Not an imminent attack on the ship, then, but something else, Cody thinks with a sharp flash of annoyance. His aggravation isn’t at Obi-Wan, though. He just sometimes wishes that the Force can give his General actual actionable intel, rather than plague the Jedi with vague feelings of danger and doom.

Cody waits him out and a few long moments later, Obi-Wan blinks slowly, coming back to himself and the present. He catches Cody’s gaze. The frown is still there on his brow and the look in Obi-Wan’s eyes is… disturbed.

‘The Force is… unsettled,’ Obi-Wan says slowly. He gives Cody a small smile, something that doesn’t quite mask the troubled worry in his eyes. ‘Something for me to meditate on, later.’

Cody studies him for a moment and then makes a sound like a snort. He forces the tense line of his shoulders to slope into something more relaxed, seeing from the corners of his eyes Obi-Wan’s body language easing slightly in response.

‘Meditation isn’t an actual replacement for sleep, sir,’ he says, trying to lighten the mood a little.

‘Says the person who only sleeps three hours a day,’ Obi-Wan shoots back.

‘I have superior genetics,’ Cody says. It’s true, but maybe genetically enhanced supersoldiers shouldn’t be calling the kettle black and it might be the edge of tiredness that lets the next words slip out. ‘And I’ll just catch up on sleep when I’m dead because it looks like I’ll die before this fucking war ends.’

‘Cody.’

Obi-Wan’s tone is something between admonishment and disappointment, and it makes something twist inside Cody’s chest. Cody grits his teeth and closes his eyes, regretting his slip.

Di’kut, he thinks to himself viciously. He had been trying to soothe his General, not upset him further.

‘Apologies, General,’ he says quietly. He clears his throat, hesitates for a fraction, and then decides to go for the option that will bait Obi-Wan into reacting in ways he can predict. Cody isn’t a coward, but he’s just… not courageous enough to have that sort of earnest intensity bearing down on him. Not at zero dark thirty, and certainly not when he is as tired and unbalanced as he is evidently feeling right now. ‘I am sure the GAR will soon prevail over the Separatists—’

‘Blast the Separatists!’ Obi-Wan snaps, interrupting him.

Despite himself, Cody finds himself huffing a quiet laugh. He quirks an eyebrow at the Jedi. ‘Yes, sir, I believe that’s the general plan—’

‘Cody,’ Obi-Wan repeats, tight and distressed.

Cody falls silent. He sits rigidly in his seat as Obi-Wan rounds the desk. When Obi-Wan lowers himself onto a knee by Cody’s side, Cody finds himself sliding his gaze to meet the other man’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says lowly, sincere this time because he never intended to make Obi-Wan upset. It had been careless, callous, of Cody to have spoken without thought like that, especially when—

‘So am I,’ his General says, sounding sad and disarmingly earnest in a way that makes Cody want to flee the room. ‘I am sorry that for every victory we score, for all the ground we’ve gained, all that is measured against the score of good men we lose.’

‘Good men die. That is the nature of war,’ Cody says simply, chest heavy. ‘A clone dies; another takes his place. And the great war machine that is the GAR trundles on.’

Obi-Wan groans softly and drops his head into his chest. ‘I hate it when you get like this,’ he declares.

‘What, pragmatic?’ Cody asks drily, dragging a corner of his mouth up into a smirk.

Obi-Wan makes an annoyed, grumbling sort of sound.

‘As much as we would like to think ourselves irreplaceable,’ Cody says, serious but gentle, ‘war has no prejudice. Death or injury, sometimes we have to... leave the battlefield.’

Obi-Wan is silent, unhappy, but he doesn’t exactly rebuke the statement and Cody—

Cody doesn’t mean to lecture him – stars know he is a great General and a better man – but Obi-Wan is so karking selfless and kind and empathic, that Cody worries about the toll the war has on him. There are always dark bruise-like smudges under Obi-Wan’s eyes these days, and Cody knows wrangling the datawork to run the Third Systems Army isn’t the only thing that keeps Obi-Wan up at night.

He would have been glad for Obi-Wan to be recalled to Coruscant, to have a little time in that Temple of his, if Cody didn’t know that the man would just spend the entire time away from the front fretting about Cody and his brothers.

He pauses, and then wry, he amends, ‘Death or injury or in your case, a summons from the Supreme Chancellor.’ The edges of his mouth slant grimly when he realises that tonight neither of them would be getting much sleep after all. ‘We will have to adjust the Umbara plans for your absence.’

Obi-Wan curses and slumps further. ‘This is terrible timing,’ he mutters, swiping tiredly at his face. He gives himself a moment before he rises, catching Cody’s eyes. ‘I will admit to feeling relieved that the 501st will be there with Master Pong Krell.

‘I will return to you as soon as my business with the Chancellor is done,’ he promises gravely. ‘I will catch up with you on the ground, Commander.’

‘I’ll make sure to save some clankers for you, sir,’ Cody says and flashes him a grin then, something filled with teeth.  ‘But you needn’t hurry back on our account. Between the 212th and the 501st, and a Jedi and a Sith, we’ve got the cards stacked. The Umbarans won’t stand much of a chance.’

Chapter Text

Bracketed by Fives and Echo at their usual table in the mess hall at firstmeal, Vader absently chases his rubbery protein discs around his plate. His long legs bounce restlessly under the surface of the table. He has barely eaten anything since he has taken his seat and instead, has spent the time pushing the food items around with his multitensil. There’s a contemplative frown on his face and the glimmer of his gold eyes are dim, distracted.

The ARC troopers trade looks over his head, noting his agitation and lack of appetite, and more concerningly, the fact that the pudding cup at Vader’s elbow remains untouched.

Fives puts his multitensil down and says, business-like, ‘Alright. Whose head do I have to shove into the vacc tube.’

Vader slides a glance at him, confused.

‘Give me their names or designations,’ Fives says, crackling his knuckles ominously.

‘What?’ Vader asks, but Fives only looks at him with an expectant expression on his face, so he turns to look at Echo for clarification.

Echo looks calm enough but there’s a glint in his eyes and his signature glowers just as protectively as Fives’s.

‘Anyone giving you trouble lately?’ Echo asks seriously, shifting on the bench to turn to face Vader better. ‘Has Dogma been bothering you again?’

Vader looks between the two for a moment and then huffs, the sound something fond and exasperated all at once.

‘Me and Dogma are good. We got it sorted. It was just a minor misunderstanding,’ he says. He drops his multitensil and sits back with a sigh. ‘And it isn’t someone bothering me, it’s something.’

‘Something we can help with?’ asks Echo gently, at the same time Fives offers—

‘Something we can shove into the vacc tube?’

The offer is earnest and Vader snorts, feeling a flash of amusement.

‘Doubt you could shove the Force down the vacc tube,’ Vader says, a grin tugging at the sides of his mouth. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

‘Oh.’ Fives deflates a little, looking dissatisfied and disappointed. ‘Force osik.’

Vader makes his own face in agreement. ‘Yeah. There’s just a feeling… like something is going to happen soon.’

‘Something good? Bad?’ Fives prods.

‘Something… big. An event on the horizon. Something happening soon,’ Vader says. He hesitates, worries his bottom lip briefly and then says, quiet, ‘It feels… similar to just before Cognus showed up at the Archive.’

Saying that out loud feels like confessing to his anxieties, like admitting he hasn’t moved past what happened on Aradia—

Echo curses then and pushes his food tray away, seemingly having lost his appetite too. ‘Something bad, then,’ he says, his mouth pressed together into a grim line.

Vader makes a half-hearted noise, something not quite a protest but not a confirmation either. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug when the other two look at him, questions on their faces. He clasps his hands together tightly in his lap so they won’t shake.

‘It might not necessarily be something bad,’ he says, trying for something neutral but it comes out sounding too tight. ‘The Force is just… heavy.’

‘“Heavy,”’ Fives repeats flatly. ‘Wonderful.’

He eyes Vader for a moment and whatever he sees on Vader’s face has his own expression softening slightly. He pauses. A flicker of indecision and then he asks, tone flippant, but there’s something halfway to serious in his signature, ‘So… should we get down to some sculpting? Make some clay creatures? We might be able to convince Rex to swing by a mud planet or something for some supplies. I could help. I actually have great sculpting skills—’

Echo rolls his eyes and reaches past Vader to shove at Fives’s shoulder, interrupting him. ‘You joined like one arts and crafts class in the Temple, and it was a session for crechelings.’

‘Yes. But Master Nemak told me that I had talent,’ Fives says with great dignity.

‘He also thought your taun taun was a teapot. He just didn’t want to break your heart.’

Vader bites down on the grin threatening his face but a small snigger escapes him anyway. Fives swings a look his way, affront exaggerated on his face. Vader laughs then and reaches for his pudding cup. His attention on peeling back the foil without ripping the karking thing in half, he doesn’t notice the way both clones relax minutely when he begins to eat.

‘Sorry, Fives, but I think I may actually have less skills than you. I’m not great at making golems. I don’t have nearly the same chthonic talents as my Master.’

‘Still pretty good with other arts and crafts, though,’ Echo says, tapping a finger on the neat curling lines of small runes Vader had etched on his vambrace.

Vader perks up. ‘Remember, if you want to—’

‘—activate it, touch the last rune with blood,’ Echo recites. ‘I know. I remember, vod.’

‘Just a drop will be enough,’ Vader reminds and then smiles, the curve on his lips like an inside joke as he slides a look at Fives. ‘No need to soak the entire thing in blood, yeah?’

‘What is it with Sith spells and blood,’ Fives wonders. He doesn’t look particularly perturbed, just earnestly curious. ‘I mean— I suppose it’s very on-brand, I guess. Very Sith-ly.’

‘It’s practical. Everyone has blood on hand. Or inside them, if you want to get technical,’ Vader says, slightly muffled, around a mouthful of pudding. He swallows and says, ‘Blood-magic is generally classed as pretty last resort stuff. If things have gone to shit and you need a ward up quick, the assumption is that there would already be blood plenty available.’

Fives tilts his head and makes a considering sound. ‘Kinda macabre. But it makes sense.’

Vader frowns faintly down at his pudding, thinking of Qui-Gon and the shadow-dagger in his hands and the expression of grim determination on his face, and Vader’s hand tightens around the empty plasticup, making it crinkle. ‘I hope you won’t need to use it,’ he says, low. Even as he says it, he knows it’s an almost futile thing to say.

Fives shrugs easily. ‘We’re fighting a war, Vad’ika. Things always go to shit one way or another. It’s just the degree of shittage, a shittage scale, if you will. There’s SNAFU on one end, and FUBAR on the other.’

‘Still, being prepared and taking necessary precautions should reduce the risks,’ Echo says, folding his arms across his chest. ‘We’ll give Rex a heads up that there might be possible complications in the upcoming campaign. Knowing him, he’ll come up with like eight other contingencies.’

Surprise must show on Vader’s face because Echo gives him a small smile and bumps his shoulder.

‘You’re our consultant and resident expert in Force osik. If you say that something is going to happen, we’re going to take that seriously.’

‘Oh.’

‘And speaking of experts in Force osik,’ Five says, pushing back from the table and gathering up his tray. ‘We gotta get moving. Commander wants us on deck as part of the welcome committee. General Krell is due to arrive within the hour. Gotta polish up. Wash behind our ears. Dust all the corners.’

‘Will there be an inspection?’ Vader asks, scrambling to follow after the ARCs. He spares a brief glance down at his own outfit and tugs to neaten the fall of his tabards.

Despite his weeks with the 501st, he has to admit that he’s still unfamiliar with most military protocols. While Rex never seems to hold much to it when it comes to Vader – which Vader is thankful for because it has been hard enough trying to adjust to everything else – it does lead to Vader feeling out of his depth a little now.

‘Standard stuff,’ Echo says. ‘Doesn’t hurt to make a good impression when a General comes aboard.’

‘So they can see that they’ve got their money’s worth,’ grumbles Fives under his breath, picking up the pace as they move through the halls towards the barracks.

‘Fives,’ Echo hisses.

Fives throws up his hands. ‘I’m kidding!’ he exclaims.

There’s a slant though, in Fives’s signature, a twist in his mood that makes Vader frown slightly.

It must be nerves affecting Fives.

The 501st have been operating independently without a Jedi General in direct command of the battalion since the start of the war, though Vader understands that Rex reports to Master Kenobi. Suddenly having a General take command of The Resolute and all the souls aboard is bound to cause some degree of tension.

After all, getting Vader onboarded was also not without some hiccups. And panic attacks. Not everyone can bounce back in defiance of their own fears like Kix. And even now, there is still some lingering wariness to his presence on the ship.

Vader gets it, though. He’s a Sith.

They’ve been fighting the Sith for years.

It’s gonna be hard for some of the clones to divorce the connection between the Banites and himself, but—

This should be easier, at least. Easier to introduce a Jedi to the troopers, rather than a Sith.

Vader hadn’t had the opportunity to meet any Jedi before, back when he was still an Apprentice. Aradia had been tucked deep inside Sith space, and Vader himself tucked deep within the Archive.

The closest thing he ever had to contact with a Jedi then had been a half-corrupted holocron of a half-mad Jedi mystic.

When he had woken up here, now, he had been vastly apprehensive of the Jedi Order at first, but—

Master Kenobi and Master Nu have been… nice. Accommodating. Patient with him as he blunders his way through finding his footing and pace in this strange new present. Entirely willing to entertain his questions, even if Master Kenobi always dodges talking about the collections notices Vader’s been taking great delight in forwarding to him.

Vader is actually looking forward to meeting another Jedi.

He knows the ARCs had been trying to ease the tension earlier but in truth, Vader is still unsettled, the pudding he had eaten curdling in the pit of his stomach. There’s a building pressure in the Force, the feeling of something like the bite of static in the air before a storm. When Vader reaches for it, he tastes the bitterness of ozone in the air, of spent blasterfire and blood. It coats the back of his throat, cloying, thick and coppery—

He gags but it’s just the aftertaste of coco pudding on his tongue, the phantom taste of blood already fading away. He coughs and clears his throat, giving Echo a wane smile when the clone glances at him in concern.

He should be enough—

He is enough.

Ludojontû saraai.

Qui-Gon isn’t here but Vader remembers vividly that last moment with his Master, feels the k̷û̸s̴k̶k̴a̶s̵h̷j̵o̴n̸t̵û̸ running along the length of his ribs flaring with a sharp ache with each breath he takes, as if they are just freshly scored into his bones—

His heart is beating a little too fast in the too-tight cage of his chest.

Master Kenobi isn’t here, either – he is on the way to Coruscant – and whatever it is that is going to happen—

He stops the thought before it goes further.

No.

It won’t be anything like Aradia.

And whatever it is, Vader won’t have to face this alone. There’s Fives, Echo, Rex, Kix, Tup, Jesse and Hardcase and the rest of the battalion. And they’re meeting up with the 212th too. He’ll have a literal army with him.

But—

It’s a good thing Master Krell will be joining them.

Another Force user at hand can only be a good thing, when things, as Fives says, “go to shit”.

Chapter Text

‘Attention! General on deck!’

Around him, the troopers snap to attention. Vader straightens from his slouch, half a beat behind, unfolding his arms. He has unfortunately been separated from Fives and Echo, shuffled upfront and directed to stand with the officers, but at least this spot affords him a better view. He watches with interest as the Jedi descends from his personal single-person transport.

The Jedi General cuts an imposing figure, towering head and shoulders above Vader and the clones. With a pair of double-bladed weapons hanging from his belt and his double sets of muscular arms, Master Krell must be a formidable warrior. His bright gaze is hard, assessing. His eyes sweep across the beings assembled in the bay, as if looking for someone—

His eyes lock onto Vader.

Vader twitches at the press against his shields, rather startled at the Jedi’s forwardness.

Master Krell starts to stride towards Vader with intent. He makes it only a few steps before Rex intercepts him. Something flashes in his signature, there and then gone, too fast for Vader to parse.

Rex snaps off a sharp salute. ‘Sir! I am Commander CT-7567 Rex. Welcome aboard The Resolute.’

‘Commander,’ Master Krell acknowledges with a brief glance at the man, before his eyes return unerringly to look at Vader. ‘You should introduce me to the Sith,’ he says.

‘Yes, Sir,’ Rex says immediately and steps forward. ‘General Krell, Darth Vader. Darth Vader is our consultant in Force-related matters.’

Vader offers the Jedi a formal bow. ‘Master Krell. I have been looking forward to meeting you.’

‘I can say the same thing about you, Darth Vader. I have heard many things about you, many interesting things. It is a pleasure to finally meet you at last.’ The smile the Besalisk gives him is wide and friendly. ‘I look forward to working with you.’

Rex seems to take that as his cue. ‘Sir, let me escort you to the secure room. We can start discussing the mission plans—’

‘Not now, CT-7567,’ Master Krell says.

Rex blinks, the only reaction he allows himself before he tries again. ‘Sir, we don’t have much time to run through—'

‘I said, not now, clone.’

There’s a sort of stillness that ripples over the troopers then, their signatures flattening, going quiet and dim.

Vader has gone stiff, himself.

Master Krell seems to notice, his gaze flickering between Vader and Rex, and the expression on his face smoothens into something less hard. He turns to look at Rex and says, ‘I will leave the planning in your capable hands, Commander. You may brief me later.’

It isn’t as dismissive but it is still a clear dismissal.

Rex’s emotions are shielded tightly, but Vader knows Rex well enough to know the Commander isn’t pleased, the tightness around his eyes betraying him.

Vader doesn’t exactly have enough experience with the military to comment, but he doesn’t think skipping a strategy meeting is wise, exactly. Rex might be a brilliant tactician and leader, but it seems… negligent and unprofessional of Master Krell to leave everything to Rex.

Even if Master Krell did ask to be briefed later.

Surely a General ought to be part of the planning of the campaign he is to lead?

Still, whatever his private thoughts must be, ever the professional, Rex does as he is told and salutes the Jedi. ‘Yes, General.’

Master Krell’s gaze has settled on Vader again, his intense attention prickling against Vader in the Force.

‘There are… many things I would like to discuss with you. Would you indulge me, Darth Vader?’

Vader slides a look to Rex’s retreating form and the other officers following after the Commander, and then back to meet Master Krell’s. ‘Yeah, sure, Master Krell.’

The Jedi Master leads the way confidently through the ship. Where Vader gives small grins and nods to the troopers in the hallways, Master Krell seems to ignore them entirely, intent on leading them somewhere.

‘You seem to know your way around The Resolute,’ Vader comments after a few minutes, trailing after Master Krell.

Master Krell rumbles a laugh and says, ‘Yes, I have been aboard several Venators. Once you know one, you’ve known them all.’ He half-turns to watch a passing trooper. He tilts his head and says, almost conspiratorially, ‘Much like the clones.’

‘What?’

Master Krell hums and continues walking. ‘I think you know what I mean.’

Vader frowns, something like unease sliding up his spine at the Jedi’s words. He glances around at the troopers in the halls, all of them busy with their own duties, all of them faintly sparking and flickering, their Force signatures nothing compared to the blazing singularity that is Master Krell, of course, but still… a collection of constellations.

‘I am not sure I do,’ he mutters to himself. A pause and then he shakes off the disquiet he feels.

It must’ve just been a joke landing wrong, Vader missing some context due to his lack of familiarity with Venators. After all, the only warship he actually has any experience with is The Resolute.

He starts after the Jedi again, catching up with Master Krell just as the other being steps into one of the smaller meeting rooms. He does a sweep of the room, and then—

‘We may talk plainly here, without the prying eyes and ears of the clones,’ Master Krell says.

Vader pauses at the doorway at that, frowning a little. Then after a moment, he steps inside. He lets the door slide shut behind him.

Kenobi has sometimes privately sought him out too, on the rare occasions when the both of them happen to be in the same sector and in between missions. He does it gracefully, full of apologies that he has to steal Vader away in the middle of a game of sabacc.

The man runs himself haggard running the Third Systems Army, but he still carves time out of his schedule to check on Vader. They trade reading materials and light gossip, and sometimes attempt a shared meditation together, even though there are… deep fundamental differences in the way they both actually meditate.

Still, Vader appreciates Kenobi’s company.

And though Kenobi never actually asks for it, he probably appreciates the way Vader harasses him into receiving some Sith-ly healing and rejuvenation.

Master Krell is fresh off Coruscant though and doesn’t need Vader’s Sith brand of healing.

In the absence of Kenobi, it is likely that he is here on Kenobi’s behalf to check that Vader is being fed, watered, and cared for by Rex and the others. His manner may be brusque, but Master Krell is no less dutiful.

‘I hear that you were an Aradian Archivist,’ says Master Krell. He doesn’t move to take a seat, so Vader chooses to remain standing too. ‘You must find that things are very different to how it had been in your days.’

Vader huffs a dry laugh and folds his arms across his chest, relaxing a little. ‘Most days I am still confused by most things,’ Vader admits. ‘Even the freshers are different now; I had no idea what the three seashells were for,’ he says, rueful mortification colouring his tone.

Master Krell laughs, loud and booming, and a grin tugs at the sides of Vader’s mouth.

The smile and amusement fall away when Master Krell says, ‘It is good then, that I have petitioned the Council to have you transferred under my direct supervision. It would be my great pleasure to help guide you in these… trying times.’

‘You… what?’ Vader manages, after a few stunned moments of speechlessness.

It seems this isn’t a wellness check, after all.

The look the Besalisk gives him is sympathetic, gentling. ‘The world is very different now, Vader. Both of our Orders had been great in your time, Sith and Jedi Lords numbering in the hundreds of thousands. The Jedi now have a paltry sum of members, barely enough to cover the Core worlds if we station one Knight on each planet.

‘And the Sith have been whittled down to three beings, Darth Maul and Darth Tyrannus, and their shadow Master.’ Master Krell counts them off on one hand. He pauses and then gives Vader a small nod. ‘Of course, that was before your revival.’

‘I am nothing like them,’ Vader refutes instantly, bristling with insult, fists clenching at his sides.

‘No. No, of course you’re not,’ Master Krell agrees, all four of his palms raised placatingly. ‘You are something else entirely. And I could help you be so much more.’

That sounds a lot like—

‘I don’t need another Master,’ Vader says stiffly, drawing himself taller. His plain black robes lack the formal accoutrements of his vocation but he doesn’t need the missing weight of the cortosis chatelaine at his hip to know he will never leave archival work.

Not even for Fives’s post-war business schemes of setting up a Sith spa and healing retreat.

‘You misunderstand my intentions. I am proposing a mutually beneficial partnership. We have so much to learn from one another, you and I. There are so many things you must know, so many skills that have since fallen out of living memory. You have a chance now, to ensure such knowledge isn’t forgotten forever. Surely, it is only sensible to try and preserve the teachings of your heritage, Archivist Vader?’

Vader hesitates, a pang of some unnameable emotion in his chest. There’s something a bit like panic, too, because he’s always avoided thinking too hard on the very thing Master Krell is talking about. He has managed to neatly sidestep the entire thing in his mind. The whole thing is just pretty overwhelming.

So much has been lost. It is shameful, the pitiful scrapings of knowledge the Banites of this age wield, compared to the depths of power and culture and tradition of the Sith of aeons ago.

Forget about the semantic differences between Kaanistic and Kaoxian skywalking, or even basic spawncrafting, modern Sith don’t even speak the Sith language anymore.

Ventress couldn’t even—

They can’t even kriffing read! They’re illiterate!

Just what the kark are they teaching their Apprentices and Acolytes these days?

He feels the incredible building weight of crushing dismay, of hysterical dismay, because the whole of Sithdom has been reduced to this—

Vader alone cannot revive his Order—

And it just—

It really fucking sucks.

A calm engulfs him suddenly, rolling over his roiling emotions, flattening them. The forced gentling feels strange, unnatural, someone else’s will exerted from without—

—something sharp rises from within in response, indignant and irritated, puncturing through the suppressing tranquillity. Vader bares his teeth and snarls, bucks off the compulsion. He turns the surface of his mental shields into shredding-slicing edges, defence turned into offence as he lashes out at the foreign influence.

A flare of shock-pain-anger and Master Krell’s presence withdraws, the false calmness blanketing Vader falling away in his retreat.

‘Maya nwûl tash,’ Vader hisses, incensed at the intrusion, at the audacity. ‘You dare? Do not try and force your will onto me, Jedi. Your peace is a lie.’

A Sith would never be so weak as to deny the heights and depths of their own feelings, only a Jedi would stunt themselves emotionally like that.

Ludojontû saraai. 

A side thought occurs of Kenobi, always mindful of his words and actions. He had never thrown the weight of Force suggestion so heavy-handedly, his projection of safety and grounding steadiness only ever offered, never to overpower.

Master Krell’s actions had felt condescending, subjugating—

It doesn’t quite fit into the image of what Vader had built in his head about the Jedi and it makes him wary.

There is an expression that flashes across Master Krell’s face, something dark and ugly, so quickly smoothed away that Vader isn’t certain it had been there at all. He stares at Vader, something cold and calculating shifting behind his eyes. Then his lips part into a smile, stretching atop his wattle, exposing an array of blunt teeth.

The taste of his signature slants pleased, approving, like Vader had passed some sort of test.

‘There you are,’ Master Krell breathes.

Vader scowls at him, still angry, but the feeling is tempered now by annoyance. ‘I’ve been here the whole time.’

Master Krell makes a sound of amusement, his bright eyes glittering like Vader has told a joke. ‘Yes, so you have, Darth Vader.’

Vader draws a short breath and huffs it out, irritation still prickling under his skin. He glares up at the Besalisk again and resolves to contact Kenobi as soon as he can, to complain. He doesn’t care if he interrupts Kenobi’s meeting with the Chancellor. He is not going to stand having Master Krell as a supervisor.

“Supervisor” my shebs, he thinks viciously.

Unconcerned by the sour look on Vader’s face, Master Krell shifts to lean in closer, his voice dropping into a low rumble to say, ‘It is a pity that you are thusly shackled, Darth Vader. To clones. Trapped here on a ship filled with them. You must be chaffing.’ He pulls back, sharp eyes on Vader’s face. He shakes his head slightly and sighs, as if regretful. ‘Would that I could free you.’

Irritation back in full force in the face of Master Krell’s patronizing tone, Vader unclenches his teeth enough to snap out, ‘Wonoksh Qyâsik nun.’

Master Krell tilts his head and hums. ‘Yes,’ he says softly. ‘I suppose you will break your own chains.’

Perplexed by the turn in the conversation – just how the fuck did they end up here, exactly, speaking in Qotsisajak metaphors — and infuriated by Master Krell’s erratic behaviour, Vader snarls wordlessly before turning and stalking from the room.

Consumed by his agitation, he doesn’t stop to wonder how is it that the Jedi could even recognise the Qotsisajak in its original form.

Chapter Text

The deep frown on Obi-Wan’s forehead is so severe that it runs the risk of being permanently carved not just onto his skin, but into his actual skull. He had planned on taking the hour before latemeal to catch up on some outstanding Council datawork. He had even specifically chosen a nice, secluded spot in the Room of a Thousand Fountains to get his work done.

Unfortunate, then, that he had been distracted from the task; first by Quinlan tracking him down and all but sprawling his bulky form onto Obi-Wan’s lap, pinning his legs, and secondly, by all the frankly ridiculous number of new messages cluttering up his inbox.

Unfortunate, also, that Obi-Wan has only managed to get through a grand total of one message so far.

“—this is outrageous! I am a Sith’ari, a Master in my own right, and the idea that I require “supervision” is frankly kriffing insulting. Qâzoi Jidai aishishhoimoi— And if you think I’m just gonna let Master Krell order me around like that— or talk to the troopers like that, the osik’la aloryc shabuir—— n̴i̸n̴w̸o̴d̶z̴a̴ ̸q̵a̵l̶a̷ ̵ —” the Sith snarls and the holo fizzes alarmingly with static in reaction. The fragmented feed coalesces back after a moment into a visual of Vader with a fearsome scowl on his face.

“I demand that you come back here right now, Kenobi, before I do something… really kriffing inadvisable,” Vader seethes, eyes burning fire-bright in a way that sends a chill down Obi-Wan’s spine.

The message ends abruptly, leaving Obi-Wan staring at the empty air where the holo had been.

‘“Supervision?”’ he mutters questioningly, raising a hand to first rub at his temples, at his headache, before allowing himself a quiet groan.

His meeting with the Chancellor had run longer than he had anticipated, and he had been sporting a low-grade headache ever since leaving the Chancellor’s office. He had been using the Force to fortify himself, but Vader’s holo message – all 28 minutes and 17 seconds of it – had blown the intensity of his headache into a teeth-gritting, eye-watering, vicious, throbbing thing.

Quinlan, however, only looks entertained by the entire situation.

‘Wow. The mouth on that kid.’ He whistles, low and impressed, amusement sparking bright in his signature. ‘Was that what they were teaching Sithlings back in the day? And more importantly, do you think he would be willing to translate some of those Sith swears for me?’

He reaches a gloved hand to hit replay.

Obi-Wan smacks his hand away, more automatic reflex than anything, and is rewarded with a stung look. That, he also ignores, out of long habit.

‘There was a rather impressive range of Mando’a in there, as well,’ Obi-Wan points out.

His head is throbbing in pain, exacerbated by Quinlan, and he tries his best to bundle it up and siphon it off to the Force. He isn’t particularly successful – maybe it’s because part of the cause of his headache is still lying on him, the big Kiffar-shaped oaf– but at least he doesn’t have to squint as hard as he fumbles for the button to call the Sith back.

CONNECTION ERROR
An error occurred trying to connect to
GAR-VDR-410558370.
There is no response from the server.
Please try again later.

He gets a similar error when he tries to comm Rex.

The Resolute’s bridge can’t be contacted either.

Unease curls because he’s the High General, and one of the Star Destroyers under his command just dropping out of comms reach without any notification doesn’t bode well.

He sits up straighter, alarm shooting through him when he can’t reach Cody or The Negotiator either.

Sensing the shift in Obi-Wan’s mood, Quinlan hauls himself upright, a serious expression sliding into place on his face as he watches Obi-Wan dials another comm line.

The comms officer at Triple Zero command base picks up on the second ring.

‘General Kenobi, what can I do for you?’

‘Link,’ Obi-Wan says, urgency leaking into his tone as he speaks into the communicator, ‘I can’t seem to reach either The Negotiator or The Resolute. Would you mind checking their connection statuses for me?’

There’s a moment of silence, and then the trooper says, ‘It’s not a problem on our end. Looks like they’re running EMCON protocols, Sir.’

That is a relief to hear, but the timing is strange. Neither of the ships should be anywhere near Umbara yet, so it seems overcautious to cut comms now.

There is also the fact that restricting transmissions to the wider GAR network was never part of the original strategy for the campaign.

It could be for operational security purposes, of course, a decision that would be made by Krell, but— concerning, when Obi-Wan considers it alongside the contents of the holo message he has received from Vader.

‘Any message from General Krell?’ Obi-Wan asks, his eyes meeting Quinlan’s. He feels the corners of his lips tug downwards when the officer replies with a negative. ‘Thank you, Link. That will be all.’

‘I have a bad feeling,’ he tells Quinlan, once he has disconnected the comm.

‘That’s actually the indigestion from the moss and oyster salad Yoda fed you earlier,’ Quinlan retorts instantly, his tone flippant, but the feel of him is serious in the Force, the sharpness of his mind turning over the situation himself.

‘I couldn’t say “no” to my Grandmaster, not when I haven’t seen the old troll in months,’ Obi-Wan says absently, most of his attention on typing out a message to flight control.

‘And you can say “no” to Krell?’ Quinlan asks and raises an eyebrow when Obi-Wan pauses to look up at him. ‘Vader said Krell’s asking the Council to give Krell a supervisory role over him. And in case you’re suffering from memory problems from one too many concussions, you are on the Council, my friend. You can just… deny his request,’ Quinlan says, waving his hand imperiously through the air like he’s dismissing the request himself.

A pause, then Quinlan frowns, his hand falling into his lap, and he says, slowly, ‘I thought the whole idea was to allow Vader a measure of autonomy without direct oversight from the Order.’ His face shades into a moue of distaste, ‘Since, you know, the whole Djinn Thing.’

‘That’s the thing—’ Obi-Wan says, pausing when his comm beeps with a notification of confirmation from the ATC. He rolls to his feet. Quinlan surges up and follows after him as Obi-Wan makes for the hangar at a brisk clip. ‘The Council has received no such request from Master Krell. I am not sure if he thinks being assigned to the 501st for the Umbara campaign is to be a permanent posting with the battalion.’

Even as he speaks, he feels the uneasy stirring in the Force, a cold curl of warning, and his gut tightens.

Quinlan feels it too, cocking his head to the side, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. There’s wariness, with something like suspicion shading his signature. He presses an impression onto Obi-Wan through their bond, a feeling of sifting through files, of snooping around Krell’s quarters. The impression is quick, a bare half-second and then gone, but the feeling underneath had been blade-sharp and intense—

Obi-Wan doesn’t acknowledge any of it.

Better for High Councillor Kenobi to have some plausible deniability.

‘I guess this is me, then,’ Quinlan says, when they reach the next intersection. ‘Catch ya later, Obes,’ Quinlan says cheerily, baring a smile that is a lot of teeth. ‘Force be with you.’

‘Force be with you,’ he returns and manages a genuine smile for Quinlan despite the tightness he feels in his chest.

He only spares a brief moment to watch the Shadow lope away down the corridor before he hurries onwards to the hangar bay.

His comm chimes as he crosses the hangar space. He glances at the caller ID and double-times it.

‘Apologies, Madame Nu,’ he says, as he returns the nods from the flight techs. He scrambles into his starfighter and makes his way into the cockpit. ‘I am afraid I won’t be able to speak for long; I find myself about to leave Temple.’ He winces – considers seriously, for a brief moment, to skip the pre-flight checks so he may make a hastier exit – then confesses, ‘I am terribly sorry that I haven’t returned my copy of The Missing Millennium: Ancient Aradia in Translated ur-Kittât Poetry. I promise I will bring it with me the next time I return to Coruscant—’

‘Master Kenobi,’ the Head Archivist says, severe, and Obi-Wan falters.

‘Yes, Madame Nu?’ He clears his throat hastily. He’s a Councillor, on the High Council. He didn’t squeak.

‘I am calling you about Archivist Vader.’

‘Ah.’ Obi-Wan doesn’t quite slump in relief in the pilot chair. ‘He commed you to complain about Master Krell, too?’ he asks, tone shifting into something wry, now that it seems that he is safe from her nagging, for the moment.

There is a pause and then, ‘No, Master Kenobi. This is another matter. Though coincidentally, it does involve ur-Kittât poetry.’

Obi-Wan hums inquiringly, his attention on the prechecks and the readouts on the dashboard before him.

‘The structural stabilisation works in the Aradian Archive are still ongoing and the ExplorCorps are quite busy, but…’

Madame Nu’s hesitation draws Obi-Wan’s full focus.

‘What is it?’ asks Obi-Wan.

‘The stone mensa on which Vader had been found— Knight Sandara has only just completed translating the writings on it.’

It’s been months since Ventress revived the Sith, but Obi-Wan isn’t surprised that it has taken all this while to translate the runes. Reading ancient Sith is rather like trying to read something that’s at the bottom of a rushing stream, with the restless water distorting the lines and warping the shapes. It’s like the words aren’t actually set in place, giving the impression that the text is alive and trying to twist away.

It makes the reader feel a bit ill if they look at it for too long.

Obi-Wan would know; there’s a reason he’s got a translated copy of The Missing Millennium, rather than trying to migraine his way through the original runes.

His flight systems are green, and traffic control pings him with clearance. The Force is an intensifying itch along his spine, urging him to go.

‘What does it say?’ he asks, his hands dropping onto the ship’s controls.

‘I think,’ Madame Nu says, low and serious, ‘you had best read Knight Sandara’s report yourself.’

‘Alright,’ Obi-Wan agrees, swallowing down a sigh and his datapad chirps with the notification of the incoming file.

This time, the burbling in his gut isn’t just because of Yoda’s salad.

It isn’t even because of the bad feeling he has about whatever is happening with Vader and the rest of them on Umbara.

It’s the thought of trying to read uncooperative Sith runes, made worse by the flickering streaks of stars stretched in hyperspace.

It is going to be a long flight.

‘I’m not supposed to leave the ship,’ Vader reminds Master Krell, crossing his arms.

He’s aware that he sounds petulant, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s objecting on principle.

Vader has explored pretty much all of the 36 million cubic metres of The Resolute, aft to bow, hold to bridge. And listening about some of the planets Fives and the others have been to has definitely piqued his interest, and it’s not like he hasn’t thought about stealing a starfighter to do some exploring, either—

But it’s the idea of Master Krell trying to order him around that rankles.

Frustration-aggravation-annoyance flickers in Master Krell’s signature. The Besalisk gives Vader a look, an expression that has Rex, standing beside him, shift minutely, as if Rex wants to step in between the two of them.

‘Darth Vader is right, Sir,’ Rex says, clearing his throat. His intervention brings Master Krell’s blistering glare upon his person, but the Commander withstands the Jedi’s displeasure with his back straight and his hands clasped behind his back. ‘He does not have the clearance to join us on our ground assault.’

The sound Master Krell makes is derisive. ‘You want to keep a Sith in the medbay,’ he scoffs. ‘He is better off with a sabre in hand.’

Vader bristles, not bothering to temper his own frustration-aggravation-annoyance, the surge of his emotions rising up to clash against Master Krell’s.

Rex does step forward then, putting himself in front of Vader. ‘A Sith can be many things,’ he says, his tone firm, his eyes on Master Krell before him. ‘Darth Vader is a trained Archivist and he is listed as a non-combatant. His healing ability is an incidental, albeit useful, skill.’

‘A Jedi can be many things,’ Vader hisses softly, just low enough for the edges of Rex’s hearing and mimicking the Commander’s words. ‘A shabuir being one of them.’

Rex twitches but doesn’t otherwise react.

‘I am overriding that mandate. His skills are wasted there,’ Master Krell says. ‘He will be much more useful on the ground with us.’

Rex jerks. ‘You can’t do that,’ Rex says, frustration sharp in his voice. Then, in a more tempered tone, he tacks on a, ‘—Sir.’

Master Krell gives him a smile, and there’s nothing friendly about it. ‘Are you the General of this battalion?’ he asks, soft and silky, the Force going quiet and dangerous around him in a way that has Vader curling a hand around his sabre hilt instinctively.

It has the Commander straightening into attention, the line of his shoulders going tight. ‘No, Sir,’ he says, his eyes snapping forward.

‘And who, CT-7565, is the General of the 501st?’ Master Krell asks, deceptively mild. His bright yellow eyes are boring into Rex’s face.

‘You are, Sir,’ Rex says immediately, his reply free of any inflexion.

Behind his back, Vader sees the way Rex’s hands are clenching tightly into fists.

‘I expect my request for permanent command of the 501st to be summarily granted once the Council receives my datawork. I have seen the mission reports of this battalion, Commander; frankly abysmal results, mediocre, at best,’ Master Krell says, a sneer curling his lip. ‘It is high time someone takes you clones in hand.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Master Krell peers closely at Rex’s face for a long moment. Then he pulls back and says, ‘You are dismissed, clone.’

Vader tries to catch Rex’s eyes when he turns smartly on his heel to leave. Rex slides a quick glance at Vader as he passes, a bare flicker of a look, worry tight around the edges of his eyes and his lips a thin, grim line—

And then he is gone, leaving Vader with the Jedi.

Vader considers Master Krell silently for a long stretch of seconds, tilting his head as he studies the taller being.

Master Krell reaches for him, a nudge in the Force that Vader rebuffs.

‘Ma tsawaknyâshtosh,’ Vader tells Master Krell, matter-of-fact, tilting his chin up. He turns to follow after Rex, pausing at the threshold to throw over his shoulder, ‘And you are not the boss of me. You can’t tell me what to do.’

Chapter Text

In her report, Knight Sandara had provided thorough descriptions of the stone table that she had studied, providing not just its dimensions and material composition, but other information that included an entire range of data from celestial orientation to midichloride reactivity.

Skimming the bulk of the information, Obi-Wan notes that the stone that it is cut from is of the same composition as the Archive chamber that houses it, indicating that it was made at the same time as when the Archive was originally built.

Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he is surprised, exactly, that the Sith would have built-in furniture that is apparently used to trap beings in stasis.

Knight Sandara’s report also includes numerous holos and scans she had taken of the stone table, with special care taken to document the runes carved into its surfaces.

There is an observation highlighted by the Knight, a patch of script, that interrupts the decorative scrollwork near the foot of the table and looks to be an addition to the original stonework. The runes are cluttered together, different from the arrangement of long lines running along the rest of the table, and obviously carved by a different hand, with a different tool—

There’s a rush of revelation when Obi-Wan realises that this had been carved by Vader’s Master, Darth Arcanis.

Obi-Wan spends a few long minutes studying the holo provided, with this awareness at the forefront of his mind.

He has to marvel at the Sith’s talent, for even in what surely had been the most dire of moments for himself and Vader, even under siege by another Dark Lord, Darth Arcanis had the skill to arrange his composition into a pleasing manner.

Still, translating ur-Kittât is already tricky in the best of times, and Obi-Wan is having far from the best of times. The script shifts and flickers under his prolonged attention, and Obi-Wan rubs at his eyes and gives in, giving up his study and his attempt at translation of the text, and decides to trust Knight Sandara’s transliteration.

Qorit qo qodzoiwai
Kraujasjontû itsu
Kotswinot kash
Châtsdin djinn
Kâht chat jin
Dzwolwai dzoi
Wonoksh Woyunoks

Knight Sandara had also attached her own interpretation of the writing, but Obi-Wan had barely glanced over it. He wants to try this on his own first. He doesn’t want his opinions to be swayed by her work.

Maybe his interpretation will be different. Maybe he can offer a different perspective.

He hums thoughtfully. He’s not exactly fluent, but there are definitely words that he recognises. Of course, the word that immediately jumps out at him is “djinn”.

‘The end of this path is not an exile—,’ he mumbles to himself, halting and slow, translating to Basic as he reads. He makes a disgruntled noise and huffs, because it is just the nature of translating languages in general; sometimes, some concepts just fall short of an equivalent in Basic. ‘A permanent parting,’ he says aloud, trying it out. He makes a face, but that’s closer to the intended meaning. ‘The end of this path is not a permanent parting.’

He peers at the transliteration again, mouth soundlessly forming the alliterative Sith words before he translates—

‘Through blood… chains… broken twilight… broken is the twilight? Gain djinn… gain the djinn— Ah.’

He sits back, rubbing a hand along his jaw as he runs through the lines he had translated through his mind, picking them apart.

It is obvious that Ventress had managed to work out this part of the translation as he did. And it matches the reports from the troopers that had been involved; Ventress had used Fives’s blood to revive Vader.

Straightforward enough, as per usual Sith literature.

Still, something itches at the back of his mind. He frowns, his fingers tapping against the side of the datapad absently.

There’s something about Vader and his relationship with his Master that Obi-Wan has never quite managed to understand. Vader always became oddly defensive whenever Obi-Wan tried to bring up the topic. His reaction had made Obi-Wan retract his questions.

His curiosity is still there, of course, and concern, too, because it’s obvious that Vader had cared very deeply for his Master, and is still grieving the man.

Really, Obi-Wan knows almost nothing about Darth Arcanis, except that by Vader’s own admission, the man had been considered “unconventional” by his peers—

Obi-Wan inhales sharply and straightens in his seat, the Force snapping across his skin along with his sudden epiphany.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? he thinks, thoughts racing furiously, as he tries to translate the rest of the Sith writing as quickly as he can. That’s the blasted thing; the Banites might have been considered "radical", but Arcanis was an unconventional maverick.

That first interview with Vader, all those months ago, onboard The Resolute; it is impossible to forget the press of determination-desperation-fear Vader had felt from his Master, when Darth Arcanis had woven the working to force Vader into stasis. The impression had been a fleeting thing, a small glimpse of that moment. Really, too quick to parse properly at the time, but—

Obvious now, when Obi-Wan pulls the memory back up and considers it, measures that against the ur-Kittât he is translating.

He gets to the last word—

Woyunoks.

Well, he thinks, rather faintly. That rather confirms it.

Impossible to imagine such an endearment being used by the shadow Banite Sith Master for either of his students, and harder still to imagine Darth Tyrannus or Darth Maul even allowing it.

The sound Obi-Wan makes is something caught between a scoff and a somewhat strangled bark of laughter.

He runs through his translation again, mentally refitting and rearranging the meaning, now that he knows Arcanis wrote the damn thing in the most untraditional of Sith ways, not meant to be taken literally, not written in absolutes.

Alone in his ship, hurtling through hyperspace, no one hears Obi-Wan’s exclamation—

‘Karking chiastic structure!’

‘Stay close, Vades,’ Fives says. His helmet swings one way, and then the other, scanning their surroundings. His hand rests on his blaster, his signature alert and threaded through with uneasiness as he eyes the plant next to him, at the way its tendrils unfurl slowly and reach for his leg. He scoots away, keeps it in his line of sight as he continues to Vader, ‘Don’t wander off on your own. The forest might eat you.’

Despite the warning sound Fives makes, Vader crouches down for a better study of the plant.

‘Huh,’ Vader says, watching in fascination as the tendrils curl up against the palm of his hand, wrapping around his fingers. It reaches up further to his coil around his wrist, trying to pull him closer. Plants generally aren’t really complex enough for actual thoughts, but with this one, there’s a simple sense of ^{hunger-hunger-hunger} when Vader brushes against it in the Force. ‘Neat.’

He feeds a tiny bit of the Force to it, and it shudders and sprouts a few more dark fronds. He gently extricates himself from its grasp, giving it a fond pat before he pulls away.

With no star near enough to cast light upon its surface, Umbara is a planet of perpetual night. Warmth leaches from his body despite his thermal layers, and Vader’s breath fogs the air with every exhale.

Still, there’s something in the way the planet feels, something not just dark, but Dark. The Force here feels a little bit wild. It scritches at Vader’s senses. There’s a feeling like it is pressing against the pulse point in his neck, like the fang of a great beast about to slip under his skin.

He draws in a deep breath, and the feel of the cold and dry air sharp at the back of his throat brings a sting of tears to his eyes. The scent in the air isn’t quite right, of course – too much decaying organics flavouring the air – but it still reminds him a little bit of one of the courtyards in the upper levels of the Archive, the one with the Nightsister Shade planted along the walk paths.

It is oddly familiar, considering… everything.

It is… comforting.

Absently, he seizes the vine that had been reaching for his ankle, pins it still with the Force. It doesn’t deter the plant. Rather, more vines come snaking his way, as if sensing the potential of a large meal.

^{hunger-hunger-hunger}

With no sunlight to capture for the photosynthesis process, the flora here have evolved to obtain nutrients from other sources.

Vader doesn’t consider himself particularly nutritious, especially since Kix still has him on a prescription of supplements.

It is the work of a moment to turn it away properly, less than a half-thought, to twist and redirect it away. Its bioluminescent ridges glow brighter when he satiates its appetite with a little bit of the Force.

In the back of his head, more wistful than mournful, he thinks Qui-Gon would’ve loved Umbara. With his inclination towards the Undying Force, the untamed tenacity of the Umbaran wildlife would have captivated the man.

Beside him, Echo breathes out an uneasy breath that crackles his helmet’s speakers, and he slowly returns his vibroblade into its sheath on his belt.

‘The survey data packet described the local flora as “aggressive”,’ Echo says tersely.

Vader hums and then briefly considers the way Echo is holding himself, stiff and wary—

‘They’re hungry,’ he says, feeling the corners of his mouth tug up into a small grin when the other troopers listening in slide him alarmed looks. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let them eat you,’ he promises, tone light, but he can’t help it when the smile on his face slides into something slightly mean.

‘That is appreciated,’ a voice says drily from behind their group, and Vader turns to see Rex joining them. He hurriedly lightens his expression into something pleasant, but judging from the exasperated look the Commander gives him, Rex is entirely aware of the byplay. Still, the tension in his presence loosens ever so slightly when he gives Vader a nod. ‘You got all your gear?’ he asks, running a sharp eye over Vader.

‘I’ve got the Force,’ Vader replies breezily, if only to see the way Rex’s face scrunches in aggravation.

‘Don’t worry, Commander,’ says Fives. ‘He’s got us.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ mutters Rex to himself under his breath, too low for the ARC to hear. Then louder, to Vader, he says, ‘Try to stick close to Fives or Echo. You know the rendezvous point, yes?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Vader says, and he even throws up a salute for the Commander, but it only makes Rex sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

Jesse snorts, the sound derisive. ‘Terrible form, rookie. Straighten your shoulders and lift your elbow.’

That has Rex driving his elbow into the Lieutenant’s side. ‘He’s a consultant, not a soldier. Stop ordering him about,’ he says, stern, because that’s a slippery slope Rex has no intention of letting anyone slip down. They can’t afford to get into the habit of giving out casual orders to the djinn. Rex won’t let that happen.

Jesse clears his throat. ‘Sorry ‘bout that, Vades,’ he says, the tilt of his helmet contrite.

Vader waves it off with a clumsy battlesign that technically means no-obstacles, but it is easy enough to understand its intended usage here as “no problem”.

The sight of it catches something in Rex's chest. It’s a positive indicator of Vader’s integration into the 501st, but it is also a reminder that the Sith isn’t exactly a seasoned member of their unit. Sure, they’ve run drills together with Vader – and Rex is kinda proud of how he’s managed to desensitise himself to seeing a red lightsabre being wielded so close around his brothers – but still…

Simulations and training still can’t quite compare to the real thing, and Umbara is a helluva place for a first deployment.

Vader isn’t a Shiney, exactly, because, well, Aradia—

—but Rex still feels the same responsibility for him as he does for his fresh-faced clone privates.

It is that protectiveness that has him assigning Vader at the last minute to the forward recon unit, far away from General Krell.

It is tactically stupid, sending what essentially is an archivist-cum-medic to do recon work with the ARCs, but there’s something about the way the General has been eyeing Vader that raises Rex’s hackles. No doubt it’s going to piss the General the hell off when he finds out – and he’s going to be finding out soon – but Rex has no regrets.

He’s made a promise to the djinn that he’d be protected… even from elements from within the GAR.

It's a thought he carefully tucks away, shoves it down deep under his shields to make sure it doesn’t accidentally slide to the surface.

Out loud, he gives the instruction for the trio to get moving. 

The salutes Fives and Echo snap off are sharp, textbook perfect. Vader gives him a wave and a grin, and then the three of them slip silently away, disappearing into the thick fog.

He has faith that Fives and Echo would be able to do their jobs with their tagalong.

He has faith that Vader will stop them from being eaten by plants.

What he doesn’t have much faith in – but can never say so out loud – is the plan General Krell has for the rest of the battalion.

And like a sign from the humourless universe, Appo pings him then. Rex swallows a curse and scrambles, making it to the landing zone just as General Krell puts his two feet on Umbaran soil.

‘General Krell,’ he greets with a salute, his eyes fixed upon the Besalisk’s left shoulder.

General Krell doesn’t bother to glance in his direction as he strides right past him. Behind the General, Cody appears at the top of the ramp of the transport ship, and Rex feels some of the tension slide off his shoulders at seeing his brother.

‘Su’cuy, vod,’ he sends over their private comms.

Rex frowns when his message bounces back with an error.

Cody descends the ramp at a rapid clip, following after the General. When he passes Rex, he doesn’t acknowledge Rex at all.

‘What, no “hello” for me?’ Rex says lightly. He’s annoyed and a little hurt at being ignored by Cody, but he’s also careful enough to make sure his voice doesn’t carry further than the two of them. ‘Check your comms, shabuir.’

That, at least, has Cody pausing to look over his pauldron at Rex.

‘All communications are to be made through the official commlines. And keep it to mission-critical communications only, Commander CT-7567.’

‘What–’ Rex asks, taken aback, but Cody is already moving away, ‘–the fuck?’ he finishes, staring at Cody’s back.