A Taste of What You Paid For Chapter 3, a star wars rebels fanfic

Note: Ah sorry for taking as long with this one, and that this isn't quite as long as my previous chapters. Complications happened lately, although not to worry, my writing muse hasn't been entirely sidetracked. Although I should also apologize because the italic sneak preview from the previous chapter will unfortunately not be a scene in this chapter (it will happen though!) because I got pressed for time in writing this chapter. This means my chapters from here on out may be slightly shorter than usual, thus making this fic longer because of the increased number of chapters.

He would always laugh and say
'Remember when we used to play?'
Bang bang, I shot you down
Bang bang, you hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, I used to shoot you down

Marcella wasn't heavy in her arms, yet as Maketh soldiered on she found herself constantly shifting and adjusting for her as she frantically made her way down the corridors. She could avert the eyes of those that she passed, the ones that all watched her piteously because to them she was already dead at this point. Her heart was hammering against her chest, knowing clearly how little time there was and how few her dwindling options existed; this had been her most desperate, although arguably, her most cruel option to have turned to.

She had wordlessly entered the nursery to find her daughter dozing, gently rousing her from slumber as Maketh lifted her, taking what little time there already was to allow a slight of a smile on her mouth; Marcella was oblivious as always, as she'd once been essentially, and did not weep as she stirred. Instead, her daughter had looked to her with intelligent eyes and for a minute, Maketh dared to wonder if she would even speak. She uttered a few coherent phrases here and there, as her governess had recently reported, and the progressive news was taken in a bittersweet light in knowing she'd missed it.

And a sickening feeling lurched in her, knowing how there were those conspiring to take her away from the chance of ever seeing anything of a future with her only child.

She knew she would find him here, but it brought her no relief and if she'd been searching for any at the moment, she would not find it from the expression upon his reaction; for a second he was visibly startled, as if there was some part of him that simply expected her to lay down and die in a submissive state with a parting of words as cruel as his. Or perhaps it was the sight of his toddler daughter in her arms, the same one he had yet to pay a visit to in quite some time, and it was then he appeared to connect the dots. Ah, she intended to turn their daughter - the only sweet, forsaken little thing between them - into a weapon against him. He did not verbally react, not even to address her as her still standing minister title, only exhaling a small breath quietly but it was enough for her to wince. Maketh knew the reaction would be violent, he wouldn't be pleased at her pulling a little scene like this. Thankfully, it wasn't within public view, so to the few nearby witnesses that could appear at any chance would think of it as a petty domestic dispute. Ha, some part of him had laughed. And apparently they'll think it was the occasion to bring your child to work.

It had been no laughing matter for her, not when she stood on her last whims with maker knows how long left to live. Now was not the time to think of the splitting ache in her chest, not when she should've known better all along about him. She won't place her faith onto him having an epiphany, a revelation of some sort to realize he ever had a font of affection for her. Not when she knows he doesn't and that he never did, but surely there's something he holds for their daughter? He won't listen to her pleas alone, he wouldn't consider straying from any order given by the empire - their empire, the same one she held with high regards as it turned on her - for her; the lowly native whore, the words left a bitter sting in her mouth to think. She could see the piercing insult in his eyes at this point, that whatever contempt he pretended to hold for her for the sake of publicity and their daughter was leaving. That was all he had ever thought of her. But maybe he would care for Marcella, maybe he would care to realize it would be a horrible thing to leave her motherless like him. This wasn't about love, not the sort of love that two people can share between them, not that silly little thing that never existed between them. This was about something else, this was about her and in that instant they both knew.

"Kallus."

It was a blatant, albeit awkward greeting in these given circumstances. She was willing to wait, by the smallest chance that a proper conversation would follow. It never did. Instead, he'd already started to turn from her, and she followed suite with the surprisingly quiet infant in her arms.

"Kallus! Please!"

She called after him breathlessly, yet he continued to stride away as though he were rendered deaf. Perhaps he was, in the sense that he surrounded himself with his own vanity. Perhaps he considered himself to be above to the dealings of a doomed politician - of a lowly girl that he never had the plans to take for a wife - and the unwanted bastard brat of theirs. Don't you understand? her conscience cried out in despair. He holds no love for you or her.

"For the love of our child, for the love of Marcella have mercy!"

This was it; the moment that all the pretending had been tossed aside, when the two could no longer continue to dwell on tedious terms of uncertainty and act as though these imperials methods weren't as cruel as they'd witnessed. Where she'd no longer stand in submissive silence and turn away from the sight of him, resisting the temptation to think of him as her would be executioner. There wasn't a weapon pointed directly at her, let alone a look of intent and harm upon his face, only a cold indifference with the efforts to ignore her as best as he could. Mercy? What even was that she was asking for? For him to recall the personal relations shared between them - if that is what she could call them at best - and to consider an alternative solution. He, the man who savagely sneered over the betrayal and execution of a former friend alike, spare clemency for her just because of an accidental affair that bore an unwanted child?

"I don't know what you intend to ask of me, minister." he finally responded, never once breaking stride in his pace. His clenched fists seemed to tighten, growing increasingly annoyed, but there was a trace of sadistic enjoyment in adding the last phrase; "Nor do I care. "

"She needs us both, Kallus." Her voice was strained yet bold, daring to bring yet another implication of Marcella. She was the key to the small chance at hand of salvation for her mother, and she was the key to her father breaking down and submitting into helping get that chance. It was why he was in such a rush, it was why his voice was dismissive and why he didn't dare turn around to face Maketh, not when it meant knowing he would have to face his daughter around. There was a glimmer of hope yet that waited after all, and suddenly the grip on her daughter tightened and her rapid heartbeat went impossibly faster. Maketh had opened her mouth once again to speak but this time it seemed both were aware of this, and in an instant he'd done the unexpected by turning on his heels to face her. He pointed accusingly towards her, just missing at jabbing her chest in full force.

"Is this supposed to be some kind of joke? Drawing a sympathy crowd instead of accounting for your failures? Your failures! Not mine!" Just like that, the cold composure had vanished. It was replaced by a temper seen only by those that ever humiliated or defeated him, and it was then that it occurred to her that Marcella was a marking stain of embarrassment.

"No! I loved you!" The words slipped past her mouth before she could stop them. As if that could counteract those accusations, as if suddenly this would change everything and cause his hardened features to soften. Of course it wouldn't. And loved was a term purposely used in past tense, referring to a time that was becoming so distant in memory - - lost to all the stress and despair she was surrounded in. To think, she used to worry over the forthcoming day that he wouldn't come back to her. She'd proven her proven subconscious partly wrong, given he was still alive; but the man she'd come to known, the one she came to love once was at a lost. Or perhaps, the sickening thought teased her, she'd never known him at all to begin with.

"Don't think to drag me into this, don't think that I actually care enough to want to help you!" And his words were so full of spite, with absolute genuine spite straight towards her as his eyes met hers in case if there was any doubt. A joke, the roaring words left a ringing in her ears. The whole display was a melodramatic attempt and she was a mere nuisance; years from now they'll speak of the scene, he'll boaster about with hearty laughter about how pathetic she looked running after him down the corridors. Her cheeks burned, not by embarrassment, but by anger as tears began to well in her eyes.

"Besides," he concluded coldly and regained to the professional composure once more of finality and indifference to her. "These are circumstances beyond my control, minister."

"I beseech you!" she cried desperately as his back turned one last time. Her legs were weighed down like concrete, frozen in spot and weakened by the lashes of his words, unable to pursue after him. It would be a waste of energy anyways, the attempt had already gone up in flames from the moment she'd called out his name. And so her arms adjusted, cuddling her daughter closer and burying her head gently against the crook of her neck to weep softly; her poor, oblivious little daughter who was only disturbed by the noises of the argument, unable to comprehend the words or the situation, unaware of how little time was left for her mother.

"I'm told you're one of the highest achieving students within the academy's history." It was an attempt at a conversation starter, one of many failed attempts as the pair had otherwise dined in silence. Her professors' treatment of her had changed throughout the entire day concerning this occasion - it's to do with fear, afraid that she would speak lowly of one of them to daddy dearest that would see to it something be done - and the prime example being that the pair were permitted to dine in private, the luxurious space normally reserved for none other than the professors themselves. The size of the room itself was unusually large and vast, and appropriately spacious enough to create a distance between the already estranged father and daughter.

So far, Marcella had preoccupied herself by stabbing the contents of her meal with a utensil and ignoring any comments by her father; she was not moved by even the slight praise, something which once upon a time she would've gladly spent her time bragging about. Anything to surely please and impress her dear father, like the poor little fool she'd been once. Even if it was all too tempting to praise herself - it was a guilty pleasure, one that couldn't be sated by all the showering praises by others as it was - she distracted her mind with offhand thoughts; I wonder if Tayne ever dined in a place as grand as this. He was a boy of royal blood, of course he'd been in extravagant environments - far more grand than this - for all his life, if anything this would probably be a considerable downgrade in the eyes of his relatives.

But, some part of her knew the jabbing attempts would only continue. She gave a frustrated huff, knowing that it would only persistent so long as she refused to answer. Without glancing up at him, she replied; "I only hope it pleases you, father."

The light air of bitterness by the word pleases betrayed her intents at mock sweetness. It was too late to even bother at the attempt anyways, their first meeting had not gone off well. He was no fool, he should have known right then and there that she was going to hold some form of resentment over his head. But as far as he knew it was because of his absence, or because of the lack of affection he'd ever shown her in all her life. Granted, he was paranoid yes. He did go out of his way to have her sent to a disclosed, off world base to ensure her safety after her mother's assassination. But with an isolated life like this, there was no way any sort of truth or exploitation could get past these walls and taint the illusion he'd created. He was here to investigate - or, excuse her presumption, to personally visit her - not to dissuade her from the truths she'd learned.

At least she'd gotten what she wanted; another shadow of silence had fallen over the pair. Kallus chewed on the side of his mouth, biting at his tongue and selecting his words carefully; in all his years of experience as an agent - said experience suddenly dissipating now when he needed it most - of all the clients and targets ever assigned, somehow handling a girl of the tender age of fourteen was next to impossible. Suddenly, it felt like there was a panel standing before him with different colored buttons; each a very different option of a sentence to say next, and depending on the choice would lead the conversation in another direction. And while there was nothing that was explicitly fatal, surely one was the equivalent of a trap door.

For some reason, it seemed so difficult to simply respond with an 'I am'. It wasn't as though he'd be lying through his teeth, there was no reason to bear any disappointment towards her except for her impudent attitude. And just who was he to judge, anyhow? Sure, he's changed since the years spent at the academy himself and is fully aware of the owed respect towards his superiors. It would cost him his own life otherwise for any immature act of defiance if he felt otherwise, but deep down some part of him won't verbally admit - only acknowledge in thought - that there were those he didn't devote any worship towards. There were some, while high in their rankings, that didn't quite fulfill his high expectations as towards what sort of an individual they were. Some were undeserving; some had it easier simply because of their backgrounds. Oh, how he loathed those of the royal backgrounds save for the exception of Baron Rudor, who had earned more than his keep in taking on the duty as a TIE fighter pilot, otherwise nicknamed a death sentence. No, the others manipulated through their means of wealth and influence to get where they stood today, all the power and none of the difficulties or consequences that would normally come with earning such a promotion. Maketh had always vented about those being let off easy, in spite of her tolerance and respect for Governor Pryce, it was somehow never her fault for any of Lothal's predicaments. Looking back on that, he wonders… he wonders if he ever did get around to telling her that the governor had been eliminated months prior to her own downfall, a symbol of failure in the empire's eyes and…

"Father?"

Her voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. For a brief moment, he was overwhelmed by a sensation that he couldn't explain. Then, he recognized it for what it was. It was a shock that he never experienced before, one that almost seemed to excite him. For the first time throughout this entire event, it was now her turn to speak without it being a response. Perhaps she would ask him about something, anything, and in that instant he could care any less if it was something on classified manners; it would be a long awaited conversation at least, and when his head snapped up with all undivided attention towards her, immediately his hopes were shut down by the indifferent expression on her face. He could read hesitancy in her eyes - and there was a flash of her mother in them - as if there was news to tell.

"I… hate to cut your visit short." she began, the true hesitancy on the word hate. The corners of his mouth twitched, a bitter and understanding smile plastered on his face. Somehow, she was putting all and yet none of her effort into pretending that she could tolerate him. Her professors had remarked about her having a politician's charm, which to some degree he hoped was true, because she'd never make the cut as an agent like him the way she attempts to lie.

"Yes." He agrees in acknowledgement, stroking his chin pensively. "We were getting along splendidly as it was."

That was a joke, the intent was supposed to be a joke at least. But once again, the tone of his voice had been too harsh, the choice of words too bitter. The hesitancy on her face had been the only touch of warmth on it, and as soon as he finished speaking it all dropped; once again, there was coldness on her face as if she were ever sorry for even trying.

"The Mendax family is to be hosting one of their imperial balls and I…" there is another brief pause in her voice, which is light and breathless between joy and a mix of her own disbelief. "I am to accompany my inviter as his date."

Time seems to stop between the two. He has unknowingly leaned in closer, as if this is a joke and at any moment now she's going to give the punchline to this misleading joke. She inwardly winces, anticipating an outburst if she takes him for the man of reputation that she's only known of for so long in childhood. Because of this, the two are driven in a circle once again that leads to nothing but unresolved silence. She isn't telling a lie either. Tayne had invited her, with every meaningful intent to have her accompany him arm in arm, to have his family treat her as though she were one of them. As a matter of fact, his own mother had encouraged the matter, when he must've mentioned her in one of their holo conversations.

"But I'm not of royal blood I'm not even really wealthy either. I'm… "

"Relax, 'Cella. My family doesn't obsess over that. If they did, by this rate we would be practicing incest at this rate."

Still, it had left her in a state of sputtering shock. This had even been before she kissed him, before the two of them had gotten together and conspired. In the weeks since, nothing had changed nor had there been an indication that he changed his mind. The more that she dwelled on it over time, the more she slowly began to realize that - despite his well-known status - it was quite likely that she was just about his only friend in the academy.

"The Mendax family?" he inquired, repeating her words slowly and skeptically with a raised brow. Yes, she knew it now that he thought of this as being a joke. Or perhaps, he thought the idea of her having a privilege like this all on her own as being a joke. What? Had he been expecting a desperate, friendless daughter that depended on his influences to get by? Did he not think that she could accomplish things on her own outside of her academics? Maybe she was over exaggerating, yes, maybe she was. Maybe she was getting even angrier over the prospect of this only because it was him. Her father, who at the very least of all his heinous crimes, had never even been there for her. He, who tossed her aside like a useless soldier rather than family, expecting her to survive on her own and then actually having doubt that she did.

"Yes." she answered hotly, her cheeks burning while it took every ounce of strength in her to restrain herself. "A son of theirs, the future Baron, is a classmate of mine."

In all his years in his line of work, she could only assume that he had never gone as far as to associate with an actual king. She imagined that an occupation in the ISB agency had limits on its gratification and rewards, and it certainly didn't include a list of extravagant friends. She was only fourteen, only a student who had yet to even serve the beloved Empire yet - her choice of words so bitter, she was practically a Rebel in a sense with their symbol a tattoo beneath her skin - and with ties to one of the most powerful families in the Empire. By some sense, she had beaten him. She was better than him. Perhaps the skepticism was only a mask he wore to disguise the self-shame and anger at himself, and that maybe the doubt had to do with denial.

Now more than ever, she wanted nothing better than to spite him. To the five year old Marcella, doing such a thing was a suicide mission she wouldn't dare risk, and so she always stayed in line. She wanted to see his smug features fall fast and without thinking, without planning it, the next set of words flew out so fast with defiant pride that could've been mistaken even to her as the truth.

"And he loves me."

And just like that, those triumphant words would have a cost to them. Marcella was bold to ask for the worst of her father's spite, and so she had received it. The mocking doubt so transfixed on his face quickly became something else, something unfamiliar yet feared by most; a crooked scowl on his mouth, a mix of anger and immediate disapproval, that made his aged features look quite ugly - because yes, earlier she could begrudgingly admit that he did have some handsome qualities still - she knew she'd pushed him past limits of harmless jealousy. Yes, how dare she. How dare she pursue her own happiness, finding a life without him. It was perfectly acceptable for him to cast her aside and selectively pay attention to her when it pleased him, but for her to do the same? She had no authority, no absolute right. It was all coming together clearly for her now - for her overworked, paranoid mind jumping to logical conclusions - that his reaction wasn't one out of paternal protectiveness.

Just like that, she abruptly excuses herself without wanting to carry on another word of this or without wanting to be in the same room as him. Her ears are ringing, they fail to pick up the buzzing outside of the white noise that is her father's protesting; he's calling her name, objecting to her taking off on him. She can only guess what he was saying, but she likes to imagine that it was something along the lines of;

MARCELLA! GET BACK HERE!

But off she goes, marching past anyone and everyone in her path. She ignores them, as they ignore her, and some little voice is speaking to her from the back of her mind and suggesting that these people are merely hallucinations from her own blind anger. So what was undoubtedly real anymore, she can't help but wonder? Tayne, another voice answers with breathless relief. He was real - and probably elsewhere, probably out dining at the cafeteria as everyone else would be - she knew where his resting quarters were, it wasn't like the security measures were that restrictive these days. Well, maybe she ought to rephrase that. They are typically strict on ordinary students, but a boy of royal blood and an orphan girl paraded about with a background of martyrdom are likely exceptions by the word of wary professors.

Idly, she wonders if her father has been following her. She won't risk the chance of turning around to be sure, as if that will jinx her head start of advantage of an escape. It occurs to her that all these thoughts - that Tayne has once again - become a distraction in her head. She can deny it all she wants with her claims that the frightened little girl is gone now, but maybe there's a surviving piece that still lingers. Yes, Marcella, you are afraid and you know it. And just what of? Why, her father of course. A displaced fear that has yet to change after all this time, when the murmured whispers and fearful exchanges between professors meant something more, when the truth sounded as scary as the scene must have been, isn't it understandable to be afraid?

She wonders… she wonders if her mother was ever afraid of him like that.

I can't be afraid, she decides in less than a minute. Not anymore. Not if I want answers.

It must be easy to kill, that's her presumption. After all, her father has made living out of it. No, more than that, he's created a legacy out of it. She imagines it's the tension before the actual fatality being frightening, that's what distracts others, that's what makes them abort the idea. It could be easy to simply kill her father in theory, all distractions and complications aside. Just the basic idea. But she'd be without answers, without any justifications that she somehow knows she needs - because she knows she's never going to hear any of it from her mother.

For someone who makes herself promise not to be afraid any longer, it seems as though she has a difficult time carrying out those promises. She cries, despite everything, she cries even though she loathes the fact that she's broken down crying even though she hasn't cried in over four years since her governess and nurses had been relieved of their duties. The worst part about it all is she isn't sure why she's crying; it's a confusing array of emotions, between the bottled up rage that only grows for her father - well deserved hate for a hateful man, with those bloodstained covered hands that dare reach out for her now after all these wasted years - how dare you, how dare you. And then there's that painful ache in her chest once again, her hand is clenched against the fabric of her tunic, right beneath where her heart should be. For some reason it makes her think of her mother, which is odd, only because she never thinks of her mother. At least, she's never thought of her as a reason to cry over - though her head governess told her once, no, insisted that there were rare times she'd wept uncontrollably as an infant for someone that none of her nurses could pretend to be - and in an instant it dawns on Marcella that she's wishing for her mother here instead of her father.

Oh, how she wished the tables had turned against him instead. Why couldn't the empire too be afraid of you? Why didn't they destroy you instead?

Tayne finds her first. The phrase should be appropriately altered as he happens to return to his quarters and is startled by the sight of a dark silhouette - no doubt a person - asleep on his bed; and he might or might not have embarrassingly jumped to a defensive stance on instinct, until it occurs to him that no sane individual is going to break into his cell and rob him of the few personal items he possesses as of the moment. Taking another step closer, he comes to recognize the strawberry blonde hair and feminine figure as Marcella; her face puffy, dried streams down her face likely being tears, he can only assume the visit with her father hadn't gone off well.

It wasn't going to end well either.

He sighs and decides to leave her be, she wouldn't have come running to here of all places if it weren't an emergency. He won't send her back now - not when security are a bunch of pricks around this hour, and no, they don't make exceptions for royal blood like him trying to explain the sort - and he won't wake her to ask. It's not like that bed was ever particularly comfortable for him anyhow. He searches for an alternate uniform of his and lays it on the ground for a makeshift pillow, shuffling and fidgeting for only a few moments, before falling asleep on the ground beside her.

She hates you.

Well, that wasn't exactly a surprise that he hadn't been anticipating. At least it proves that he's still sane and functional, able to predict reasonable outcomes and it proves that she is a reasonable human being that hasn't been rendered brain dead by imperial propaganda. It proves what he already knew all along, a confirmation that he didn't need but got anyways from the moment they were alone and he looked right into her eyes. Her god damn mother's eyes. She hasn't been told a thing and it's going to stay that way for a long, long time or so help him. But she doesn't need any of the truthful information to despise any more than she already does, it was his actions and impression - or lack thereof - all this time as a father to her that made her so full of resentment.

Admittance, apologies, affection; these are all suddenly very difficult concepts for him. He knew this since her birth, the disdain he held towards the responsibilities as a father that he knew he'd never be able to fulfill. But some part of him almost wishes that he had, or that he had attempted. At the very least, at some point in the past salvage some sort of a relationship between the two. At least a respectable one and not… not this. Not with every other incident a professor painstakingly apologizing for her unusual behavior and insisting she isn't normally this outrageous. Their thorough words were chosen with great care, these are smart people beyond the book smarts; they know who he is and what he does, they know what he could do and what little value they hold in truth, at least as compared to his position. Nothing they could ever say or do would ever, ever change this either. Nothing ever changes.

She hates you.

It shouldn't bother him, it must be why some part of him is impartial to her outbursts. There's one part of him that's physically numb, a hand that had been clutching onto a utensil for far too long - a knife, how fitting - and a wave sensation of pins and needles overcame him then. It was that numbness - stupid, silly numbness of all things - that had prevented him from going after her. That, and knowing that pursuing would only cause a scene. What he does know is how his grip had unconsciously tightened with her last words; love, she proclaims with a confidence that eerily reminds him of an arrogant minister. Marcella spoke to him as though she knew how the galaxy worked, just because she held a home field advantage here at her isolated academy, that somehow her fourteen years spent memorizing the same unchanging halls was equivalent to his vast knowledge and the horrors he bear witness to - or had done. In that sentence, she'd won some kind of competition between the two that he wasn't even aware of. So she found love, did she? Must be a kind to bring her all the happiness in the world, the way she had to emphasize it with such acidity towards him, as if it was something he never had. True, only because he never needed it. And perhaps it was never his to have, he didn't need it then or now.

She hates you.

The Mendax family, he knows who they are, everyone knows who they are. If there were ever a personified definition of filthy, stinking rich then it would be everyone within that arrogant family; bold, swarthy people always out to outdo scenery with their impressive fashion statements and even more impressive; the stupidly bold statements that would slip from their mouths. It's strange, strange irony that for a royal family that has practically latched themselves onto the empire's economics with their own various business holds no genuine patriotism towards their empire. It's a joke to them, a poorly concealed one with the amusement in their drunken, dark eyes. They can, quite literally, get away with murder. To Kallus, they speak words no better than any insurgent - they're more like leeches than considerable friends for the emperor - but no action can ever be taken against them; should something happen to the family, should something ever be done to give them reason to pull away, it would leave lasting economic damage that the empire would… not easily recover from. He hesitates to describe it as an impossible situation - Lord Vader can choke someone without being physically present, can he read minds from a great distance too? Is that how he discovered your own foolishness, Maketh? - it's a subject that a wise individual refrains from discussing, only carefully tiptoeing around.

And so there's a boy out there - not a prince, no, but a baron no less - that claims to love her, as she may love him. He wants to laugh; a long, mirthless, bitter laugh at how stupid that prospect is. Stupid, but undeniably true. Of course, this is when it all adds up now. Rumored rebellious uprisings and now the association of a member of the Mendax family - who, Kallus goes as far as to think, will one day latch off the empire and side with the Organa family and the rebellion itself - maker, gods above, or whatever deity exists, it all makes sense. This isn't love, this is twisted - of all the people in all the academies, in all the galaxy - the Mendax boy is luring her into wicked business, taking her away from her safety. He's taking her away from her father.

She probably knows that, and she doesn't care anyhow. She hates you, remember?

Her mother thought she was in love once. It only destroyed her in the end.

All he knows is, he'll see to it to have his hands around that Mendax boy's neck before any true damage can be done; he'll kill him first, if needbe, before he can lure his daughter to a life on the run that's an equivalent to a death sentence. The royal family be damned, he knows how to play these games - and has before - to twist the stories, to make things appear different from what they really are. He'll prove them for the Rebel scum that they really are to win Lord Vader's approval on his actions.

And - even when he knows she hates him, even when he knows she will hate him no less when it's done - she'll be safe.

[ NEXT CHAPTER ]

"The day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth. And only then, you will know the debt is paid."

"What a disturbingly prophetic statement."

"It is a warning, Agent Kallus. One my father's father passed onto him, and him onto me, and I to you. But only because of her."