Do you remember the other day when I said I was going through a bit of writer's block? Well, it didn't mean I wasn't writing. :P

"Daddy!"

A little girl was screaming, face smothered with dirt, bruises, and tears. Bloodied hands clenched, feet uncovered as she hit, punched, kicked—mercilessly beat—whoever and whatever crossed her path.

But there were too many of them. Too many to count. Too many to fight.

And she was so small…

"Daddy!"

Her cries grew more pained, more frustrated. More emotional and chaotic. Her terror grew and grew and a body flew backward.

There was a startled, "Oomph." And then a few muffled swears before somebody clambered over her and grabbed her wrists. Held her down.

A scream, shrill and piercing. And somewhere, somehow, glass shattered. Earth quaked.

More curses and then a thud—the sound of a punch.

And she retched. Moaned. Then growled. Snarled. Somehow got to her feet and hurled another round of desperate punches and kicks, prompting a few more slurred swears ("Put the bitch down!" "Kriffing kill her!" "End her!" "Get the collar! Get it now!"). She flailed and a pair of hands—large, scabby, and purple—found their way to her throat. They squeezed—hard, so hard—until something tightened painfully against her skin, pinching tender, pink flesh.

She gasped. Gaped. Because there was suddenly nothing. And she sobbed at the feeling. Sobbed at the disconnect.

Then tried once more, this time with every sense weakened. Crippled. Unable to feel. Unable to see.

She tried to kick—tried to hit—but somebody pushed her down and laughed. Cackled.

Another swipe—

Then somebody hit back.

She fell to the steel floor—head smashing against the metal—and twisted into herself. She cried into the ground, and then into her hands, curling tighter and tighter as sobs racked her back. And when her tears dried up and the chortling sound of her assailant's success drifted away, she whispered, "Daddy…"

She closed her eyes—brown eyes.

Pushed back her hair—brown hair.

"Daddy…"

XoXoX

Vader stirred and snarled into the darkness of his meditative chamber. He scrunched his prosthetic hands against his knees—wishing it would help, wishing anything would help—but found it wasn't enough. He picked up a fistful of tools and hurled them at the wall, denting the steel. But it still wasn't enough.

He took an unassisted breath.

Then another.

Blinked and frowned. Put his head in his hands and squeezed marred flesh between his robotic fingers.

Sighed.

It had been the…third day.

The third straight day dreaming about that girl. The third straight day and he still didn't know what it meant. He didn't know who she was or why he kept seeing her, thinking about her. Hearing her cries, seeing her eyes, feeling her terror, listening to the desperate sound of her voice as she called for her father—calls that went annoyingly unanswered.

He couldn't figure out who she was or why the Force decided to keep showing him her fate. And he'd performed every meditative technique he knew, trying to figure out why he couldn't banish her from his mind's eye.

He'd mindlessly fixed everything he could get his hands on, built a droid from scratch, went through a variety of katas both familiar and foreign, sat stock-still for hours on end, eyes closed, feeling—reaching—for answers as only he knew how.

But still, nothing helped.

He still saw her tear-filled, brown eyes. Still heard her anxious cries. Still felt each blow as it assaulted her chest, stomach, limbs, and head. Still heard her whispered pleads—"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…"—until he couldn't stand the sound of her whimpering voice echoing in his head.

He threw a wrench. Then caught it with the Force. Took a breath—then another—and dropped the tool.

Clang!

He stared at it. Resented it. Loathed its thoughtless existence.

Then he heard it.

"No! No! Let me through. Let me through! I need to talk to him. I need to—oomph!"

Pain rippled through the Force and Vader turned, intrigued. He felt energy swirl and congeal into another punch. Heard another, "Oomph!" and felt somebody lurch involuntarily forward and gasp. Gag.

Then it began again—the shouting, the assault. But this time, it was more garbled, more frantic. Farther away.

"Please, you don't understand! I need to see him! He needs to know—needs to know. I—I need his help!"

Another blow. Another anguished cry. Then somebody collapsed onto their knees, coughing. Sputtering.

But still pleading. Still begging.

"Please. Please. You don't—you don't understand. He needs to know—he needs to help. Oomph—hssss!"

Vader's helmet descended and clicked into place. He stood from his chamber and strode to the door. Opened it—

And stared at the sheer madness.

A furl of colorful robes, a flash of white, a tanned fist, an armored foot. A blaster. Then two.

A struggle; a violent one.

And it all stopped in an instant.

"Lord Vader!" There was a strangled breath and a man lurched forward. He tore himself from the uniformed trooper's grasp and straightened his royal blue overcoat with a wince. Peered at his bruised hand, hissed, then regarded the Sith Lord. "Lord Vader," he said, almost snarling as one guard cuffed his left wrist. "Please—please. I need your help."

Vader paused. Glared.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting—who he'd been expecting—causing such a ruckus outside his chambers, but he certainly wasn't expecting…him.

"Viceroy Organa."

Bail Organa took a breath. Held it. Then expelled it. "Tell them to release me," he said in a rushed murmur, glancing at the guards.

Vader waved and one of the troopers brandished a key; he let the diplomat go. And after another wave, the pair departed entirely, without a single complaint between them.

"Most people try to avoid my company," Vader said when his hand-picked guards rounded the nearest corner. "And here you are, trying to earn it." He stepped forward and examined Alderaan's esteemed viceroy.

Then frowned when he noticed the diplomat's trembling, watery-eyed gaze and disheveled clothes. Scowled when he saw the man's unshaven face and greasy, unkempt hair. Glared when he saw Organa's forehead contort unpleasantly into a map of wrinkles that seemed to grow deeper and more pronounced the longer he stood stick-straight.

Then there was the…smell.

The scent of perspiration and dirt. Of rotting food and unwashed teeth. A putrid aroma strong enough to rival the poorest sectors of Coruscant's bustling cityscape. A foul smell riper than a bantha's pen.

And Vader stifled a gag as his suit's respirator struggled to filter the odor.

The simple explanation? Bail Organa hadn't slept. Or eaten. Or bathed or changed his attire or done anything other than grow more haggard as time passed. Wallowing over something. Staggering through the turmoil of life without thinking about his personal hygiene. Or care.

And he'd done so for a few days.

Quite a few.

"With good reason," Bail said. He ran a hand through his oily hair, slicking it back. Then he stepped forward and sighed. "My daughter—Princess Leia—" He paused, considered. Then nodded. "She was…was kidnapped—stolen from her bed—three nights ago. And—"

Bail continued jabbering nonsense and Vader scowled.

It could've been a coincidence; a cruel, unusual coincidence. But he doubted it. There was too much glaring at him, too many similarities.

Three consecutive days envisioning a little girl, seeing her tear-stained eyes and feeling her pain. Three consecutive days of listening to her scream for her father. And now Bail's princess—Princess Leia—kidnapped three nights ago from her bedroom. Was the child in his vision and Bail's missing daughter one in the same? Could he have been dreaming about this Princess Leia's kidnapping?

The Force whispered—yes, yes—and Vader's scowl lengthened.

Why should he care about one missing child? Why was the Force adamantly pushing this insignificant burden on him when he should've been spending his valuable time performing other tasks?

He silently questioned the disembodied whispers, but as quick as they came, they stopped. The Force was steadfastly silent, leaving him with nothing. He'd have to question it…later.

Vader rounded back to the physical man, back to the politician trembling less than five feet away. "Why should I care?"

Bail looked down. Looked anywhere other than at him, the Sith Lord, the man he had sought with a desperate fervor. Stammered, "Be-because she a six-year old little girl and sh-she's scared and alone. And because she's—" He stopped and looked up, caught Vader's gaze from behind the protection of his mask. "—the child of a mutual friend."

Was this a twisted game?

Vader clenched his fists. And even though Organa couldn't see it, he made sure the diplomat felt the impact of his seething, yellow-tinted glower. "I have no friends."

Bail trembled and slouched. Then he stepped forward. Tripped, more like. "B-but you did. Back be-before. Back when you w-were—"

No.

Vader blinked. Then pitched forward.

Nobody was supposed to know. Nobody was supposed to remember.

"Don't," he snarled, towering over the Alderaanian Senator.

But Bail continued. "—Anakin Skywa—ack!"

Dirtied hands clutched a tanned throat. Fingers tried to pry at the invisible entity slowing choking, slowly gagging. But Bail's efforts were futile. There was nothing to fight—nothing to grasp. It was just energy—just the Force influenced by Vader's will—clenching his windpipe. Compelling him to sputter and cough. To gag and shake while the darkness crept closer and closer to his skin.

Bail managed to steal a breath and Vader clasped harder.

"Ack! Aaaaack!"

Vader watched the man struggle as sick satisfaction poured through him. He suddenly wanted Organa quiet. Wanted to render him silent, forever and all eternity.

Because nobody was supposed to know who he was—who he had been.

Before.

Before the suit and armor. Before the mask and respirator.

Nobody was supposed to know. Nobody was supposed to know. But still—somehow—Organa did.

And it would be his undoing.

Bail would pay the ultimate price for his knowledge—and his misstep. He would pay handsomely and without question or retaliation. Because Vader had made his decision long ago. Long, long ago. That anybody who knew—who could've guessed his affiliation to that silly, weak boy—would meet a grim fate. They'd be killed or maimed beyond repair. Murdered in cold blood. Sacrificed to the darkness within.

Everybody, no matter their past connection.

Everybody…except the Emperor, of course.

And those occasional beings who evaded his relentless search. Those beings he once considered friends—creatures who'd managed to escape his simmering wrath and scurry into hiding to avoid capture or death after the Republic fell.

And, apparently, Bail Organa. Who did not have a Jedi's skill or wit. And who would not be granted a swift or honorable death as so many others before him.

"Hut-ssss."

Bail's face turned blue and his gasps grew more frantic. He heaved and retched and Vader found his grasp slipping.

Because…why?

Bail had to have known—had to have learned about his cohorts' untimely demises. And he had hidden his knowledge away for six brutal years, living with a secret he could never discuss—could never use.

So why was he exposing himself now, begging for certain death?

And how did he know? Who told him?

The Force reappeared, answering in a fit of whispers. Vader swiped—reaching for the reply—but it flitted away before he could hear and he reluctantly released his grip on the viceroy's throat.

Bail collapsed onto his knees and took a life-saving breath. And when he finally filled his lungs, he careened backward. Pressed his back against the wall and looked up, face an easily-readable mask of pure terror and exhaustion.

He shielded himself with his hands.

"Wait. Wait," he begged. "You don't understand. If you'd just listen, I'll explain. I'll tell you…everything. Just—just let me explain. Leia," he gasped, "Leia's adopted and she's—"

"I don't care about the girl!" Vader snarled.

Truly, he didn't. Even though the Force kept pestering his psyche with her fate, she meant nothing to him. And if she was, indeed, Bail Organa's spawn (adopted or not), she had his permission to die at any time, if only so he could salvage a few hours of much-needed sleep.

Damn the girl. He only cared about the past. Only cared about how Bail knew about his connection to that boy.

So he hunched. Pointed. Roared as much as his vocalizer allowed. "How? How could you possibly know about Skywalker? Who told you?"

"But Leia—she's…she's—"

"Skywalker. Tell me about Skywalker."

Bail winced. "Just…just—ack!" His eyes popped as his body was lifted into the air against his will. He gasped. Wheezed. Then nodded.

And Vader let him go again.

"The boy. And make it quick. I'm losing what little patience I have."

Bail coughed and cupped the wall. Whimpered, "Obi-Wan Kenobi told me—told us—before he vanished."

"Us?"

"Master Yoda—"

Bail grasped his throat again. He panted, but noticed that the invisible entity squeezing his esophagus wasn't nearly as strong as before. Though, the pressure was still there—was still a threat. A solid reminder that Vader was willing and able to end his life at a moment's notice.

"You're still able to talk, correct?"

Bail's words came out strangled. "Y-yes."

"Then do so. Quickly."

Bail blinked and tears poured out of his bloodshot eyes. "Obi-Wan—he told us about you, what you'd done to the younglings and the Trade Federation heads. About your fall to the Dark Side—how you became a Sith. Then about what you'd done to Pad—ack!" He wheezed.

"Do not say her name."

Bail whimpered and nodded. "T-to her, then. What you'd done to her." A sniffle. "And she was so weak, Lord Vader. So weak and fragile and—"

"Stop."

"—heartbroken."

The walls shook. "Stop!"

Bail's mouth snapped shut. He couldn't pry his teeth apart, couldn't move his jaw in the slightest. And he looked at Vader, horrified, as he lumbered closer.

Vader's gloved hand arced wide. "You have no right. She's dead and buried. Long gone." He turned away. Whispered, "I killed her."

Bail's face morphed into utter confusion. He fought against the invisible entity holding him still and sputtered, "Y-you didn't—you couldn't have…I-I was there, Lord Vader. I was there when she—" Fresh tears prickled his eyes. "I was there when she died."

"That's a lie," Vader said, glowering. "She died on Mustafar. By my hand."

"That—th-that's not true!" Bail gasped and the hold on his throat lessened. "That's not true at all." He took a breath. "She left Mustafar with Obi-Wan. She was unconscious at the time, but very much alive."

"…What?" Vader suddenly increased the strength of his hold and snarled, "Then what happened to her? WHERE IS SHE?"

Bail choked. Stuttered. "Sh-she died in childbirth—died sh-shortly after her child was born."

Surprise and shock quivered through Vader's mind. His hold lessened and his voice grew pained but his vocalizer didn't betray him. Though, there was still a pause. "Her…child?"

"Th-that's why I'm here! It's—her child—it's Leia!"

It…couldn't be. No—no! The Emperor had said—he'd said—

The invisible hold increased tenfold. "Liar. Padmé couldn't have given birth. The Emperor checked her personally. He couldn't save her. And he couldn't save our child." A breath. "They both died on Mustafar."

"I'm telling the truth. The truth! All of it—all of it! Obi-Wan brought her to Polis Massa and the medical droids—the medical droids! They didn't know why, Lord Vader—th-they couldn't explain it," Bail said as more tears streamed down his face. "But she was alive to deliver the baby. And then…she wasn't."

"Liar."

"No! No!" Bail screeched as invisible fingers clenched. Tight—too tight. He pointed at his head. "Just look—look!"

Vader's hand surged up. He probed Bail's mind—dug through his memories and secrets—and stopped when he found the right one. Listened to the wails. Listened to the voices.

His beloved's anguished shriek—"Ahh! AHHHHH!" The cries of an infant as it pulled in its first few breaths. The voice of his old master, "It's a girl." And finally, his angel, breathless and weak—

"Leia."

Vader staggered backward. "…Why…how…?"

"You weren't supposed to know," Bail said as he wiped his tear-sodden eyes and cheeks with a dirtied sleeve. "You were never supposed to find out." He whimpered. "But Leia's gone and nobody's willing to help me. And I don't know if it's because of me or if—" He gulped. "Or if somebody found out about you—"

"Me?"

"—and took her to get revenge—"

The walls shook again. "Me?"

Bail let out a shaky breath. "She's yours, Lord Vader. Biologically, Leia's yours."

The walls cracked. Then crumbled.

Vader took a helpless step backward. He reached for a wall—reached for a stable surface—and then collapsed onto his knees when he couldn't find the support he desperately sought.

The girl he kept seeing, the girl who kept crying for her father…she was…she was…

"Our child—" He couldn't believe it. "—is alive?"

Bail let out a garbled sob. "Hopefully."

Vader looked up. Clenched his fists.

Leia'd been calling for her father—calling for him—whether she knew it or not. And unlike the people before her—unlike Padmé or Shmi or the hundreds of people he lost during the Clone Wars—he wouldn't let her down. Couldn't let her suffer or die.

"She's missing," Vader said, seeking confirmation. "Stolen from her bed."

Bail rubbed a bloodshot eye. Nodded.

Vader's anger radiated through the air in thick waves. It poured and curled unpleasantly between stagnant molecules, penetrating everything and anything with his bloodthirsty, self-abhorring rage. Because he'd spent all his time trying to ignore those cries, all that time trying to expel the sound of her voice from his mind. And she'd been calling for him—begging for his help.

Like Padmé. Like his mother.

And he'd ignored her.

Ignored his child. His daughter.

A girl he knew nothing about. A girl stolen from him, first. And that thought enraged him, made his disfigured skin tingle unpleasantly beneath his life-supporting suit.

"You kept her from me." Vader stood—loomed. Then shouted, "Why would you do that?!"

Bail's response was simple and soft. He trembled as the walls shivered and dissolved. "To protect her." He looked away as more tears streamed down his face. "You—you must understand. We only did it to protect her."

Vader's respirator couldn't keep up with his gaping breaths. "From who? Protect her from who?"

"From you. From the Emperor. From anybody who wanted to use her."

What?

"Use her?"

"Lord Vader." Pink, tear-drenched eyes softened, asking for understanding. For consideration. "If the Emperor found out she was alive, he would've killed her. Or imprisoned her. Or—or used her against you."

No.

"He wouldn't have done that—couldn't have. I would've made sure. I would've—"

"How?" Bail asked. "When?" He paused and bit his lower lip. "How could you offer the protection she needed when you were tearing apart the Outer Rim? When could you have given her the love and support she desired while you were busy slicing Rebels in two?"

For the first time in a long while, Vader found himself fumbling. "I could've—I could've—"

"You could've what? Slung a defenseless baby across your chest as you attacked suspected enemies? Bottle-fed a helpless infant as you interrogated members of the Senate?"

"I could've—I could've—"

Bail looked into his mask and saw the slightest tinge of yellow through the darkened visor. "If you would've kept her, she would've become another one of the Emperor's slaves."

Vader's stuttering ceased and he strode forward. "No. No! She wouldn't've succumbed to that. I would've stopped it. I would've ended it—ended him—before she befell the same fate as…as…"

"You?"

The hallway grew eerily quiet. Even the sound of Vader's respirator dimmed. "I would've protected her. I would've been there for her."

Bail's face contorted and he took a hesitant step forward. "Then be there for her now, Lord Vader. Help her now."

Vader's fists tightened and Bail took a reflexive step back.

"She was kidnapped three days ago."

It wasn't a question, but Bail nodded, nonetheless. "Yes."

Vader took a step. Wrung his hands together. "Then I'll find the scum who took her." He grabbed Bail's right forearm and squeezed. "I'll find them. And I'll end them."

Relief flooded Bail's face. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you, thank you."

"But before I can do that," Vader said, tone mercilessly dark, "you need to tell me everything. No matter how insignificant it might seem."

Bail nodded. Then bit his lower lip and looked away. "It…it might be easier to show you."

I've never written out an entire story before posting before (this is so exciting!). So here we go...update schedule!

Chapter 2: April 5, 2020
Chapter 3: April 12, 2020
Chapter 4: April 19, 2020
Chapter 5: April 26, 2020
Chapter 6: May 3, 2020