A/N: I hope the length of this chapter (um, relative to the other chapters, that is) makes up a bit for the slow updates. I was fascinated by something mentioned in the Wookiepedia entry on Mara, something about a distant memory of a broken falling-star globe. I wondered how much of her past Mara really remembers. How much does she want to remember? Mostly, though, this is about her being awesome at her job.

I know very little about snipers and their skill, but whatever seems inaccurate here can simply be dismissed with my usual excuse: Star Wars technology is not like our own. I can take whatever liberties I please.

If you're following this story/reviewing: Thank you. Not one review goes unappreciated.

Put Down Roots In These Forsaken Fields

She planned everything with great precision so that she wouldn't ever have to run. Running meant something had gone wrong. Running meant you had to make faster decisions, and faster sometimes edged very close to hasty. The Emperor's Hand didn't make hasty decisions. She thought on her feet when needed, but running implied loss of control and that was absolutely out of the question.

There was no running today.

She had already been settled into her strictly-counted breathing rhythm for three hours. (Seven counts in. Hold four. Thirteen counts out. Hold two. Relax, Mara. Relax. These breaths are unchangeable. They come and go like the sun and the moon. Steady. Steady.) The wind had maintained its thirty knots push with a give and take of four knots. Her hair was pulled back so tightly that it stretched the skin of her cheeks, and the cap she wore over it dug into her forehead – not a single strand of hair could come loose. If one happened to fall into her vision when the time came to pull the trigger...

That wasn't going to happen. She'd taken every precaution.

Seven counts in.

She'd checked her rifle twice - once last night and again this morning. She didn't believe a person could be too prepared, but she wasn't going to let herself get paranoid. Two checks – that was fine. If she'd missed something either time, then she deserved whatever screw-up happened.

She kept her eye trained through the targeting sights, and blinked very, very slowly.

Hold four counts.

The wind gusted. Her gaze slipped slightly down and to the left to check the readout: thirty-three knots. Thin mountain air, below-freezing temperatures, a strong and constant wind – she tightened her hold on the rifle by the barest degree. Frost had nearly covered the barrel.

Lovely.

Thirteen counts out.

Her legs were starting to cramp, but that was a familiar pain, one that could easily be ignored for a few hours more. Her thermals were keeping her plenty warm enough, which was a precaution that had nothing to do with personal comfort – if she got too cold, her teeth would begin to chatter and her hands would shake, and then all hope of a good shot would take a flying leap off the edge of the galaxy.

The crowd of people in the valley below were nothing but a smudge of black against the green grass, but through her scope she could clearly make out a petite woman dressed in silver.

Hold two counts.

Silver tilted her head back. Her teeth flashed – she was laughing. Her wine glass was almost empty. The people around her smiled.

Seven counts in.

There was no scheduled time for the speech to begin. Poison would have been much simpler. A knife, thrown from the shadows of the dignitary's bedroom would have been so, so much easier. But Mara had wanted a challenge, and Vader had wanted to send a particular kind of message (the Dark Lord doesn't do subtlety, but she's not complaining, not this time at least). So here she was, stretched out on her stomach on the edge of a mountain on some backwater planet that no one outside a special circle of Imperial elite cared about, getting slowly consumed by frost, waiting for a laughing woman to put down the wine glass and just get up on the blasted podium already...

But this was what she'd wanted. The challenge. The trial. A 4500 meter shot in extreme conditions. Careful planning from beginning to end. The wait. The kill. And then the methodical packing and departure.

Hold four counts.

No running.

Her master had told her she needed to work on patience. She thought she was doing quite well, all things considered. Some mental cursing at her intended target was certainly not out of the way. She was tempted to sigh, but -

Thirteen counts out.

The sky was starting to darken into the pink of early sunset. The soiree in the valley had been going on for three hours already, and was expected to move indoors before dusk, as the temperatures in this region dropped dramatically at nightfall. Which meant the woman in silver didn't have much longer to make her grand speech. She was supposed to talk about visionary leadership, about the vulnerability of certain star systems - the tender green grass of the valley, its wide open blue skies, was meant to serve as a (heavy-handed, in Mara's opinion) metaphor for the opportunities that awaited those who would only look beyond their simple, restricted service to the Emperor, and see for themselves what riches the galaxy had to offer those willing to strike out on their own...

Mara barely held her lip from curling back in a snarl.

Hold two counts.

No, there would be no rushing, no running today. She was going to stick around and watch the aftermath, watch the devastation and the fear come over their faces when they realized that their plans were never going to succeed, that all their plotting and secrets had gotten them absolutely nowhere. This was child's play to the Emperor. Even Vader had found this scheme easy to sniff out.

Seven counts in.

And her job – following the threads and whispers and turning them into facts, names, locations – had been almost painfully simple. Time-consuming, but simple. But this was where patience came in. Mara had given herself a near-impossible challenge, and she was going to do what she absolutely hated: sit still and do nothing.

For six hours.

All for a shot that could be made much at much closer range, and in much better conditions. Patience, her master had said.

Patience.

The wind gusted again. Thirty-two knots. Her rifle adjusted itself automatically with a near-silent whir and click.

Through the scope, Mara could see the woman finally hand over her glass and make her way to the dais.

Hold four counts.

What followed was no longer thought – it was instinct, a waterfall of memories engrained in every muscle, from her fingers to her stomach to her feet. She stiffened from the sternum down and relaxed just slightly from the shoulders. Her fingers slowly pressed into the rifle, tightening, taking relentless control of the trigger and the grip.

Thirteen counts out.

Mara gave the woman enough time to get well into her speech. The wind gusted once more – she paused, and when it died down, she dragged her finger millimeter by millimeter toward her, pulling against the trigger, breathing out, out, out -

The sound of the laser bolt pierced the mountain air and echoed in the valley, and through her scope, Mara could see the silver dress scorched black and turned to tatters.

Hold two counts.

The small crowd of Imperials (traitors) scattered as panic tore through them. Mara gave herself ten minutes to watch them, and when her time was up – when she'd satisfied herself with their terror and helplessness – she released the rifle, slowly rolled onto her back, and breathed out a laugh at the mountain peaks towering above.

Her muscles, stiff and tense from the hours of tight motionlessness, were twitching and shaking. She stretched as she stared up at the pale blue sky, grinning with abandon at her success and trying as hard as she could to send her satisfaction across the stars, into her Master's waiting mind. There was no response, but that was not unusual, especially for a mission that was his second-in-command's rather than his own. The mission itself had not been particularly challenging – but the manner in which she had gone about it, the dogged determination she'd had to carry out each step according to the lessons her master had given her, willing herself to exercise patience, restraint, self-denial – that was what would make the Emperor proud.

Mara stared up at the white peaks and felt as though a mountain of her own had been climbed and conquered.

The sky continued to darken over the valley, turning orange and red, while the skies above the mountaintops – directly over her head - became obscured by mist. She felt the temperature dropping swiftly, but couldn't bring herself to move just yet. There was no danger in lingering. She'd planned this too well – nobody would be looking for a sniper three miles away, latched onto the mountainside.

The cold wind howled through the range. The cloud cover seemed to settle mere inches from her face. When the last of the fire died from the western sky, a snowflake twirled lazily through the mist and sparkled into nothing just before it landed on her cheek.

One by one, and then by twos and threes, now in scattered clusters they fell, coating the cliff, dissolving and creating layers of gossamer on her equipment and clothes. What few snowflakes did land on her face were melted in an instant, too delicate to withstand the heat of her skin. For a long, silent hour, Mara was encased in a falling-star globe, and she watched, entranced, as the sky shook out its storehouse of glittering ice.

Something stirred in her memory. Something long-ago, mostly faded and gone, the last thread of an abandoned spider's web, glimmering in the darkness of her past. Something soft and bright falling. A glass globe in her hands. Fascination, and free-fall.

Broken glass at her feet.

A voice saying indecipherable, angry things at her back.

She shut her eyes and fought for the memory – her father, it had to be, why couldn't she keep this one thing – but it faded like the sunset into night, and when she opened her eyes, all she saw was the dark mountain mist.

A burning pain tightened within her breast. She climbed to her feet, packed her rifle and survival gear, and picked her way down the rocks, fighting through the wind and the snow and the terrible and sudden urge to run away and never, ever look back.