It's not that I'm so smart, it's just that my father was a genius.
Year 1, month 6
——————
"What is that incessant sound?" I grumble into my pillow, absolutely devastated that something woke me up. Call me dramatic, but it feels like I'm being pulled from death, I'm so damn tired.
I go to roll over, more asleep than awake—and then it dawns on me where I am and what's going off. That's a comm.
With a small sigh, I sit up and reach for the device I haven't used once.
"Hello?" My voice cracks from disuse and exhaustion.
"I need you to come up here."
I blink, trying to push the sleep from my eyes. I do not need to ask who it is, as the voice is unmistakable. Plus, it's the only voice I've heard in a long time.
"Okay, I'm not presentable," I mutter and reach for a heavier shirt to pull over my tank top.
"With the utmost speed, Kitten," he growls, and I realize he ended the call.
I shrug off the last of sleep and slip on my shoes, ignoring my soft training pants that are for sleeping and not visiting the yellow-eyed man.
The lift opens and I start down the corridor, which soon opens up to reveal the empty level. And there he is, sitting on a lone crate.
"Oh stars," I exclaim before I can catch myself. The man has a massive fucking wound straight across his stomach from side to side. It's so bad I don't even comprehend that he is half-naked. There is so much blood. The man could die—he fucking will die.
"Come here." I resist the urge to ask what happened and follow his command, approaching him. He sits on a shipping crate in the middle of the still empty room—though I vaguely notice there are more walls, more details—his legs spread wide and his hands full of bloody cloth. Next to him is a decent-sized med kit.
"Fuck, I need them to finish the medbay," he says under his breath as he tosses the towels down.
I do not know what he wants from me, but he's angry. More importantly, he is bleeding, a lot. So, I kneel before him, just far enough that I'm not between his legs but can reach out to touch him.
"Tell me what to do," I breathe.
"I cleaned it and applied bacta powder," he begins, but I shake my head, causing him to stop.
"What?"
I hesitate, nervous energy prickling my senses. "You didn't clean it very well," I say softly, trying not to flinch in fear of his response. "There is..." I clear my throat and start over. "There's something in it," I whisper. I'm not close enough to see, and the lighting is shit. But something is glistening back at me.
He lets out a sigh that could have been classified as a hiss and leans back, resting his hands just behind him so his chest pushes out.
"If you know what to do, then do it."
Shit. That means I have to get closer. My stomach flips but the feeling is not totally rooted in fear, I realize. Sweat glistens off his neck and down his chest, and I can't look him in those bright, terrifying eyes, mine instead locked on his muscles. Apparently, some ancient part of my biology is fully aware of what a half-naked man could mean. Something to do with recreation...reproduction...pleasure.
My knees shift to bring me closer and I reach for the kit. Pulling out tweezers, I inched further, stopping when my knees hit the crate. Oh gods, my heart is thrumming against my chest from his overwhelming proximity.
I don't hold that feeling for long, however. When my face is inches away from his stomach, a low, quiet sound vibrates out of him and my body lights up like I bathed in gasoline. My throat is dry, but I refuse to look up at him. I'm scared those yellow eyes will make me feel something I do not want to feel. What is wrong with me?
Instead, I focus on the wound—still bleeding, quite a bit. My knees are in a puddle of his blood. It seems unlikely my grey pants will ever be grey again.
I use the hand disinfectant on me and the tweezers and go to hold one side of the injury firm while I remove the debris—but stop. My eyebrows pinch together as I lean closer, verifying what I think I see. That's not debris.
"S-sir," I breathe, almost inaudible. "You have a...a wire inside you."
What I'm fucking seeing are two kriffing wires and a fried connector. It is fancy technology, the type of micro device that allows it to bend and stretch, resistant to strain. I bet it even monitors its environment, adjusting when necessary. But it has been nicked, and just because it is a flexible connector doesn't mean it's immune to destruction. Yellow Eyes has something keeping him alive that is not fully human, but I've never seen cybernetics used like this before. Nor have I seen this technology used in cybernetics.
"Okay," he says through his teeth. "Kitten, if I could fix it myself, I would."
I take a breath and switch tactics. "Do you have a replacement circuit tether?"
"No," he replies, and it sounds like he is moments away from killing me. My mind is already spinning questions and solutions, no longer concerned about his reactions.
I sigh, then freeze at the sound, thinking he will comment. He doesn't, so I stand, drop the tweezers, and run.
I do not know what the wires are for, and perhaps they aren't critical. Perhaps we could close the wound, and he could get it fixed later. But I have the means to fix it now—and I don't want to risk it.
Father was strict about me remaining unnoticed, but I learned other things from him when he wasn't paying attention. One of those habits was likely more like instinct—act. Act fast and without hesitation, especially when someone's life is on the line.
"Apply pressure, sir," I call over my shoulder as I work my way to the lift. He can punish me for running off when he isn't dying.
"Spires of Coruscant, woman!" I hear the echoes of his shout as the doors close. I bounce on my heels, urging it to go faster, then burst out of it and skid around a corner. A quick glance to verify everything I need is there, and I grip my tool kit and start running again. Oh, I hope he doesn't kill me after this.
What are the chances? Perhaps I'm beginning to understand what people mean when they say things like 'everything happens for a reason.' I know very little about the Force, but it feels ominously like a higher power is at work.
I almost laugh when I lay eyes on him again. He's holding the cloth to his core, but his eyes are burning in my direction. I hold his life in my hands, and yet he has the audacity to glare. I think he wants to scream, to criticize, but he either needs my help too badly or doesn't have the energy. He is rather pale.
I drop to my knees quicker than I mean to and slip through his blood, roughly hitting the crate. Thankfully he doesn't reach out to slow me; I think I would die from embarrassment. He doesn't appear fazed as I slide between his legs like it's home base.
Still grimacing from the pain, I dig into the med kit and find what I'm hoping for. It doesn't surprise me at all that the kit he possesses is more equipped for battle injuries than the typical med kit. I wonder if he will let me have some of it for my own kit.
Shaking all irrelevant thoughts from my damned calculating mind, I hand him a capsule. "Take it," I demand, dropping it into his hand. To my genuine surprise, he does. I hear it snap between his teeth, and smell the sickening sweet mixture that will help his body recover some of the blood loss quicker. Well, if I stop the flow, that is.
Then, I get to work. Luckily for him, I know the man who created this technology. Still, maybe it isn't luck...
When the wound is as clean as I can get, I instruct him to hold the sides closed, then I carefully split the middle of his wound apart once more and pull the chip out. Replacing my hands with the now dripping rags, I nod for him to hold them to him once more. He doesn't hesitate or argue, but I can feel his intense stare watching my every move.
I reach into my kit and remove my micro welder. Three precise zaps. Father would have had a fit if he saw me without eye protection.
"Why do you wear those silly glasses, Papa?"
Without looking up, a low rumble of a laugh left his throat. "The only thing your mother really liked about me was my eyes, I think. It would be a shame to not have them when I see her again one day."
A small sound escapes my own chest from the flash of a memory. Those eyes were almost identical to mine. I know this because Mother fawned over us both.
Such confidence he had in an afterlife. A part of me aches, still worried he's alive somewhere. Somehow, the thought of my father not being with my mother strangles me more than the thought of him being tortured and used. He did his time...he just wanted to be with Mama again. And though it leaves me alone, he deserves some sort of heavenly afterlife.
As soon as I finish, the cooling blood soaking through my pants is the first thing I comprehend, and it jostles the lingering emotions away.
I'm about to close and reconnect the modded chip, but stop and think about it with narrowed eyes.
Time is ticking...
Pulling it back to me, I spend another twenty seconds altering it. There isn't room to let my mind wander any longer—I'm officially delving into theories and experimental adjustments. The tiniest mistake can turn the harmless device into a weapon, or perhaps worse, become deadly to the human it's working for.
The device isn't meant to be in a body, but once I finish, it will transfer signals more clearly, even through the roadblocks like, oh I don't know...blood.
As fast as I can and still be careful, I close the box. Sealing it, I then attach it to the wires with the utmost delicacy, cautious not to pull them or disturb anything in his body any further.
Shit, this asshole does not know how lucky he is right now.
He sucks in a sharp breath the instant it connects, as if it's the first breath of fresh air he's had in far too long.
I start disinfecting it all, then my hands. But his eyes remain closed, as if asleep. Peaceful. As I dump the bacta powder evenly across it, he hums. It is such an alluring sound, my body beginning to forget my anxiety, replacing it with that unwelcome warmth.
Curious—the bacta should hurt. It is the strongest strength, designed for deadly wounds. It simultaneously kills anything that doesn't belong and numbs pain—but the numbing takes time. The war it rages on infection is painful; it has to be. I've watched people thrash violently from this type of care. It isn't meant for patient comfort, it is meant to keep the dying out of a grave.
I don't know my age, but I know I've never felt arousal before. I also know, through some human instinct, that's what I'm feeling. I'm just not sure if it is from the low, sensual groan he let out—since when did I label things as sensual?—or from the knowledge that he's unaffected by his pain. It reminds me of the mental pain I shove away, ignoring it like it's breathing, but aware it means I'm still alive. That I have things to live for, regardless of how alone I feel.
I...hadn't realized I felt alone until that moment, and it sobers me up fairly quickly.
"You improved it," he mutters, causing my hands to pause momentarily. I'm not positive he's talking to me, but I answer anyway.
"It will simply fire quicker. More efficient," I whisper as I pull the wound together. I don't know the purpose of the mod, but I doubt it is the only one inside him. The other wires were indication enough.
He doesn't respond as I begin applying the bacta tape precisely how it needs to be. I've never done this, but I've seen enough death, seen enough people try to prevent it.
"It is not my place to say, but you shouldn't move much for a couple of days." I feel his eyes on me then, but I don't meet them as I scoot back. I do not climb to my feet, either.
When the silence drags on and my breathing returns to normal, I finally look at him. My chest tightens at the sight. How can a man so harsh be so beautiful? Especially one so scarred and damaged?
"My master will be here tomorrow," he says, making me think he had indeed been waiting for me to make eye contact.
I blink, my expression giving away nothing.
"Understood, sir," I say quietly. I don't know who Vader is, but what can be more frightening than this man? Though he hasn't harmed me, I get the distinct feeling he could kill me with no effort at all.
"You would be wise to avoid him."
"That shouldn't be a problem."
"I'm serious, Kitten. I will not be here."
Why the Force does that actually make me nervous? This man will not protect me. I should not indulge in the false security I imagine he provides me. It is my thoughts that make me confused because a tiny part of me wonders if he is the invisible entity I feel so often. If he is the one who reads my reports, who delivers everything I ask for and more. If he is the one who orders my clothes, my food, my tools.
Finally, I glance down, a tiny smile on my lips. I still sat between his legs, and for some reason, I'm in no hurry to pull back. I can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell blood, smoke, and something harsh like melted iron.
He is the only human I've been close to in nearly two years. Yes, he frightens me. Yes, he is my boss—I think. But he is still a sentient being, still my only connection to humanity.
I eye him again before responding. I can't picture him taking orders, or acting a slave.
"I will remain underground, sir. But it's kind of unusual to think about, a master over you. You seem like enough of a master."
Am I trying to fucking joke? It's true, though—how there could be anything more intimidating than the man with yellow eyes, I'm not sure.
My eyes snap back to him when he lets out a dark chuckle. A smile remains on his lips but he leans closer, sending my mind to total mush. There isn't time for fear or attraction, it is just...mush. His hand reaches out and at first, the stroke across my cheek and down to my chin is almost gentle. Then, he grips my jaw and pulls me closer. I can feel the minor pain from his grasp, but his blood-gold eyes bore into me, terrifying, much more challenging than the lock he has on my skin.
"I am enough of everything," he says in a growl, and my breath catches. "But do not call me master while on your knees again, Kitten." He stands then, dropping my face and disappearing to my right.
I close my eyes, still able to feel his touch. As I listen to his retreating footsteps, something becomes clear to me, as clear as if someone spoke the words.
I will serve this nameless man and his faceless master for the rest of my life.
And though the understanding brings many emotions with it—fear, loss, anxiety—there is something else. Something stronger, yet less obvious.
Relief. Relief, as if I've spent my life searching for the purpose I was given, and have finally found it.
I take a deep inhalation and feel it fill my lungs to the brim, then let it out and open my eyes.
I don't really believe that, do I? That my entire purpose in life is to...what? Protect the sanctuary of the being who leads the new Imperial militaries? Not only does it feel rather anticlimactic, but I'm conflicted on the morality of it. There are slaves building it all around me. The few Imperial reports I've been sent describe total takeover, both Republic and Separatist worlds, willing or not. It is unifying the galaxy, and upon first glance, that doesn't seem like a bad thing after so much war.
But there is more. It's just the beginning. One doesn't upend an institution that has existed for thousands of years without dark dealings. One doesn't end an order of powerful beings without some, either.
I sit there for too long, my knees beginning to ache from the hard ground. I do not understand the things my body is doing. My throat is tight and dry, and my stomach feels like it's been punched.
And still, beneath my dark thoughts, there is a warmth in my core, below my naval. A tingly feeling remains where his hand had touched—both the dominant, rough hand on my chin and the gentle caress across my cheek. It is the only reason I'm sure I didn't imagine either of them.
He sees me. He tries to hide it by avoiding my eyes and looking away, starting that first day I woke up with the recovered man eying my surveillance setup.
But he sees me. When his bloody golden eyes meet mine, it is a lot to unpack, but suddenly, I understand part of what I see staring back at me.
Papa's footsteps were louder than mine, and less frequent as I ran to keep up with him.
"Hurry, Angel," he said again, though his voice was calm, a lazy, slow-moving river, as always. It didn't match his quick pace or the slight pinch to his expression.
We neared his lab, and I felt a familiar flutter in my stomach. Anticipation. What would he discover today? Would he suit up in protective gear and order me into the transparisteel viewing room, or would he sit behind his desk, mumbling over endless data and research papers? He let me help last week; I hoped today he'd allow it again.
But...he didn't stop at lab twelve. Instead of entering the unit I so loved—containing his office, two refreshers, three different laboratories, and a lounge filled with sweets and fruit and endless books—he kept speed walking. We passed a custodian who nodded at Father and me, then a scientist I recognized with a woman I didn't.
I knew better than to ask where we were going. Ever since Mama went away, Papa discouraged most talk outside of our home. It was only a week after she disappeared that he'd sat me down in his big bed and said: "Trust is a fickle thing, daughter. Something is brewing outside Chandrila. Our words are both our weapons and our shields; use them wisely. Here, it is safe. With me, at home, you may spend as many words as you like. Outside these walls, even in the shuttle, you must value each word as if it is gold, little Angel."
So, I didn't ask why he was changing our routine. Mama had been gone two years now, almost as long as he'd worked there. And though I missed her with my whole heart, I loved Papa's lab.
He finally stopped before a door, the nameplate beside it said: "Headquarters" and something smaller beneath it. Names, probably, but Papa turned to me and knelt.
"Listen carefully, Angel." I always listened carefully, which told me he was extra serious. "You cannot come into this meeting. You will wait. You will not say a word unless spoken to." Again, none of this was new. I wasn't sure why he was saying it again and with such severity. But, I listened. I read the changes to his body language, analyzed every blink like he'd taught me. Words aren't the only way people speak, he'd said, many times.
I saw nothing but sincerity and that vague pinch to his expression he'd had all morning.
"Do not draw attention to yourself for any reason. Do you understand?"
I felt my lips frown, dragging my eyebrows with them. That was an unusual thing to say. I liked attention, I liked his colleagues asking me about myself...
I nodded though. Because if Father asked it, I obeyed. Mama would be proud when she came home and saw what a big girl I was.
"I'll be on the other side of the door. If anything happens, Uncle Cole is in his lab, okay? Go straight to him without stopping." I nodded once more. He wasn't my uncle, but he treated me like a niece. This wasn't the first time he'd told me to find Uncle Cole in case of an emergency, but it was the first time I wondered if I'd need to. Before even seeing the room we were standing outside of, I was planning how I'd leave to find him.
Papa must have seen something in my face because he nodded, the movement sharp and maybe a touch proud. "Good. My Angel," he said with a soft smile, the tension fading from his face for just a moment. "Let us see what my boss wants."
With a peck to my forehead, he led me through the door and into a spacious waiting room. I sunk into a soft, wonderful chair and gave Papa a reassuring smile. I didn't want him to worry about me when something else was clearly bothering him. I knew he didn't trust his boss, but I'd never met him.
His steps were swift and smooth as he continued to the other side of the room. Another door shut behind him, and I was alone.
The chair I chose was closest to the door we'd walked through together, the exit. It was not in shadows, but it was a bit more dim than most of the seating available. Without moving my head, or anything for that matter, I took in the room. Three doors: one to the exit, one where Papa went through, and a smaller, less obvious door that I assumed was maintenance.
There was no sound, not really. Occasionally I'd hear faint footsteps or droids moving near the main door, but they were mostly muffled out. Nothing came from the other side of the door where Papa was. There were no visible computer systems, though I saw the Techno Union surveillance cameras, tucked neatly into the four corners of the room. Papa had briefly taught me how to spot hidden listening devices, but it was my own fascination that drove me to seek them out in every room. How unusual it was to me to spy on others, and yet...how intriguing.
I knew from carefully selecting my words that most people did no such thing, using words like they were a burden they needed to let go of regularly. So what would I see, if I watched people sharing a meal? What would I hear if I followed a disagreeing couple?
With only the sound of my breathing and my jumping thoughts to accompany me, I didn't know how long I sat there. When a door slid open, and Papa entered the room alone, I sighed and sagged into my chair.
But then I took in his face. The pinched shadow was more apparent now, a deep double line between his eyebrows I rarely saw.
"Come. Quickly and silently." I was up and next to him in an instant, my feet moving exactly as he ordered.
The walk back to his lab was only about two minutes, but it felt like eons. Unable to ask what troubled him, all I could do was guess. But I couldn't have guessed what he would say.
The moment we were in his office, he locked the door and turned on the tiny music box that was rigged to scramble nearby technology.
Then he was on his knees before me, all of this quicker than I could comprehend.
"Angel." He said my name in a way that conveyed many things. One, listen carefully. Two, do not interrupt. And three, I love you, but I'm about to say something I don't want to say.
His hands trailed to my face, holding it gently. "I have been reassigned. We will be moving off Chandrila."
I opened my mouth to object, to fight. We cannot leave! How will Mama know where to find us?
The sad expression on his face as he shook his head shut me right up. "My job is dangerous, Angel, you know this. But it will only get more dangerous when we leave here. I must continue my work, but I will not part from you. Which means you'll be coming with me."
He looked at me with such intensity, but it wasn't the same. It hadn't been since Mama left. Intense as it was, there was a distant expression that he never shook. I missed the way Mama used to look at me, like I was her entire world. Maybe she took a part of Papa with her, some hidden part I could not find.
"It will be different," he continued softly, his hands dropping to my shoulders. "Much will change. I swear to keep you with me, to never let us truly separate." Perhaps we were no longer whole without Mother. "But I need you to promise me something, my little Angel."
I nodded with as much confidence as I could muster, and his face softened even further. "You will not attract attention." Again with this...I didn't understand. Did he want me to be lonely? Would it keep us together? How could I ask questions without attracting attention? How could I learn without asking questions? How could I dance? Play? How does one live without attracting attention?
He saw my doubt. "To attract attention is to invite danger into our already dangerous lives, Angel."
He let me ponder these words before pulling me into a hug.
"We will keep each other safe, Angel." I simply nodded into his neck, feeling rather safe in his arms.
Yes. Papa did not see me after Mama died, not fully. He was too busy worrying about what I could become, what he'd become. The last person to really see me, to really look into my soul, was my mother.
And now, this man. The yellow-eyed, surly, intimidating, chiseled, and scarred man. He looks at me, really looks at me. Exactly what Father hadn't wanted, exactly what he'd warned against.
When Yellow Eyes woke up inside my makeshift medbay all those months ago, I caught his attention. By inviting him inside, it seems I welcomed the danger into my life. Whatever danger Father had feared, I suppose.
The problem is layered by me, however. Because, while I do feel a touch of dread by his cutting attention, I also feel oddly alive beneath his gaze.
How so very fucked up of me.