𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

❝to suspect your own mortality is to know the beginning of terror, to learn irrefutably that you are mortal is to know the end of terror.❞

― FRANK HERBERT, Children of Dune

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𝐓ipoca 𝐂ity, 𝐊amino

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 her eyes first fell upon the turbulent oceans of Kamino, Rowan felt a wicked sort of fondness for its crude storms, ash-mottled pigments, and desperately sloping waves. The former Jedi Knight appreciated that the planet itself seemed to know it did not have a right to be beautiful.

Thunder boomed with violent, injurious resonance, as if the heartbeat in her own chest was held between the misted palms of the sky. Destructive desires bled through the corners of Rowan's mind; she wanted to raise her arms, to steal her way from her shaking spacecraft and stand upon it's hull in the pouring rain, screaming at the clouds to take her for their souls were the same, distant ancestors of condensed sorrow and roguish flame extinguished. Yet she stayed silent, basking in misery that encompassed an entire world, imagining that the atmosphere sobbed for her alone, each echo of rain like the tick of a carved ivory clock in her time-marrowed bones.

But the chaos of an overarching abyss does not always reflect the wild within.

Inside Tipoca City's domed facilities, stark white walls burned at the raw vulnerability of her retinas, like velvet lily petals and swan feathers sharpened by the menace of glass as they repressed any possible means of catharsis. Even as her gaze darted from one place to another without stopping for a moment, searching for the relief of shadow within corners the light could not touch, discomfort new and old churned within the woman's ribcage. Clones of all ages passed through the halls, some like rabbits with their innocent, eager frames and skin like silk, others battle-hardened soldiers with ghosts dragging in their wake. They seemed strangely unaware of her presence despite the fact that each identical face jolted a deep path of regret within her conscience - the same features had echoed upon the ones she once believed were brothers.

Their glassy-eyed disconnection wasn't quite a loss to Rowan's cause, however, for uniformed marches seemed to drown out her presence like thundering chariot wheels. She usually relied on vivid self-assurance to make an undeniable home where she did not belong, but even as her emotions lay visibly shattered, strewn across her face like shards of broken porcelain, she'd met resistance from nothing except the rain.

Though her ship lay at the bottom of the Kaminoan sea, her hands calloused and shaking from scaling sheer metal rooftops, barriers seemed to fade into oblivion as she felt her destination grow closer. The lengths Rowan would go to repair gaping mistakes no longer frightened her, for what was another scar when it would all soon fade into smooth flesh? Perhaps this is not what the Jedi intended when they spoke of no attachment, no revenge, and no regrets. Yet the Order had never held a sacred place in the woman's soul, not since they'd cast her away like a fishing line, never bothering to draw her back. Those sheltered by Coruscant's treasured acropolis hadn't seemed to realize the sharpened hook of reckless passion she had become along the way.

Rowan's drenched hair rested upon her shoulders like inky tendrils of poisoned reeds, ice-cold water droplets gently staggering across the back of her neck. The shimmering edges of liquid felt as sharp as nails in her fragile state, reveling in the illusion of splitting open tissue like unseen daggers. But comfort was a thing reserved for those without true purpose.

She could only watch as gauze-veiled stretchers passed by, streams of foolish ghosts fluttering through the depths. The force clouded around them, dark and cloying, blurring at the edges like an ancient memory, beguiling in it's romantic decay. In an instant Rowan knew these lifeless phantoms were not fallen clones. They were Jedi, deities of legend cast down to the dirt, golden-ichored, bronze-hearted, silver-dusted heroes now in the arms of death. The clones had betrayed them all, yet Rowan walked among them with life in her veins, too numb for shock itself to course over her senses.

Lengthy paces quickening in the precipitous excitement of one whose impossible goal seemed suddenly in reach, the woman pressed her hand into the armor of a passing clone's chest, stopping them in their tracks as they looked down at her extended arm in confusion. Rowan ripped it back, wincing as the familiar gesture fell upon a total stranger. (Blank walls. Blank light. Blank corpses. It was far too easy to push monstrosity aside, to defend one's looming vulnerabilities, to forget.)

"Where are the Kaminoans?" She choked back her uneasiness, meeting the clone's wary gaze. His eyes darted back and forth like mahogany-shelled beetles, seeming to furiously debate whether or not to call an alarm on her where she stood. Murderer, she thought. They were one and the same. When he suddenly raised a wrist the woman flinched backwards, but he only pointed down the hall at an arching, unmarked door.

"Lama Su is in there, with Admiral Tarkin. They don't want to be interrupted." Rowan nodded, trying to seem meek and peaceable as the clone strode away with a slight shake of his head. Lama Su. The name rang a bell deep in her memory. Prime Minister.

The instant the halls had emptied she raced for the door, peeling it open gently. No lock. She hadn't dared to hope for such fortune, such blind confidence and undisputed power. 

Rowan stepped inside, to where the masters of her future were waiting.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 that struck her was how tall the Kaminoan was, as if trying to scrape the sky with its elegant, amphibian features and arched neck. She found herself tipping upwards on the balls of her feet, perching at the tips of her toes like a bird trying to take flight even as it remained anchored to the ground. The creature's eyes were as cold and distant as Alderaan's moons, falling upon her with distant monotony.

"Another clone?" The voice that reached her ears made her turn instantly, striking the air like a well-concealed weapon. Sharp, perfectly elevated, each syllable tenaciously placed. It could only be Admiral Tarkin. The man's irises pierced hers, glinting in a cunningly estranged feline-blue, mouth a bloodless slash, face narrow and sharp as if carved of ice by a grieving craftsman's blunted knife.

Rowan felt the scrutiny of the Kaminoan Prime Minister's stare analyzing every detail of her frame, searching for something unnatural, a part of her that belonged to someone else.

"No," came the elegantly modulated response, speaking as if the newcomer didn't even exist.

"I'm here to make a bargain." Her own presence seemed small, weak next to their regal superiority. Not even a flicker of surprise passed across their faces at her abruptly unwelcome declaration. Both seemed at home within these blinding, flawless chambers.

"How did you get here?" Tarkin drawled, power spiraling just beneath his words. It was hard to ignore, and yet Rowan was one used to overcoming impossibility.

"You will make me a clone." Panic danced in her chest, contextual structure snapping as desires were laid bare. She could picture how she appeared, a soaked stranger who'd lost a battle with rain, making demands she couldn't repay, taking more time than she was worth.

But there was something to very said about the woman's voice, something that not even she was fully aware of. Just beneath her fear stood the ambiguous quality which made its home in cruelest of politicians and the lustiest of singers, softening the undefeatable, manipulating the steadfast, forcing others to listen. Her intention could mold the air itself, stabbing into an unsuspecting victim's uncertainties with far more devastation than a temporary mind trick. It was a voice that could raze planets, magnetizing as it pulled weaknesses from those who has none. Perhaps it only succeeded through it's beholder's own oblivion - even so, it struck cautiously, eroding ever so slowly at first and then all at once.

"We don't simply make clones for those who ask on Kamino." Lama Su's curiosity seemed to be the only reason they hadn't yet tossed her aside. There also was a large possibility that they were simply calculating the best way to kill her.

"I have the genetic material." The lock of Danae's feather-soft hair felt suddenly heavy, tucked in a pouch and methodically strung around her neck.

"This is a unique facility. No others like it in the entire galaxy. You could never repay us." Lama Su was proud, perhaps too much so. Proud enough to believe the clones would never have let someone as dangerous as Rowan pass through the anesthetized temple of technology that was the heart of their distorted achievements, proud enough to be certain that their work was an indispensable resource.

The door creaked open once again and another Kaminoan entered, streamlined face, empty, solar-eclipse eyes, and pendant in the center of her forehead glinting with harsh ascendency. Behind her came the buoyant golden shadow of a small girl, short blonde hair like that of a tufted fledgling and amber eyes sparking with shooting stars of eagerness. She was comically short compared to the towering Kaminoans, yet she walked comfortably alongside them, fingers fidgeting with vivacious energy.

"Nala Se." The Prime Minister addressed its fellow Kaminoan with a small nod.

"I could repay you a thousand times over." Rowan interrupted, desperately trying not to lose hold on the shaking thread of hope she hung upon, her feet dangling dangerously over treacherous abyss.

"You are entirely unfamiliar. Unfamiliar is unexceptional." Tarkin replied, turning his attention to the other two. The dismissal was evident in his words.

But the girl looked like Danae. Lion-hearted, fragile Danae, with her moon-bright smile and lively observations. Rosy-lipped, nebula-breathed Danae who spoke with the words of some ancient, classical philosopher, spinning sentences with threaded intentions of such delicate, silken intricacy that Rowan wanted to ask who had first spoken them, though she knew the girl herself was the architect of it all. Each word was molded with the mystical naivety and assured authenticity of shining, youthful wisdom born into a fractured world. Courage is the life of a warrior and the death of a fool, though fools and warriors are one and the same - life is as inevitable as death, after all. The air seemed to whisper in reminiscence of the Padawan who should have been at her side.

Courage.

"I will kill all the remaining Jedi in return." The words slipped out, she dared them to despite all grisly doubts - were there even any living Jedi left? The world should have shook with this heresy, this crudely painted sin, and yet nothing moved save for Tarkin's lips, upturned in a cruel smile.

It was not enough.

Until Rowan Buteö dared further. She drew her lightsaber with a resounding flourish, switching on its flickering purple blade. The violet spear glowed like the sea before a hurricane, pulsing with light and shadow, grace and rage. As if the birth of the universe was frozen in cold-blooded equilibrium, throbbing in her perfectly balanced hands.

"I have killed one before," she whispered, eyes alight with the radiance of amethyst coals on a brooding kyber hearth.

Tarkin seemed to be one of the rare individuals who knew lies when he heard them; few can sense the misconceptions which harness human emotion from beneath a tainted disguise, for purity and distraction are natural vices. Those who possessed the piercing perceptions of granted veracity held a dangerous gift. Yet she had told no lies.

And he acknowledged the brutal truth, his skull pressing greedily through his nearly translucent features, as if the menacing structure could outlast even the most potent weaknesses of flesh.

Rowan liked the way he looked at her then: she wasn't another little tragedy, a speck of dust to be kicked aside on the road of his obliterating success. She was a wildfire - blazing, lashing, spiraling out of control - blistering with the power to burn down his enemies.

The young girl's eyes were wide, not afraid, but they shone like sepia-umber planets swept by coriolis winds. For the first time since Danae's death, Rowan smiled.

"A single clone is all you ask?" He questioned with uncharacteristic interest.

"I made a promise." He nodded at her underlining words. I have my secrets, but I won't break my promises.

"Then you may serve the Empire well." Rowan knew nothing of an Empire; it sounded ancient, a denomination of fallen dynasties and the forgotten, bloodthirsty glories of united power. Yet she felt like she had heard enough. Empire. The woman could taste each syllable ringing through the air like salt and ash, a palace built upon rotted bones, rising in the dying light of fallen Jedi and the betrayal of their faithful soldiers.

The Unknown Regions had never seen such treachery, for the mystical ways of uncharted space were held far beyond reality's brutal grasp. Even after years of exploration through the wonders of territory no human had ventured through before, she understood the irrationality of ever trying to fathom its depths. To do so was as futile as reducing the way sunlight glinted upon water, the way constellations glittered in a lover's eyes, the way flames yearned for supple flesh - all to scratches of ink on dusty parchment. Nothing could ever capture the enchantment of the truly incomprehensible. 

As she met Tarkin's gaze, like thunder echoing against desolate tundra, not for the first time Rowan hated knowing too much.

"What news do you bring, Nala Se?" The Prime Minister addressed its fellow Kaminoan, strangely nonchalant for all it had witnessed - perhaps the strange and twisted woes of evolving interaction were familiar to such a planet. It was all a game to them, one she would have to play without knowing the rules. Rowan's lightsaber extinguished, as if it had never been there at all.

"Clone force 99 has returned from Onderon." The girl tilted her head up in sudden anticipation, a small, nearly indistinguishable smile creeping to her lips. It held the innocence of joy that had been hidden often, but could never quite be truly stifled.

"And they have failed. Imprison them." Tarkin ordered, without a moment of hesitance. The smile dissolved into fear as Lama Su nodded in assurance. The air was tense with the battle of power coursing between them, the girl caught in the middle of it all, fragile enough to break.

"The child too. The defectives should be together."

All songbirds are crushed in the talons of a war between vultures and corpses. The thought was unfamiliar as it echoed through Rowan's head, probably something Danae would have said.

But the amber eyes locking onto Rowan's did not belong to Danae. Filled with shock and fear, they wavered like soft honeyed pools in the dying light as the child's mistress dragged her away. A Jedi would've seen the injustice and fought to correct it, she would've saved the girl and negotiated for peace. A Jedi would have been honest with the thoughts inside of her, and admitted that every moment of silence which passed made her feel like she was losing her mind, forcing an unspoken scream to peak at her lips only to dissolve once again. A Jedi would not try to conquer death when all else was lost.

But Rowan Buteö was not a Jedi any longer. 

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𝐀/𝐍: Before I started writing, I was thinking of having shorter, simpler chapters?? not sure how that turned out but... (and I'm aware this plot is border-line nonsensical at this point, but I have to make sure what is to come all connects so bear with me lol - Rowan's past and Tarkin's scheme to mess with the Kaminoans should be explained more later on in the story)

As for updates, they will likely remain very inconsistent because this isn't my main fic at the moment, I'm just having some fun :)

Anyways, thanks for reading, I always love thoughts/feedback if you have any and I hope you enjoyed!!

- 𝐉ynni