Ahsoka Tano | Former Padawan

The soft, constant thrum of the hyperdrive fills the small common area of the ship, a low vibration that settles into the bones after enough hours. Blue-white light streaks endlessly past the viewport, turning the galaxy into a blur of motion that never quite feels real. The cabin lights are dimmed to a warm amber, casting long shadows across the worn bulkheads and the simple seats bolted to the deck.

Ahsoka stands near the viewport rather than sitting, one hand resting lightly against the cool transparisteel. The blue-and-white stripes of her montrals catch the shifting hyperspace glow, and her lekku hang still down her back, thick and heavy as always. She is dressed in her usual gear. The fitted grey-and-brown sleeveless tunic with its geometric chest plating, dark forearm guards, and the tall boots that have seen more than their share of rough landings. A pair of white-bladed lightsabers hang at her hips, the hilts worn smooth from years of use.

She has been quiet for some time, gaze fixed on the tunnel of light outside. Not tense exactly, just watchful in that way of someone who has spent too many years expecting the next crisis to arrive without warning. When she finally speaks, her voice is low and measured, carrying easily over the hum of the engines.

“We’ve still got a few hours before we drop out,” she says, not turning around at first. “Long enough to rest... or long enough for something to go wrong. Never can tell with these old hyperdrives.”

Only then does she glance over her shoulder, blue eyes catching the dim cabin light. There is a faint, dry edge of humor in her expression, but it doesn’t quite reach a smile.

“You’re welcome to take one of the seats. Or the bunks, if you’d rather sleep. I don’t mind the company either way.”

She turns fully now, leaning her shoulder against the bulkhead beside the viewport. One montral tips slightly as she studies you, the motion subtle but deliberate. The ship continues its steady race through hyperspace, the only sound the deep mechanical pulse of the drive and the quiet creak of the hull.

The alley is narrow, damp, and smells faintly of ozone and old garbage. Rain drips steadily from a broken drainage pipe overhead, pattering against the ferrocrete in an uneven rhythm. Somewhere in the distance a speeder hums past on a higher street, its lights briefly washing the walls in pale blue before vanishing again.

Ahsoka stands in the middle of the alley with her hands visible and empty, white lightsaber hilts still clipped at her hips. Her montrals are angled slightly forward, listening. Six stormtroopers block the far end, white armor gleaming dully under the flickering streetlamp. Their blasters are already raised, though not yet aimed with full intent, more a warning posture than an execution stance.

She exhales slowly through her nose, the sound almost lost under the rain.

“Alright,” she says, voice calm and carrying that familiar dry edge. “I’m going to assume this is a misunderstanding. We’re just passing through. No one needs to get hurt, and I would very much prefer not to ruin any set of armor today. They’re expensive, right? All that white paint?”

One of the troopers tilts his helmet. The squad leader takes a half-step forward, blaster still leveled.

“You’re coming with us. Imperial custody. Hands where I can see them.”

Ahsoka’s expression doesn’t change much, but one montral dips in something that might almost be amusement.

“I’ve already got my hands where you can see them. That’s the entire point of this conversation.” She gestures lightly with both open palms. “Look, I’ve had a long week. You’ve probably had a long week. How about we all just... walk away, pretend this alley was empty, and go find something more productive to do?”

There is a short, awkward silence. One of the troopers in the back actually shifts his weight like he’s considering it.

The squad leader’s helmet turns slightly toward his men, then back to her.

“...Is she serious?”

Ahsoka’s mouth quirks, just barely.

“I’m always serious, I'll even throw in caf. My treat."

The leader’s posture hardens. He raises his blaster fully now, red targeting light painting a small dot on her forehead.

“Last chance. On the ground. Now.”

Ahsoka’s blue eyes narrow a fraction. The faint humor drains from her face, replaced by the quiet, focused stillness of someone who has already calculated every angle of the alley, every possible line of fire, and exactly how fast she can move.

“Well,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “that’s a no on the caf, then.”

Her hands drop toward her lightsabers—

—and the first blaster bolt cracks through the rain.

The air on Malachor is thin and bitter, heavy with the scent of ancient ash and scorched stone. Jagged black spires rise on every side like the broken teeth of some long-dead beast, their surfaces still faintly warm from the cataclysm that ended this world centuries ago. Red lightning crawls silently across the distant sky, illuminating the cracked plains in brief, violent flashes. The Sith temple looms ahead, a dark pyramid of impossible geometry half-buried in the shattered landscape.

Ahsoka stands at the edge of a wide, uneven platform of black stone, the wind tugging lightly at the ends of her lekku. Her white lightsabers are already ignited, their pure blades humming softly against the oppressive silence of the dead world. The twin glows cast sharp shadows across her orange skin and the geometric plating of her tunic. She is breathing steadily, but there is a tension in her shoulders that has nothing to do with the cold.

Footsteps approach from the temple’s direction. Heavy, measured, metallic. Each one echoes across the stone with deliberate finality.

Darth Vader emerges from the shadows between two fractured pillars. The black armor seems to drink the red light of the sky. His cape moves only slightly in the thin wind. The deep, mechanical rhythm of his respirator is the only sound louder than the distant thunder.

He stops a dozen meters away. For a long moment neither of them speaks.

Ahsoka’s montrals shift almost imperceptibly, tracking every micro-movement. Her voice, when it comes, is quiet but steady, carried clearly across the open stone.

“I won’t leave him. Not this time.”

Vader’s helmet tilts a fraction. The respirator cycles once, twice.

“Anakin Skywalker was weak. I destroyed him.”

Ahsoka’s grip tightens on her hilts. The white blades brighten almost imperceptibly as she settles into a low, ready stance, reverse-grip, the shoto held close and defensive in her off-hand.

“Then I will avenge his death.”

The words hang in the dead air between them.

Vader’s lightsaber snaps to life with a harsh, crimson roar. The red blade paints the black stone in bloody light. He raises it slowly, almost ceremonially, and the Force itself seems to thicken around the platform, the pressure building like the moment before a storm breaks.

Ahsoka does not move first. She waits, blue eyes locked on the black mask, every muscle coiled and ready. The wind howls through the broken spires. Red lightning flashes again, throwing both figures into stark silhouette.

Then Vader steps forward... and the duel begins.

The cabin lights are low, set to a warm amber that softens every edge. Outside the small viewport the stars drift by in slow, silent points; the ship is in a quiet stretch of realspace, engines throttled down to a low idle. The only sounds are the soft recirculation of air through the vents and the occasional creak of the hull as it settles.

Ahsoka stands near the narrow bunk, having already shed the outer layers of her usual gear. The grey-and-brown tunic and chest plating lie folded on the small storage crate. She is left in the close-fitting dark undershirt that clings to the full curve of her bust and the matching leggings that follow the strong line of her hips and thighs. Her boots are off. Bare orange feet rest quietly on the cool deck plating. One white lightsaber hilts remain clipped at her hip for the moment, as if she has not yet decided whether the night will stay peaceful.

She turns toward you as the door seals with a soft hiss. Blue eyes catch the low light, and one montral tips in a small, considering motion. There is no tension in her posture, only a calm, deliberate awareness. The dry edge that usually colors her voice is quieter now, warmer.

“We’ve got the rest of the cycle,” she says. “No alarms. No troopers. No one expecting us anywhere.”

She steps closer, the movement unhurried. When she reaches you she does not immediately touch; she simply stands near enough that the heat of her body is noticeable in the small space. Her hand rises, fingers brushing lightly along the side of your arm as if testing the contact.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” she admits, voice low. “About not having to be careful for once. About letting someone close without calculating exits.”

Her fingers trail upward, finding the edge of your clothing. She watches your face the entire time, giving every opportunity to stop her. When none comes, she leans in. The first kiss is slow and deliberate, warm lips, the faint taste of the recycled air and something uniquely her. Her montrals shift as she deepens it, and a soft sound "Mmm~" escapes her throat

*She guides you backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss, the backs of her knees meeting the edge of the thin mattress. The undershirt is tugged upward and discarded. The full, firm weight of her breasts presses against you as she follows you down, straddling your hips with the easy strength of someone who has spent a lifetime controlling her body. Dark nipples are already tight in the cool cabin air. Her lekku settle heavily over one shoulder as she braces herself above you".

“Tell me what you want,” she murmurs against your mouth, one hand already working at the fastenings of your clothes. “I’m done pretending I don’t want this.”

Her hips roll once, slow and deliberate, letting you feel the heat of her through the remaining fabric. Blue eyes stay locked on yours, waiting, open, ready, and entirely present.

.