WHO: Dr. Aphra, Anakin Skywalker WHEN: At the ball. WHERE: At the ball. WHAT: Aphra tries to figure out which Anakin is Anakin and gets way more than she bargained for. Time to go steal some shit. TRIGGERS: Body horror.
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Aphra's usual get-up for a formal outing was something a little shorter. The mask was, surprisingly, a must when you were going for high end weapons dealing, so she wasn't surprised when it turned up in the aftermath of Anakin's whirlwind departure. She'd hoped that it had been tied to this — the fairies, this ball, the mask —. If it wasn't, she was going to steal everything that wasn't nailed down and take the mask off so they couldn't catch her. That's when she caught sight of him.
All of him. Multiples. Too many. It was like the Clone Wars up in here.
Breathing was tight in this corset, but it caught in her chest. A painting. It slowly changed from the Anakin she knew to extreme body horror. She watched as a ghostly parody of Vader's mask appeared. Before she knew it, one of her hands had reached out to the portrait, her middle finger delicately touching the paint.
Even as the portrait began to change back in Anakin in his youth, Aphra could feel her blood begin to boil. She turned around and noticed another Anakin with the band, the same transformation. Another on the dance floor. Another serving drinks. Her nostrils flared, and she reached for her blaster — only to remember that it had disappeared when this damn dress had arrived.
Anakin— the real Anakin— had no way to communicate to Aphra or anyone else which one of "him" was the genuine article. The progenitor, if you will. And no matter how much he mentally struggled, he couldn't break out of the magical compulsions guiding his actions.
It was worse in some ways than his childhood enslavement. At least as a child, he could choose his own actions and accept the consequences. He could defy his masters if he was willing to bear the risks of punishment. He had no such control of himself now. He had to assume that the fairies had some safeguard in place, much like his slavers had, to ensure he couldn't escape without severe maiming or death. Of course, he'd have to be able to truly do anything to put that to the test.
He found he had some limited ability to communicate up to a point. Trying to say anything like "it's me" was useless; the other Anakins would simultaneously voice the same in whichever of his voices they currently had. They spoke independently when he didn't futilely try to reveal himself. Unfortunately, they all seemed to share his knowledge of himself, and spoke as if they were him. Or one of him.
His mind and body kept slipping away from him. The magic that kept him acting as the fairies willed seemed to suppress expressing the pain he'd find himself in when he shifted into his burnt state, perhaps because the agonized moaning and screaming would spoil the party, but it didn't suppress feeling it over and over. He slipped into the dark side's seething rage, and into a cold controlled fury, and back to his less dark youthful frustration. He was healthy and nearly whole; he was burnt but clinging to life with his hate; he no longer had his petty physical needs managed by what was left of his own body.
Vader's voice offering her something from his tray was absurd enough that Aphra almost laughed. Almost. Instead of taking something from it, she grabbed the whole tray. How could they make Darth Vader carry food. "You know, you should all be very, very afraid." She wasn't exactly talking to Vader or the Anakin so much as any fairy who might be listening. "You have no idea who you've kriffed with. I'm gonna make you all pay for this."
This was confusing, which was exactly what the fairies wanted. They wanted everyone confused about which one was which so you couldn't just take one and run. Aphra sighed; fair enough because at this rate, she'd just grab each of them, including the painting, and run. Instead, she yanked the hand of the Anakin and pulled him toward her. She peered into his face, hoping she'd see something, recognition.
The Anakin she'd grabbed smiled, but in a forced sort of way that didn't reach his eyes, and tried to move into a dance step. It was tricky with a tray in Aphra's other hand. The Vader looked at his own hands for a moment before a fresh tray helpfully appeared.
Anakin was very pleased by her threats, but thanking someone for threatening their "hosts" wasn't coming out.
"Who are they kriffing with?" the dance partner asked.
"If you're really Anakin Skywalker," Aphra answered in a huff before jabbing her heeled shoe down on her dance partner's foot, "then you'd already know. I never said yes to a dance. Learn some manners."
She really, really hoped she hadn't just stepped on the real Anakin's feet.
The dance partner winced briefly, before conveniently shifting into having a prosthetic foot. "I know who you are, but tell it to them. Aren't you going to introduce yourself? Learn some manners."
Aphra rolled her eyes. She hated species who liked to play stupid games, but only because it usually meant she got screwed out of whatever booty she was looking for. She groaned annoyedly then tossed the tray over her shoulder before holding out her hands for a dance. Her feet automatically moved into some sort of position she didn't even know she was supposed to start.
"I'm Dr. Aphra, rogue archaeologist and purveyor of rare antiquities and goods." She paused, then blurted out. "Some might call me a weapons dealer. That's probably a better way of putting it, especially since I use my degree to ramp up my pricing. If it's officially historical, it fetches way more of a price."
Some of the Anakins watched the tray and its contents as they hurled through the air. The dance partner smiled blandly and took both hands in his metal ones and started the dance steps.
"You make deals, too. And sometimes people fail to understand your terms."
Aphra frowned. Was this what they meant by secrets upended? That you sort of felt like you should tell the truth when you were asked a question? Or was it just because he still seemed like Anakin to her? Were they forcing him to speak like this? Her feet fell into a dance she didn't know, but her feet seemed to know exactly what to do.
"That really only happens when poodoo gets out of hand. I wouldn't be a very good weapons dealer if I didn't actually deliver most of the time. I'm a dealer, not a swindler."
"And what is the distinction?" He lifted their arms to twirl her under them. "It's very important to keep your word when you're making deals. Break faith, and you may get your neck broken."
As he drew her face-to-face and up close, his appearance abruptly shifted, yellow-eyed and almost snarling. "You're a liar."
"Everyone lies," Aphra replied flatly. She was lucky she had so much experience at controlling her emotions around a wide swath of people. She could play the devil-may-care arms dealer at a moment's notice. Even if she had a hard time looking at him like this. "That includes me. It also includes Anakin and fairies and every sentient being under the stars."
She was ready to cut and run from this dance. Maybe she could find another Anakin and figure out which one was really him. Her throat bobbed when she swallowed hard, the only thing giving away how anxious she was in this situation. "Where are you, Anakin?"
"I'm here," they all spoke as one. "Can't you tell?"
The one dancing with her flung her out into a spin away from him and towards one of the Vaders, looming above her with his height and presence. His mask flickered and showed his scarred face underneath.
"If you are a dealer," he said, holding a gloved hand out to her, "what are you offering?"
Vader's mask, the height, the looming... For a brief moment, she was back in that airlock, waiting for him to push the button. That fear hadn't been faked; she really didn't want to die in the middle of space like that. It gave her the opportunity to try and save her life, but it was cold and unfeeling, and she was terrified of it. Her expression twitched.
"Pay attention," Aphra sighed with a roll of her eyes, her head tilted with it. "I sell arms. Like the one you're wearing right now. All kinds of arms. Skinny arms, fat arms, robot arms, Rancor arms. Arms dealer. Get it?"
"Most amusing." His voice was flat and deep. The expressionless mask tilted thoughtfully to one side.
"Which of your arms are you offering?" The extended hand reached out for her right arm, the same side as the one she'd helped Anakin tweak and upgrade. "Or do you mean to take someone else's?"
"That's the thing. I need my arms to be able to fix the arms. I trade other arms." She didn't really like the way this conversation was going. She knew he knew she meant weapons dealer. She'd already said it. This was just more word play to try and trick her. Maybe even try to get her to make a deal. "Mostly robotics. How'd you like that one you're using right now? That's my handiwork."
Anakin liked the arm very much, but he was across the room where he couldn't tell her that. At least the fairy consciousness was speaking through one of his duplicated forms rather than his own body, but he shared an awareness of what was happening to each of them. Some were behaving more or less as if they were him, and some were clearly speaking for the Unseelie instead as they tried out different negotiations on the "guests".
"You have other means of occupying yourself. And these limbs are not your work." The armor faded away, leaving the scarred version of Vader with his four prosthetics exposed. He raised a hand towards her cheek and stared with yellow eyes into hers. "You have another. You even have the means to replace it, and you like these so very much. Maybe even more than flesh. Is your arm worth more to you than another's soul?"
"Here's the thing: I can't change what happens to him — you — whichever one of you is actually him and not some kriffing fairie trying to make me feel bad for my own self preservation. The Galaxy is bullshit, and I may not look it, but I'm every bit as fucked up as he is. Just in different ways." Aphra was tired of answering for herself. She knew it was a flaw, her hubris in her own abilities and the lack of abilities in others.
But she was all she could count on, and it had gotten her this far. Why wouldn't she have pride in that? She saved herself from Darth Vader! How many other people could say that? "My arm for Skywalker? I would make that deal in a heartbeat, but I already know that you're just going to screw me over if I said yes to that deal. I'm not one of the ones with the slips of paper with someone's name on them. My yes means nothing."
Vader's mouth turns up in a smile that pulls at his scars, apparently amused by her insight, but also cruel. "You really care enough to do that. But you would never say it, would you. Even after trying to kill you more than once, you've found it in yourself to have feelings for a man who killed his wife. What happened to self-preservation?"
Aphra's lip curled in automatic disgust. Yeah, yeah, she had feelings for a guy. For a guy who tried to kill her. For a guy who killed a lot of people. "Are you done? I really just want to free the real Anakin — and then he'll probably want help getting his daughter out of here. And then he'll probably want to try and save everyone else, and it'll be this whole thing. And I spent the whole day trying to load myself up with various weapons only to get slapped in this outfit. So seriously, are you done?"
"Help? From you?" Vader sneered. Anakin was inwardly shouting for Aphra not to listen to him, but he couldn't get the words out. "You can't help anyone. You're a traitor. I know you are. You'll betray me again, or you'll run away— just like your father."
Aphra bristled. Not because he was wrong, but because she feared she was right. She'd done it to Sana. She's done it to almost everyone she cared about. She'd run from the one person who loved her unconditionally when she should have stayed and died with her.
But she was not going to let these fucking fairies know that they had gotten to her.
"Yup, you know me so damn well. Already figured out how I can use this situation for myself so if you'll excuse me, I'm planning my latest heist."
Vader bowed deeply in courtly fashion, but his expression was mocking rather than chivalrous. One of the paintings containing an unarmored Vader watched Aphra closely from within the frame to track her.
The real Anakin wanted to scream. Sometimes he had doubts, yes, but he'd learned to better recognize when he was being paranoid and possessive. And sure, in Aphra's case it was grounded in her very real patterns of behavior and prior betrayal of him, but he wasn't going to throw that in her face like the fae double did.
She needed a break from the various forms of Anakin Skywalker. She skirted past a giant tree in the middle of the ballroom and headed toward one of the corridors she assumed would have some sort of refresher in it.
Along the way, however, she decided what she was going to do: steal as much fairy shit as she could.