Disclaimer: George Lucas is the owner of the sandbox called Star Wars. I'm just playing in it.
Author Note: To eliminate the steady stream of plot bunnies that continue to infest my mind, I've decided to create a series of drabbles that will, hopefully, increase the amount of free space in this head of mine. (If you have any requests, just message me)
One day in the middle of a war that she could have never imagined, Jaina Solo will look across the hangar and count the number of pilots left with seven fingers. She won't be surprised at all because her ears are still ringing from the screams that had erupted out of her comm system but the sight will still leave her standing there as vocal as a mute.
A lifetime later, she'll turn to her battered X-wing, trail her eyes past the pock marks hammered into the transparisteel cockpit, past the hole that's eating away at that twelve ship crest, past the still simmering scar that stretches from the landing gear to the astromech socket and gaze at the spot just above the ship's lower port wing and see only the rushing wind of hyperspace.
It's then that she knows that this war will kill her.
She hopes her father can forgive her.
Ironically enough, the man who would become Supreme Chancellor originally started out as a simple boy on a small, insignificant planet with a dream and a passion.
He wanted to be a sculptor, he'd say to anyone who would ask- much to the chagrin of his parents who had been hoping that someone in the family would finally secure a place in the political scene. While all the other children were busy volunteering in various charity organizations, prancing about with their friends or--Force forbid--actually working, anyone burdened with the disease called curiosity could find him in his own little studio peeling away the stone with a practiced eye and an undersized vibroblade.
For days on end he'd eat, sleep and work in there, slowly but surely revealing painfully exquisite masterpieces of fictional gods, ancient heroes, and modern day politicians. And at the end of each project he would back right up to the walls and just stare as if he'd only recently been cured of blindness.
Each time he'd end up looking away with the unmistakable air of someone who had climbed a mountain only to find that that the clouds have come in and all anyone can see is bottomless gray.
His mother, who rather prided herself on her ability to detect even the slightest wrinkle in his disposition, asked the young Palpatine why he toiled away at such projects when he could be doing other things, more enjoyable things--like politics for example.
He turned his head toward and his face looked torn between annoyance or surprise. He paused for a moment, drawing breath into his still developing lungs and looked her straight in the eye and said this.
I sculpt so that I can understand the essence that made those people so unique…so worth remembering but…
He looked away.
… everytime that I capture their essence I find that they are just like you and father and are but simple creatures with even simpler needs that managed to be remembered by virtue of being in the right place at the right time.
It makes me sick.
She never asked him about his hobby again.