Star Wars: Rebellion
Copyright© 2025 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 2: First Blood
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2: First Blood - Written over ten years ago, edited and maxed out and a somewhat complete story, based on Starkiller. Instead of Galen, its James, of course. Enjoy. This one is not edited, my editor is helping me edit New World.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mind Control Fan Fiction GameLit Science Fiction Aliens DoOver Extra Sensory Perception
The Rogue Shadow’s cockpit fell silent after the jump to hyperspace, the blue-white tunnel outside casting shifting light across the consoles. James sat in the copilot’s chair, still streaked with dried blood and sweat, ribs aching beneath his torn tunic. Juno remained at the helm, posture rigid, blonde hair catching the hyperspace glow as she monitored readouts. PROXY stood motionless between them in the rear jump seat, photoreceptors dim.
Neither human spoke. James watched the droid warily, arms crossed, while Juno stole occasional glances over her shoulder. Tension hung thick in the recycled air—anticipation mixed with the lingering adrenaline of Nar Shaddaa.
PROXY’s chassis whirred softly. Holographic projectors flickered to life, distorting the air around him. Metal plating shimmered and dissolved into weathered brown robes. Broad shoulders filled out beneath scarred metal pauldrons; a strong, broken nose took shape beneath deeply recessed, milky eyes. High cheekbones and battle-worn skin materialized last, until General Rahm Kota’s grim visage stared back at them from the droid’s frame.
James and Juno sat frozen, eyes fixed on the perfect likeness of the Jedi they had just fought—bloodied, defiant, very much alive in projection. The cockpit lights reflected in those blind yet piercing eyes, and for a long moment, no one moved.
“According to official Imperial records,” PROXY said in a deep, commanding voice that was nothing like his own, “Jedi Master Rahm Kota was a respected general in the Clone Wars. Master Kota was a military genius, but did not believe that the clone soldiers were fit for battle. Instead he relied on a small squad of his own personally trained troops. It’s the only thing that kept him from being executed when the Emperor discovered the Jedi’s plot against the Republic.”
Juno nodded, her blonde hair catching the dim cockpit lights, the tight fabric of her uniform shifting over the generous swell of her breasts. “There were no clones in his squad to bring him to justice.”
“Exactly, Captain Eclipse. After Order 66, he vanished. Imperial records actually claim he’s dead.”
“So why come out of hiding and attack the Empire now?”
James had been considering that very question himself, leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes occasionally drifting to the way Juno’s trousers stretched across her hips and the pronounced curve of her mons as she adjusted in the pilot’s seat. “Kota wants to be found.”
“Then we are walking into a trap.”
‘It’s a trap,’ James thought with a wry smile, the famous line echoing amusingly in his mind amid the hum of the ship.
“It certainly seems that way,” James said with a nod. “But this is probably what Vader meant when he said to me I need real world applications, not just living on board a ship. At least here, I can test my abilities to my fullest extent. No bars hold.”
James smiled, a predatory glint in his eye that made the cockpit feel smaller.
“Should be fun.”
Juno looked at him and he smiled at her, holding her gaze a fraction longer than necessary, letting his appreciation show as he took in the firm outline of her nipples pressing faintly against her tunic in the recycled air.
“To Nar Shaddaa.”
Juno nodded, and started inputting calculations. Her fingers danced across the console with precision, the motion causing her chest to rise and fall in a rhythm that drew James’s attention again. She flew the ship out of the docking bay and once she was clear she pulled the lever backwards, and the stars ahead turned into streaks and the familiar unreal tunnel opened up around the ship. With a well-tuned whine, the Rogue Shadow and its passengers rocketed into hyperspace.
Now was the moment of truth.
Now would prove whether James was ready or not. He retreated to the meditation chamber, sinking into a light trance to center himself, the dark side coiling eagerly within him like a living thing. Images flickered behind his closed eyes: Vader’s armored silhouette, the crimson blade in his hand, the promise of power. Yet beneath it all lurked the thrill of impending violence, the chance to finally unleash everything he had trained for in sterile simulators and private hangars.
He received the message that they had arrived and James came out of his trance. He got up, stretched, feeling the satisfying pop of joints and the hum of dark energy thrumming through his limbs, and headed towards the cockpit.
James walked into the cockpit and watched as the ship sailed past the new TIE fighter manufacturing facility in the planet’s upper atmosphere. He could make out lines of traffic billowing in and out of the Smuggler’s Moon—shuttles, freighters, smugglers’ yachts weaving through the chaos like schools of metallic fish. Juno’s fingers moved over the controls, expertly guiding their course through the congested lanes. He had to admit the pretty blonde was good at what she did; her focus was absolute, yet the subtle shift of her body in the seat only accentuated the tight pull of fabric across her ass and the inviting swell between her thighs.
The starfighter facility was much larger than it had seemed from a distance, looking like a stack of round plates hanging high above the Vertical City, tethered by massive durasteel cables that glinted in Nar Shaddaa’s perpetual neon glow. What he had assumed were lights flashing across its irregular surface resolved into explosions when viewed from a nearer perspective. Vast balls of yellow-hot gas erupted at irregular intervals from shattered viewports, weakened bulkheads, and burst access tubes. Debris spiraled away into the void—twisted metal, frozen bodies of workers caught in the crossfire, fragments of half-assembled TIEs tumbling end over end.
“The shipyard’s sustained heavy damage,” Juno said matter-of-factly as she looked for a place to dock, weaving the Rogue Shadow through plumes of venting atmosphere and stray blaster fire. James nodded quietly. He reached out with the Force, letting it guide him as he sought out the General, probing the chaotic swirl of life signs below, but wasn’t able to pick up on anything distinct. “What’s wrong?”
He frowned, not being able to pick up on any Force spikes. Of course—the perfect place to hide, which made sense. Nar Shaddaa’s teeming billions created a roaring ocean of emotion and life force, drowning out any single signature. Like looking for a needle in a haystack.
“Too many people here,” James said, his eyes blinking open. “That’s why the General chose it. It’s easy for a Jedi to get lost here.”
“Why?”
“So much life,” he smiled, though the expression held no warmth. “So much Force energy that Vader, if he came here, would have to go down to the planet. Kota was forcing Vader into a fight, hoping he could best my master.”
She flicked her eyes in front and back at him. “Then how do you expect to find him?”
“Can you hack the Imperial records?”
Juno’s eyes lit up as she got to work, fingers flying across the console with practiced speed. “Reports are showing that Kota’s forces have stormed the command bridge.”
“That’s how I intend to find him.”
Juno eased the Rogue Shadow into a shadowed docking alcove amid the chaos of fleeing shuttles and burning debris fields. James slipped out the ramp the moment it touched down, vanishing into the neon-drenched haze without a backward glance.
Using the Force, James let it guide his feet as he sprinted across rooftops, vaulted gaping chasms between towering spires, and leaped impossible distances through the neon-lit haze of Nar Shaddaa’s upper levels. Wind whipped at his black tunic; the stench of ozone, spice, and blood filled his lungs. He reached the massive starfighter assembly rig—a colossal stack of circular platforms scarred by fresh battle—and infiltrated it swiftly, cloaking his presence from patrolling stormtroopers with subtle mind tricks and silent takedowns: a choked throat here, a snapped neck there, bodies left crumpled in shadowed corners.
A squad of six militia insurgents spotted him on an exposed gantry high above the smoldering cityscape. Hardened veterans in mismatched armor, faces etched with desperate fury, they raised blasters and unleashed a storm of crimson bolts that scorched the air. James twisted mid-air, body contorting in ways no unaugmented human could manage—spine arching impossibly, limbs blurring. He landed amid them like a predator among prey. His lightsaber remained sheathed; raw violence would suffice.
He struck with the hilt—crushing wrists, shattering elbows, caving in helmets. Bone snapped audibly as limbs bent at unnatural angles. One man screamed as his forearm folded backward, radius and ulna protruding through torn flesh in bloody spikes that sprayed arterial crimson across the gantry. Another took a knee to the chest; ribs caved inward with wet cracks, puncturing lungs in a froth of blood.
James channeled azure lightning into the disarmed group. Arcs danced across armored chests, cooking flesh beneath plastoid until skin blackened and split. Bodies convulsed, limbs jerking spasmodically before collapsing in smoking heaps—some still twitching, others with charred stumps where hands had fused to melted rifles, the stench of burned meat thick in the recycled air.
He stepped over the broken forms, boots squelching in pooling blood that dripped through grating to rain down on lower levels, and approached massive blast doors. With a casual flick of one finger, durasteel groaned and parted, servos screaming in protest.
Beyond lay the command center: a long, elevated walkway leading to a raised dais where General Rahm Kota stood with his back turned, deliberate in its arrogance. His lightsaber remained sheathed across his back beneath a weathered brown cloak. Metal pauldrons gleamed dully over broad shoulders scarred by decades of war—burns, blade cuts, shrapnel gouges earned across a hundred battlefields.
“So I’ve finally drawn you out of hiding.” He turned at last, voice a gravel rasp thick with righteous fury. “I ordered my men to lower the containment field on your approach and...”
On seeing the apprentice he stopped midsentence and looked visibly surprised—then the surprise curdled into raw, incandescent rage. Scarred features twisted, blind eyes narrowing beneath heavy brows as if he could still glare daggers through milky film.
“A boy?” The words exploded from him like a curse, dripping contempt and disbelief. With one blindingly fast movement, the lightsaber was in his hand and lit, emerald blade humming with lethal promise. “After all these months of attacking Imperial targets, Vader sends a boy to fight me?”
“I’m more than a boy,” James spat, dark energy crackling around his clenched fists. “I’m Vader’s apprentice.”
James unleashed a storm of forked lightning—pure, sizzling hatred that clawed through the air in dazzling azure arcs. Kota angled his blade casually, absorbing the energy into the green shaft, but his face contorted further into a mask of furious scorn. He threw his head back and laughed—a harsh, bitter bark that echoed off blood-spattered bulkheads, laced with decades of pent-up loathing for the Empire and everything it had birthed.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, boy.”
James ignited his crimson saber with a snap-hiss, grinned ferally, and charged across the command center’s walkway. Blades met in a shower of sparks, screeching as they ground together, the impact vibrating up James’s arms like a seismic quake.
“I was fighting Sith Lords when you were but a gleam in your mother’s eyes.”
James grimaced and pushed forward, muscles straining against Kota’s unyielding stance, the Jedi’s tank-like frame absorbing the force without budging an inch. Then he stepped back, angling his blade low, crimson glow casting bloody shadows on the deck. He raised his left hand in a taunting “come here” gesture. Kota maintained perfect form—dominant foot back, blade vertical on his strong side, minimizing target profile, his scarred body a fortress of resilience honed from countless wars.
“I see you’ve at least had some mediocre training.”
“I was trained by the best.”
Kota laughed, the sound booming like thunder from his broad chest. “I was unaware I trained you.”