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“Your efforts on the front have been exemplary. We may soon see an end to this dreadful conflict, as long as we continue to work together.”
Chancellor Palpatine’s lip curls into a half-smile; his own expression mirrors the statesman’s.
Ease of access to troops, opportunities to exercise raw force, more control: he craves them so desperately, the ends of his fingers tingle. (He swears his mechanical hand does as well.) He is so taken with the prospect; he does not immediately hear the Chancellor’s next words.
“Now – you have voiced your concerns about those on the Jedi Council and I have heard them. Those who control the Temple have lost sight of what this war is; what this galaxy needs. I will need you to help me make them understand my vision.”
There is a pleading tone in the older man’s voice. He cannot do it alone; they must make the Jedi see what they cannot.
It will be a revolution of sorts.
He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. “And what of the Senate? They won’t be easy to persuade either.”
The Chancellor waves a dismissive hand. “I will deal with them. Do not concern yourself with them – they can be swayed.”
He doubts it. The senators he knows are stubborn. He does not argue.
Palpatine rises; he follows suit.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have a tedious diplomats’ dinner to prepare for. I will see you at the end of the week.”
He bows deferentially to the Chancellor and steps out of the office.
The grand entrance hall of the senate building is cooler and he feels as if a wind has blown over him. (He hadn’t noticed how suffocating the Chancellor’s office was.)
A small cluster men and women crowd near the doors to the chamber. One of them steps out of the circle as he approaches.
She cannot suppress her grin as she greets him under her breath, “Anakin, I didn’t know you were back already!”
----------
Lord Vader resents the armor that keeps his lungs full of air and blood pumping through his veins. He resents it because it limits his mobility; because it means he is less than: his body cannot support itself anymore.
(If for nothing else, Kenobi will pay for condemning him to it.)
His body is weak; the Force is not. The Emperor gives him free reign, allows him to do as he pleases. In testing the invisible boundaries the Council placed on the Jedi, Vader finds there are none.
Vader’s first task for the Empire after Mustafar is a familiar sight.
“The Jedi Temple must be dealt with. In its current state, it serves as a reminder to the galaxy of what was. The senate, for the time being, must be perceived as the source of strength.”
Sidious is hunched and decrepit; horrifically scarred by the same war.
“Do not get too carried away.”
Vader goes to the Temple alone.
The place that inspired awe in a boy, stirs up anger and resentment in the man. It is only stone, crumbling to dust and rubble under his newfound power.
----------
Geonosis is a dry vista he does not want to see ever again, but it is where a number of mutinous troops congregate, so it is where he goes.
The stormtroopers at Vader’s back are far more docile than the original clones; more to the Emperor’s liking. The Emperor does not understand; he never fought with them. They were unpredictable, but they were stronger. It is why they band together, ceding their old GAR identification. The stormtroopers will do no such thing.
The rebels hide in the peaks above and the crannies below, sniping at the oncoming army. Others still hold rank and file, and all are better shots than his troops. Stormtroopers drop like flies around Vader. (There are hundreds of thousands where they came from.)
Vader is not concerned about the duration of the battle. The rebels will all die, regardless of length, and he is in no real danger. Blaster shots are easy to deflect and a Force-choke will stop any who gets too close.
These are to be the last battles of the Clone Wars. He will be sure no one forgets that the conflict made Lord Vader legend.
Vader and the stormtroopers are almost upon the largest of rebel battalions. The two armies are close enough to hear shouts over the booms of Imperial guns.
“No need to fears boys, this Vader’s just a Sith! Worst case, I’ll just lose another eye!”
He recognizes the voice – it belongs to the old trooper who went by the name ‘Wolffe’.
The insolence is new.
With swift strides, Vader crosses battle lines. The act is so unprecedented, both armies freeze in shock. Wolffe alone remains unfazed and readies his blaster to fire at Vader’s chest. He is not quick enough.
Vader knocks it from the soldier’s hand and picks him up by the neck, holding him aloft as he returns to the shelter of his own ranks. Stormtroopers cluster around him and resume firing on the rebels. (Let it not be said they do not protect their lord and master.)
Wolffe is still alive, rasping for air when Vader drops him unceremoniously on the ground. When he ignites his lightsaber, the trooper laughs.
“Take the cybernetic one. I’m rather fond of the real one.”
“I will take no such request.”
Wolffe does not scream as the eye is carved out; a stoic message to his men. When the work is done, Vader picks him up by the neck again. A simple wrench of his wrist and the trooper’s neck snaps.
The corpse and removed eye, flung back over to the rebel’s side, are a clear warning.
“This is your end.”
----------
Politicians are egos, without the true power to justify them.
As little as Vader likes his armor, its measured breathing is enough to intimidate a room full of senators into absolutely silence. He does not need to say a word.
On the way to the Emperor’s offices, Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin sweep past a group from the Pantoran delegation exchanging conspiratorial looks with an Alderaanian aide, but say nothing.
The uppermost level of the senate serves as an excellent way to survey goings-on in the city, not by sight, but by sense. It is why Sidious fashioned it into his private rooms.
The Emperor and the Grand Moff sit; Vader watches the planet’s traffic endlessly spin on, as it did in the waning days of the Republic.
“Senator Organa’s continued instance on sending Colton Alde in his stead should not be tolerated anymore, my Lord. Mark my words; he and all of Alderaan are planning a coup.”
The Emperor steeples his fingers thoughtfully. “Let them continue to plan and scheme. One day Senator Organa will falter and bring ruin on the system.”
His comment gives Vader pause. He turns to face his master. Unmasked, Tarkin would see Vader’s disbelief clearly on his face. The Emperor needs no such confirmation.
“You disagree with my decision, Lord Vader?”
“We have dealt with dissenters quickly and efficiently, my Master. Why not make an example of Alderaan now?”
“Grand Moff Tarkin has dealt with those who oppose us efficiently. You, my apprentice, are too fond of dramatic acts of violence.”
The Emperor eyes Vader. The critique does not bother him. He prefers the dramatics – they make him more feared across the galaxy than his master at times.
No, it is the Emperor’s unknowable tone that troubles him.
“And what are we to do in the meantime, my Lord?”
He made his mistake, speaking out of turn, assuming shared responsibility. Tarkin looks smugger than usual. (Where was he when they planned the destruction of the Republic? Still serving it, like the self-preservationist he is.)
The Emperor chuckles.
“We? The Grand Moff is to meet with the Imperial engineers soon. He has a project that will be a great asset to the Empire, should it prove successful. I watch over the senate, as always. You, Lord Vader, will go to Mandalore. The Death Watch is our natural ally. It is time that system was brought into the Imperial fold.”
“Yes, my Master.” Vader turns and leaves.
“Oh, and Lord Vader.”
Vader heels.
“We’ll see to your punishment later.”
Penalty be damned. Grim satisfaction fills his chest cavity.
----------
The Duchess of Mandalore is no longer an obstacle, save to a clumsy stormtrooper who trips over her on their way into the palace.
Pre Vizsla hurries to keep up with the Duchess’s executioner; Vader chooses to ignore him. The glittering receiving hall is filled with scores of men and women of New Mandalore and of Death Watch; the latter with blasters trained at the former.
“Lord Vader, I am the true leader of this system. Death Watch will crush what remains of Satine Kryze’s pretender government. Leave this to me.”
One of the New Mandalorians begins to speak, “Fuck yo –”
Vizsla nods to his soldiers; the man never finishes his thought. Blasters fire; the glass of the palace is splattered red. Vader looks down at the dead man – boy, really. It was a pity for him; he couldn’t save himself, his duchess, or his government.
He looks up to Vizsla, carefully laying his trap.
“I am impressed how quickly you’ve picked up on illegal measures as a means to an end. But the Emperor will not stand for rebellion once you are brought into the Empire, and you have demonstrated you turn on governments easily. You cannot hope to hold Mandalore for him if he cannot trust you.”
Vizsla goes red in the face. “How dare you! My men and I have been fighting tirelessly for years to retake Mandalore, and now this Emperor presumes his own may govern it?”
“You fought pacifists for years and lost. You stand here today but for the grace of the Emperor. He knows his own will rule here because Death Watch will become his own. If not you, someone else.”
Vader anticipates Vizsla igniting the ancient black blade at his belt and the wild swing he takes with it. (Only fools think they can use a lightsaber without training, without truly harnessing the Force.)
He is as quick work as younglings. Vader runs his own red lightsaber through the man’s gut; Vizsla slides off, joining the other countless dead on the floor.
Vader steps towards the throne. “Who will serve as governor of Mandalore on the Emperor’s behalf, Death Watch restored to its rightful place?”
When he sits down, all of Death Watch kneels before him.
----------
For an order supposedly long dead, Jedi are found in all pockets of the galaxy. They lurk in dark corners of bars; hide in plain sight on old Separatist strongholds; eke out pitiful lives on desolate landscapes.
The clever ones would not fight him, but none of them are. They do not want to miss their opportunity.
“You killed my master!” a mirialan cries as she charge towards him.
It is an accusation Vader is used to hearing. He must have killed her master years ago, for she looks far too old to have been a padawan at the end of the Clone Wars. (But then the wars themselves are fading to a distant memory.)
Vader catches the weight of her blow with his own lightsaber and takes two steps back.
Blades hissing, he taunts, “I am sure I did kill your master, but you loved your master, didn’t you?”
Tears form in her eyes and he knows he has won. The blades slip free of each other and she aims for his head; he blocks with another parry. In her frustration and despair, her technique becomes sloppy and unpracticed.
Despite her lack of control, he relishes the odd chances to duel another. It is the only challenge left.
Vader does not toy with her for long and soon the Jedi is backed up against a wall; breathing shallow and rapid; the end of his blade inches from her face.
“The Jedi were not supposed to love; to form attachments. You loved your master and you have failed. The Jedi failed because they refused to bend. You cared for your master and sought me out for revenge, when you could have lived – lived by your beloved Jedi code.”
He is not taunting now. It is simple fact. Like the many before her, she remembers. They all think they remember they are not supposed to seek revenge.
No. What they actually remember is that he is Vader, his master is Sidious, and the galaxy has no place for their kind any more.
She goes quietly. Another remnant gone, but not the one he seeks. Jedi cannot have revenge in their hearts; Sith can.
One day, he will find Kenobi; Kenobi will stop running from him. Kenobi will remember who he is and it will be over.
----------
The new faction of rebels sprung from the galaxy are laughably under-funded (if Lord Vader laughed), but they have friends in high places.
“We will put their friends to the screws and see how fast they fall,” Tarkin quips.
The Empire makes enemies readily, but at least in the days of the Separatists versus the Republic, one had a challenge. The thrill of the chase gone; the Empire’s innovation makes war too easy. (Vader thinks age and cynicism have finally caught up with him.)
No innovation outstrips Tarkin’s beloved Death Star. He constantly sings its praises, grateful the Emperor had the foresight to invest in such a war machine.
Vader remains silent. The arrogance irritates him, but he will not alienate the only man outside of the Emperor who allows his violent streak. If the Emperor replaces him, there is no guarantee a successor will tolerate the mess.
Vader, Tarkin, the Emperor: they hang together in an uneasy trifecta, heading in three different directions to the same end.
Tarkin’s officers are worse. Newly-minted commanders and admirals, who have not seen a day of combat, think that because the Jedi are dead, the Force is dead. They learn quickly enough it is not, several feet from the ground.
He does not kill them; Tarkin would make him file a report.
He spots old Admiral Yularen in the halls one day. He nods, acknowledging the admiral, acknowledging that Tarkin has finally brought someone competent onto the space station. Yularen nods back, no recognition in his eyes.
Mind tricks and manipulation are not preferred methods of extracting information on the Death Star. New serums are developed.
“Another foresight of the Emperor,” says Tarkin. Vader doubts their effectiveness, but this is not his command.
(He longs for the bridge of the Executioner, but stays where he is told.)
He is surprised by what he hears when he is summoned to Tarkin’s office. The Grand Moff reclines in his seat, tapping the needle thoughtfully.
“I want you to do what you can with your, ah, abilities to extract the intel from the prisoner – using my techniques as well.”
Vader does not respond; simply crosses his arms. There must be a catch. Tarkin has never let him truly exercise the Force on the Death Star.
Eyebrow raised, “I will take no chances with this one. This is a matter of quashing the rebellion before it gets out of hand.”
If only they’d let him do his work years before, then there would be nothing to ‘get out of hand’. Perhaps it is reconciliation of sorts.
Tarkin smirks as he finishes, “Let us see what the second Senator Organa is made of.”
----------
He had been overzealous; his first mistake.
He hadn’t meant to take the boy’s hand off.
Vader stretches his own out. It is the boy’s first chance; Vader’s last. (Why can’t he see? Sidious will be nothing next to them.)
Luke looks at him with a hard clarity and – lets go. He does not break eye contact.
Vader feels something snap within him. It is not rage or anger, his only friends these many years. It is an utterly forgotten emotion: sorrow.
Anakin Skywalker’s – his – son does not want him.
Kenobi kept them apart; the Force was supposed to bring them together. Now he knows not even that will give him his son.
His armor is unbelievably heavy; heavier than when he first donned it. Bespin’s winds whip his cape all around him. Would that he could tear it all off.
“You are not a Jedi yet,” he taunted.
Jedi chose death over Vader. In coming days, he lies to himself and says Luke chose death over the truth, but he knows it is not so.
He remains on the ledge after Luke is gone from his sight, gathers himself, and turns to leave.
Calrissian must be dealt with; Organa and the wookiee, shipped back to Coruscant.
He must report back to the Emperor: Skywalker is no longer an option.
----------
Luke is as susceptible to emotionalism as he used to be. His son’s thoughts race frantically, as easy to read as an open book. Any fool could tell he fears desperately for his friends, Force or no.
And yet, his thoughts constantly return to…
Not just a son, a daughter.
Although it is has been years since anything remotely close to it has happened, Vader feels as if he is doused in ice-cold water.
The boy pilot from Tatooine, the girl senator from Alderaan; both his. (No wonder she withstood his torture twice.)
He feels a fury build within him such as he has never felt before, but he keeps his tone level. Neither Luke nor the Emperor can know how far he’s slipped.
He is furious at Kenobi and the woman for hiding them, for denying him his children. Despite what he says now to Luke, he knows as long as the Emperor rules, neither Luke nor Leia will join him. He hates his master for it.
Above all, he hates himself. As long as Vader lives, his children do not want him. He brought this terrible truth down on himself.
In seconds, the life he built crumbles underneath him.
Whatever Vader’s rage, it is outmatched by Luke’s. Love and a need for revenge will be his undoing, as it was for countless who fought Vader before him.
But Vader no longer stands on certainty as he once did. He staggers under Luke’s blows, each less painful than the thoughts that crowd his head. The same madness that took him all those long years ago floods his son’s every fiber, stronger than anything Vader can muster.
Don’t – don’t become me.
He does not feel his arm severing. (It’s only wires.)
He is finally beaten. It will be fitting to die at the hands of his son after all this.
“But then Sidious will win,” an unfamiliar voice protests in the back of his mind.
Luke pulls back.
Dimly, he hears Luke speak in a tone of dead certainty, there is no doubt in Anakin’s – no, Vader’s – mind Luke is his parents’ son.
The Emperor has had enough. He’s stood at the man’s side long enough to know when Sidious is done trifling. The lightening is reserved for those who have defied his will in the worst possible ways.
“You have to save him,” says the voice as he staggers up.
His head spins so badly he is not seeing straight – or maybe his suit is failing him one last time. His legs barely hold up his weight. Luke’s screams and pleas overwhelm him.
The Emperor pauses, looking down at Luke with a detached curiosity, then resumes.
“You have to save him,” the voice repeats, so unlike the one his suit generates for him.
He looks from the Emperor to his son, and the hole in his chest he long swore was empty overflows.
Luke loves him.
Luke will save him, but he has to save Luke first.
Summoning every last ounce of strength he has, he lifts the Emperor over his head. The lightening short circuits his life support, but he still has the energy to throw him down the reactor shaft.
It is done. He staggers and falls backwards, but Luke catches him.
The armor isn’t doing its work anymore, but he doesn’t need it.
Anakin Skywalker breathes on his own.