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Electricity lit up his veins like fireworks.
“You in there?”
It took Luke several moments to realize that he was screaming. After several more, he realized his fingernails had cut bloody half-moons into his palms.
The shock stopped. Luke collapsed to the cold duracrete floor, boneless.
“Seems like it. But I’m not totally sure. Maybe if our little Jedi bird sang, I could say for certain.”
Luke couldn’t muster up the energy for hatred. He couldn’t even bring himself to glare.
The electrostaff poked him and he flinched hard enough to smack his hand against the wall. The staff was inert—no shock. Still, his heart pounded disjointedly, his skin hot as if he had been shocked.
“Don’t make me turn it back on, Jedi. I’m not a patient man.”
“Go,” Luke wheezed, “to. Hell.”
He could hear the smile in the man’s voice. “There we go! A nice little proof of life for daddy.”
Panic froze Luke.
His father?
This was because of his father?
The stump where his hand used to be burned.
His mind spun. Had Vader ordered this? Ordered him captured, tortured?
No. He’d said proof of life. Vader didn’t know he was here. Yet. Or didn’t want him here. Or something. It was hard to think when his brain felt so shaken.
“Say it again, so I can get a nice recording.”
It took too long for Luke’s brain to process what the man said.
“Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhggggggg!” Luke’s scream turned into gurgling as he convulsed. An eternity of fire consumed him, then dropped him like a hot stone.
He panted, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Eh, close enough.” Tapping on a screen. “Sent. Let’s see how high a price he’s willing to pay for you. If not your father, there’s plenty of other interested parties. Ha haaa, picking through that crash for scrap was the greatest decision I ever made!”
Luke heard the man walk away, whistling. As soon as the sound of his footsteps were gone, Luke screamed again, until his vocal cords gave out, and the walls were shaking.
---------------------------------
“Milord, if you’re not interested, it’s no trouble to me—”
Luke was dazed. He kept blinking. His eyes weren’t working right, or his brain wasn’t—something. Something was wrong with him. His skin tingled like little bugs were crawling all over it, an army of them pacing, and he felt hot. But he couldn’t figure out why.
“I did not say that,” someone ground out. A modulated voice. Damaged vocal box—Luke itched to get his fingers on it. He couldn’t think super well, but he didn’t need to think that much to fix mechanics. They just…came together in his hands. That sounded nice.
It sounded a hell of a lot better than whatever was going on now.
“I have stated my price. I will accept no less.”
There was a Twi’lek man standing over him. Teal. A chunk missing from one of his lekku, long healed. The man wore tattered brown clothes, expertly sewn together.
Luke couldn’t put together why he was here, though.
“And I have stated mine.”
“Milord, I can’t simply hand him over for nothing! ” The Twi’lek sounded affronted. And like he was smiling. “If you don’t have the credits, I understand…I also understand that you’re the second in command of the Empire.” He let that hang. The modulated voice did not reply, although Luke realized that his hands were bound, and began experimentally trying to separate them. “I would be willing to accept a trade in lieu of credits. A…position as a Moff, for example.”
“I will not give you a Moffship.”
The Twi’lek man laughed. “You are terrible at negotiating! Milord,” he tacked on hurriedly. “I’m just saying, you clearly want Skywalker. Others do as well. You understand why I can’t just give him to you.”
That sounded…bad. Negotiating for him? Like some kind of slave?
No.
I’m freeborn.
Prisoner. Yes. Just a prisoner. Prisoners could escape, with no shadow on their soul. Prisoners were kept, not owned. Prisoners got released.
Or broke out.
…he needed to break out.
The Force was there when Luke reached for it, and it sharped his senses. Somewhat. He couldn’t stifle a groan as pain spiked in his entire body, especially loud in his torso. The weight of attention from the two arguing over him was something physical he had to push away.
“Luke,” the modulated voice said.
“Neither,” Luke gritted out, “of you. Own me.” He struggled to his feet, using his bound hands as support against a cold durasteel wall. He looked around. There was a holoprojector glowing blue, with the small image of a man in armor. With a jolt, Luke realized that the armored man was Vader.
Father…
His cheeks flushed in rage and hurt. His heart beat out of rhythm again and he groaned, clutching his chest, but quickly returned his glare to the small form of Darth Vader. He refused to show weakness. Not if his father had…ordered, or…allowed this to happen. Not if his father was attempting to purchase him.
A cold, questing hand reached out for him in the Force and Luke slapped it away.
“Neither of you,” he said again, “own me.”
“Listen Skywalker, the adults are—”
The Twi’lek lunged for Luke with the electrostaff again, and Luke grabbed him with the Force and held him in place. Luke loomed over him, body aching, that terrible tingling still marching ceaselessly up and down his limbs and torso. His bound hands hung in front of him.
“Neither,” he repeated, seemingly unable to say anything else. “Neither. Neither of you—”
The Twi’lek’s eyes were wide. The Force swam with fear—and cautious excitement.
Luke whirled to face the projector. “Neither of you!” His prosthetic hand burned with memory.
The holoprojector crumpled from a foot away. The Twi’lek whimpered.
“Y—you’re supposed to be a Jedi,” the man croaked.
Luke screamed.
Not like your father. Like my father. Not like your father. Like my father. Not like your father. LIKE MY FATHER.
He would never escape.
He was lightyears away from Tatooine and he would never escape the shadow of his terrible father.
He’s just like his father, when Luke tried to run away for the first time, Owen disappointed in him for trying to be like the dead spice navigator Luke had been told about.
Much anger in him, like his father, when Luke was impatient on Dagobah and begging Yoda to teach him.
Be a Jedi, be a Jedi, no one ever said it but everyone thought it, Luke could see it in everyone’s shining eyes when they looked at him on base. He ran away to his X-wing just to escape the hero-worship sometimes, especially now that he knew what his “Jedi” father had become.
The Jedi were dead. Obi-Wan was dead, and Yoda was dying, Luke could feel it. He didn’t know what a Jedi was, just legends and lies and—and—
He hurt. Body and soul. He hurt and he couldn’t think and it was all just too much.
He didn’t notice his grip on the Twi’lek loosening.
Didn’t notice the man shifting the tip of the electrostaff.
Didn’t notice his thumb sliding up to the activation switch.
Luke’s body lit up again, and he was gone before he could notice that he was screaming loud enough to tear his throat.