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Fighting is not as tiring, anymore.
There are no muscles to turn sour in his legs and arms. There is no strategic waiting to be done. There are no hordes of hundreds—if not thousands—of enemies waiting on every other planet.
In fact, most of Vader’s opponents run as soon as they hear his breathing regulator. He merely needs to block their path and sense the fear in the air as he approaches. As they realize that they are trapped; that they are breathing, but dead already.
The red of his lightsaber is the last thing they see.
Other times, his stormtroopers will be waiting for them on the other side, and Vader does not need to do anything at all as their yells peter out with the thunder of blasterfire.
It is different from the Clone Wars. And yet one thing remains the same: he is exhausted after every mission.
He is left tired and aching and angry in his quarters on his flagship.
Today’s operation on some backwater planet in the Outer Rim has left him frustrated, and so he tears through the training droids that usually remain powered down in the corner. It is laughingly easy to obliterate them.
It leaves him, somehow, even more annoyed.
His body burns underneath the weight of his suit. It is almost as though he is back on Mustafar.
With no real purpose, he wanders back to the corner where he’d gotten the droids, which are by now destroyed. The corner looks empty now, only a ratty cabinet remaining. He shoves one of the drawers open with the Force, finding only discarded piles of flimsiwork.
But in the second drawer sits a holopad. He cannot quite recall when he had used it, but it looks to be from before the Empire. It is vaguely familiar to him.
Curiosity sparks beneath his lasting anger.
And, despite knowing that his Master would disapprove, Vader sets the pad down on the cabinet and activates it. A recording presents itself, the labels indicating that no one had opened the file before. It must have been sent to the pad just before it had been lost in the drawer.
He does not allow himself to hesitate and presses play.
A crackle sounds from the video, and the first image is that of a floor.
Then, a voice causes Vader to freeze.
“Oh, come help me, would you?” Obi-Wan Kenobi speaks, and the camera is jostled roughly, still pointed to the ground. “I can never seem to operate these things.” His voice is almost unfamiliar, it is so youthful.
Before Vader has even begun to consider shutting the device off, another voice pipes up.
“You’re getting old, Master!”
It is his own voice. Anakin Skywalker’s. He sounds younger, too.
Vader swallows, his breaths growing heavier.
The camera swings toward a little boy with blonde hair. A padawan braid hangs at his shoulder and his smile is as bright as the sun. It is Anakin, at what looks like ten or eleven years old.
Obi-Wan, from behind the camera, tuts. “What did I tell you about being polite, Padawan?”
Vader, with a heavy heart, watches his younger self shrug and grin smugly. “I called you Master, didn’t I?”
“Very funny.” Obi-Wan sighs audibly. “Whenever did you become so snarky?”
“Quinlan says I get it from you!”
“Master Vos,” Obi-Wan corrects pointedly, “clearly has no idea what he is speaking of.”
“He said you would say something like that,” the younger Anakin laughs. It is childlike: high and loud.
The camera turns toward the floor again, and there are a few loud clicks and snaps. Abruptly, the image zooms in and out a few times. “What’re you doing, Obi? You’ll ruin the poor camera.”
“I am trying to get this foolish thing to comply!”
“Here, lemme.” The recording shakes in what must have been a transfer. The image soon turns back to normal and it is then pointed back up, now showing a young Obi-Wan. The low angle is wonky and awkward from the height difference.
Obi-Wan's hair is at a bit of an odd length. Vader remembers he had been trying to grow it out. Like Qui-Gon.
Vader almost flinches at the sight.
The Jedi smiles, uncomfortable, at the lens. “Here, return it to me. I will record your training to review together later.”
“That’s boring,” Anakin whines.
“It will be helpful to improve your form, young one,” Obi-Wan insists, crossing his arms. His robes fold with the motion.
Anakin huffs, the camera sagging a little. “I’m not young,” he mutters.
And the fond smile that breaks across Obi-Wan’s face then is too much. Vader stops the recording, staring at the frozen image as his heart pounds.
Eventually, he shuts it off and shoves it into the drawer.
He does not look back.
But it stays there.