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Title: After Bespin

Summary: After Bespin, Darth Vader feels empty at his son's rejection and questions his role in Palpatine's Empire. Eventually Luke Vader. Rated T for mild drug abuse, suicidal thoughts.


Life had seemed empty since Bespin. He had offered his son everything, and the boy had chosen death instead. Fortunately, death had not chosen to claim him at that point, and he lived on - a Rebel still, his enemy, but at least he lived. Vader only existed. He had failed at everything he had ever done. Failed as a husband, as a Jedi, now as a father. And as a Sith. He knew he had only a fraction of the strength he should have. He would never have the strength to defeat Sidious, the final test of any Sith apprentice. He merely existed. He led his troops into battle after pointless battle with rebels, and with the inhabitants of systems who would never have considered rebellion if Palpatine's rule had been even slightly less tyrannical. To die in battle, obeying his Master's orders, would at least have some validity. But it seemed the Force was not finished with him yet, it refused to allow him an honourable death.

So he continued to exist. He sighed, it was time for the briefing ahead of the next attempt to impose the Emperor's will on a recalcitrant system. His hands moved over the controls of his suit, in a set of movements that he knew had become too familiar recently. An adjustment here, a changed setting there, and the suit would provide a little something to help his mood, to enliven him for the meeting. It was meant for battle situations of course, an extra edge when even he suffered exhaustion from lack of proper sleep, but now it was the only way to get through the day. And then, at night, when sleep would not come, there were other settings, other little adjustments, which could help with that too. He sighed again, though the vocaliser made no attempt to communicate the sound outside his helmet. It had not been designed for such subtleties of mood. He trudged wearily to the briefing. Perhaps this battle would be the last, though he could not bring himself to lead his men badly. They did not deserve a death caused by their commanding officer's incompetence.


Admiral Piett was surprised to find a visitor in his private office when he returned there, and even more surprised to find it was Dr Hallam, who attended Lord Vader personally.

"I'm not here" was the doctor's first remark.

Piett nodded in reply. Whatever the doctor had to say would stay off the record. This conversation would never have happened.

"It is the duty of medical staff to ensure the captain is aware of any issue which might affect the safety of vessel and crew. I have come to the conclusion that I have to report such a potential issue." He glanced at Piett, who silently nodded again. "You are presumably aware that Lord Vader's suit has facilities to provide him with medication when required. There are a number of systems which regulate his bodily needs, and can inject the necessary doses of medication to maintain normal function. You may or may not also be aware that the suit can provide other medication on-demand - antibiotics, pain killers, stimulants, sedatives..." his eyes met Piett's at those last items.

"I had not really considered the matter, but I suppose it is a practical arrangement" Piett replied cautiously.

"Normally, yes. When there is the occasional need for such medication it is easier to make use of the suit's own facilities. And Lord Vader can administer the medication himself, say in combat situations. However..." He squared his shoulders and clearly determined to continue "however, over the past two to three months, it has become clear that these medications are having to be replenished at a far higher frequency than in the past. And that frequency continues to increase." He looked Piett directly in the face. "In any other case, I would raise such an issue directly with the patient, and with his commanding officer, but in the circumstances I decided it was best to let you know, off the record, so that you are aware of the situation. I do not see that there is any other action I can take."

"I understand. Thank you for making me aware of your concerns"

The doctor left, no doubt glad to have passed the problem on to someone else, and Piett slowly sat down at his desk and lowered his head into his hands. Vader's mood and behaviour had certainly been more erratic than usual of late, but this explanation had never occurred to him. He massaged his temples with his thumbs. Just what the galaxy needed - a Sith Lord with substance abuse issues. And Piett was no more capable of challenging his superior officer on this than the doctor had been. The mood swings were too sudden and too violent to even risk it. In the past, he had prided himself on his ability to judge Lord Vader's temper to a reasonable degree, and his continued service, his continued life, were a silent testimony to his success. But not now. Whatever had happened on Bespin had increased Lord Vader's volatility to new heights, whether that was the cause or the effect of his use of mood-altering chemicals.

Piett wondered yet again at what had happened on Bespin. Lord Vader had not spoken of it, although his plan had clearly failed. He had gone there to capture the rebel pilot, Skywalker, after an increasingly obsessive hunt for the young man, but had returned without him. Also without the rebel leader Organa, who had apparently also been present and a prisoner at some point in the proceedings. Vader had returned empty handed, and now seemed adrift and unable to truly care about his missions. He went through the motions, and others probably did not see the difference. But Piett's careful study of his superior showed him more than others were aware of. Vader was a broken man, and it was anyone's guess what would happen when he finally shattered.


The battle had gone well. Another planet pulled back into line by sheer military might. It would not last, of course, the tight controls applied to the planet would foster more resentment, which would spill over again soon enough. But it was over for now, and he was still alive. Unfortunately. He fell back to brooding on how pointless his entire existence had become, how far he had fallen. His hands moved automatically to the suit controls, then he stopped himself. What was the point of making himself feel a little better for an hour or two? He needed more, and more often now, just to manage an ordinary day. Better to give up on it and go to sleep. The other medication the suit could give would help with that, providing oblivion for a short while at least.

But why only a short while? There were no fail-safes on the suit now. There had been at first, the claustrophobic panic attacks from being trapped inside the suit, unable to breathe freely, to see without filters, to feel warmth or cold or even a breeze on his skin, had prompted the suit technicians to limit all of the available medication. Enough to provide a little help now and then, but in limited doses and frequencies, to keep temptation out of his reach. But after a few years those limitations had no longer been needed, he had accepted the realities of his existence, so when a technical problem had arisen the system had been simplified and the fail-safes removed. He could make as much use of their questionable assistance as he wanted. If he simply kept pressing the controls, the dose would be repeated. Enough sedative would overwhelm his system, even with the life support functions of the suit working to counter it.

He pressed the control, and instantly felt a little calmer. Psychological, no doubt, it was fast-acting but not that fast. He pressed it again, and again, then speeded up the process, worried that he would pass out without increasing the level enough to make it permanent. Over and over until his hand no longer obeyed his mind and he floated free of all concerns.

Then a thought drifted through. He ought to tell the boy. It would doubtless be a relief to know that he would no longer have to watch over his shoulder for a father he didn't want, who had maimed him and tortured his friends. He reached out in the Force, calling to Luke. No reply at first, then a confused response, his son apparently unsure even who was connecting with him.

'I'm sorry. Soon be gone. No more. No more chasing, hunting. Soon gone now. So very sorry. Wish... wish things could have been different'

'Vader?'

'Yes. Want you to know. Sorry. Should have. .. should have been different. Bespin. Sorry. Finished soon.'

'Finished how? What do you mean?' the tone was sharp, mistrustful.

Vader struggled to find words, his attention wandering, and instead sent just the thought, the concept, of medication and sleep, permanent sleep.

'NO! You're not going to do that. Stop it right now!'

That was surprising. Why wasn't the boy happy to be rid of him?

'Vader! Father! Pay attention. What do you need to do to stop this?'

His confusion was deep, why would Luke want him to stop it? But if his son wanted him to stop, then he would do what he could. He leaned across to the comms station, and pressed the button to open a channel. It went straight through to Piett - the last person he had called. He struggled to speak, unsure what to say.

"Lord Vader. How may I assist?" Piett had asked three times now, without getting any reply except for the respirator's regular sounds, then even those were interrupted by a heavy thump and became fainter, as though the mask was now at a distance from the comms panel. On the floor for example.

Piett made an immediate decision, cutting the call and getting through to the medical bay. An emergency team, and Lord Vader's own doctor, were dispatched to his quarters. Piett hurried to meet them there - he had the over-ride codes for the door for use in an emergency. He only hoped they were in time.