Revolution

A/N: When I wrote Cries, I realized how much I like writing about young Luke and Leia.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to 'ole George Lucas. Not me

He tapped his pencil on his desk. It started slowly at first, and then it grew louder, faster. He couldn't take it. He could never take such lessons in school – History class was his least favorite.

He'd heard his uncle and his aunt argue over whether to finally send him to public school – Beru agreed, Owen opposed. "He shouldn't know," Uncle had said, or rather yelled, "It's all lies, now. What they teach in school – lies, Beru. Lies."

He remembered hearing this through his door one night. Their arguments – they never happened. It was all about farming for the Lars'.

But he was a Skywalker.

"He's almost ten years old, Owen," she told her, her voice lowering, almost cowering, "He needs some friends. He has none. So what if they fill his head with sawdust about 'The Jedi Purge' and the 'Empire'. He'll have to know sometime."

"Beru, I think he already knows about that," Owen said. Luke heard him sigh. "I guess… you're right. It's time."

They paused. Luke supposed they were nodding, or sitting down, ending the argument. "Do we change his last name?" Beru asked. "Anakin… he could be in their textbook, you know – I…"

"Beru, you know we don't speak about Anakin," Owen snapped. "Luke knows that he was a pilot – that's it." Owen obviously got up from his chair, peeved, "I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

Luke heard a door shut, then, and went back to sleep.

When Luke was about five, Owen had given him a toy starfighter for his birthday. It was the best gift he could've gotten – in comparison to the real thing, of course. When he had said thank you, climbing onto his uncle's lap, he called him 'Daddy'. That was the end, and the only time they had spoken about his father.

He was a great man, Luke was sure. He was a spice freighter, a pilot on the moons. A brave man – or so he thought. He knew limited information about his parentage, but what he did know he 'added' onto as a child. He had never spoken about his mother, either – she was another mystery, one that would be hard to find out.

So now, he was listening to his teacher, a human, speak about how 'terrible' the Jedi Purge was, and how many Senators and the Emperor himself were badly injured, the reason for the Emperor's deformity.

He couldn't stand it.

It was all lies – the Jedi did nothing wrong. And it was written in plain sight, too. The Jedi were slaughtered, betrayed, by none other than Chancellor Palpatine himself, and his army of clones.

Luke bravely raised his hand.

"Yes, Luke?" The teacher called.

He cleared his throat. "Do you believe that the Empire is a good system, ma'am?" He asked bravely. He was getting at something. Many snickers from around the room came out of this one question.

The teacher was taken back. "Excuse me, Luke?"

Luke smiled. "I certainly do not, ma'am," by the teacher's baffled expression, Luke continued on, "Aren't we allowed to have opinions? The Empire doesn't let us." He was speaking to the entire class now; no one seemed to listen.

"Just shut up, Wormie," a kid from the back of the classroom yelled.

Luke slid down in his chair, from the embarrassment from the class.

The teacher continued, completely ignoring Luke, "I'm assigning a project," there were many groans. "Oh, be quiet. I want you to choose a fallen Senator or someone who died during this horrid event."

The words 'horrid' and 'event' hung over Luke's head. The only people who thought it was a 'horrid event' were the Jedi – the few left from the slaughter. He grabbed his books, his pencil, and his datapad, and head out the door.

The door swung open with his hard push, and his dark figure emerged followed by many of his clone followers. His minions – the people who were afraid of him most – were dressed in black as well, the highest rank for those clones that followed the Dark Lord.

Luckily they had corrected his terrible burns, his lungs by the masterful cloning on Kamino. If those damn clones didn't follow me everywhere maybe I'd have some alone time, he thought. He wasn't ready to move on yet – but he could at least try… She had often told him that he was good looking, 'handsome', but maybe that was only because she was so in love with him.

No! She wasn't in love with you, fool. She was a traitor – a rebel scum, he told himself. But no matter how many times he told himself that, he wasn't sure if he believed it himself. But she was – nothing could've forced me to kill my own wife, my love, other than her betrayal.

He sat himself in a bar stool, and called over the 'tender, rather rudely. The man simply cowered for a moment, seeing his yellow eyes grimace at him, waiting for him to take the lord's order. "Y – yes, milord?" He stuttered, obviously nervous.

He pointed to the man next to him. "I'll have what he's having," he told him, "Straight up."

The bar tender nodded, and rushed to get his drink, spilling some as he nervously brought it back to give to the dark lord. "Thank you," he said, getting him some credits as a tip. It wasn't often he found himself in a bar, especially on Tatooine, of all places.

After all, this was where he was born and raised. Where his mother died – where she was buried – where he began to doubt his feelings for his later-wife, who had denied everything about loving each other. It's just…not possible, she had said.

Actually, that was why he was here. To come and mourn – no, Sith don't mourn, they don't grovel. He had come to seek… guidance, from above, from the netherworld. Yeah, like that was going to happen.

He'd been to his late wife's grave twice, and both times he had gotten so upset that he had to leave – but he wasn't upset with himself, no – he was upset with her. At least he kept telling himself that.

Taking a sip of his… well, he didn't know, he felt something familiar burst through the doors. He looked over his shoulder, hiding his interest, noticing that it was just a small boy, probably ten years of age, looking upset and carrying a load of books pressed to his chest.

For some reason, the force had called him to this very boy. He watched as the boy angrily pushed himself in an empty booth and spread out his books and his datapad on the table in front of him. No one bothered to take his order – he was obviously a regular, but never came to eat or drink. The boy had something about him that reminded him of himself at that age: young, innocent, naïve, bored – wanting something else.

But this boy was upset. He was either angry, sad, or a nasty mixture of both. He wiped a tear from his cheek, seemingly hoping that no one would see that he was crying.

Then, the boy looked around. Up at the ceiling, down at his feet, and over to the bar – and something hit the dark lord.

His eyes.

The boy's eyes.

Blue. Piercing blue – like his used to be before he turned to the dark side for absolutely no reason at all except to save a woman from dying but that happened anyway. It struck him as odd that he was watching this boy – almost stalking the kid – but then it didn't seem so weird.

The boy had his eyes. He didn't have all of his features, though – he had someone else's nose, and someone else's lips. Something gave him to urge to stand up from his seat and walk over to talk to him.

"Milord, your tab!" The bar tender called, seeing him walk away unpaid.

He waved him off, "I'm not leaving, sir." No, he was not leaving. He made his way over to the boy's booth, watchful eyes following him, clones suddenly cocking their guns. He knelt down to meet the boy eye level.

Normally, he wasn't nice. And he wasn't nice now. "Girl trouble?" The dark lord asked, kidding himself and those around him. The people and aliens around him laugh, some howled. Obviously this boy was not well liked.

The boy wiped another tear. "Just leave me alone," the boy groaned, turning away from the lord. "You're, like, the fifth person who's said something mean to me today, you know."

A clone general suddenly appeared from behind him. "Milord, did this boy threaten you in any way?" He asked. "'Cause I'll take him out for you – "

"Nothing of the sort will happen, Commander," he interrupted, grabbing the clone's wrist and turning him around. "Just leave me alone," he mocked the boy's exact words, except he wasn't being tainted. The clone followed orders, walking off to join the rest of the lord's squadron.

The boy finally caught on, giving a second opinion on the yellow-eyed man. "Who are you?" He asked.

Wow. He is naïve. I was right, he thought. The lord stifled a laugh. "Do you hear this?" He called attention to the rest of the bar. "He doesn't know who I am!" The entire contents of the bar exploded in forced laughter.

"Well, excuse me if I don't socialize with those who are distrusting and, worst of all, have yellow eyes," came the boy's 'comeback'.

He was suddenly listening. He invited himself in the boy's both, taking the other side of it. He looked deeply into the boy's eyes. "Darth Vader," he reached out, shaking the boy's hand with his mechanical arm. "Lord. Apprentice. Second in command, boy." He smiled flakily. "Who… might you be?"

The boy wrapped himself around the lord's grip, untwining himself with such a master of evil. "You're responsible for the Empire?" He asked, hiding his feelings for such a thing.

"You could say that," he leaned back.

The boy collected his things, pushing them to his chest, and getting up from the booth. "Well, then, my name is unnecessary," he said, leaving.

He grabbed the boy's tiny arm, stopping him from going. "Wait!" He didn't mean to shout. "I must know your name, boy. I know everyone around here, except you."

The boy looked down at the lord's grip. He immediately stopped, letting the boy free. "If you must know," he said smoothly. "Luke Skywalker."

A/N: So, what did you think? Please click that purple-ish button and review!