Hi! Just another warning, I go over a lot of dark themes in this fic so please be careful if you are struggling with mental health issues yourself.
Rated M for mature so you know what that entails.
His dry, pained eyes open to blinding white lights. They're not really blinding, but they feel like that to him. A seering white wall burns his already broken retinas. The pain wont leave until his mask is in place. Even then, a pain of an entirely different making will come to torture him.
The distant, irritating, buzzing of a droid at work hums in his ears. He wants so badly for her to appear and stroke his forehead, kiss his lips, warm his cold arms. He imagines her voice speaking softly into his ear.
"It's alright, I'm here."
He breaths a sigh of relief as the imagined voice wraps imagined arms around his chest and hugs him tightly. The feeling suddenly disappears as the cold sensation of his mechanical limbs being fastened into place hits his senses, the fantasy dies away to leave reality in its wake. Ever since he allowed the light back into him, it seems to want nothing more than to burn him with the flicker of desires he thought he had stomped out years ago.
He stifles a moan of pain as the electrodes connect with his nerves, sending jolts of muddled, disjointed stimulus to his brain. It briefly clouds his thoughts, as though someone put their hands in clear water and shook them violently. Once his mind clears again he is left reliving the first emotion he awakes to every day. Force, he is so lonely.
The electronic frazzle dies away as his robotic limbs and nerves sync together, leaving him with a dull, throbbing headache. He drags his head up to see the floating circular droid doing some final checks on a nearby monitor.
It beeps an 'ok' he barely hears, then flicks a switch. A few moments later stick-thin robotic arms are crowding around his suspended body, wrapping him up in his suit for the day. The thoughtless robotic minds are careless to the pain in his ravaged skin. Yet he can't find it within himself to care enough to alter their behaviour for his own comfort, and simply allows them to tug and pull him any which way as they install his mobile life support systems.
Finally the face of his mask is lowered over his own. It hisses into place. The cold metal presses against his temples, the internal atmosphere of the mask separates him entirely from the world outside. The galaxy sounds different filtered through mechanical processors. The droids seem all the more distant now that he is looking at them through red-tinted visors. Needles stick into his skin, and another wave of mechanical information floods his brain as the suit supplies him with a wealth of pointless statistics. At least the walls are no longer paining him; though that thought doesn't bring him any comfort.
His first proper breadth of the day forces its way into his stinging lungs, then retreats out through his nose. The mask hisses and puffs from exertion, his heavy duty respirators working harder than the ones he sleeps in to supply him with enough oxygen for combat.
The straps wrapping around his shoulders suddenly detach and he falls to the floor. His boots hit the ground, robotic legs holding him upright, despite his sagging muscles.
"An assortment of extra painkillers have been prescribed by Doctor Olus, does my Lord wish to take them now?" The floating medical droid asks as he ambles slowly out of the egg shaped hyperbaric chamber.
"No,"
He steps into the dark room that is his quarters. It is almost completely empty, thanks to the fact that he only officially claimed the quarters as his yesterday. Though, time hadn't decorated his last living space for him, he doubted it would to do so now.
The only light in the room is that which spills from his white hyperbaric chamber, but it doesn't get far before darkness overshadows it once more. He is certain that his quarters has working lights, yet he leaves them off. There is no sense in illuminating nothing.
His suit leaves him distinctly lacking in mobility, and he feels it as he exerts more energy than he should have to into putting one boot in front of the other towards the door. The life support systems are heavy, as are his limbs. They seem to get heavier by the day. Perhaps he will awaken at some point, and be unable to ever leave his quarters. The thought carries little weight, and he soon forgets it.
The auto-door hisses open to reveal a plain hall, which is a part of an equally plain hallway. He strides outside to be instantly met with an escort of stormtroopers. Their boots march with his in perfect unison along the Imperial level of the Mon Calamari cruiser named Faith.
A few Imperial officials had followed him like sick puppies to the Alliance, bringing their manpower with them. Not many, but enough for a floor on the ship to be allocated to them. Still, he now imagined that the vast majority of living beings in the galaxy saw him as their enemy; Imperial and Rebel alike.
Officers looking sorely out of place stand around with nothing to do within the ship. Their eyes lock onto him as he passes, and he prays that none of them see it fit to speak with him. His hopes are, as usual, brushed aside as a smartly dressed female officer steps along side him and matches his pace.
"My Lord, Captain Dall wishes to speak with you as soon as you are available," the young officer begins professionally, "He wishes to meet in conference room 6. He did not specify why."
"Tell the Captain that I am approaching the conference room now," he states, thankful that his vocodor adds some bite to his voice for him, because this morning, he can hardly bring himself to speak, let alone put effort into sounding intimidating.
Vader makes for the elevator, and punches in the command level as the stormtroopers pile in with him. A lot has happened in the past few months.
And there are many Imperials still fighting a war with the rebels. He had kept his life by offering the rebels his help in either converting or killing the remaining Imperial forces. Since he had killed the Emperor and willingly come with Luke to them, they eventually decided to accept his offer, but not without some strings attached.
He imagines that this next meeting would begin the implementation of said strings. Now that he looks back on it, he doesn't even know why he tried so hard to keep his life; it was very clear that the Alliance wanted him dead. Yet after everything he and Luke had been through, he didn't want to disappoint his son. There was something sweet and hopeful in those soft blue eyes of his son's that he couldn't bare to break.
The elevator doors open to a busy floor full of rebel workers, most of whom actively pretend he doesn't exist as he walks by, they know he could kill them, and he knows they want him dead. It is in hallways like this, that the true nature of this truce come to life. A few months ago, he would have activated his blade and slaughtered all of them, and everyone knew that. His escort of stromtroopers there to make a statement more so than to defend him.
He finds the appropriate conference room, and heads inside. Two of the troopers stop and post themselves at either side of the door to the conference room, while the others follow him. A long, broad white desk occupies the majority of the room, with rebel leaders sitting in every available seat.; They were making him stand. No matter, he would have stood either way.
Whatever mumble of sound that had occupied the room instantly dies away. They all instantly quieten and turn to stare as his respirator makes his presence known. The mood of the pristine room is acutely tense. He can feel the heated glares of hardline rebels trying to burrow their way through his helmet and into his skull. As if a look could kill.
They needed him. This was another thing every party knew yet didn't voice. Many colony and outer rim systems love the rebellion, but the rich core planets that made billions of the back of poorer planets loved the Emperor's regime. The corporations of the galaxy still supported the Empire, and however much he dislikes the rich and powerful for how they had bent over backwards for his former masters favour, they are still a necessary cog in the galactic machine. Then there were planets like Byss, whose official standpoint state that they don't even view the Rebel Alliance as an entity in any capacity at all.
And there are the moffs; the regents who control large sectors of the galaxy with an iron fist, and who are still alive and in full support of the Empire, Emperor or not. He and everyone else in the room know that his support could go a long way in quelling any civil strife down the line.
Yet this agreement of there's had been less of an alliance, and more of a surrender on his part.
His lightsaber had been removed from his possession, and he had been on the brink of execution more times than he can count since arriving here. He had only been prescribed a quarters days ago, and before that had had to make do with a cell, and after that a room in the medical wing. Yet they need him. Everyone on the council know it in their hearts. He knows everything about the Empire that they don't. He is certain that, and Lukes favour, are the only lifelines to his continued existance.
"Lord Vader," comes the articulate voice sitting at the crown of the table, directly opposite him. Mon Mothma looks towards him with cool, analytical eyes. But his own eyes are quickly drawn to the furthest seat on the left, where his daughter sits. She is looking him over with scarily concealed hatred. His energy levels drop, he wants to slump into himself. His son smiles at him softly from her side, though his kindness is distinctly overshadowed.
Then there is the captain who summoned him, looking him over with a smug smile as he sits near the end of the table.
"You summoned me, and I have arrived," he replies curtly, keeping himself upright and professional despite his bodies protests.
A few rebels exchange glances. Luke looks to Mon expectantly and Mon Mothma's eyes remain on him, while he stares at Leia. She should hate him. He deserves this. It had been awful to see her so avidly protest his presence in the alliance, but honestly, what could he expect, after all he has done to her?
"That is correct." Mon says after a few tense moments. "The alliance has been debating the minutiae of our... arrangement, and we have come to a decision."
She pauses, force knows why. Probably for effect, or perhaps she thinks he will protest, then continues.
"All Imperials who have arrived with you must swear their allegiance to the New Republic and act under the orders of this council until an official, democratic government is formed. We wish to monitor all communications between the Imperial forces accompanying you as if their Intel were that of our own. All alliance systems will withhold the right to deny allied Imperial ships entry to their systems of their own will."
"Secondly, we have decided that, while your display of defiance towards the Empire is… admirable," Mon pauses as if the words had physically hurt her. "We do not feel secure in your loyalty towards the alliance. And as such the most important requirement of this deal is that you allow an attendant to accompany you on your official working hours. This attendant will be reporting your actions and movements back to us, and they will have access to all official Imperial records at your disposal at all times. Any attempts to conceal information from the attendant will be considered treason, and will not be tolerated, if the attendant is harmed in any way while working with you we will hold you personally responsible"
Internally he groans at the prospect of having someone follow him around all day, yet says nothing. A few rebels look at him, proud defiant glints in their eyes, hungry for his opposition which they so obviously seek to bat down. He is in no mood to fight today; they will be left wanting.
"Thirdly," Mon pauses again and looks very briefly towards her co-workers. He is beginning to think that the woman is secretly a lover of drama, because she was certainly taking her time dragging this out, he thought dryly. "Many members of this council, myself included, have been... unnerved by your actions in the past. Your cruel and aggressive treatment of your subordinates along with your heartless demeanor has caused many of us to question you as a leader. We wish for you to meet with a mind healer who, after spending the appropriate amount of time analyzing you, will give us a brief of your psychological profile, we will then determine whether you pose a threat to society at large, and if it is necessary to take action against you. Furthermore, we withhold the right to remove you from your position at any given time, and if necessary, detain you."
"In exchange of these terms, we offer you and the Imperials who have accompanied you temporary amnesty in the eyes of the new Republic, and if you act favourably, citizenship and the ability to retain your current working positions. These terms are non negotiable." Mon finishes as she rests her hands on the table.
"And what say you, Vader?" Mon asks after a considerable silence.
He already knew the terms before he entered the room. Even if his son had not already told him what they were panning, anyone with half a brain could have predicted most of that. Except... well except the bit about him having to see a shrink. That, he had not anticipated nor did he welcome. In fact, he found it just a little insulting, though he wasn't going to voice that thought now. Not when they were so close to securing peace.
This deal made sense; if he didn't accept, the galaxy would continue to be consumed by a bitter and bloody war where both sides would grind each other down to dust. There were simply too many Imperials not willing to give in to officially surrender, and to many Alliance systems getting a taste of freedom for the first time in two decades to be willing to bow down to the Empire once more.
"I accept your terms," he replies passively. He does not wish to fight them any more. The Dark side has left him, as has its violent lust for power. He had already accepted their deal the moment he chose to strike the Emperor down.
A few of the leaders eye him warily; they think he is trying to trick them. Vader ignores them, and holsters his thumbs in his belt. They may think what they like; actions speak louder than words.
"Very well. That is... excellent," Mon says slowly, cautiously, as though she is dealing with a rabid animal. "May this agreement bring peace and democracy to a galaxy that has been fighting for it for far too long."
"Indeed," Vader replies with a deep intone.
000
The contents of the conference room spill out into the hallway adjacent, past the stoic stormtroopers and rebel soldiers alike. It is a sight akin to watching a bag of jellies burst out of their packet, or blood spewing from an open wound, he thinks.
He lets them all pass him by. Some hurry past, others give him a look, some ignore him entirely. Not that he cares. He acknowledges none, his helmet is securely fastened to his children, who are both still at the far end of the table with Mon Mothma.
From the glancing looks Luke is giving him, he is certain his son has something to say. Leia, on the other hand, seems to be actively pretending he isn't there. Perhaps at one time he would have sucked some sense of pride or superiority from the sight. Now, however, all he can muster is a distanced, almost unreachable sadness. As though his soul is slowly floating away from him, and all he can do is watch it leave.
The two cooing women round the table slowly, exchanging smiles and talking about nothing of note, until the both present themselves before him. He is still in his position before the door, after all. Vader lowers his gaze to meet his daughters.
Leia is not hesitant to greet it. She bristles as if preparing herself for a confrontation. Mon stands silently beside her, her arms tangled in a pile of data pads.
"Are you going to stand there all day?" she questions, her voiced laced with a mild sarcasm. The tone does very little for him.
"I want to speak with you, Leia."
His tone was as soft as he could manage.