I own nothing. All of this belongs to George Lucas. The song belongs to Disturbed. Other than that the story is all mine. Hope you like it.

CHAPTER ONE: LOCKED AWAY

If he had vertigo issues, he'd seriously be having some trouble sitting here in a seat on the council in the high towers in which they met. He could smell the scent that filled the room. It was almost too clean. He could taste the indecision of the masters that were currently disagreeing within the chambers. He decided he would just relax in the plush chair he was in. Now he knew why they made it so comfortable. For people who liked silence opposed to fighting.

So he didn't speak… At all.

Speaking just seemed to be a moot point anyway these days. They never listened to him and he never listened to them. He could almost say that he hated them. But as long as they stayed out of his way when it was time to fight, he wouldn't care as long as he got to go out there and do something. And he would. He knew he would. He would kill until he got to kill Dooku.

That was all that mattered. Killing Dooku. Once he did that the only other reason he had to live was killing this precious Sith Lord of theirs. He knew that once he took the life of this Sith he would take his own. And amidst all his confusion there was one thing he knew for sure. He wouldn't miss the Jedi one bit. But as for taking his own life? They would never understand. They never would.

Because though he hated the fact that all he knew was being a Jedi, there was nothing else he could do. It wasn't like he had a huge array or arsenal of talents he could pull out at anytime. That's why the only extra-curricular class he ever took was fighting because that's what he was good at.

So if he killed the Sith lord tomorrow then after the party he'd kill himself. It would happen quickly he knew. Nothing bloody. It would be quick. He'd throw himself from the tower and drop with eyes closed peacefully.

For the first time in months, Anakin almost cracked a smile…

He had spent far too much time in that room. He had gotten cabin fever. He was sure of it. He needed noise; something to do to satisfy his craving for violence and action. After getting down the basic notes on a page, he grabbed his guitar.

After turning on the recording device he sang.

Run and hide again Don't run away this time Don't wonder why you can't

clear this final sin You know this story was over before it began This is a battle you're not going to win! Welcome the end! I've spent a lifetime planning on your destruction You're never gonna witness another day A lonely life I'm planning out your destruction, with no other function You really don't know how long I've waited for your destruction I'm telling you, you just can't get away A whole lifetime planning on your destruction, with no other function You really don't know!

You better run! Ask me why again,

nowhere to go this time Revenge will be mine again Say good bye, my friend Don't run away this time and die like a man! There is no escape from my plan! Welcome the end! I've spent a lifetime planning out your destruction You're never going to witness another day A lonely life I'm planning on your destruction, with no other function You really don't know how long I've waited for your destruction I'm telling you, you just can't get away A whole lifetime planning on your destruction, with no other function You really don't know!

There is no reprieve You don't have to look in my eyes We'll turn their gaze away in time

You better run! I've spent a lifetime planning on your destruction You're never going to witness another day A lonely life I'm planning out your destruction, with no other function You really don't know how long I've waited for your destruction I'm telling you, you just can't get away A whole lifetime planning out your destruction, with no other function You really don't know! Welcome to the end

Run and hide again Don't run away this time Don't wonder why you can't

clear this final sin You know the story was over before it

fucking began!

He breathed out a long breath. He was tired and depressed. He went back to his room, though he knew it would only make him feel worse. The fact that his tools were discarded and his room was spotless were sure signs that he was not himself. He palmed the panel that let him into his room. And he knew.

He knew that the only thing waiting for him was the covers that wrapped around his skinny form. The icy coldness of his room. The posters of his black metal artists and pain the pain of a razorblade and a wrist still alive with nerve points. And that was not a comforting thought.