A dark shadow loomed over Mos Eisley. Flaming debris rained from the sky, and the groaning of the Executor rumbled like a fierce monster stalking through the deserted streets. She seemed almost graceful as she descended. Something that did not describe the situation on her bridge with any degree of accuracy. Variously dressed Imperial crewmen bustled about, pressing buttons, shouting commands, and running back and forth in vain efforts to prevent the crash. Only two people were still on the bridge: Admiral Firmus Piett, and Darth Vader. They watched as the wind whipped the sand up to meet the starship, both thinking very different thoughts.
"Lord Vader, may I sugg—"
"No, Admiral, you may not." Vader turned away from the window. There was nothing of note to see out there, anyway. His mind slipped back to thoughts of killing Piett. It would be incredibly easy. Already, he could feel the Force reaching out towards the man. Piett flinched, and a hand went to his collar, in an effort to loosen it, as if that would help.
But no. As much as Vader hated it, he would keep Piett alive at this point, if only because the man wasn't entirely stupid: something in short supply in the Empire's commanding officers lately. And there was a little voice, too - one he'd been ignoring for years - that told him that he'd killed enough. Too many.
The nose of the Executor touched down on the desert, and crumbled under her bulk as it did. The ship skidded on its tip for a few miles, creating massive sandy bow-waves, and destroying everything in her path.
The windows shattered, and though the wave of razor glass parted at Vader's hand, those unlucky enough to be monitoring the starship's systems screamed in a baleful chorus as the shards ripped through their flesh. Sand swept in after the glass, as the Executor's bulk ground to a halt in the desert, sending the ancient desert sands up into a surge, washing over the ship, and over the unfortunate south side of Mos Eisley. Admiral Piett screamed, as he plunged out of the window frame. There was no such sound from Darth Vader, though, as he followed suit. He wasn't frightened, as his subordinate was - the force was at his command, and it caught him with ease.
The pain and fear of Admiral Piett resonated loudly through the force, and Vader scowled, even though no-one would see it. Such weakness. The man turned his head to see his Sith superior bearing down on him through blood-filled eyes. His voice came weak and reedy:
"Help me… Please…"
Vader's scowl intensified, and though his own voice was as steady as it ever was, it was laced with so much hate, and so much anger, Vader almost found it difficult to speak. Almost.
"You forget who you are talking to, Admiral."
With a contemptuous gesture, Piett's life was ended quickly - he was dead before he could even draw a fresh breath. It was almost a shame, but if the man was going to show such weakness, he wasn't needed. Vader's attention was soon back to the starship. At ground level, although the ship was broken in several places, there didn't seem any places close by to enter near his position - and, as the wind whipped sand into his respirator, that was starting to be a worse and worse thing by the second.
For the second time in less than an hour, the Force proved itself an indispensable ally, helping the Sith who wielded it remove the rivets on the outer hull of the ship, and break the weld that held it in place. His breath came in ragged wheezes, even with the respirator, and under that, a mechanical hum that meant the system was trying to purge itself of the sand. Vader huffed as his breath came back. He hated sand.
It seemed that more of its crew had followed the Admiral's example, rather than Vader's - their broken bodies lay strewn about. It looked like the crash landing had been much worse than Vader had assumed. Nevertheless, he walked with a purpose - he needed to contact his master; the Emperor needed to know that his apprentice would be unable to meet with him on Endor, as had been commanded. The Emperor would be angry, of course, but it would be worse if he wasn't contacted.
—
As it turned out, Lord Vader was not completely alone on the ship - as he neared the communication suite, a clone trooper - one of the few left after the fallout of the Clone Wars, and the adoption of 'volunteers' in the Empire - struggled to his feet, and saluted. Vader recognised this one. He'd been his commander, and dare he say, a good friend of Anakin Skywalker during the war with the separatists; Rex— no, CT-7567 was a good soldier. Perhaps a little too close to the rebels in his thinking sometimes, but loyal, and when kept on a suitably short leash, a good soldier.
"My… Lord?" He always had trouble with the formalities of serving in the Empire - the influence of the late Skywalker hadn't been lost on the clone, then. No matter. As long as he served his purpose.
"Sweep the ship, Commander. Find some able-bodied soldiers, and report back here." Vader didn't turn to look at Rex as he passed, opening and closing the arthritic automatic doors with a wave of his hand.
The damage must have been more extensive than Vader had thought - no matter what channel he used, Imperial or not, the Death Star's operators would not pick up. A steel fist came down on the keyboard, and the thing buckled under the force of the blow. The doors were the next to go, bending outwards like tin foil at the will of the Force. Standing in the ruined doorway, Vader was met by his commander, and six other Stormtroopers - mostly of the volunteer kind, but a few clones remained. Impressive, given their accelerated growth, and overall shorter lifespans. That was likely why they signed up to serve on the Executor - Vader was well aware of the rumours that surrounded life expectancy on his ship.
"These are all the able-bodied men I could find, my lord." No hesitation. But fear. So much fear.
Vader's breath rattled out in an asthmatic hiss, as he stalked up and down the short row of men. None of them moved as he passed, but their fear resonated through the force. Fear of him. Fear that any one action might bring about their death. Good. Loyalty only went so far, but fear… Fear was a permanent condition. When Vader was once again standing in front of Rex, the man knew his lines well enough to force them through:
"What are your orders, my lord?"
"Find me a long-range transmitter - the one on this ship is damaged."
"Yes, my lord." The clone saluted stiffly, and turned, barking orders at his squad as he went. They obeyed without question - there were few fool enough to disobey an order in Darth Vader's presence - and soon even their marching ceased to echo inside the hallways of the ship. In the silence, Vader stood still, hands clasped behind his back, and an air of thoughtfulness about him - he had felt it some time ago: a disturbance in the Force. A disturbance that was different to the usual small ripples new Force-sensitives made when they became aware of their 'powers'. This felt more like… Like a removal. Less like a drop in the bucket, and more like a lump of ice melting. But… What was it? The cyborg sith concentrated, letting hatred and anger seep into the Force and expand his reach. What… What was it? The starship around Vader groaned, as if the sheer force of will he was exerting to locate the disturbance was causing some physical pressure.
And then, he realised. The pressure - the anger, the hatred - evaporated like rain on Mustafar, and in their place, just surprise: Palpatine was gone. Breath hissed forth from the black mask as Vader sighed, and his posture curled forwards ever so slightly (his version of having to lean on something to steady himself). No wonder the disturbance had felt so all-encompassing, and so unlike anything else he'd ever felt through it. Palpatine was the strongest Sith- the strongest Force-sensitive he had ever known. His presence in the force had been a constant for years, like a mist that he'd never noticed shrouding everything.
And the new world Vader saw without that mist was a strange one. If Palpatine had become one with the force, then did that mean the Empire was gone? Did that mean the Death Star was gone? Surely it must be so, because how could either of those things exist without the Emperor? He doubted even Darth Vader - the man reputed to be some kind of soulless droid, some kind of ex-jedi scum and certainly many kinds of murderer - had the kind of influence the Emperor had commanded. That wizened old man had built a galactic empire on his reputation… Vader was small in comparison with the Emperor.
Except… The fact remained that the Emperor was likely dead - or at least he had withdrawn himself from the Force somehow. So that just left him. The apprentice. The slave. The survivor.
The sharp staccato of blaster fire shattered his thoughts like fragile glass. It was close. Very close.
Too close.
—
The troopers noticed nothing out of the ordinary for a while - they were too busy returning the fire from the spaceport scum, anyway. Despite Rex's best efforts to have things between them and the locals remain peaceful, there was just something about an Imperial uniform that made people angry. They were shouting things, too. The Empire has fallen, they said. Your master is dead, they said. Rex tried not to think about the implications, and just concentrated on shooting the aggressors.
And then the side of the Executor swelled like a blister, and popped with a tearing sound. Vader had heard the battle, it seemed. A Rodian flew sideways with an unnatural kink in his neck. The clone commander managed a grim smile - if there was anything good he could say about Vader, it was that at least the man wasn't shy about fighting alongside his troops. Though Rex betted that they were in about as much danger as the space-scum the man was currently strangling.
At the sight of this, the motley bunch that had followed the troopers from Mos Eisley began to lose some of the cocky attitude they'd previously been shooting with - now, they fought for life. A few turned and fled, but none of them were about to escape the maelstrom of fury and hate that was Darth Vader - his hands flew in gestures like an orchestral conductor, and the sand flew about on all sides, whipped up by imaginary winds, as the Force caught the collection of bounty hunters and thugs by their limbs, crushing and twisting until suddenly, everything came to an absolute stop.
Darth Vader turned about slowly, dropping his arms. He passed the troopers as if they didn't exist, and vanished inside the crashed ship, spurred on by some unseen purpose. The carnage he'd left behind was something else. Rex ventured out from the cover of the ship's debris, carefully poking at shattered bodies, and occasionally shooting when one stirred. Sure, they would die anyway, but it was kinder to do it with a blaster bolt, than let them slowly bleed out from their Force-inflicted wounds. Rex waved his men onward, and they gathered around him in a disorganised bunch. But that was the way Rex liked it - he had little patience for the formalities enforced upon Imperial troops. He found his men respected him more if he treated them as men, and not just commodities to be ordered about.
"Comb the area for any more enemies - go in groups of two around the ship, and radio me if you find any more." The clone pointed at the group, pairing up all but one man, and sending them down either end of the ship, "And you, guard this entrance whilst I report to Lord Vader."
The man - a volunteer from Coruscant, who'd been seeking the adventure and glamour of the Imperial army - looked visibly relieved that he only had to guard an entrance. A grim smile played about Rex's lips as the soldier saluted in recognition of his orders. Now to find Vader, and hope he didn't get strangled to death for his efforts.
This was far more difficult than Rex had anticipated - even looking for a man who couldn't be quiet even if he'd wanted to be in a place where every sound was magnified tenfold, it was as if Vader had simply vanished. The clone thought about calling out, but he didn't feel right in doing so - and, if there was one thing he'd learned all those years ago, serving with the Jedi, it was to trust his instincts, even if he wasn't guided by some mystical power. He removed his helmet - perhaps that was blocking out the sound in this case - and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was incredibly hot on this planet, even in the shade. As they were going down, he had hoped the damage to the Executor would be repairable. Perhaps if the rebels hadn't taken out all of their engines, it would have been, but they'd been completely unable to even slow the ship, and they'd paid the price for that failure, both in damage to their ship, and the lives it took on impact.
A sigh escaped him. What a waste. The official Imperial view of it was that those who lost their life in service to the Empire, whether killed by an enemy, or an accident, or at the whim of a commander, were glorious martyrs, and not to be mourned. The way most in the service saw it was that soldiers dying was an inevitable price of victory. Some just didn't care. But Rex couldn't help feeling like the men aboard the Executor, whether they were actually clones or not, were his brothers. And the loss of a brother was almost too much to bear.
He wondered how Vader dealt with it - the man was as changeable as the seasons, murdering his commanders and troops one minute, and saving them with a flourish of the Force another. Perhaps that was his coping mechanism. Maybe getting taking it out on people eased his own suffering. Perhaps, but that wasn't a choice for Rex. He would bear it with a smile on his face. He had to.
A rasp of breath alerted him to the presence of Darth Vader far too late. Rex stiffened his posture and saluted, but he had been seen. Having his helmet off aboard the ship was a breach of regulation. Who knew what was going to happen to him now - he had seen people executed for less. He tried to keep his face calm and blank, but he had a feeling he was failing on that front. Oddly enough, the armoured man seemed almost amused. Not that Rex could really tell through the unchanging mask, but that was the feeling he got nevertheless.
"Yes, Commander?" The tone was measured and regular, as usual. A foolish person would have mistaken that for calm. Not so.
"The…" It was difficult to speak through the rising fright. He had to stop - it was pathetic: he'd been in riskier situations in combat. He could do this. He'd done more difficult things, "The men are sweeping the area for more of the enemy,"
"Are they now?"
"Yes, my lord" Well, this was it. Rex could almost feel the Force snapping his neck, right there and then.
"Very good, Commander. You are dismissed."
"Y-Yes, my lord." Rex gave his superior another salute, and marched off down the hall as quickly as his legs could carry him without breaking into a run. What had that been? He should have been killed, surely? But he was still breathing. Vader had even seemed satisfied with the orders Rex had given. He jammed his helmet back onto his head, and tried to catch his breath. He wished some higher-ranking official had survived the crash. They knew how to deal with that man - the only dealings Rex had ever had was when the troops were inspected, and usually somebody was made an example of.
By the time he reached the man guarding the 'entrance' again, Rex had composed himself. No good came from behaving like that, anyhow. His men needed an example to follow, and besides, Vader couldn't kill him without depriving himself of an officer - surely he wouldn't do that. He might have the shortest fuse Rex had ever known, but Vader was still a good tactician. He wasn't stupid.