The apartment was just the same as Luke remembered it.
He kept his shields up tight and shoved the Force away—anything to dismiss that. . . oiliness of Palpatine's presence dogging his footsteps—so beyond a brief initial probe to confirm that his father wasn't inside—
—he was on planet, though, Luke could sense him; he'd returned from Naboo and wherever else he might've been to torture his only son and hadn't left yet—
—Luke was walking in blind.
He'd known he wasn't prepared for this, and he wasn't.
The apartment smelt the same as it had weeks ago, when he'd left to. . .
What? What had it been for?
To visit Mara? To visit Horada, in the Archives? He couldn't remember why he'd initially gone to the Palace; only that he'd went, and his life had torn itself to shreds within those walls.
Now. . .
He forced himself not to look as he breezed through—to not look at the sofa and the table, to not look at the window Leia had reportedly punched that first time Palpatine had punished him, to not look down the corridor to his father's hyperbaric chamber and the master bedroom, where his parents must have once slept, happy, unaware of the tragedy they would both doom— the tragedy that their children would be doomed to.
He didn't look.
He couldn't. The sheen of tears in his eyes was too thick for him to see anything, anyway.
He made a beeline for his room. Once inside, he just threw whatever clothes he could find inside—not anything he loved, nothing he could stain with bitter memories and betrayal; he left all that here, in the desperate hope that his father, despite the brutal, torturous monster he'd proven himself to be, might find it in his durasteel heart not to destroy them out of insatiable vengeance.
The desperate hope that, one day, he could retrieve them, along with a childhood innocence he'd shed months ago.
No. Not innocence.
Luke had been— Luke was a Sith. He had not been innocent for nearly eleven years.
It hadn't been innocence.
It had just been ignorance.
He'd closed the wardrobe, paced as his self-deprecating thoughts seized hold of him, then he pivoted on his foot. Opened the wardrobe again.
His capes. Eleven of them from birthdays, many of those non-fitting. Others gifts for state functions, celebrations, rewards.
He left them all behind. He had to.
But when he got to the end of the row, he couldn't bring himself to let go of one. His fingers brushed the tiny sprinkling of diamonds, the embroidery; the pattern of the Naboo and Tatooine star systems, twinkling in the twilight of his wardrobe.
He let go as if he'd been burned.
Then, agonisingly slowly, he pulled the cape off the hangar, tossed it onto the pile he'd already made on his bed, and went looking for a bag to put it all in.
Luke, despite his permacrete shields, noticed him the moment he exited his bedroom.
Then again, Vader knew his breathing was very distinctive, and Luke was very on edge; even without sensing him in the Force, Vader knew that much. He knew his son.
At least, he thought he had.
He'd returned to Coruscant to what he'd hoped for: Palpatine contacting him to inform him that Luke had seen the error of his ways, but that he was. . . somewhat angry, with Vader.
Vader could understand that. What he could not understand. . . was this.
Luke stiffened when he saw him; that was not anger there, but. . . fear. Apprehension. A bone-deep, entrenched betrayal and hurt, plain as day.
Vader wanted to hug him, but it was evident how that would go over.
His gaze sought Luke's right hand. It was clenched into a fist.
Vader's chest was always tight. That didn't mean he couldn't feel it when it tightened further. "Luke. . ."
"What do you want." Luke's voice was cold and flat; as monotone as Vader's vocoder. He hated it. "Father."
Vader watched him for a few moments more. "You look terrible."
Luke tensed further. "I wonder why."
The flatness to his voice, his defensive stance, his. . . withdrawal into himself. . . Vader winced to see it; no, cringed. This was his son.
He did not want to see the hallmarks of a traumatised, broken in Inquisitor on his young, clever face.
But he didn't know what he'd expected. He'd cut off his hand. He'd thrown him to the wolves.
He'd given his son to a slaver and expected him to come home free.
Luke clutched the bag he was holding tighter to himself. His limbs were trembling, Vader realised; from latent injuries or fear or fury, he did not know. They shook like eggs about to hatch.
And that was when it surged in him, a desire he'd suppressed and squashed and silenced for weeks now: that fatherly instinct to protect and help, to shelter him until he was well again and forever after that too, to stand between him and the terror that made him shake like a leaf in the night. To heal the pink scars that marred his once-innocent face; to hear him laugh and tease and smile so much he cried; to never see that expression on his face again: that terrible, terrible snarl that came of trying to hold it all in when his façade was cracking, his lip trembling and his eyes glistening but his chin and shoulders set and his eyes straight ahead—
Vader loved his son. Nothing drove a stake into his heart like the knowledge that he might well have lost him now, too.
He opened his mouth—to what, he didn't know. Justify, scream, apologise. Beg for mercy. Beg for forgiveness.
Luke was already gone. He'd strode out of the room like a man possessed the moment Vader's shields started to thin.
Vader, to an extent, followed him out. Stopped in the living room, watching him go. Collapsed onto the sofa. His gaze caressed the table; it was still scuffed, from the last time Luke had planted his feet on it. . .
The door slammed shut. It was like the bang of the firing squad.
Vader rose to his feet, hastened towards the landing pad. He stood out there, wind tugging at his cape, impervious to the driving rain outside that even now stung his son's hands, white-knuckled on the speeder controls, drummed on Vader's mask like a frantic heartbeat.
Vader watched Luke take off and vanish into the airlanes. He did not move.
No. He just stood there amid the winds and chaos and descending dusk of Coruscant.
For a long, long time, he did not move.
"Ah! My boy. You made it."
Luke's back was stiff as he strode into the throne room again. It had to be stiff—he was still tense from that interaction with his. . . father—and besides: he could sense something was amiss.
Not that that was unexpected. He was here. Leia was thousands of parsecs away, and he was not with her. Everything was amiss.
But right now, more immediately—
His gaze fell on the other person in the room and only by conscious effort did his step not falter.
Palpatine lounged on his throne, smiling, and said, "I trust you are familiar with the Grand Moff Tarkin?"
"We've met," Luke said dispassionately. It was a strain to keep his emotion, his disgust, from his voice, but he let Palpatine feel it through the Force as he eased himself—reluctantly, letting him feel that reluctance, too—to one knee. That smile widened.
It then burst into a faint cackle when Luke added, derision in his tone, "I've heard a great deal about you from my sister, Governor."
Tarkin stiffened himself, but clasped his hands behind his back and walked towards him with short, measured footsteps. "Ah, yes. Miss Leia was always very vocal about her opinions. I suppose it is a mystery how she went undetected for so long."
He stopped. Palpatine hadn't seen fit to give Luke permission to rise, so he towered over him. Luke's neck and legs were beginning to strain from the position.
"But clearly you have more sense than your sister," Tarkin continued. Luke forced himself to think about his anger at. . . everyone in this room and project it onto Leia, oh Leia, I'm sorry—
"I m sure you will show yourself to be of use when tracking her movements. I look forward to working with you."
Luke lifted his head at that and looked straight at Palpatine.
The man was smiling widely again.
"Tarkin has kindly volunteered to help you ingratiate yourself back into the ranks of the Imperial Navy, without the shadow of your father or your sister hanging over you," he informed him, still with that infernal grin. Luke's heart beat quicker. "You will be accompanying him, as an aide or protégé of sorts, to help him oversee some of his most important tasks. Kuat, the governing of the Outer Rim Territories, Project Stardust—"
Luke flinched.
Tarkin?
Project Stardust?
Tarkin had been given control of the Death Star—
"It will provide you with everything you need to ascend in this Empire. Unless," he added severely, "you want me to return you to your father's tender care?"
Luke flinched again. He let that fury he'd gathered burn hot, hotter, inside him, until he thought the frigid darkness that fed off it would freeze him where he knelt.
He thought he heard a cautionary whisper, but it was just the roaring in his ears.
"I thought not. Tarkin will be a much better fit for someone as bright and skilled as you. He'll be with you every day, to teach you what you need to know, and you will benefit from someone of his acumen and ambitions."
Luke gritted his teeth, but didn't disagree. Palpatine was assigning him a watcher—he was going to use Luke, the way he always used Luke, but he wasn't going to trust him with anything yet.
He hadn't expected him to.
He just hadn't expected it to be Tarkin.
But who would he rather it be?
Thrawn? Tarkin was no fool himself, would be a challenge, but Luke would not prefer to have Thrawn as his supervisor.
"And of course, in case of any further assassination attempts that may be made on you by. . . those close to you," Luke let his hate flash at that—at the lie—but one again, directed it towards Leia, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, "I am assigning someone to accompany you. They will meet you later."
Great. Another watcher to bypass if he ever wanted to—
He blinked.
What was he going to do?
Was he going to contact the Rebellion immediately? Would they even trust him?
What if Palpatine found out?
What if—
A cautioning voice in his ear again and he calmed his thoughts, meeting his master's gaze again. "Thank you, Master."
"Rise, my boy."
Finally, Luke got to his feet. The straining of muscles so recently healed hurt, but he just let that burst into the Force. Increase the darkness—the mirage—around him.
"Come here."
Straight backed, head held high but eyes averted out of respect and. . . something else, he approached. Mounted the steps, until he stood before the throne directly. Palpatine inspected him like a prize shaak.
"You are afraid of me, child," he said, so softly he doubted Tarkin could hear it.
Luke said nothing. His limbs were trembling.
Palpatine placed a hand on his shoulder. His gnarled grip was tight. "You have nothing to fear," he whispered, "if only you remain true to yourself, and loyal."
He let go. "I have a gift for you, my boy."
And then he held out Luke's lightsaber.
Luke froze.
He took it with trembling hands, barely daring to breathe. The weight was comfortable in his grip, every ridge intrinsically familiar—and he remembered.
His father had given him this sword.
His father, who—
"Use your anger." Luke snapped his head back up. "Use your fury. They will serve you well, Luke." Palpatine placed a hand to his cheek and dragged a fingernail down it in a mockery of affection. "Do not let the pernicious influence of the Jedi weaken you as it did your sister."
Of the both of us, the only one who was making contact with an ex-Jedi was me.
Luke bowed his head. "Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."
"Now go. You will leave with Tarkin the day after tomorrow."
Tarkin added smoothly, "We shall be visiting Cymoon One, in an attempt to motivate Director Vilrein into increasing its output. I'm sure you'll be of much use to us."
Luke ignored him. "Yes, Master." He turned, painfully aware of his exposed back, the memory of excruciation and blue sparks sending shudders through his shoulders, but he went. Step by step.
Tarkin met him briefly at the bottom.
"Your sister once said that we could work together," he told him, holding out his hand. "Knowing what I do now, I am pleased that I get to work with you instead."
Luke shook his hand in a light, perfunctory gesture, then turned his back on Tarkin and strode out. He did not linger long enough to feel the man's outrage.
He paused right outside, feeling the red guards' gazes fixate on him, then kept moving forward. It was when he turned the corner that he heard the voice.
"Skywalker."
He turned to greet them and the breath was momentarily sucked from his chest.
It was Mara Jade.
He was quiet for a moment, just. . . looking at her. He hadn't seen her since she'd—accidentally?—left his cell door unlocked, and it had been long enough since then that any injury she may have received for the offence had healed. He. . . genuinely didn't know what to make of her.
Didn't know where she stood.
Didn't know what to say.
That was okay. She spoke first.
"I see our master gave you back your lightsaber." She bobbed her head, and her throat. Her hands flexed. "Good. We'll need it for training on the Sovereign II."
"Training?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. They seemed darker than yellow, for once. "I have been assigned to re-develop your saber skills as well as guard you, Skywalker."
"Re-develop? And—"
"Re-develop them after you were so badly injured."
"—you're the one—"
"Yes." The word was ground out. "Believe me," she said sweetly, "I don't want to do this either."
He tilted his head, feeling a familiar vindictiveness tug in his chest. "Don't think you can handle it, J— Sixth Sister?"
She ignored his slip up—took an aggressive step forwards. "I can handle it. I'm good enough."
"I beat you easily before. Once I'm healed, it'll be no time at all before I'm beating you again."
She took another step forwards, tilting her head up so as to look him in the eye. "Once you're healed. You'd have to actually have the courage to face me until then, and I will not hold back."
"I thought you said you bore me no ill will over the last time I beat you so thoroughly?" He tossed her a smile and made to walk down the corridor. "And when have I ever made you think that courage was something I was lacking—"
"The rest of your family certainly lack it."
Luke stilled.
He pivoted on one foot and glared at her, hand automatically going to the lightsaber at his hip. "What?"
She froze under the force of his glare but continued to spit, "It's the truth. No matter how much you disown them"—you're meant to have disowned them, calm down, calm down—"you're like them. You'll run away and isolate yourself at the first sign of trouble."
Now she was just fishing for ways to wind him up. But it worked. "Where the kriff did you get that idea?"
She tilted her head in challenge. "Your sister left you alone and fled—twice. Your father just returned to Coruscant for the first time in months because he was running away from the problem of you. It's in your blood. . ."
But Luke didn't hear those last few words.
That blood was rushing in his ears.
He said, "What did you say?"
She looked taken aback.
He imagined he must look odd as well: a young, dark-clothed figure poised tense and trembling in the middle of an opulent Palace corridor. The light from one of the windows hit her face, casting deep shadows that twitched when she worked her jaw.
"I said," she reiterated, "that everyone in your family is a disloyal coward."
"You also said that my father hasn't been on Coruscant in months."
"He hasn't." She squared her shoulders. "He got back yesterday and he's heading off again in a week. He was at Naboo, Tatooine—"
"He hasn't been here."
"That's what I said."
Luke had the distinct memory of—
Well, the worst memory he could have of his father.
And it had happened a few weeks ago. At most.
Which meant—
Luke hadn't been moved. At all. Same cell every time, with the same Force-blind perimeter. He was sure about that.
Which meant—
And Mara was evidently telling the truth. . .
He stared at her.
He stared at the wall, towards Palpatine's throne room, to glare through brick and stone and steel at that liar, that manipulative piece of—
He spun on his foot and strode away.
"Skywalker!"
"I'll see you tomorrow," he bit out. "Thank you, Jade." He didn't bother correcting himself that time.
"Skywalker!"
He'd lied.
"Ben!" he hissed the moment he was back in his own quarters. The holocams had been fixed but he was pretty sure he was speaking too quietly to be heard. He hoped. "Ben, why didn't you tell me!"
Tell you what?
"That he lied about my father torturing me!" he shouted. Quietly. The emphasis still came through. "That he— he planted a vision in my head so— so that—"
He cut himself off.
"You told me that Leia didn't come here to kill me," he said. "Why didn't you tell me this as well?"
Ben was silent for a moment. He hadn't even bothered to manifest himself visibly; he was, for all intents and purposes, just a disembodied voice.
"Because for all I knew," he said sadly, "Vader would come later to prove him right."
Luke shut up.
Bowed his head.
Clenched his right hand.
"He— he wouldn't."
"You believed the lie."
"Because I thought I remembered it!"
Ben sighed. Luke had the inane thought that it must be odd, sighing without a body.
"I have little strength," he said finally. "Should we not discuss your plan of action from now? Tarkin. . ."
Luke clenched both his fists and forcefully drove his father—especially the intense melancholy he'd sensed from him earlier—out of his mind.
He'd lied.
"Yes," he bit out. "We should."
It was a dark, densely populated moon that put the lower levels of Coruscant to shame. The worst and best of every species congregated here, amongst the filth and the fights and the fools' gambles. Nar Shaddaa was an unsavoury place full of unsavoury people.
It was exactly the sort of place Aphra loved.
"Aw, c'mon, this is an Old Republic original! In pristine condition! You gotta give me more for it than that."
A stream of near-indecipherable chatter. "Ten thousand. Take it or leave it, Aphra."
"Doctor Aphra."
"Not from what I've heard. Take the ten thousand or get out of my sight."
She glanced down at the little guy—she really wasn't sure what species Aramaok was, but he came up to her waist and would savage her shins if she annoyed him at all—and groaned. "Fine. Fine. You win." She muttered under her breath as she took the credits, squinting suspiciously as she counted them, then slung them into her bag and turned away.
It really wasn't her fault that Archaeological Association had suspended her doctorate. How was she supposed to have known that they'd know she'd faked her findings?
She could've sold this anywhere but the black market for ten times as much—
Her comm was chiming.
She heard it the moment she lowered the ramp to the Ark Angel; the call was redirected from her shipboard comms to the one on her wrist, but she was here anyway so she jogged into the cockpit to take the call.
When the image of the caller popped up, her eyes blew wide. "Boss!"
Lord Darth Vader, the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Forces, folded his arms across his chest in the way he always did when he wanted to seem intimidating.
It worked.
"Cease the pleasantries, Aphra." Only Darth Vader would call those pleasantries. "I have a mission for you. As always, you will be well-compensated for your efforts, provided you succeed."
Aphra narrowed her eyes. "You haven't contacted me in two years. Since. . ."
He stiffened at the implied reference to the. . . shortcomings of his cybernetics, but continued: "It has never been necessary to skulk in the shadows before."
Skulk. She almost snorted.
"Then what makes it necessary now?"
He was silent for a minute. Then another minute.
Just when she was about to make a snarky comment—and probably get herself strangled for it—he said, "I want you to find my daughter. I am sending you the information about her now."
She blinked. His— "The little teenage bra— girl," she corrected herself, "from last time?"
"Yes. She has run away."
"Why?"
Another pause. "She is with the Rebels. I would like her back here, where I can talk some sense back into her, before the rest of the Empire catches up." He pointed a figure at her, heavy with threat, before she could even begin to compute all the staggering implications of that. "Do not fail me in this."
"Yessir." She blinked, still processing. "Should I be looking for your son or—"
"Do not speak to me about him."
She swallowed. "Right. Got it, Your Lordship." She grinned. "One rebellious teenager will be returned in no time."
The holo cut out without any further goodbyes.
She waited a second. Two.
Then Aphra shouted, "Are you kidding me?"
Hunt down Darth Vader's kid? That little snotty space sorceress? She'd get herself sliced and diced within moments.
And—
What the kriff?
Leia. . . whatever her last name was, Vader? Leia Vader defected? And— and her brother, if Vader's (admittedly characteristic) grumpiness was anything to go on?
Aphra stared at the information sent to her comm, grinding her teeth more and more with every word. Not that she didn't love family drama (when it wasn't hers) but this. . .
Yeah.
Kriff.