This was inspired by rewatching the Rogue One scene where Vader goes on his rampage against the Rebels! I came up with it on the... third consecutive rewatch? :D

Warnings for a lot of character death and violence.


Operation Failsafe: Since the creation of the Inquisitors, Fulcrum has hired a team to rescue young Force-sensitives from their clutches, to prevent them from growing up under the thumb of the Sith and, if possible, reunite them with their families. When they heard about the little boy being raised by Darth Vader himself on Mustafar, of course they would save him. It may be the last mistake they ever make.


Tekal let out a sigh of relief when he clung to the arms of his passenger seat and watched that disgusting planet vanish into the depths of hyperspace. Mustafar was a hell-world, all of them had agreed, and he was beyond glad they'd made it off that place.

He tried not to shudder.

"Letting the adrenaline get to you, Mendes?" someone asked from behind him. He looked up and glared, suddenly hyperaware that Otara had twisted around in the pilot's seat to look at him, as well as the soldiers standing at the back of the cockpit anyway.

"Shut up, Sorrel," he shot back. Ylenic just sniggered, but Tekal was growing increasingly sure that picking on him was the Twi'lek's favourite way of relieving stress.

"I'm just sayin', you ought to be—"

Commander Draven strode in before he could finish. "Give the kid a break for once in your existence, Ylenic, he's got more guts than you ever did at twenty," she snapped, long, grey plait swinging behind her as she swivelled her head to fixate on the pilot. "We're safely to hyperspace?"

"Yes, ma'am. Everything under control."

"That was some brilliant flying there," Tekal offered shyly.

Otara flashed him a smile, tucking a blonde lock of hair behind her ear. At twenty three, she was the youngest besides Tekal, and also the nicest, and Tekal could tell that Ylenic was going to rip into him later for the blush currently gnawing on his cheeks. "No Sith Lord or his cronies are ever gonna out fly me, don't you worry about that."

"Now we're safely in hyperspace, have you made contact with Fulcrum?" Draven demanded, ignoring their flirting. She shoved her way forwards. "They need to know that we were successful."

"So the kid's safely settled into the quarters for now?" Ylenic asked. Tekal had to admire that no matter how much of a piece of work he was in any other aspect, he was great with kids.

"He is," Draven confirmed. "But check on him, anyway. I don't want to be dealing with a screaming child all the way back, no matter how powerful or important Fulcrum thinks he is."

"Powerful and important?" Tekal hadn't known about that. "Why?" At Otara's chiding look, he added hastily: "Ma'am?"

Usually, Draven would just ignore him. But she answered him this time. "Yes. Apparently he's the son of some important Jedi—another Jedi was watching over him, waiting for him to be a reasonable age he could consent to training, but the Sith weren't about to respect that. The Inquisitors seized the boy, and he was powerful enough for Vader to want to train personally. So... we were sent on the mission to Mustafar, immediately after Fulcrum already sent us to Coruscant to rescue those other future Inquisitors. In theory Vader wouldn't have arrived back on planet from dealing with that mess, yet."

"In theory," another voice spat. Tekal ignored Ric; the Duros was nursing a sore throat from where he'd got into the Sith's crosshairs, and glared at everyone like they were personally responsible.

"In theory," Draven agreed, rolling her eyes. She'd worked with Ric Stoma since they were both Tekal's age, and she never put up with his shit. "But we got away, we left Vader behind, so stop your whining and you," she looked back at Otara, "patch me through to Fulcrum. I need to report."

"Already through, Commander," Otara replied, smiling in that easy, reassuring way she always did, and hit a button on the console. The jagged lines and diamonds of the fulcrum symbol appeared over the holoprojector.

"Report," came the garbled voice.

Draven strode forwards. "This is Commander Erinn Draven, reporting the success of Operation: Failsafe. We have the target, and have set an initial course for—" She glanced at Otara questioningly.

"Nar Shaddaa," she supplied.

"Nar Shaddaa, to finish the jump to the rendezvous coordinates from there."

"Good work, Commander. Your team always pull through. Did the shadow give you any trouble?"

"Did he give us any trouble," Ric muttered, voice hoarse, but Tekal just shared a look with Otara and rolled his eyes. He pushed past Ric into the corridor behind, heading for his bunk, when...

"You ain't going to see the kid?"

Tekal turned around. Ylenic was raising an eyebrow at him, that damnable cocky smirk on his face. His blue lekku bumped into his elbows as he folded his arms and said, "You can't tell me you're not curious about this Jedi kid."

"I've seen a lot of Jedi kids," Tekal dismissed. "And I suspect I'll see a lot more so long as the Empire keeps being its kriffed up self and kidnapping them. Why is this one any different, other than the fact we had a whole extra set of guards to get through to get to him?"

Ylenic pushed past him and made to climb down the ladder to where the bunkrooms were. "Suit yourself. But Darth kriffing Vader's sure seen a lotta Jedi kids too—killed his fair share, even. You don't wanna see what's got His Asthmatic Lordliness so interested?"

...Tekal did, come to think of it.

He really did.

Ylenic grinned the moment he saw that look on his face. "C'mon, then. Let's go introduce ourselves."

It wasn't a small ship, but space was limited by nature and they were almost immediately in front of the door to the nursery, the room with twelve bunks they always used to house the kids they rescued. Fulcrum had been hiring the crew for this reason almost since the Inquisitors were first founded, and while Tekal was the newest member of the crew—and the most useless member, a part of him always insisted—they'd all been doing this for a while. They were prepared.

Tekal asked, just before they entered, "Should we knock?"

Ylenic snorted. "He'll already know we're here."

Prepared as they were, most of their jobs saw at least three or four kids rescued at once. Never one kid left to wallow on his own in a room for twelve, eyeing the toys in the boxes but not shifting from the bunk Draven had first dumped him on. He was curled up right in the corner, blond hair all a-mussed, and stared at them all with suspicious eyes.

Ylenic immediately approached, carefully, like he was handling a skittish shaak.

"Hey, there," he said softly. His Ryl accent seemed to fade into a more generic Outer Rim one when he said that, like he didn't want to seem too alien to the kid. He sat himself down on the other end of the bunk: not too close, not too far. "How're you doing?"

The boy extracted his nose from between his knees and lifted a wobbling chin. "I want to go home," he said.

"I know you do," Ylenic soothed. "I know you do, and we'll take you home as soon as we can. What's your name?"

The boy didn't answer.

"Tekal," Ylenic said, his voice lacking his usual mocking bite, "c'mon over here. They always respond well to you."

Tekal did a double take. "They do?"

"Yes." Ylenic rolled his eyes. "Why do you think you're on this crew? You can't fly, and we all know you're focused on other things when Otara's giving you lessons"—Tekal blushed fiercely, and the boy's mouth twitched in humour—"and you can't shoot for—"

Ylenic glanced at the kid, then mouthed shavit, at Tekal. Tekal frowned, stung.

"But, you're excellent with them. So c'mon over here and do your thing."

What thing? He frowned, but came over sure enough, to sit cross-legged on the opposite bunk to the kid.

"I'm Tekal," he said, smiling and trying to project... calm. Control. Peace, and trustworthiness. You can trust me, little one, I'm not going to hurt you. "It's nice to meet you—what's your name?"

The boy eyed him for a moment more, before he uncurled slightly from his ball and said, "Luke."

Tekal smiled broader. "Hello, Luke. We came to help you."

"I want Papa," Luke said immediately.

"I..." Tekal glanced at Ylenic, who just waved his hand. Do your thing. "We're going to reunite you with your papa as soon as possible, Luke, I promise. I'm sure he's very worried about you."

"He is," Luke said immediately. "And he's very angry."

"Well, that's understandable. We'll take you to him in no time."

And then Luke said, "He's already here."

Tekal blinked.

Luke continued, "He's already here—he's on this ship. I can feel him. He's telling me not to worry, I'm not safe now but I will be safe soon."

Oh.

Oh.

Of course the Inquisitors hadn't left the poor boy's parents alive when they stole him in the name of their Empire.

Of course not.

"I'm glad he's sticking around," Tekal said, and was alarmed to find his eyes filling with tears. He blinked them away. "The people we love never truly leave us, do they, little one? I'm sure your papa—and mama—are still here in spirit."

When he glanced at Ylenic, he had never looked so awkward.

"Yes," he said, slipping back into his native accent. "Of course."

Then the ship shuddered.

It was... unusually hard, like they'd been caught in a gravity well they were trying to break free of, or something vital deep within the ship had come loose. He clutched the edge of the bunk until the tremors passed, and shared another look with Ylenic.

"Is that—"

"That was not good." Ylenic frowned.

"Well, what was it? You're the mechanic—that's your use on this team, considering you can't exactly fly or shoot either."

Ylenic shot him a look, but just said, "I dunno. And I don't like it."

Well. That boded well.

Ylenic got up from the bunk. "I'm gonna check it out. Come with me."

"Why?"

"Because if somethin' explodes in my face and I die, someone has to tell the epic saga of my life."

Tekal snorted, but followed him, tossing over his shoulder: "It was nice to meet you, Luke."

The boy's pale gaze followed him out; Tekal found it... oddly heavy, on his back.

"Papa," he said.

They shut and locked the door behind them, taking a moment to share a grim look before they glanced at the ladder that would take them down to the engine level. Tekal seized the first rung—

And then the ship shook.

He was thrown so hard he had to loop his arm around the ladder for dear life, grimacing at the pain that shot up his elbow. Ylenic had nothing to hold onto: he was sent sprawling, his lekku twisting under his back in what looked like a really uncomfortable way, and even if it was all in Ryl, Tekal winced at the torrent of cussing unleashed from his mouth.

"Alright," Ylenic growled, shoving himself to his feet and baring his sharp teeth a little. "Let's go see what the hell that was about, 'cause we just dropped out of hyperspace."

"At least it wasn't into the heart of a star," Tekal quipped.

"Not now, Tekal Mendes. Get your sorry hide down that ladder."

Tekal sighed, but unhooked his elbow from the rung and climbed down, hand over hand—

Then there was a whirring noise, and he froze.

Just in time to see the lights vanish.

He glanced down—the floor he was descending to was now a well of darkness—and back up, just in time for the emergency lighting to kick in. Ylenic's face was painted crimson as he snarled.

"Great. Just great. Power's out, too."

Tekal winced, opened his mouth—

"Just keep moving, Mendes."

He did.

His shoulders shook as he descended, hands unsteady on the rungs. Ylenic laughed when he noticed, peering down at him in a way that seemed oddly leery in the red light.

"What? Afraid of the dark, kid?"

"No," Tekal said stubbornly. He reached for the next rung down with his foot and met solid floor. "I just have a bad feeling about—"

"Don't we all."

He yelped and staggered back so fast he tripped over his own feet and went sprawling. Commander Draven stared down at him, unimpressed.

Otara, next to her, snorted with laughter. Tekal was suddenly glad that the light was a deep red anyway.

"The length of your response time to potentially fatal engine failure is concerning," Draven said to both of them, but addressed it mainly to Ylenic as he came down the ladder too. "Swift here came with me as soon as she heard the problem; I would hope a mechanic with as much experience as you, Sorrel—"

"Sorry, ma'am, I'll make sure to do that next time," Ylenic muttered, only a little sarcastically. He pushed past them all to peer into the engine room. "What happened?"

"We were hoping you would tell us?" Otara said pointedly. "We suddenly dropped out of hyperspace, miles from anywhere—not even a star within a hundred parsecs. This was extremely lucky if it was engine failure, and—"

"And I don't trust it," Draven finished, crossing her arms. "So—Sorrel, get into that engine room. Mendes, there's a glowrod in the store room just next to you, second shelf in the cupboard immediately on the right, just next to the medical supplies. Dig it out and go with him; he might need a little light."

"Yes, ma'am." He palmed the controls to open the door and—when the door didn't budge, probably due to the lack of power—just physically yanked at it until he'd pried it open. Panting a little, he stepped in, fumbling about for the light switch—that didn't work either. Of course.

If he thought about it too long, he'd start worrying about other important things not working—life support being the chief one—so he just felt along the wall to the right; there was the cupboard. He wrapped his hand around the handle to pull—

He frowned. It wouldn't budge.

There was something blocking it.

He nudged the thing with his foot—whatever it was, it was large, and squishy. It was probably another sack of fresh produce gone rotten or something—Ric was always buying that stuff then letting it go to waste—so he just kicked it aside and felt around for the glowrod.

"Hurry up, Tekal, I can't see what's wrong with the engine in this light!"

Tekal rolled his eyes, ignoring his sudden, intense spike of foreboding, and his hands landed on a few packets. Those would be the medical supplies, so just next to them would be...

There!

His fingers curled around the cool handle of a glowrod; he pulled it out, thumbed the switch, and a brilliant beam of white light shot out. He grinned—

Then screamed.

Because— because in that light—

"Commander Draven!" he shouted. "Commander!"

Half a second later, she was there. "What is it, Mendes—"

And then her breath caught in her throat.

Tekal had never seen Draven cry. He had never seen her falter. And certainly, she didn't do the former now, but she did do the latter: she clutched the door frame, staring down, the little white light painting a study of utter horror and grief in thick shadows on her face as she stared down at the floor.

To where Ric Stoma lay, throat purpled like a jogan, slack and still in death.

"What—" With a hacking cough, she forcibly regained her composure, eyes still wide. Ric's hand, loosely clutching at his crushed throat, still had a small bag of medical supplies clutched in it.

And Tekal thought the understanding that crossed Draven's face was the most awful thing he'd ever seen.

"Mendes, Swift," she said evenly. "Get up the ladder and get the child to the escape ship. It has enough fuel for one hyperspace jump; make it count."

"Commander—" Tekal began.

"Go." She grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the room; he almost tripped over Ric's dead body. She threw him at Otara and he barely managed to keep from falling over. "Get that kid to safety!"

"On it, ma'am," Otara said and she scrambled up that ladder like a beek monkey, pausing only briefly to glance back. It was enough for Tekal to see the panic that shone in the whites of her eyes.

Tekal's breathing was very loud in his ears. Or maybe that was the air vents, or the life support, struggling to cope with the power out—

"Sorrel," Draven called out. Tekal paused halfway up the ladder to glance back; Ylenic was back from the engine room at the other end of the corridor, his gait oddly swaying. All he could see of him was a shadow.

Inexplicably, Draven raised her blaster and aimed it at him.

"Tekal!" Otara hissed, staring down the ladder. "Come on!"

He ignored her for a moment, frozen still; she huffed, and he heard running footsteps as she sprinted for Luke's quarters, the beeping noise as she unlocked the door—

"Sorrel," Draven said again, and Tekal wanted to shrink away from the... perverted satisfaction he himself felt, though this certainly wasn't his emotion, he didn't have the faintest idea where this was coming from— "Sorrel, what did you find?"

Incapable of standing by any longer, Tekal raised the glowrod and shone the light right on Ylenic's face.

It was twisted in pure, unadulterated terror.

And behind him, a shadow that dwarfed all of them, and the rasping sound that could not be attributed to the vents or Tekal's own, frantic breathing—

The buzz shocked all of them out of their stupor.

Crimson erupted from Ylenic's chest.

It bathed the corridor in fiery light. Draven opened fire herself, adding to the deluge, and then—

The beam of light ripped out of Ylenic and danced in some psychotic, deadly routine, fully illuminating the towering Sith Lord standing there, on their ship, blocking every bolt with embarrassing ease as he charged forwards and Draven staggered back, already resigned to death—

"Save the kid!" she screamed, before a flash of light and a double-handed blow sheared her in two and she thumped in pieces to the ground.

Those bulbous, insectoid eye plates turned up to regard Tekal then and he scrambled upwards, throwing himself over onto the next floor just before that lightsaber took out the entire ladder in a screech of tearing metal. His heart hammered in his head as he staggered down the corridor again, some all-powerful instinct forcing him to duck to the side, collapsing, as—

A lightsaber bulged from the floor centimetres from his feet and he screamed, scrambled back to his feet, racing forwards—

To where Otara was waiting at the other end, where the ladder to the final floor was, Luke's arm clutched tightly in her hand. He looked like he'd put up a fight, like he'd been crying...

"Get him up the ladder," she hissed. "You're good with kids, and he refuses to—get him up the ladder, I'll hold Vader—"

"Come on, Luke, climb the ladder, you need to," Tekal muttered, and Luke gave him a baleful look—gave the wicked hum of that lightsaber a baleful look, insane child—but obeyed. He was basically on the next floor when Tekal turned back to Otara and snapped, "You'll hold Vader off?"

She drew her blaster grimly. "I'm a better shot than you, Jedi boy."

Jedi boy? He blinked, but didn't have the chance to argue further as metal screeched and the floor at the other end of the corridor bent downwards under a sudden rush of cold...

...and then Darth Vader landed with an almighty leap and she started firing.

It was like watching a repeat of Draven's death, but worse; this was Otara, she was throwing herself at a murderous Sith Lord who'd drawn them all out this long for his own sick, twisted pleasure, and it was her who was taking shot after deflected shot in the arm, in the shoulder, in the leg, like he just wanted her to suffer

"Go!" she shouted. "Save the kid, that's what this has all been for. Save that kid."

And Tekal threw himself up the ladder, onto the last floor, just as Vader flung out a hand to toss Otara against the ceiling, and decided the snap of her neck was not enough for him. He carved her in two as well.

Go. Go, go, go, go, go—

Save the kid.

Save the kid

"Come on, Luke!" he yelled, sprinting towards the back of the ship, away from the cockpit, to where the emergency sting ship was docked— "We have to move!"

The poor boy was panting, he was crying, tears streaming down his face from the stress of it all but Tekal seized him around the bicep and dragged him onwards. The emergency ship was tiny, barely an escape pod with a hyperdrive, but he slammed his fist against the button to open the door and shoved Luke in. Luke stumbled and fell with a screaming cry but Tekal paid him no heed; he punched the controls to get it started up, grinning wildly and bitterly when it responded as quickly as any emergency ship ought to, then turned around to yank the lever down and release from the ship—

And then he was yanked up by his throat and smashed his head against the ceiling.

The doorway was filled with Sith Lord, red and black intermingling with the darkness in his vision, but he could see Vader's fist clearly enough. The leather of his glove creaked as he clenched it tighter and tighter, and Tekal gasped for air that wasn't coming, that didn't exist...

The blank gaze of that mask stared into his soul, and Tekal didn't think he'd ever known such fury.

Such hatred.

Such disgust.

Then the mask moved to Luke, huddled in a corner, and Tekal's head rolled with one lazy flick of light.


"Papa?" Luke queried in a tremulous voice. Vader could not sigh, but he let out a breath of relief nonetheless as his son crept forwards, out of the corner of the ship he'd sequestered himself in, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Vader dropped the remains of that worthless Rebel to the floor with a thud. "Yes, Luke," he intoned. He tried to send waves of reassurance, of calm, of safety, to him, but Luke was too on edge. As enjoyable as extracting every drop of fear from those kidnappers had been, it had not been good for his son. He'd got carried away. "I am here."

Luke sobbed, then ran and threw himself at Vader.

Vader belatedly deactivated his lightsaber—why was he still holding it?—and tossed it aside as both hands came up to hold Luke, muttering nonsense calming words that his vocoder only interpreted as static.

"You're safe, little one," he tried again, but something about those words just made Luke sob harder, cling to him more.

Vader carried him over to the pilot's seat of the ship and let him sit on his knee while he punched in the hyperspace coordinates, one hand always wrapped around Luke for him to grip onto. Luke's shuddering faded eventually, but his tears did not dry for a long time.

When Vader stood to close the door and launch from the Rebels' pathetic excuse for a ship, he paused at the sight of the human man—boy, really—who'd come so close to taking his son from him forever.

He kicked him into the main body of the ship and slammed the door. Luke buried his face in his shoulder and his hand came up to cradle it, gently, even if his rage was soaring anew.

Their deaths, he thought, had been far, far too quick.