This prompt game on tumblr was running months ago, I finished taking prompts in January but what can I say, I'm slow. XD I finally stopped to proofread them and post them here.
A few of these are snippets that fit into larger AUs, though not all the ones I wrote are represented in here-another of my fics, The Heir, began when one of these snippets got out of control, though that particular ficlet is not posted in this chapter. A few of these ficlets were also continued in The Great April Flood, a collaborative fic which you can find on my profile on AO3.
Warnings for Major Character Death in one of these snippets.
Other Universes IV: A collection of ficlets/drabbles written on tumblr when I received one sentence as a prompt and I wrote the next five (...or more).
"No! Stop, please! You have to hear me first, please, don't—"
The boy's plea was cut off by gags and his hand scrabbled for his throat, face purpling.
"Why are you on my flagship, padawan? What are you planning?"
The boy looked up, pale eyes flashing, and spat, "I didn't have a plan; I just heard you were here, and I came."
His gaze was steady on Vader's as he whispered, "I'm Luke Skywalker, and I'm here to rescue you."
It wasn't the first time Luke had awoken naked and tied up but it was the least alarming.
There was a blanket half draped over his legs, half pooled at his feet. He glared at it and it finally twitched, coming to wrap tightly around himself. He hadn't quite aimed for that.
"I know that I'm injured and just got out of bacta," he complained out loud and craned his head to peer at his father in the corner, "so you know that I can't escape; can you removed these binders?"
Vader snorted even as Luke twitches his wrists inside them to illustrate the point, and said, "I am afraid you are an escape hazard, my son. If you had not already risked your life three times to run off to save the Princess while you were still injured, I might be more lenient"—he folded his arms across his chest—"but I am not."
"Where did you get that?" Luke shouted as he jumped out of his chair and lunged at Vader to try to snatch it out of his hands.
"Underneath your bed," Vader growled, shoving Luke back with the Force; Luke barely caught his balance in time, "and as if that wasn't damning enough: I presume you recognise it?"
Luke had barely flinched before Vader barrelled on: "I thought as much. Luke, this is seditious material, worthy of an accusation of treason, and if I catch you with it once more—"
"You'll what?" Luke asked bitterly, finally summoning the holo of his mother to his hand again and cradling it against his chest like the precious, precious item it was. "Kill her again?"
Piett glared down at his bindings, then at Luke Skywalker standing in front of him, and said with conviction, "Lord Vader will come for me."
Skywalker had the nerve to smile. "We're counting on it."
"Then you're suicidal," Piett shot back, "because Lord Vader will destroy you the moment he comes."
"We'll be long gone, but I do need you to pass on a message to my father."
Piett took a moment to realise the implications of that but when he did his eyes blew wide—
"Tell him," Skywalker didn't even react to his surprise: his smile just sharpened, to something much more vicious than suited his young face, eyes suddenly glinting a sickly gold, "that we're ready when he is."
"You'd better drop your weapon, Darth," the boy said. "We've got you surrounded."
Perfect, Vader thought; this was perfect; the trap had worked.
He could mop up what pitiful Rebels the boy had managed to scrape together, his troops were on the way on the very slim chance anything went wrong, the little bratty padawan would finally be caught and killed, and Vader turned his gaze to the lightsaber he would finally add to the many he'd claimed as the spoils of war—
And he froze, growled, "That lightsaber…" and the boy smirked.
"My father's," he said; Vader's mind staggered under the implications of it, but not enough that when the boy lit it and brought it down, he was not able to parry, suddenly very invested in getting this child out of his own trap alive.
He had not dropped his weapon, after all, even as the Rebel squads opened fire.
The ornate collar felt suffocating around Luke's neck, as though the gold vines had come to life and were constricting around his windpipe.
"Papa…." he tugged at it, and when the stiff, crisp material didn't so much as budge, he groaned again: "Do I have to wear this?"
His father's breath rasped harshly, as it always did, but it always seemed heavier on Empire Day too; when his hand landed on Luke's shoulder to guide him into the nearest room, that was heavy too.
"Fix your collar," his father ordered instead of answering his question, "and don't come out until I say."
Before Luke could say Papa again there was a snick in the door, the turning of a key and he shouted it instead: "Papa!"
"Stay in there, I said," his father growled, over the sound of… a lightsaber—his lightsaber!—"or when he realises what is happening, Palpatine might come for you too."
"What is happening?"
His papa didn't answer; he was already gone, and Luke wondered why he suddenly felt so scared.
"Luke," Biggs breathed, "I thought you were long dead."
Luke wasn't moving.
Leia stared at her brother, then back to the dark-haired man who'd just waltzed up to them on Ord Mantell, then back to Luke. His mouth was opening and closing like a gooberfish's.
Then he surged forwards, with a ferocity Leia had never seen in him, and Biggs was laughing; they were hugging.
"You're alive," Luke was whispering, "you're alive."
"I'm sorry, okay?" Vader cried out.
Luke didn't wake up.
"I— I'm sorry, I should've intervened sooner, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
Luke still didn't twitch, still as death, eyes half-closed, breaths barely fluttering, faint lightning scarring covering half his face.
Vader cradled his cheek with his hand, hoisted him into his arms and whispered, "You were right, Luke.
"I'll— I'll tell your sister for you, for if—when—you wake up," his voice cracked, "that you were right."
"What's going on?" asked Luke, voice confused and fearful. "Why won't you let me out?"
The little boy was banging on the door of the cupboard he'd been locked in, and Tarkin smiled thinly, turning towards the Carrion Spike's comm unit.
Luke… Skywalker…
"Patch me through to the Executor."
His aide frowned and pointed out, "Lord Vader has given express orders that you not contact him again; he has already refused."
"I'm sure he will be more amenable to supporting our coup, this time," Tarkin said, smile widening, "especially now we have an alternative form of… persuasion."
Boy, that went wrong, Luke thought. And, just as he had stated in his mind, things had, indeed, gone wrong.
It would not have been so catastrophic had you simply heeded my advice.
Luke whistled to himself and walked away from the burning X-wing, which groaned and collapsed into the lake he'd crashed into the edge of.
The moment I have cleared up the rest of your squadron, young one, I will come to the surface and I will find you; you cannot hide.
"Pretty sure I can," Luke murmured to himself, smiling as he a) sensed the Rogues high above him escape from the Imperial ambush into hyperspace and b) laid eyes on the boat house, which, if he was correct, had an entrance to the very reason the Rebellion had been so interested in this planet as a base at all.
He smiled and, tossing his father a brief equivalent of a mental salute, vanished into the catacombs
The moment he said those words, causing crystal tears to glisten in those ocean-depth eyes, a slight tremble of the lips though it bravely tried to stay still—refusing to let such pained hurt be shown on that farm-boyish face of his—Han knew that he had, without a single trace of doubt, screwed up in the worst possible way in his entire life (and that is saying something considering, he truthfully admits, he'd caused a no doubt galactic record of mistakes.)
Luke nodded before Han could shout it—I'm sorry, kid, I'm so sorry— and ducked his head to hide his tears, raising his arms as the stormtrooper—of the 501st, if Han knew his insignias—fixed binders on him.
"I understand," he said bitterly; he lost the battle when he blinked, and tears rolled down his cheek, "he paid you, and you have bounties on your head."
Han gritted his teeth; that was true, actually, and… in fact…
He shot the stormtrooper.
"You're right; I've already got a load of bounties on my head," Luke gaped at him, "so actually, I guess," he shrugged, then shot the trooper again when he twitched, "might as well have one on there from the dark lord himself!"
"What the karking hell are you doing, Luke?"
Luke froze mid-sneak, hand still on the controls to extend the ramp to Ahsoka's ship, then sheepishly turned to his sister and said, "Hear me out."
"I'm listening, and I haven't told Ahsoka—yet."
"I found out that Dad's alive," he said breathlessly, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers, "and I'm going to save him."
"Really," Leia drawled, eyebrows climbing higher and higher on her face despite the momentary flicker of shock; she glanced at his hands, still hovering awkwardly, "and what's the catch?"
He smiled nervously and repeated: "Now, hear me out…"
Luke finally opened the chest, which was the one that had haunted him for ten years that his aunt and uncle always kept locked, and looked inside to see dozens of holodiscs and one strange, blue cube.
He knew what this cube was now—perhaps that was why Ben and Ahsoka had only given him permission to open it now, once he finally knew the truth of why his father had disappeared when he was barely old enough to remember him, once he'd finally been trained enough as a Jedi to do what he could not.
The holocron clicked open at the slightest touch of the Force and his father spoke:
"Hey, Luke," his blue figure, young and strong and uninjured, looking so much like Luke did not, shifted awkwardly, "I'm really, really sorry this is necessary, but Palpatine won't stop until he has one of us. Leia and your mother are safe in hiding, but with you… I don't want to take the risk. I'm going to kill Palpatine, and please," his voice broke, "please don't think it's because I'm abandoning you; I love you. This is all for you."
"I'll be back soon," he promised. "I'll finally take you to watch that podrace when I come back, and then we can go to Naboo and you can see your sister again"—even in his absence Luke had, mercifully, been able to see his sister again—"and everything will be alright."
But it hadn't been.
His father had vanished.
And now, Luke thought, watching the holo wink out, he fully understood why Darth Vader, scourge of the Rebellion and the Jedi and democracy, always seemed so sad to him.
The Inquisitor stared at the man who had killed the Emperor and was unsure of what to do.
Then he hoisted his lightsaber and shouted, "You traitor!"
Skywalker grinned, his blue eyes doing that thing where they always seemed colder than yellow ones ever could.
The Inquisitor stalked closer, despite the fact that he'd never won a duel against Vader's brat, and he probably wasn't about to start— "There is no escape for you this time, Skywalker; even if I don't kill you, your father will."
"My father is dead," Skywalker spat, and lit his own crimson saber in response. "Why do you think I killed the old man at all?"
"Can I help you with something, Lord Vader?" Luke asked, straining to keep his tone polite despite his unease and growing irritation at being followed.
Vader hooked his thumbs into his belt and stared at him for several moments; eventually, he said, "I am on Naboo for… personal reasons, Your Highness."
Luke lifted his chin, Naboo's ceremonial makeup as stiff and formal as ever on his face, glanced up at the portraits that lined the palace corridor as they meandered through it, and flattened his tone into a drawl: "And is there something I can help you with?"
"Indeed," Vader said, "I require the tomb of— of Padmé Amidala to be opened and her body to be examined."
Luke raised his eyebrows regally, though his heart was pounding.
Vader's voice had cracked on his mother's name, but that did not mean Luke wanted his (unknowing) father anywhere near evidence that proved Luke's survival.
"Why?" he asked, perhaps a touch too boldly.
"That is none of your concern."
"She is a beloved figure of my planet, Lord Vader, she is very much my concern," Luke snapped—incredibly unwisely. And she's my mother, and I know exactly who tried to kill her. "And you need access to Naboo's medical records and specialised facilities to fully examine her—I suggest you do not alienate potential allies."
His father snorted. "'Allies,'" he mocked. "But very well, Your Highness.
"Our suspicions are that if Amidala's child survived, which evidence suggests has," he said, deadly soft, "then that child is the illegitimate child of a Jedi, a Force sensitive, and needs to be destroyed before it can threaten the galaxy the way they did. If you obstruct my investigation, I will have you labelled as a Jedi collaborator, and your entire council will share that child's fate."
So. That was what his father thought of him.
He did not want this man to learn of his existence.
But did didn't exactly have a choice after that ultimatum, did he?
He swallowed. "Very well, Lord Vader, you have my permission. Provided you share any discoveries with my government. Amidala was a beloved queen," he mused sadly—bitterly, even, and Vader caught that. "If her child survived, Naboo would adore it just as much."
And in the midst of his own emotions, Luke Naberrie—the most popular monarch of Naboo in fifteen years—missed the way Vader's gaze slid to him, and stayed there.
He had shown mercy, just this once, but it had stemmed from pure pragmatism rather than any semblance of kindness.
"Do not expect me to do this again," Vader warned. "This is not mercy. Just because I recognise that the Rebellion alone has the antidote you so desperately need after your ridiculous stunt on Felucia, does not mean I will let you go again; you are merely of no use to me dead."
The idiot boy just smiled.
"Thank you for your concern, Father," he said kindly, then limped off into the jungle, hand clutching at the (alarmingly blue) wound in his side.
As Luke watched Darth Vader slaughter the rest of the rebels, he wondered how he was still alive, but he knew it wouldn't be for long as Vader was walking straight for him.
It was hopeless, but Luke raised his blaster anyway and shot. He was Luke Skywalker, Jedi, Commander and Rebel, and he would not submit!
"Stand down, Luke," Vader intoned—Luke had always hated the familiarity with which Vader seemed to treat him the few times their paths had crossed—and deflected the bolt with ease— "I will not harm you."
Luke's second shot said exactly what he thought about that.
"I see you do not yet understand," Vader observed. He reached Luke, ripped the blaster from his grip and hoisted him up by the front of his fatigues. Luke kicked, and kicked hard, but it was vain.
"I understand enough!"
"Do you?" Vader purred, leaning forwards so his mask filled almost all of Luke's vision. Luke tried to look away, but then his gaze just landed on the dead Rebels in Vader's wake and he suddenly realised that he was completely and utterly with this monster.
He could feel the exhaust from his mask rasping over his face.
"Do you understand," Vader growled, "what actually happened to your father?"
Luke squeezed his eyes shut and suddenly decided he didn't want to.
Luke absently picked up what he thought might have been a flashlight, a thin, grey cylinder with some kind of bottom, and held it up to look closer at the hollow centre.
He frowned, and a strange premonition had him pointing the hollow part away from him before he hit the button experimentally.
A whoosh and bright white light flooded the small cabin.
His arm vibrated with the humming sound it made, and he swung it experimentally; the balance of this… blade… was totally different to what he'd expected.
He knew what this was.
He'd heard the legends; he knew what this was.
He knew what it meant.
His host was approaching from the cockpit, he could tell, in that way he could always just tell things, and he gestured to the white spear when she opened the door. She watched him for a moment; though he didn't turn to look at her, he knew she was smiling.
"Miss Tano," he said.
"For the last time, Luke, call me Ahsoka."
"Ahsoka, then…" He looked at the lightsaber in his hands. "If you were a Jedi—or are a Jedi, I don't know—how did you know my father?" A navigator on a spice freighter.
If he'd been a navigator on a spice freighter.
That story had always rung hollow, but never as much as it did now.
Ahsoka's hand landed on his shoulder, her other one coming to adjust his grip on the blade slightly—a fighting grip, he realised.
She said, "How do you think?"
Anakin never wanted this, never wanted to find himself engaging in a life or death battle with the Sith apprentice who wore his son's face.
"Luke," he tried, "come back…"
"You want me to come back, Father?" the boy spat. It wasn't even venomous; it would've been easier if it was. But his tone was cool, collected and ruthlessly honest in a way that ill-suited his son. "Isn't it the other way round? You fought so desperately for me to learn the dark side, to be a Sith—and now, the minute I fulfill your expectations, you turn your back on me."
And there was the anger. The pain.
"Will I never be good enough for you!?"
"I was a fool, Luke," Anakin pleaded, "I've seen the light, now, I've returned—you can too, please, come with me, leave your master behind—"
"Do you have any idea, what I sacrificed to make you happy?" Luke hissed. "How much of me was lost in that training? I am not your son, Lord Vader—he died the moment you handed him to Palpatine."
Anakin stared at him, that young face lined with darkness, and wanted to cry.
"Will you fight?" his son—his son, no matter what his mistakes or Sith dogmas or the boy himself could do about it—asked him, that refined edge back in his voice. "Or will you die?"
Anakin had a sudden image of Luke running him through. No mercy, no regret; just cold, cold revenge and a master who had convinced him that Vader was the one who could never be pleased.
No. He would not allow it.
He'd defeat Luke—knock him out, get him far away from here, make him understand. He would not give up now, and if he died, there would be no one left to rescue his son.
So he drew his lightsaber and lit it, a bright, bright blue.
Luke's expression shuttered. And Anakin realised…
Luke had hoped.
Dark or not, he had hoped that his father would love him enough that he wouldn't fight him. He had hoped that he would mean enough to him for that.
You mean everything to me, Luke, Anakin thought, but he didn't think the boy heard it.
And as they stalked in a circle, ready to begin, and Palpatine cackled in the background and that image—premonition—of Luke running him through flashed to mind again…
Anakin wondered if he hadn't just made a horrible mistake.
Most likely he would die within the next few minutes, but not even that thought could rouse Luke's spirits; the bleakness enveloped all his heart and soul.
Ben… it hurts…
He could hear the footsteps coming closer, that signature rasp that every Rebel feared, and tugged in vain at his restraints. But the Imperial hospitality had left agony lancing up and down his back; he cried out the moment he tried it, and that insectoid mask snapped to him with a focus that sent his terror to ever new heights. He could feel his pulse in his neck like a trapped starbird.
"What," the dark lord said, and he'd sound furious but he always sounded furious, "is this?"
Ben… help me…
Vader approached and Luke flinched back, another sob choking him at the pain that spasmed in his limbs. Tears dripped from his eyes and mixed with his blood to run in pink rivulets down his face.
The interrogator said, "He tried to save his friends, my lord, by confessing to being the Rebel who destroyed the Death Star. Of course we contacted you immediately and tried to extract as much information from him as we could in the meantime—"
"Have you had… success?" Vader said, voice perfectly flat.
Ben…
"Not yet, my lord, but I'm sure that our efforts will have made it easier for you to do so—"
Vader cut him off and took a step forwards. He lifted Luke's chin minutely to study him through the blood and the tears.
"You are Luke Skywalker?" he murmured. "Destroyer of the Death Star—the Jedi's son?"
Luke spat blood right on his bulbous eye plates.
Vader didn't flinch; just released Luke's chin to wipe the smear away and addressed the interrogator: "If I recall, I gave orders that he was not to be harmed."
There was bloodlust lurking there. Was Vader looking forward to breaking him himself, to destroying the last link to the Jedi? Was—
The hideous hum of a lightsaber and Luke flinched—
It was a moment of screams later that Luke realised that bloodlust had not been meant for him.
Luke kind of understood that he was in the past, and on Imperial Centre, but wasn't his father supposed to be a navigator?
"A navigator," Anakin snorted when he brought it up, "and not even a pilot?"
"Who told you that?"
"My aunt and uncle," Luke said, grinning sheepishly. Then he turned to the next nearest person and said, unapologetically, "Ben Kenobi corroborated it."
Ben choked on his laugh as Anakin glared.
Anakin and Padmé ran to the twins' room, shaken by what they saw: Leia—in tears—trying to reach to Luke.
He lay still as death, unresponsive to the way his sister poked and prodded and pleaded with him; Padmé was at his side in a moment, hand pressed to his wrist, his forehead, but Anakin hung back—something felt wrong…
With a gasp and a flood of tears, Luke sat up straight like he'd been shocked, and choked out, "He's coming—the shadow."
A stone fell in Anakin's gut; he and Padmé exchanged a glance, and he said, "Then we know what we have to do."
Padmé nodded, and made to go and pack up the things with a surety that betrayed her vast experience in being on the run.
This wasn't the first time Palpatine—Sidious—had managed to track them down, after all.
The pilot was lying on a heap of rubble, blown back by the explosions that had torn the Rebel base apart.
Vader stared down at him. Luke's blond hair was matted with blood, the minute rise and fall of his chest barely noticeable in the mess of twisted flesh, melted fabric and the remains of his X-wing. There was a hole in his right hand that betrayed the wiring and circuits of the prosthetic Vader had expected to see.
Another explosion shattered the hangar but Vader didn't twitch and neither did Luke. Ash and embers rained down around them.
Vader knelt down and turned Luke onto his back.
A breath rasped, off-sync with its inexorable rhythm.
The shrapnel had punched a hole through Luke's back and emerged through his chest like an insidious parasite, weeping blood. Luke gasped weakly as the motion tore the hole ever wider, then he flopped onto his back and let his pale gaze touch his father's. The faintest of smiles—like the one he'd sported at Bespin before he threw himself to his death—touched his lips.
Vader brushed blood-soaked hair out of his face.
Confusion creased Luke's eyes but he kept smiling, let his father stroke his cheek, and then he was still.
Vader's other hand spasmed into a fist.
A final explosion lit up the hangar, ash and soot and embers raining upon Luke's hair, his lips, his closed eyes. Confetti for the dead; a funeral shroud for a boy who would never smile again.
Vader had never even heard him laugh.
He knelt there forever beside the body of the son he would never know, and the dark knight kept his vigil.
"Let me make one thing clear, that my allegiance is only that of my son's. Not you, nor the empire, Luke." Vader's—no, Anakin's—voice rang among the Rebel Alliance council.
Luke fixatedly stared at the table as everyone stared at him, heat rising in his cheeks like one of the volcanoes on Mustafar.
"And are you loyal to the Alliance to Restore the Republic, Jedi Skywalker?" Mothma asked him, a little archly, bless her, a kind, confident smile on her face.
You have no need of saying yes; if they take displeasure with your answer, I can and will—
Luke choked on a laugh, slightly hysterical, and hoped that High Command read it as such; he lifted his chin and said, "Totally and absolutely, ma'am," ignoring the sceptical scoffs of the more hard-line council members.
"Then, Skywalker," Mothma turned back to his father, "your allegiance is ours, is it not?"
"Let me make one thing clear, that my allegiance is only that of my son's. Not you, nor the empire, Luke." Vader's—no, Anakin's—voice rang among the Rebel Alliance council.
"So," he leaned forwards, and Leia shivered as—despite his pledge to the light—a chill swept through the room, "where is Luke?"
"He's missing, Vader," Leia snapped before she could stop herself. "He and the Rogues never came back from their mission to Savareen."
The chill increased, but this time Vader's clenched fists were an attempt to keep himself under control, not as an intimidation tactic— "And what," he asked—snarled—"is being done to find him?"
Leia kept her back straight, gaze level, even as many fellow council members flinched at his regard, and snapped: "We have reached out to you, have we not?"
Anakin looked down at the boy he hugged to his chest, his grown up son he had just met.
Luke smiled into his father's chest and sobbed like he was all of five years old again, giddy with relief and joy and shock since seeing the results of the blood test this man had freely agreed to; this was his father—he was alive.
"Luke," Anakin breathed, and there was so much just crammed into his name that his grin hurt, "I have so much to tell you."
"Old Ben said you were dead, and I was gonna train to be a Jedi in your name," Luke babbled like a child again, totally unable to stop himself as all his childhood dreams came true, "but then he was killed by that— that cloaked Sith, Vader—but now you're not dead, and you can teach me to be a Jedi and wield the Force, right?"
Unseen to Luke, Anakin smiled, a vicious, satisfied twist of the mouth, his grip on Luke's shoulder gentle but possessive; when they slid up to fix on the dagger-shaped Star Destroyer hovering in orbit, then back down to his son, his eyes, for the slightest moment, flashed gold.
"Of course, come with me, little one," he promised, and his eagerness for this boy was not faked, "and I'll teach you all about the Force."
Luke was in the spot where he usually trained, going through his forms as he did daily; his father's voice came from behind him. "Very good," Vader said, "although there is a lot of room for improvement."
Luke, as always, didn't look at him; this time, however, he did say, "So you've resorted to insults to turn me to the dark side, now."
Vader's respirator always sounded like several threatening sighs, but now it especially did; "That was a compliment."
"It"—Luke executed a slash through midair, the horrible red training blade he'd been given humming—"didn't"—he rolled to avoid imaginary enemies, ignoring the sweat that pooled at the base of his neck; Mustafar was hot—"sound like one."
Vader just sighed again and unhooked his own blade—Luke, apparently, did not have a choice in receiving his planned sparring lesson, just as he hadn't on every other day of his captivity—and said, when Luke flinched instinctively at the sight of the blade: "I am not going to hurt you, my son."
"You have imprisoned me," Luke snarled, "where Jedi go to die," and he met Vader's saber swing with his own.
Luke stared at his father in disbelief. "You want me to do what?"
His father folded his arms across his chest and repeated his booming demand: "Kill the Emperor."
Luke shuddered at the mere thought. The Emperor, Palpatine, master of all the the known galaxy, the man all Inquisitors were taught absolute loyalty to the moment their training began—by the very man asking him to dismiss that most central teaching now.
"He is aware that you are far more powerful than the others, and wishes to claim you as his own, separate to the organisation—his personal servant. He will summon you to an audience with him tomorrow, and when he does, you will kill him."
Luke swallowed. "Does he know about… us?" His father himself hadn't known until recently, he knew, and this was moving extremely fast—
"I have not allowed anyone to find out."
Ah. Great. Luke swallowed.
"And if I kill him?" he asked quietly. His heart, sworn to love and protect the man from the day he was inducted into the Inquisitorius, hammered in his chest. "If I actually manage to succeed?"
"You will succeed," Vader said vehemently. "The dark side has made you powerful beyond what I could have ever hoped for, my son, and the Force is strong with you. You will not fail."
"And when I succeed, then?" Luke pressed. "What then?"
"Then I will be Emperor," Vader shot back immediately. There was so much relish in his voice.
Then that voice softened, insofar as the vocoder would let it, and he promised, "And you will be my prince."
Luke swallowed.
"If you do not do this," Vader warned, "you will remain the Twelfth Brother for the rest of your life."
Luke… couldn't tell if that was a bluff. If his father would truly leave him there, after the rage Luke had witnessed when Vader had found out his son had been there at all. If Vader would somehow reverse whatever decision the Emperor had made to elevate him to be a more direct servant of his, simply out of spite that the son he had raised only through the brutal training all Inquisitors received had disobeyed him.
"Very well, Father," Luke said, using the way Vader always seemed to revel in hearing that word to his advantage, to hide his true intentions. He may become prince under Vader if he kept his nerve, and he may become powerful under Palpatine if he listened to his loyalty.
But ambition was the first lesson of the Inquisitorius, and Luke's was telling him one thing:
That if he played his hand right, here, against a man who had abused him for years and the man who had ordered it, caught between the Sith who had defined his entire life as he remembered it… he did not have to be under anyone at all.
Anakin felt the heat in him coil and rage for vengeance as he cradled Luke's—his son's—limp form in his arms.
The dark, hooded figure, the Sith, who'd been hunting them from the moment Luke had turned up at the Jedi Temple asking to speak to the Jedi Council about a future of great importance, stared at Luke's unconscious body with a curious stillness, before scoffing and saying, "He will survive, Skywalker; he is not weak, like you are."
"You know nothing about me, Sith," Anakin hissed, "I don't care if we're supposedly close friends and you betray me in the future."
The man laughed darkly. "Is that what the boy told you—is that what Kenobi told him?"
Then he lowered his hood. Anakin stared at the face underneath—a scar over one eye, eyes gold, but still undeniably recognisable as— as—
"I know you better than you know yourself," Anakin's future self said. "Now: Give me my son."