He had to be here.
Luke repeated it to himself as he strode down into the bowels of the Palace, still not used to the way every person he passed on the walk bowed their head to him as he went. He wore no crown—though he'd heard his father was working on that, in his endless attempts to make Luke seem like a prince, a noble, legitimate leader and hero—but still, people knew his face. The story had spread.
The all-white ensemble he wore, and the cape that flared behind him as he walked, as well as the squad of deathtroopers that marched as his bodyguards… he supposed all that went a long way toward helping with recognition, too.
He met his father in the turbolift down to the detention level, and greeted him with a nod and a faint smile. Vader inclined his helmet likewise and put a steady, affectionate hand on Luke's shoulder as they stepped in.
He had to be here.
It was necessary: he had written up no report to the ISB so they could carry out the interrogations themselves, and the ISB, for all that he'd been one of their cadets for several years, did not dare to demand that he do so. He was trained in interrogation methods himself, he was in charge of this operation to begin with, and he… he needed to do it.
Vader insisted that it would help him get back on track—reminding him what the Rebels had done, the atrocities they committed, why they needed to be wiped out. So he was here, and now the poor Rebel who'd been captured would pay.
The Force—the dark side of the Force, something he'd missed so dearly while he tried to pretend to be a naïve, foolish Jedi—swelled around him in anticipation.
The turbolift chimed to a halt and they stepped out, his father going first. The officers on duty snapped to attention immediately— "Your Majesty! Your Highness!"
Vader ignored them.
Luke surveyed them with cool eyes, then a nod of acknowledgement, recognition—those were actually some of the older students who'd mentored him at the academy—and approval, then followed his father forward as he sensed them glow with pride.
The cell they were entering was an unfamiliar one, and the presence within it equally so; he could sense familiar presences around him, but he ignored them. He would think about them later. Until then…
It was a pilot they'd captured, there. Someone from Gold Squadron, he knew just by looking at them—the only pilot from Gold Squadron who'd survived the Battle of Yavin, and only because Luke had shot down the TIE chasing her. He gritted his teeth.
It was Leia's friend, he knew… Evaan. He didn't know her. Not well. But he knew her name.
He knew she was from the massacred planet of Alderaan.
She jerked up when the door to her cell clanged open, and glowered as two troopers filed in. The interrogation droid bobbed in the corner, but Luke didn't move toward it or summon it forwards; he didn't need it.
He had other ways of getting the information he wanted.
When he stepped inside himself, taking the steps carefully lest he trip on the hem of this stupid fancy cape—he had forgotten entirely what Imperial high society was like with its fashion—she outright spat at him.
"Traitor," she snarled. "You kriffing traitor, no good little—"
There was an impressive string of Alderaanian cursing then, in a dialect Luke didn't know, but he didn't bother to guess what it meant. It was clear enough.
"Not a traitor," he said coolly, and oh if only that were true. "Only a spy. And a spy who saved your life in battle, didn't I?"
"That means nothing."
"So I suppose you aren't open to repaying that debt with information." His words were flat, hollow, extracted from his tongue by muscle memory. He hadn't interrogated anyone since the destruction of Jedha, when Emperor Palpatine had put him in charge of looking for who wanted the Death Star plans. "A pity. But we have other methods."
He stretched out with the Force, taken the moment to bask in his father's pride—he was proud of him, he was doing the right thing, staying loyal was the right thing—before he scraped mental claws along the edges of Evaan's mind. She shuddered, and raised her shields immediately; he nodded to himself, expecting that, and immediately made to push deeper—
—until he saw Yavin, the medal ceremony, his own beaming face—
—the excitable Rebel pilots, with sweaty, beaming faces and enthusiasm shining off of every inch of them—
—Leia, gritting her teeth and so stoic against the pain of losing Alderaan, ready to cry, then turning to see Luke approaching her, Luke pretending to comfort and care for her, and lighting up somewhat—
And guilt festered anew in the burrow it had dug in his heart.
He pulled out of her mind so fast she cried out in pain, so fast it hurt him, and physically staggered back. He— he had no hope of extracting information, not when he had to wade through so much useless shavit to get there, useless painful shavit that just caused his doubts to flare up again at the pettiest of things—
He looked at his father pleadingly, breathing far too hard.
Vader wrapped the Force around Evaan and she died.
Luke shuddered. He— he felt that, felt it throttle her quickly and painfully, and saw the memories of Luke lying vanish.
"Perhaps, Luke," his father's voice boomed, "you require some more time to recover, and to regain your loyalties."
Luke nodded. He wanted that. Oh, stars, he wanted that certainty again.
"I can re-enrol you in programs for the ISB," Vader said, more gently. The deathtroopers, deadly loyal as they were, did not react; he felt only sympathy from them, and a fierce duty despite all this. "I can—I will—find a way to make you satisfied and secure in our place here, again."
Luke said, trying to regain his breathing. "We can say that I simply want to refresh my administrative skills and familiarity with the Empire's structure, in order to excuse the repeat."
"Yes." Vader ruffled his hair. "You are good at this, Luke. This is what you were meant to do. I understand that it is difficult, that there will be conflict… but never doubt that we are doing great work here."
Luke nodded.
"Your Highness," one of the death troopers said eventually, "should we return you to your quarters?"
Luke took a deep breath. "Yes," he said. "There is another banquet tonight to attend, more courtiers to woo. I will need to prepare." He added, "Thank you, Father."
A big hand cupped his cheek for a moment, then it was gone.
Luke left the detention level feeling even less like a prince than he did going in.