Note: This part rated M for psychological torture, angst, and the hint of physical torture that will be in the next couple chapters. Don't read if it will upset or offend you.

He gathered up the sheets as best he could, but there were too many. He was surrounded by voices, but they weren't as loud if he grabbed a lot at once. Now it was just a cacophony of screams and he couldn't pick out the individuals that he'd killed. "I need a box. To put them in. A box."

"What do you mean?" one of the voices said unexpectedly. "Are you tired, Luke? Would you like to rest?"

"You know my name?" But… no, it wasn't one of his victims. It's just that he was no longer alone. Luke opened his eyes. He was still on the bench, in the black room with the white floor. White because of the men, thousands of them...a million. But he was warm. Someone was holding him.

He buried his face against Quester's tunic, twisting his fingers in the material, crumpling some of the precious victims in his grasp.

"You must be very tired. You've been in here a long time." His hair was petted and stroked. "Would you like to leave, Luke? I'm your friend; I can take you away from here."

He nodded.

"I can't hear you."

"Y-" He choked, tried again. "Yes..."

"Yes, what? Be polite."

"Yes...please..."

"That's better. You know, Luke, Lord Vader would like you to work with him and stop being a Jedi. Would that be all right?"

Jedi. It was the one thing he had to hold onto, maybe the only thing they couldn't take from him. He shook his head.

"I was afraid of that. He's gone away for awhile, so he won't know you refused, but I'll have to leave you here anyway. I'll have to bring images of the families of the men you killed, so you'll know how they feel. They're all very sad. And they're very angry with you, because you're a terrorist."

"N-not! I'm not a t-terrorist!" He clenched the fabric tighter. "No more, don't bring more!"

"Well..." There was a hesitation, and his heart leaped. "If I don't bring the images, you will still have to be punished. You killed so many people. I don't want to put you on trial for murder, for there's no question that you would be found guilty and executed. I don't want that to happen because I'm your friend. Do you want that?"

Shuddering, he pushed his head against the hand that lay atop it. Quester began stroking again. "If you don't want a trial and you don't want to see the images, all that remains is some sort of physical punishment. Is that what you want?"

"No..."

"Luke, it was to be one of the three choices," the patient voice continued. "How would it be if I punished you? Since I'm your friend, I won't hurt you as much as the guards would."

He sighed and finally agreed grudgingly, "'Kay. Just...get me out of here...please."

"All right, whatever you want. Wait here." Quester stood, looking tall and very official to Luke's frightened gaze. He opened the door and spoke quietly. Two guards entered.

Luke shrank back as they came toward him with binders. Prying apart his unresisting limbs, they clamped the metal around his wrists, fastening them behind his back. One sentry bent and bound his ankles, leaving him barely able to shuffle his feet. With a guard on either side of him, holding his arms and half-dragging him, Luke was led out of the room and through the corridors.

People stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Murmurs pierced his consciousness: is that him... look it's skywalker... death star... killer... terrorist filth... my brother died... execution's too good for the likes of... just let me get my hands on... He closed his eyes so he didn't have to see their faces, the rage and pain in their eyes. Leia had never warned him, no one had. Han should have known. Or the generals. Someone should have told him. You're wanted by the Empire, they said, but nothing more, and he hadn't really thought about what that meant. You're wanted by the Empire, like it was a heroic thing that made him special, more important than the other Rebels. Vader wanted him, too... because he was a Jedi... or because he was a killer? Or...

Father?

The idea that had seemed so horrific was now appealing. Maybe he was Vader's son, like Vader in every way. If he was Vader's son, people would expect him to be a killer, and it would be all right. It would be his role. He wouldn't be a terrorist if people knew he was Vader's son. Luke Vader-of course he's a killer, what else could you expect? It would be all right. He would be a warrior, not a killer. He would be a Sith, not a Jedi.

Or did Jedi kill the way he had? Were Jedi terrorists? Ben had helped him blow up the Death Star, had told him to trust in the Force. But such a terrible act...had he used the Dark Side of the Force? Had Ben known he was Vader's son, a potential Sith, and pushed him to use the Dark Side? Or was he already a Sith...like his father...?

Suddenly it seemed that it would be much worse if Vader wasn't his father. Then there would be no excuse for what he'd done. "Vader?" he whispered weakly.

"Vader isn't here," Quester hissed from behind him. "You're all mine now, Skywalker."

"What?" He tried to twist around, but the guards yanked him forward. Dr. Quester was his friend... but that hadn't sounded very friendly.

He was a Rebel Terrorist; how friendly could anyone feel toward him?

It seemed a very long way to their destination, past a lot of people who hated him. One man, who appeared to be a mechanic if the hydrospanner clutched in his fist was any indication, darted in front of them as if to attack. But he only sneered and spit on Luke before the guards pushed him aside. He could feel the spittle drying on his cheek as he was hurried the last distance, then escorted into a cell that was considerably larger than the last one he'd been in.

Struggling to focus his attention on his surroundings, he saw very few furnishings. A table at the far end that held instruments of some sort; another table that held two glasses and a pitcher; a sink, two straight-back chairs, and nothing more, just bare walls and a tiled floor created for ease of cleaning rather than beauty.

The troopers led him to a point in the center of the room and removed the binders from his wrists. Reflexively, he rubbed them, though only the left one was abraded from the cuffs. His new, perfect, right hand was undisturbed.

"Please lower the top of your jumpsuit, Luke," Dr. Quester asked politely, standing in a relaxed pose, watching him closely.

His fingers trembled as he unfastened the shirt portion and wriggled his arms out of it. The fabric drooped to his waist. Immediately, his right hand was grabbed by a guard and stretched overhead. From the low ceiling, a shackle appeared and was snapped around his wrist. The Imperial soldier bent and removed the binders from his ankles. Both guards stepped back cautiously.

"Thank you, that will be all."

Dismissed, the white-armored men left, and Luke was alone with Quester. His gaze locked on the physician who was half-captor, half-comrade.

"Please remove the rest of your clothing, Luke."

It was a struggle to remove the shoes and socks one-handed, but he managed awkwardly. The jumpsuit proved more difficult. He fumbled with the fasteners, glancing at Quester to see if he would help, but the officer remained several meters from him, arms folded, watching without expression. Finally, with a lot of wriggling, he managed to get the jumpsuit to his ankles, where it stuck. Kicking at it, he only succeeded in partially removing one leg, but it bunched around his foot.

"I can't do it by myself," he said angrily. "Help me!"

Quester shook his head. "You're not a child anymore, Luke. Figure out a way to do it."

Since he couldn't bend one leg at a time, there was only one way. Wrapping his fingers as best he could around the steel apparatus that bound his wrist, he raised his feet off the floor, bent both knees, and pulled at the fabric until it was free. When he lowered himself, pain twinged in the prosthesis. Surprised, he looked up and saw that the synth-skin had torn on the cuff, exposing a bit of wiring.

"The rest," Quester said quietly.

He had almost forgotten someone was there. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the fog that seemed to come and go at its own will.

The doctor mistook his movement for a refusal. "You are allowed only a single 'no' during this session, Luke. You have now used that privilege. But you must remove your briefs."

Panic rumbled through him. "I didn't mean 'no'!" he exclaimed.

"I won't tell you again."

Hastily, he pushed down the briefs, feeling his face flush as he contorted his torso and legs to remove them completely. Once they were off, Quester gathered his clothing and took it across the room, where he folded each item neatly, and placed them in a pile on one chair.

His strange friend returned. From his uniform pocket, he pulled a small, flat object and pressed it once. Another steel cuff descended from the ceiling. "Your left hand, please, Luke. Thank you," Quester added when he complied, fastening the binder securely around his wrist so that both arms were stretched toward the absent sky.

Another push of the button and two clamps appeared from the floor on either side of him, in which his ankles were wrapped. They were shoulder-width apart, not uncomfortable, but Luke felt his heart pounding against his chest.

"What are you going to do?" he whispered.

"First, we're going to talk," Quester replied absently, manipulating the remote control until Luke's legs inched apart a bit farther.

"Then what?"

"What happens after that will be up to you, Luke." Another button pushed, and a hole the size of an officer's cap opened in the floor beneath him.

He peered down at it, seeing nothing in the blackness. "What's that?"

"That, my little soldier, is for evacuation." Quester sounded amused as he walked away. "Try not to miss."

Evacuation? How could he escape down that small hole? Then he realized what it was for and looked away, humiliated.

The doctor was back with a glass of clear liquid. "Thirsty?" he teased.

"No!" Luke exclaimed furiously.

"You've used your one 'no', remember?" Quester held the glass to his lips. "Drink."

He was thirsty, and if they were going to be here for any length of time... With a sigh, Luke surrendered and took a few cautious sips. Water trickled down his chin, and Quester withdrew a spotless white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it gently.

"There," the doctor murmured. Returning the glass to the table, he opened his tunic and reached inside. Luke flinched away when he saw another white sheet, another image of someone else he'd killed, no doubt.

"You don't have to touch it. I just wanted to show you my wife, Asile, the love of my life. If one believes in soulmates, then she is surely mine. Beautiful, isn't she?"

Wary of trickery, Luke looked suspiciously at the image. "Yes," he admitted, relaxing as he studied a woman with warm eyes and a sweet smile.

"Raylan's death devastated her, as you can imagine. But she had me- though my duties often called me away- and her little brother, Medlen." The image shook slightly, then steadied. "Medlen was the son of her father's second marriage, so he was considerably younger than Asile. Her stepmother was quite busy socially, so it fell upon Asile to mother the boy. He adored her, and she him. Until she met me, he was the focus of her life."

He paused and turned the image so he could look at it again. Luke remained silent, watching Quester.

"After Raylan was killed, I was away much of the time. I had decided to serve aboard ship, helping to repair the injuries you terrorists caused. Once again, Asile focused her love on Medlen, using him as a substitute for her lost son, I suppose. Two years ago, Medlen met a lovely woman and married. They had a son and named him Raylan. Asile became more of a doting grandmother than an aunt." A fond smile creased Quester's face.

"Medlen was something of a pacifist. Through hard work, he managed to create a successful business repairing specialized lifts. The government of Myomar offered him a lucrative contract to service the lifts in their hospital system. It was a wonderful opportunity, but he would have had to spend months reviewing the systems and performing standard maintenance as well as repairs. The distance to Ord Mirit from Myomar was so great that the transport fare to take his wife and child was prohibitive. So he agreed to a short stint working on a military vessel in exchange for transport for his family."

Quester stepped closer, his eyes like chips of ice. "So it was that Medlen, his wife, and their baby Raylan were on the Death Star."

Luke gasped, completely unprepared for the revelation. His eyes filled with tears. He'd killed a baby? A woman and a baby? Had there been more women and children on the Death Star? But it was war, they shouldn't have been there! "I'm sorry..."

"I know you are." Quester patted his cheek. "You're just a boy, hardly older than my Raylan when he was murdered." Hand into the tunic again, returning with more images that Quester did not share with Luke.

"Lord Vader gave me immediate leave to go home. He's quite good that way. So I went. We had a memorial service for the three of them, and on the same day attended the public memorial for the victims of the Death Star tragedy. We came home, and while I showered, Asile blew off half her head with our household blaster."

It was said so matter-of-factly that at first Luke didn't understand.

"Here."

He looked at the two images Quester held in front of him. One was the image he'd already seen of Asile. The other was...the remains of Asile. He recoiled, uttering a groan, closing his eyes, though the image would be etched into his mind forever. Long blonde hair matted with blood, flesh, bone and brain. A face shattered, burned... a pale lilac dress soaked red.

Luke sobbed. "...sorry sorry sorry...I'm so sorry..."

"I'm sure that's so," Quester continued conversationally, "but your feelings hardly matter to me. I've waited a long time to have a Rebel in my hands...and now, to have you, of all people... you who took the love of my life, you who destroyed my future, my happiness... But the damned irony of the situation is that I'm expected to do my duty. So, Luke, I'll have to ask you about terrorist strategy, Rebel hideouts... I'll have to encourage you to join Vader and become our ally. When all I really want to do..." The physician leaned closer until Luke felt the other's hot breath on his cheek, "...is torture you until you have no breath left to utter a scream. Until your body is mutilated and crippled beyond endurance, yet you do not die. Until you begin to have a glimpse into the pain I live with every day. The things I want to do to you give me nightmares, Luke. But I am an Imperial officer and so must do my duty."

Quester backed away, smiling. "And you're just a boy, so much like Raylan. My Lord has found his son, and I have lost mine. He has charged me with the care and questioning of his son, and I do not wish to disappoint him. So I'll need your help, Luke. The sooner you tell me what I need to know, the quicker you'll be out of here. I will hurt you if I must, but I do not wish to test myself, or to learn the limits of a civilized man faced with an uncivilized choice."

Luke gulped, swallowing his tears. He couldn't betray his friends... but his friends were terrorists. They'd done awful things and so had he. But the Imperials were bad, too- they'd blown up Alderaan. They'd killed Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen.

But his own father was an Imperial, Quester had just confirmed it.

"I'm...confused."

Quester slipped the images back into his tunic and rebuttoned it. He withdrew the remote and pressed it until Luke's arms were pulled higher, stretching him to his limits. "Is that uncomfortable?"

He nodded, unable to speak. His ability to breathe seemed to be hampered.

"Sorry. Let me fix it." Another push, two snaps and his ankles were released, leaving him struggling to balance on tiptoes.

Quester vanished behind him, and Luke heard him at the table. In a few moments, he returned, passing by Luke to the other table, where he pushed the pitcher and glasses aside. "Before I ask you any questions," he began, "I'll have to whip you, just to leave cursory marks. Then you can confess or repent or whatever you intend, and there will be evidence that you responded to torture. It will save face for both of us." Gesturing to the two dark objects on the table, he added, "You may choose which one I will use. Do you want the long one or the short one?"

He craned his neck, body swaying dangerously, but couldn't see them very well. One whip was long and thick, the other short with many strips. "The short one, I guess."

"Good choice." Briskly, Quester selected the chosen item and strode to stand beside him. Without further warning, he raised his arm and Luke heard a whistle of air before the whip struck him.