WHUMPTOBER No. 9 THE VERY NOISY NIGHT
Sleeping in Shifts | Tossing and Turning | Caught in a Storm

Hello! Here's another dose of Whumptober creepiness :D

The characters in Rogue Squadron in this fic, other than the main ones, were characters I dug up on the Rogue Squadron wiki. E.g., Ibti, Isla, and Lyle all appear in a comic somewhere. I haven't read it, but I read about them, and took many liberties with their characterisations in this oneshot.

Also, I know very little about blasters/guns. I stole the point about muffling from Death on the Nile.

Hope you enjoy!


As far as planets went, this one didn't look very uninhabited. The Alliance had picked it as a particular potential spot for a base because, according to the report Luke had read, there was evidence of previous habitation. But evidence of previous habitation meant some rough, abandoned structures, in Luke's world. It did not mean an entire perfectly maintained temple.

It was definitely uninhabited, though. Luke and the newly formed Rogues had scoured the area for any clue for who might have built this spectacular temple, and the myriad of statues outside it, but nothing had turned up. The place was empty. Whether it was abandoned or not remained to be seen—and Luke intended to find out.

The Force thrummed here. Even if it was inhabited, he wanted to meet those who lived in this temple, see if they knew anything, or could teach him; he wanted to find out more.

"We've had satellites monitoring it for weeks," Wedge said when the last scouting party came back. They'd flown in under the cover of a grey sky, but that had since dissolved into a drizzle. He had the neckline of his flight suit unzipped and lifted over his head to protect some of his hair. Luke saw what he was doing and followed suit: the appeal of rain was still powerful to a desert boy like him, but the sensation of being cold and wet was not. "No one's come in or out of this planet since we put them there. If the caretakers are away, they're still on planet."

"We can set up some holocams while we're around here," Luke said. "We've just gotta scout the place out and see if it would be a good place to set up base. High Command can make the decision, and we'll set up the monitoring devices, so they'll know if there's anyone here that we don't find."

Wedge nodded, and flashed Luke a quick smile. Luke took it gratefully. Both of them were new to any sort of command position, especially after Red Squadron had been dissolved; even if they knew that they were here because of the lack of personnel the Alliance desperately wanted, there was a lot to live up to. So far, so good.

He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to learn. He wanted to find out as much about this planet as he could.

"What's the plan from here?" Hobbie cut in.

Luke glanced around again. "Scout for a few more hours," he decided. "We've still got a bit of daylight left. Let's learn as much as we can. Once night falls, we'll head back to the X-wings and go back to base." He smiled. "But I do have a good feeling about this place."

Wedge smiled back. "That's always good to hear. Alright, guys. Let's give it a few more hours. Then we can head home—warm and dry."


That was how they ended up huddle in the centre of the temple. Cold and wet.

The storm worsened the whole evening, until lightning raked the sky every few seconds at minimum. No one wanted to fly in those conditions. No one wanted to have to wheel their birds undercover and bunk down on the cold marble floor of a temple, either, but it was the preferable option.

They watched the storm continue for hours, with no signs it would abate. At last, Luke sighed. "I think we're gonna have to sleep here overnight."

There were numerous grumbles and groans, but no one really protested. They'd all been expecting it.

Dak raced to the other side of the hall, farthest from the entrance. It was a long, narrow hall, with beautiful mosaic floors worn beyond recognition and a lectern that had clearly once been used to give great speeches at its centre, but the only thing left in it now was a statue like the ones outside. It had had its time in the elements: the face was eroded into only the barest suggestion of a human face, the arms broken off at the elbows, its robes falling gracelessly around it. When Luke laughed and made to follow Dak, he paused in front of the statue, searching its face for recognition, anything.

Nothing. It was a hunk of stone.

"I'm sleeping here," Dak declared, wedging his sleeping gear into a corner at the end.

"Warmest and driest spot?" Luke guessed.

"You betcha."

"Alright." Luke rolled his eyes. "Everyone spread out around Dak. This is a good corner to sleep in—and if we're concerned about heat, cuddle." A few members sniggered, which he didn't dignify with a response. "Grab our rations, then sleep."

"Do we need a lookout, boss?" Wedge asked.

Luke hesitated. "I don't think so," he decided. "I don't sense any threats on this planet. If anyone wants one—"

"I think we're fine," Wes confirmed.

"Agreed. We'll be fine." He reached back and stretched, his back arching. "Besides, we'll all need our sleep if we have to fly out with weather like this in the morning."


Luke slept like the dead. So did Dak. When Luke woke up, prying his eyes open with an unhurried laziness, the first thing he saw was his bulging eyes, his cheeks the colour of jogans, and the dark purple smears that wrapped around his throat.

He shrieked. Everyone else woke up pretty promptly.

Wedge was just next to him and sat up, rubbing his eyes. After a moment, he registered what he was looking at. "Dak!?"

"What the kriff—"

"Shit, what happened to him—"

"I—"

Luke wriggled out of his sleeping bag and groped for his pulse. There was none—something he wasn't exactly surprised, but nonetheless horrified, by. His breath choked in his throat. His squadron were shouting and cursing.

"Everybody quiet," he commanded. He was in charge. He had to… he had to handle this. "Alright. Alright." His bit his tongue. "Dak is dead."

He couldn't disguise the crack in his voice. Dak's body was a sack of meat in his awareness, no light to it whatsoever, where Dak had been such a bright and happy kid. Even now, his expression was one of peace and tranquillity, even though his death must have been slow, desperate, and painful. Wedge shot him a sympathetic look; his throat dried up anew.

For a moment, it looked like Wedge would step up, relieve him of this. He should've been the commander of Rogue Squadron, not Luke. Wedge was the more experienced of the two of them.

But he didn't step up. Wedge had faith in him to do it himself.

Luke cleared his throat. "Sorry." That was all the weakness he could admit to. "Dak is dead. Do we know why?"

Wes said, a little cuttingly, "It looks a lot like he's been strangled, sir."

"It does, Janson," Luke agreed, still shaking. Hesitantly, hating himself for doing it, he brushed his fingers over Dak's neck and observed the bruises. "Any other observations? Nothing," he kept his voice light, unaccusatory, but Wes got the message, "is too obvious to bring up."

Zev offered, "Are there any matches to handprints?"

"Good shout, Senesca." Luke tentatively laid his hand across the bruises that purpled the skin. "Rough match to mine," he said.

"And mine," Wedge said grimly, leaning over to do the same.

No one had really expected the commander and his second to have been the ones doing the strangling, but it still seemed to put them on edge. Isla, bold as ever, came forwards next to try it out; her hands were too small and slender.

Lyle's also weren't a match, his fingerprints too large. There was some consternation about pressure, and how much of the hand would've actually touched the skin, but the proportions were still wrong. Ibti's blue hands weren't a match, either. But a lot of them were of similar enough size and build that it could've been them: Luke, Zev, Wedge, Hobbie, Tycho, and Wes.

"Alright," Luke said. "So, the perpetrator must be someone similar in size to us. By the proportions, maybe human male, but—"

"Maybe it was one of us," Isla said, eyes narrowed.

"I don't believe that."

"Lyle's always been suspicious—"

"My hands don't match anymore than yours do, Mantra, don't get cocky," Lyle snapped.

She pursed her lips.

"There must be someone on the planet," Luke concluded. "Maybe they don't like us being here."

"Then why would they only kill one of us?" Tycho pushed. "Our blasters were at our sides—they could've shot all of us before we knew what was happening."

"I don't know."

"Maybe they don't know how blasters work. They just fight with their hands. That would explain the strangulation instead of, y'know, cutting our throats with a knife or something—"

Wedge rubbed his temples. "Senesca, stop that."

"I'm just saying—"

"I don't know." Luke lifted his voice until they quietened. "I don't know, but I don't wanna stick around to find out." It was a good point to skedaddle. They'd done the necessary recon. If it was someone on the planet, they would find out from the satellites and holocams they'd left behind; if it was a member of his squadron…

He didn't wanna think about that.

"How's the storm looking?"

It was Ibti, their newest member, who answered. "Worse than yesterday, boss."

His heart sank. "You reckon we can fly through it?"

Ibti scrunched up her face. In her eagerness, she said, "Maybe?"

"No," Wedge translated before Luke could. "No, we can't. Those lightning strikes… sorry. Correction." He shot Luke a look. "Luke could. The rest of us mortals can't." Lyle shot him a look.

Luke snorted. "We can't fly through it. Great."

"That's a point, though," Wes said. "You could fly out and bring us some help."

"What help is gonna be able to get down here in the storm? I'm not saving my own skin just to leave you guys behind. It's not happening." He swallowed. "So! Maybe we do have to find out. Let's sweep the temple for signs of intruders. Look through the courtyards and the surrounding forest as well. Anything suspicious, we clock it and keep an eye on it. Any potential entrances that aren't that door there"—he pointed to the main entrance they'd come in through—"block them up."

"And Dak?"

Luke glanced at him body, cringed, then leaned forwards again. Closed his eyes. "We'll burn his body. Give him some dignity in death."


They searched through the surroundings for hours. There was nothing but forest and abandoned building. The stone was still remarkably smooth and polished, the hallways free of cobwebs, but the place was… empty. Whatever stories had once played out here, there was no one here now. No one to leave dust behind—and yet someone to sweep it away.

Luke paused in the courtyard, frowning among the statues there. Wes, Zev, and Isla were already muttering about how they gave them the creeps; Luke couldn't disagree, though he mainly felt… sadness… emanating from them. He stopped in front of a statue of a Muun elder, his robes—so much like Old Ben's had been—falling gently to his heels, his expression neat and tight as he stared into the distance. Other statues were of warriors, people in the midst of battle, with war-hardened cries on their faces and their muscles straining. Ibti, in the corner, was running her hands over the taut bicep of one such statue, a fellow Vurk woman, as fat raindrops glistened on the stonework like sweat.

But he kept looking up at the Muun statue. The serenity in that expression calmed him: all would be well. He just had to continue as he was. It filled him with a quiet strength.

Luke reflexively checked the hands on the statue, but of course that was a ridiculous idea. Not only could statues not move—and not only would stone crush the neck as soon as strangle it—but Muun fingers were long and spidery, completely different to the prints on Dak's neck.

They couldn't burn Dak in the pouring rain, so they burned him in the atrium, leaving wood to dry for hours until it could be laid under his body and set alight. It seemed that those bruises of his vanished last, as the rest of him fell to ash.

No one wanted to sleep there again, but there didn't seem to be much choice. No one wanted to hike through a sodden forest in the hopes of finding more shelter, either. So, they bedded down for the night again, the day of fear, labour and cold making them sleepy almost as soon as they lay in their beds.

"We should keep watch," Luke had said. No one hesitated to agree—none of them would be able to sleep, if they didn't—but no one jumped to volunteer either.

Luke was ready to sigh and volunteer himself, even as he felt exhaustion nipping at the back of his skull, when Ibti piped up.

"I'll do it!"

"Are you sure?" Wedge asked, doing a great job of keeping the scepticism out of his voice.

"I am." Her voice, despite her enthusiasm, was firm. "I can last longer than the rest of you without sleep." That was true, but—

"You're sure?" Luke said again.

"Positive."

"Alright." He smiled at her, a little weakly. "Good luck. Don't fall asleep. Wake me the moment you need anything."

She saluted him. "I will, commander."


Ibti was dead the next morning.

Luke was woken by someone else's shouts this time. Isla, who had taken Ibti under her wing, and had slept right at her unmoving feet. He bolted upright at the sound. She was shaking Ibti's shoulders, sobbing, but Ibti was seated where she had been when they fell asleep—back to the cold wall, legs spread out in front of her. There was a neat hole in her forehead where a blaster had been pressed.

Luke shivered. A deep queasiness settled in his gut.

"She's been shot," Isla said immediately. "You shouldn't have joked yesterday about whoever this is using blasters—they've had ideas—"

"Be sensible, Mantra," Lyle snapped. "That would imply they were one of us, if they overheard that."

Wedge interrupted them. "We should have heard the blaster go off." He crouched on the other side of Ibti's corpse from Luke and gently tilted back her head so he could examine the wound. "Why didn't we?"

Ibti's coat—a bright orange thing, exactly the same shade as her flight suit, her pride and joy—was bunched around her shoulders. When Luke tugged at it, he realised it wasn't: it was slung around them, instead.

"She was wearing her coat when we went to sleep, wasn't she?" Luke asked, pulling it away.

"Maybe she got hot," Zev suggested.

Wes shook his head. "In a rainstorm like this?"

"Here," Luke said, pointing at the back. It had multiple shot wounds in it, all of them charring the fabric. "It was taken off her, folded, and used to muffle the sound from the blaster."

Isla scoffed. "She would've never taken it off. If the killer forced her to, we'd have heard her yell. Look at her—she doesn't look like she saw her death coming at all."

Luke peered at her expression. She was smiling. Not her famous beam, but a small, serene smile that seemed wrong on her face. Her eyes stared straight ahead.

"She was shot in the forehead," Wedge said. "She must've seen it coming."

"Well, I don't know—"

"Whose blaster was it?" Zev interrupted. "That looks like a good place to start. Which blaster did the killer take, and if they didn't take it…"

"I don't want anyone accusing anyone else," Luke warned.

"Well, what do you expect us to do?" Wes demanded. "Two of us are dead—"

"It's yours," Isla said, staring at Lyle. "Isn't it? The entry wound is too small to be any of our standard issue blasters."

"Mantra…" Luke warned.

She rounded on him. "Lyle has that tiny secret blaster, doesn't he? We all know about it—not because he wanted to tell us, but because your Artoo called him out for hiding it once. That's the only blaster here that could make such a tiny hole and be quiet enough not to wake any of us, even with the coat used to muffle it."

Wedge said, "Let's see the blaster, Lyle."

Lyle, rolling his eyes, produced the blaster. Wedge winced, muttered a quick apology, and shot Ibti's corpse in the forehead again. The noise made everyone jump; someone whimpered.

Grimacing still, Wedge glanced at the entrance wound. "It's the same," he confirmed. "More or less."

"I knew there was something off about you," Isla spat at Lyle.

"Someone could've stolen it, Mantra."

"Commander Skywalker, please. I know you like to be fair, but this is suspicious."

"I didn't shoot Ibti!" Lyle insisted. "And I know that looks suspicious, but I didn't! And you know that I don't have the right hands to have strangled Dak, so that means that if I did kill Ibti, there's another killer among us as well!"

Isla deflated, at that. "I can't believe that."

"But you can believe me a killer?"

"I know what you are," she said.

"You can call me an Imperial plant until we get off this starsforsaken planet, but it's not going to help us get off it!"

"Lyle," Luke said at last, "will you consent to being put in binders for now? I don't think it's you, but for the peace of mind for the rest of the squadron…"

Lyle glared at him. For a moment, Luke thought he'd be punched. Then he sighed, the fight going out of him.

"I get it," he said. "I don't like it! But I get it. But when I'm proven innocent," he glared at Isla, "I expect a full apology."

"You get a full apology now," Luke said. "I'm sorry." He pulled out the binders.


Everyone was restless and miserable, so he sent them to search the temple again, knowing full well they'd find nothing. It was better than watching them fidget. Zev and Wedge—the two least likely to attack Lyle on mere hearsay—were left to keep an eye on him in shifts.

No luck. Nothing to help them. And the storm still didn't let up.

"I'm starting to think," Zev quipped, "that we shouldn't use this planet as a future base after all."

"Because this is the third day the storm's been going without letting up, and that's not great for constant ship traffic?" Wedge asked.

"Yes, that's exactly my main problem with this planet right now. Thank you, Wedge."

Despite the situation, Luke snorted. He was glad that they were hanging onto their sense of humour, even if it was by their fingernails. He felt oddly strong, bolstered by this—by the purpose and adrenaline of being on his first mission, no doubt, despite everything going wrong—but everyone else looked drained.

"I'll take the watch tonight," Isla volunteered.

"She's gonna murder me in my sleep," Lyle said.

"Feel free not to sleep, then," she replied sweetly. "That's more conducive to confessions in the Empire, isn't it? You'd approve of that method."

"Don't insult people like that without proof, Isla," Wedge warned. She pinched her lips but said nothing.

Luke nodded at her. "In case anything happens," he said, "and it's in close quarters but the blaster isn't enough…" He unclipped his lightsaber from his belt and handed it to her. "Here."

She took it with something like awe, her murderous expression replaced by wonder. Carefully pointing it away, she lit it. "It's heavier than I expected," she said.

"Don't drop it."

She nodded curtly. "Thanks." And— "I'll make sure nothing happens."

Wes scoffed. "At this point, Isla, no one would blame you if it did."


Luke slept even more poorly that night that he had before—tossing and turning until he thought he'd bruise his head on the hard floor, kicking and wriggling. Several times he woke up and found that he'd wiggled up to three metres away from Wedge in his sleep, thankfully never kicking Wedge awake. Luke could deal with interrupted sleep, his adrenaline still granting him abnormal strength, but his squadron desperately needed the rest.

It was in one of those half-waking states that he was dragged to full consciousness. Two hands, preternaturally strong, seized the front of his flight suit and dragged him upright; his eyes flew open to see Lyle, gasping in his face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Lyle!" Luke yanked himself out of his sleeping bag and out of that grip, getting his feet underneath him. Lyle fell forwards, clutching his stomach. "What—"

"Commander…" Lyle panted. "I'm gonna die."

"You're not gonna die, Isla is on duty—"

He cut his gaze down to Lyle's stomach and froze.

The flight suit had been torn through. Burned through, leaving reddened flesh congealing like old milk where Lyle's stomach should be. The only weapon he knew that could make a wound like that was…

His lightsaber sat in the middle of the floor, metres away from him. Isla was humming to herself, scanning the surroundings idly. She didn't spare them one glance.

"Did she kill you?" Luke hissed. "Have you—"

"Not… Mantra…" Lyle got out. "Hate to say it." That phrase seemed to give him strength. "Not her. It was—" He gave a shuddering gasp. "It was beautiful."

"What?"

"She's right, you know?" He hiccupped. "I am an Imperial spy. But there's no long-range transmitters nearby. Was meant to get you captured… Vader wants you bad. You have that to look forward to, Commander."

"Lyle, tell me what happened." Even if he was now violently shuddering. Even if he wanted to vomit. Was that because Vader was after him? Was that because Lyle was dying?

Or because his squadron was dying around him, he couldn't protect them, and there was nothing he could do?

"I'm an Imperial, Commander. I know about deaths for a reason. A greater cause." His smile widened, growing crazed. "These deaths are for a greater cause. Don't worry. Keep doing what you're doing."

"Failing?" Luke choked out.

Lyle's smile widened as he sagged back in Luke's grip. "Seeking."

His unseeing eyes went still. Luke, fumbling, felt for his pulse.

"Isla," he said. Then, louder—"Isla! What is this?"

She blinked and looked at him. "Commander? Why are you—"

"I wake up to find Lyle dying, Mantra," he bit out. "My lightsaber is over there, and clearly he'd been stabbed through the stomach with it. What happened?"

She stared at his body, frowning. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I've been awake and watching the whole time, Commander," she insisted. "I looked away, and then you were awake. And Kullan…" She gave his body a look. It was a regretful look, at least. "I didn't know he was dying."

"You didn't kill him?"

She looked hurt. "I didn't kill him," she said. The Force rang of truth. The Force also stank of death, though, and Luke hardly wanted to touch it. "I hated him. I still think he was a spy. But I wouldn't kill a man in binders."

Luke believed her.


The decision not to wake the rest of the squadron was made swiftly and decisively. Luke ordered Isla to stay quiet, then poked Wedge awake. He seemed to sense the urgency and sprang to his feet. They moved away from the others to talk about it.

"Beautiful?" Wedge spat after Luke was finished. "A greater cause? He was insane."

"I think so too."

"You think he was really an Imperial?"

Luke thought about it. Thought about Isla's long-term accusations. What he'd said about Vader. "Yeah," he said, swallowing. "I do."

Wedge cursed. "Alright," he said. "What do we tell the others?"

"We don't tell them anything yet," Luke said firmly. "Let them sleep through the night."

"If we let them sleep—"

"I don't want them dealing with this in the dark. We can keep watch."

Wedge nodded. "Alright," he said. "Sounds good. But we need a plan for what to do come the morning."

"I know." He bit his lip. "I'll meditate on it. For now, Isla sleeps. We watch."

"It'll be alright, boss. This shavit happens all the time."

Luke glowered at the half-hearted attempt at humour. "No," he bit out. Keep doing what you're doing, Commander. "It doesn't."


When Luke meditated, the images that assaulted him were vivid, but useless. He saw a swarm of people, of all species and ages, playing around the temple. Laughing, stretching, sparring, meditating…

They were Jedi.

The images were a frantic whir; by the time that realisation came to him, it was gone again, replaced by lightsaber flashes, children laughing, elders poring over old tomes. A master and an apprentice threw a ball back and forth without touching it, reaching deeper and deeper—

The apprentice's eyes flashed gold. She exploded the ball in her master's face, sending him flying back into the marble wall. His head cracked on it, crushed like an egg, but he sat up, and his head reformed like a bubble blown out again. He smiled.

The sparring grew more intense. The Force felt darker, more desperate. One apprentice stabbed another through the chest; the injured boy fell to the floor, curling up in a foetal position and did not move. Their masters clapped loudly.

That atmosphere grew. Tense, taut shoulders running to class, being struck for lateness. Lightning arcing from hands, appendages, to hit some unsuspecting opponent, who snarled and struck back. Cracks growing in the temple, until it crumbled and crumbled, and they channelled energy into it until it reformed itself, again and again, like a body that could heal itself.

This is not the ultimate power. We need to find it. We need more.

More. More. More. The images flashed by—more people leafing through old books, so desperate they tore out pages in their haste; more deaths from the tests of strength and endurance; more callousness creeping through their hearts hand-in-hand with the power they craved. They dug deeper, until—

When Luke opened his eyes from his meditation, his hands were on his lightsaber, and it was lit.

Something twitched his arms, his fingers. They clenched around the lightsaber but didn't light it. No, that would be too loud, that would wake them up. This needed to be quiet and subtle. One by one, one per night, to elongate the fear they pumped through the galaxy, and the power they craved would be theirs once more.

But two per night would hardly hurt. A jolt of terror could be as delicious as the slow creep of foreboding.

Luke's legs crouched underneath him, and then his arms pushed him upright. He shifted his lightsaber in his hand in a grip he had not been taught, but felt tighter than the one he used, more effective. Easier to kill with. He stood up, tiptoed around the sleeping bodies, and looked at Wedge.

"Luke?" Wedge murmured, wiping his eyes. "What is it? Is something…"

Luke's power stretched out, chilly and exciting in a way the Force had never been before, and Wedge stopped himself midsentence, slack-jawed. His eyes widened into stupor, his mouth into a lazy smile.

"Oh," he said. "That's why. I understand, now."

His mind was so small and mediocre in Luke's grip. It would be no great gain to his power, but it would be a gain all the same, and certainly no loss to snuff it out.

"Good," Luke said smoothly, crouching in front of Wedge. His hand fluttered over his throat, feeling the pulse there. Feeling the pulse in his own body. How strange it was to have a physical, living body again. How addictive. Their fragility only made them more fascinating. "You are going to contribute to something great."

How would he do it this time? Experimentation had been so fun, the chaos kicking up even more confusion like dust—dust that he fed on until he felt ready to swell with power. Even as they slept around him, their tension and fear were dizzying. It spurred him on.

Perhaps something more subtle would be exciting. The Imperial spy had already been dispatched with a lightsaber—a lightsaber! He had known he was lucky when someone had come with one of those—so finding a body with nothing apparently wrong would be even more unnerving. He knew how to stop one's heart in their chest with nothing but the Force, cut off their breathing, crush the part of their brain that told their body to live…

"I'm ready," Wedge said, and bowed his head. The brain, then. He seemed to know; he had chosen. They always did, once they felt the touch of his power, once they knew what their feeble lives would be used for.

"Ready," Luke hissed, "for what?"

The voice in his head paused. It was obvious. The deaths, one by bloody one, of each of these loud-minded people would generate fear, terror, confusion enough to fuel a competent Sith for years to come. Especially one of his raw power.

"What the hell is a Sith?"

Everything they had sought to achieve. The Force was inadequate to solve all the evils of the world—he knew that well, with how much he had suffered—but there was more, more to be achieved, more to learn. They had pushed in order to learn it, thousands and thousands of years ago. Those that left their temple had gone on to found the order that finally ruled the galaxy, although such a wrench in reality had turned the rest of their order to stone. That was the danger, when it came to discovering new knowledge. Inventing the dark side of the Force itself, corrupting life into death, the ultimate path to power, was not a road without peril.

And yet the peril was a test to prove one's strength. The path was necessary to walk. Peace was not the way to access the Force. One must tap into the deeper, more primal emotions. No one ever won a war without passion or hatred.

He wanted to win a war, didn't he?

"We all do," Luke got out.

He put his hand on Wedge's head. He knew, innately, what they had studied of the human body, the human brain, and that knowledge coursed through him until he could feel Wedge's neurons firing, the pathways forming, the resolve and peace—weakness—that emanated from him as he offered himself up like a shaak to slaughter. The minds of Force-blind rats were so dull. One hardly noticed when they vanished.

Luke flexed his hand, the information flashing through him. "My squadron are here to fight the Empire. To win the war."

And that was what they would do, wasn't it? Once Luke took on the secrets the temple promised, took their fear and their lives and used them to bolster him, he would be powerful enough to seize the galaxy for his own. He could end the war, with their help. That was why they offered themselves up so willingly: they knew this was for the greatest cause of all.

"Defeating tyranny," Luke said.

Seeking. Seeking power.

Luke was angry. He had already murdered thousands, and he remembered how invigorated he had been after the destruction of the Death Star, his elation despite the tragedy, and how he could not stop smiling for days afterwards. The power that such destruction had given him was unparalleled, and this power would only grow, if he let it.

He had already killed the other three like this. They had offered themselves up, under his thrall. With their souls consumed by his, swelling his abilities and awareness, there was nothing to regret.

How much panic would the death of the second-in-command engender? A vast amount, certainly. All would look to Luke; all would be his to take. And when he returned to his rebellion, once he took them with him, he could continue, until he was the planet destroyer himself.

"What must I do?" Luke whispered.

It was simple. Take them—all of them. The souls left behind in the temple, who clung to the statues that used to be their bodies, who mended and tidied their home like they still lived there. They were hungry for a body again. They would pour into his mind and share their knife-sharp wisdom and experience for him to draw on. He need not grovel for teachers in the Force when dozens begged to teach him from beyond the living flesh. He would know more of the Force than this emperor he had vowed to overthrow, this lord on whom he had sworn revenge.

The power to change everything was at his fingertips, if he kept seeking it. The first step was to open his mind.

The second step was to place his palm on his friend's head, pinch a cluster of nerves in his brain, and consume him.

Wedge, even enthralled, seemed to notice his hesitation. He smiled at Luke dreamily. "Do it—I'm excited. This will be…" He trailed off, staring into the distance, and said that horrible word again. "Beautiful."

Luke smiled back at him, showing all his teeth like a predator. And then he opened his mind.

They shot inside him like bolts from a starfighter, exploding in incandescent colour in his brain, chest, heart, curling around his core. He heard them giggling and settling in, then their memories were his: unimaginable quantities of pain, torture, suffering and strength, and the unfathomable power that came with it.

He stumbled back, sitting back against the wall and letting his lightsaber roll out of his hand. They were everywhere here. The temple now glowed with memory in his vision: he saw days of sunlight, days of rain, streaks on the wall where a cut throat had splattered blood across it. He could sense the thundering storm above him, furious and fierce. He could make it dissipate with barely a thought. His body temperature plummeted; the galaxy glittered around him, painfully sharp.

At last, it seemed to hum. At last.

And distantly, he thought he heard something like Ben say, Luke

Now was the time. Wedge was still gazing at him like he was his salvation; he was waiting for his death. They jerked at his hands, jerking him to his feet, reaching for Wedge, clumsy in their eagerness.

But no. That was not the plan here.

What?

They were thousands of years old. Spirits of vengeance who had clung onto this galaxy for so long because they hated so much, because they were so angry, because they were so scared of truly passing on and abandoning the immortality they sought. It was time they were avenged.

Yes—that was it. He started to rise, reaching towards Wedge, but he pulled himself back.

Their fathomless hate would be more than enough to sustain his power for decades to come. If Wedge and his squadron, his friends, were so worthless and meaningless, it would not be a loss to leave them alive.

He began to consume.

The screaming was only metaphysical, and yet it was deafening. But it was over in seconds. They had already surrendered themselves to Luke, given him their knowledge and power willingly; now, he just erased them from the equation.

After several moments of silence, he took a sharp breath, closed his eyes, and leaned against the wall.

Wedge laughed at him. "Dozing off already?"

Luke grumbled, but he felt wide awake. He stretched and smiled languidly. "Maybe."

"I think I know why. Notice it's suddenly gone quiet?"

"Huh?"

Wedge pointed up. "The storm's stopped." He grinned, hopeful for the first time in days. He would never, ever be allowed to find out what had truly happened here. "Let's wake the others. I don't want to spend one last minute on this rock."

"Me neither," Luke lied.


Lyle's death, Isla's horror, and the revelation that he had been an Imperial spy were taken with grim faces. Someone's knees were knocking together; someone else wanted to be sick. Luke could hear it and feel it as acutely as if it had been his own body reacting that way. But the news that they could escape made everyone's shoulders slacken with relief.

They burned Lyle's body.

The storm wanted to come back. He didn't let it. It was nothing but easy to brush back the water particles that kept congregating, bashing together, like he was tugging aside a curtain. When he flew, the whole planet buzzed in his awareness. Hyperspace itself seemed to sing.

"Luke," Wedge murmured over the comms as they flew, in a private channel directly to him. "What are we going to tell High Command about this? We still don't know what killed them. The killer might be someone in this squadron."

"You're right. I'll handle it," Luke promised, and he said it with such authority that he sensed, through parsecs of unreality that was hyperspace, Wedge relax.

Relax so much that he didn't flinch when Luke immediately opened a channel to everyone else. "We're gonna have proper funerals for Ibti, Dak, and Lyle when we get back to base. We don't have their ashes; we rarely do, for pilots. But I want to make it clear that what happened is nobody's fault."

"But," Wes protested, "Commander—"

"That storm didn't look nearly as bad from off-planet as it was. The fact that Ibti lost control of her fighter in the lightning and took out both herself and Dak is a tragedy—but she was new, and we made a mistake. There's nothing we could have done. And Lyle… I know he was an Imperial spy. I'm sorry for doubting you, Isla. Thank you for saving my life like that—if you hadn't shot him, he would have shot me."

He felt Isla swallow, quick and tight. "Thank you, Commander," she said. "I'm glad I was in time."

"Despite the tragedy, I do think that planet will be a good place for a base. Not a main base—the storms will scramble our comms and make flight too difficult—but something smaller. Perhaps a medical station with only a few fighters. It would be a good defence mechanism. And the temple is a good place to set up. I'm gonna say as much in my report. Does anyone have anything they want to add?"

He would go back to that temple. With the memories of dozens of Jedi-turned-Sith acolytes inside him, he knew where to look, and how to access the resources they had drawn on. He knew how to keep seeking.

They had sought more power for themselves. To stop themselves from dying, to better control and hurt others. He wanted nothing to do with them, but they were inside him. He could not nothing about that. So, he could use what they had given him in order to win the war. He could understand the dark side, understand what Vader and the Emperor used, until he knew how to undo them where they stood, and make sure no one touched it again.

He wasn't seeking power. He was seeking answers. Understanding. A training in the Force.

But sometimes that road had perils along the way. Sacrifices had to be made.

"I think we're all agreed, boss," Wedge said. "That place would be perfect."