Whumptober No. 17 HANGING BY A THREAT
Breaking Point | Stress Positions | Reluctant Caretaker
I love Piett - there's so much to unpack in that man (in anyone who believes so much in the Empire, tbh), and this was fun :D
"Sir, may I remove—"
"Denied."
Skywalker smirked. "Are you afraid that the moment I take these binders off I'll garrotte you with them?"
Doctor Cohl sighed. Piett tried to ignore his disapproving look and continued stand sharply to attention in the corner of Skywalker's cell, watching both his medic and his prisoner with a viciously trained eye. He also tried to ignore the fact that was exactly the image that had run through his head when he envisioned unbinding Skywalker.
"Good," Cohl said gently as Skywalker completed the stretch he'd demonstrated. "Now try this one."
Skywalker winced as he shifted but followed the instructions he was being given. The exercise mat that had been relocated to Skywalker's cell—Piett had been against it; it was against regulation, since the prisoner could suffocate themselves to death with it if needed, robbing the Empire of their intelligence—held the indents of his knees even as he shifted to the new stretch. His hamstrings quivered, shoulders taut, at the effort of keeping that position.
Lord Vader had been most excited when he discovered that one of their onboard medics had originally trained as a physiotherapist. Skywalker had been kept on the Avenger, chained to the wall standing up in a cell too short for him, for days before he got there. His muscles had already started to show the beginnings of wear and tear.
"I can barely stand, Admiral," Skywalker said. "My muscles have atrophied."
He was useless to Lord Vader like this, Piett knew. Therefore, this physiotherapy was mandatory for him to recover. Skywalker was eerily calm about it all, considering how slippery he'd been in the past.
"It's called resignation. And doing a deal—"
How Lord Vader intended to use Skywalker, Piett did not know, but it was not his place to question it. He was a terrorist. The methods that Captain Needa—no, Captain Gil; Piett kept forgetting that Needa had been executed for his abhorrent failure—had used were extreme but justified. If they had not been so rigorous in containing him, Skywalker would undoubtedly have escaped yet again.
Furthermore, he could understand the vengeful urge. He himself was not pleased that Vader had put aside such lavish quarters for Skywalker, to transfer him to once Lord Vader was back on the Executor and could supervise these physiotherapy sessions himself; it stank of bribery. They should not need to give an enemy of the Empire a single thing. He deserved nothing. But again, it was not his place to question it.
"Wow," Skywalker said. "There's a lot to unpack there."
Piett ignored him.
"You're right, though. The Empire doesn't think it's anyone's place to question anything, does it?"
"It is certainly not yours," Piett said primly.
Skywalker disrespected him, all his hard work, the Empire's blood, sweat and tears, Lord Vader, and Emperor Palpatine himself when he snorted.
"Good." Skywalker shifted to another position at Cohl's instructions, letting his hands mould his body into the pose. When he let go, Skywalker held his position for several seconds, before collapsing onto the mat.
"Careful." Cohl held out a hand to steady him. Skywalker's hands were still bound behind him; he couldn't steady himself in such a precarious stretch. "Admiral, I really must ask—"
"Denied. You may not remove his binders, doctor."
"Having his arms behind his back for so long will only cause similar damage in his shoulders."
"I am not concerned with damage. I am concerned with him escaping."
"Sir, this is torture."
Interrogation and persuasive techniques were necessary for the strength and maintenance of the Empire. But medics were usually too soft to understand that. Spines of steel, they certainly had, but they did not have the iron-hearted will to do what was necessary.
Skywalker snorted again. "And you do?"
"I don't think torturing the prisoner further is what Lord Vader wanted, sir."
"I will not take risks."
Cohl swallowed. "Then let's try another one," he suggested. But when Skywalker tried to climb into the position, he shouted and grunted with pain.
Piett was a soldier, but he was a navy officer. He stood on the bridge and watched ships explode. It had been a long time since he heard someone scream right in front of him, until their lungs lost capacity, not cut off early by a destroyed comm and a fiery death.
He turned away. Closed his eyes. Skywalker curled up on the floor by the sudden strained pain, Cohl fussing over him indecently, as though he were a loyal Imperial. Piett grimaced in horror.
Skywalker got out through pained gasps, "When—was the last time—you watched an interrogation?"
Piett said nothing.
"Do you know what happens in them? Do you know what they put inside you? Do you know how they make you peel your own skin from your flesh, to get at the truths you're hiding inside you?"
Skywalker had not been interrogated. No one had asked him questions or used the standard Imperial techniques on him; no one had dared. He knew nothing of what he spoke.
"I was tortured," Skywalker got out. "So were my friends. They never even asked me any questions. But when they do ask you questions? I've seen my friends wake up screaming. Have you?"
Piett did not share a cabin with anyone. The Executor's walls were thick. Of course he never heard anyone wake up screaming.
"Officer's prerogative, huh? You never get your hands dirty."
"How are you doing this?" Piett snapped. "Cease your unending violation."
"Stop mentally quoting the army recruitment manual. It's exhausting. I got enough of that when I tried applying for the academy."
"Skywalker," Cohl said. "You are shaking."
Skywalker dutifully got up and let the medic guide him, support him, into the next one. But he still accused Piett, "We both know it's full of shavit."
"I know no such thing."
"You do." Skywalker smiled mirthlessly. "Ever heard Vader say, 'your thoughts betray you'?"
Piett decided there and then that he hated Jedi. Skywalker was less obvious about this barbaric ability than Lord Vader, certainly, but that just made it more concerning. Lord Vader was loyal.
"You'd be surprised."
Lord Vader, whenever he directly addressed Piett's thoughts as if he had spoken them aloud, respected the Empire enough to meet him on his level. He did not use his otherworldly knowledge to destabilise the foundations of Piett's life, his iron will, the cause of law and order he had dedicated his life to.
"You're from the Outer Rim, like me," Skywalker said. Piett hated the comparison. "You fought pirates. You don't have the excuse of being raised in the Core, under this nonsense. So, what got you thinking like this? Are you that thoroughly brainwashed? Or just in too deep?"
"I am not the one who committed an act of terrorism as a teenager, Skywalker. The way you joined the Rebels suggests rapid radicalisation and brainwashing yourself." When they used tactics like that, it was hopeless. The only way to handle that sort of evil was with an unyielding iron fist. What else were they supposed to do with bloodthirsty terrorists?
"You're right." Skywalker nodded. "That happens when the force of law and order murders your entire family in cold blood. You radicalised me."
Piett gasped and closed his eyes. His pulse fluttered.
He heard Cohl murmur something, heard Skywalker shifting, heard this awful, overindulgent, horribly necessary treatment continue. It had been continuing for weeks. How long did it take to recover from torture? How long would Piett have to face this?
"Stop that," Piett said sharply.
Cohl looked up. "Sir?"
Piett ignored him. "Skywalker, I am warning you—"
"What am I doing this time?"
"You can sense my thoughts," Piett bit out. "Cease meddling with them. I had heard of Jedi mind tricks, but this—"
"I'm not touching you, Admiral." Skywalker's gaze, when he glanced up at him, was cool. "I've done nothing."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Yeah. 'Cause you know it's the truth." He shrugged, as best he could with his arms bound behind his back. Piett found his gaze tracing the awkward twitch of muscles, his wince of pain. "You only recite propaganda to yourself so hard because without it, it all comes tumbling down, doesn't it? You know right from wrong. You ignore it."
"Stop this!"
Skywalker turned away. "Sorry," he said. He sounded apologetic, but his next words were sarcastic. "You're right. I'm wrong. You're a model Imperial with no conscience whatsoever who wholeheartedly believes in torture even if it's right in front of your eyes." He paused. "Where were you stationed when Alderaan mysteriously disappeared?"
"Unbind him," Piett snapped, throwing his code cylinder at Cohl. Cohl fumbled, barely caught it, and unlocked the binders. Skywalker's bravado vanished; he cried out from pain as his arms shifted, sagging back against the wall, but Piett had had enough. He grabbed his code cylinder back from Cohl. "I will send in another officer to supervise. I have many things to attend to."
Skywalker's gaze tracked him as he stormed out. It was insultingly pitying.
Piett was too disciplined to let himself sag against the wall when he left, but it was a near thing. He reached up to straighten his cap—regain the image of the unflappable admiral he fought so hard for—but it was a difficult thing. For all he spoke of his iron heart, his iron will, his iron fist, he knew he had none of them.
Skywalker was right. If he was a man made of iron, it was iron ore: less useful, brittle, disappointing, weak. He was riddled with impurities that no fire could burn away.
