No. 23 AT THE END OF THEIR ROPE
Forced to Kneel | Tied to a Table | "Hold them down."

Hello! This one was gonna get so fucked up, but then October went from busy to absolutely insane so I didn't have time for that idea and you get this one instead XD You're welcome.

"Is this one good enough?"

"He'll have to be."

Luke groaned and pried his eyes open. His mouth was dry as sand.

He tried to roll over but hissed when he couldn't move far—and when he tried, pain jerked through his right arm. Breath sucked in through his teeth. Tears pricked his eyes. The jagged sense in his arm was loud enough to be really distracting; it fogged his mind with red, and he moaned quietly trying to clear it.

What had happened? Why—

An eager voice. "So, you want the kid? You'll take him off our hands?"

Muffled voices, just outside his prison. Luke furrowed his brow and listened. It wasn't too hard once horror cut through the haze in his brain.

"Darklighter, we have seen no evidence of what you told us, yet."

"It's there. I swear, I swear—he's a Jedi kid! There's no way he could beat Biggs in Beggar's Canyon if he wasn't, no way he'd push for them to risk their lives like that if he didn't know he could win—"

"We care nothing for your children's petty squabbles."

"I've seen him levitating rocks! You want him, I swear!"

"And you want your taxes abated for this… intelligence?"

"I kidnapped him for you!" Biggs's dad's voice was high and tense. It was coming back to Luke now—flying his Skyhopper to Biggs's because Biggs invited him over, only to be met by his dad saying he wasn't in, and then there was a massive wooden bat in his hands, and a hypospray in his neck—

Broken. His arm was broken.

"I gave you him! If Jabba wants a Jedi child so badly—"

"What Jabba wants is none of your concern. Especially for a farmer constantly falling behind on the water taxes."

"This is my promise. I'll pay them next year. But please. We can't—there was a drought, those Larses took more than they should've—"

The Darklighter farm was bigger than the Lars farm would ever be.

A sharp disgust rolled through Luke, sharper than the pain in his broken arm. Huff had betrayed him to Jabba? He'd known that they were threatened, he'd known that they'd threatened to take Biggs into slavery—what family in the Dune Sea hadn't received those threats?—but he hadn't realised his best friend's family really cared for him that little.

He needed to get out of here. He needed to get home.

Slowly, agonisingly, he pried his eyes open. He was staring up at a white, dusty ceiling. Light streamed in from a window just behind him, and heat mugged the room for any moisture it could spare. He was on a table, spread-eagled, his hands tied down…

What the hell did they want to do with him? Why was he here? What—

"Please—you can't take my boy. Take this kid, take Skywalker! He's a Jedi, I swear it!"

He examined the rope tying his broken arm down. Grimaced for a moment, but… it was already broken…

Yanked it out.

His scream exploded in his mouth; he snapped his mouth shut, teeth like blast doors containing it before it alerted them that he was awake. He hardly dared to look at his arm, but that… That wasn't the way it was meant to bend. Even if it was out of the rope now, something was very, very wrong.

How was he supposed to get out of here with an arm like that? He needed that healed and fast. He wasted a few precious moments glaring at it, hating that it had broken under Huff's frenzied assault instead of fending it off like it should. Imagined yanking it back into shape, the bone snapping shut, flesh rolling back over it and zipping up like a winter coat—

A gasp broke out of him when he lifted his arm again, whole and smooth, feeling stronger than ever.

Something tickled in his chest.

He examined his other arm, picked at it with his free hand. These chumps of Jabba's knew what they were doing with knots, unfortunately—or that was Huff, and that hurt, because Huff had taught Luke knots alongside Biggs. He picked at it for a while longer before cursing under his breath, glancing towards the door.

They were still arguing. He didn't bother interpreting what they were saying—it was slightly muffled—but Huff was sounding more and more desperate.

"Go in there and experiment on him, I swear! I swear he's a Jedi! He's always been strange, a little freak of a kid. You should check out Old Ben Kenobi while you're at it, he's always hanging around Luke and he's suspicious as—"

There wasn't really anything to it. Could miracles be repeated? The tickle in Luke's chest said yes. He took a chunk of the rope that had held down his right hand, bit down on it, reached for his arm—and snapped it.

His howl wasn't quiet, but the rope swallowed a lot of it. He swallowed, shivered, and glared at his limp, flopping limb, bending far enough backwards that he wanted to be sick. That was a lot of blood. Bone wasn't supposed to spear through flesh, glistening wetly.

He yanked it back, looking away to spare his stomach, and felt skin catch and tear on the tight knots. His groans were swallowed again by his own panic, but the noise outside had stopped. His arm came loose.

The galaxy was spinning. He wanted to either faint or be sick—he could feel Huff and the two Gamorrean guards pausing their arguing outside, he could feel the dancers getting ready for the evening show downstairs, he could feel Jabba and his son snoozing in the afternoon heat. Sweat beaded with blood on his own skin. His clothes were drenched in it. This dizziness, this overload, was worse than being in the noonday sun for hours, like being the sole recipient of a thousand suns, all radiating into his hair, his skull, his DNA.

He flung his left arm away from him—this time he shouted, spitting out the rope, as blood spattered the wall. But his bones clicked back into place. As he imagined it, the flesh refolded neatly, blood curdling back into veins. It was like he'd reversed time on his body.

"That's him awake!" Huff said. Luke could hear the guilt in his voice. He knew that Luke must know what he had done, by now. "You can go and—"

"We'll see you out first, Darklighter. He's not going anywhere."

"He's a slippery lad, I wouldn't be so sure—and I'm not leaving before I get my assurance."

"Sure. We won't take your son this year."

"Any year. I want it in writing."

A snort. "You think either of us can read?"

Luke fumbled for the knots around his ankles. They were tight, complex. It had definitely been Huff who tied them, which hurt more. He bared his teeth and kept untying, his arms shaking. At least pain was now a distant memory.

He didn't know how he'd done that. But a lot of unusual things had happened across his life. He was happy to roll with it—it had saved him so far, and he had the feeling it would save him again.

He got his right foot free. Swung his leg over to dangle off the edge of the table so he could get a better angle on the other knot but overshot it. He fell off the table, landing with a grunt and a wrench of his shoulder.

Silence outside. "Sounds like he's making his escape," Huff said cannily. He was always a smart, slimy sort of fellow—that's what Uncle Owen said about him. But… in a good way…

The door burst open, but Luke had his foot free—finally. He darted back, out of reach of their weapons, keeping the table between them. Sure enough, it was two Gamorrean guards and— and—

"Mr. Darklighter?" Luke got out, choking on it. "Why—"

"It was you or Biggs," he snarled. His dark hair was tousled, like he'd run his hand through it over and over again; his eyes were bloodshot. Luke wondered how much sleep he'd got. "If you don't endorse this, you're not a true friend."

"Get back on the table!" a guard barked. "Now, slave!"

Luke upended the table. "I'm freeborn!"

The table flipped over much harder than it should've, sending both the guards crashing to the ground. Luke tried to dart for the door, but Huff caught him again, his massive hands tight on Luke's shoulders.

"No," he hissed, "you are not—"

Luke bit him. Huff didn't let go, even as Luke spat out a chunk of blood and cloth. Instead, he punched him in the face.

He was a teenager, under a grown man's fist. His nose smashed like ripe fruit; he coughed, choking on the blood currently streaming down his throat. He shook his head, wrinkled his nose, and felt the cartilage shiver, pushing itself back together, flesh bulging back into place.

Huff stared at him. He looked ready to either vomit, murder, or both. "You freak," he said and threw Luke back into the room, hard enough to send him past the table, past the recovering guards. He caught himself just before he reached the window.

"You're not getting away!" Huff snapped. "I won't let you!"

"I'm Biggs's best friend!" Luke accused. "You've seen me grow up! You can't sell me out like this, you can't—"

"I wish he had made friends with someone more normal than you. You've always got him into trouble—threading the needle, drawing Imperial attention, associating with the Lars family and their connection with slaves…" He pursed his lips. "This is for the best. Maybe now he'll take up with Fixer—"

Luke screamed and tried to run at him. He was thrown back yet again, harder this time; he slammed into the wall. He glanced between Huff and the door. There was no getting out there. The guards were getting up from underneath the table, snarling. Behind him was the window.

From there, it was… a long drop.

Desperate times, desperate measures. To the tune of Huff's wailing and the guards' grunting, he jumped.

Sand dunes were soft to land on; this sand was not. It compacted underneath him. His legs strained and snapped in the impact; his shoulder smashed; his spine shattered into countless pieces. He stared up at the window he'd fallen from and saw Huff staring out, down at him. It looked like he was crying.

Tingling in his legs, his arms, his back. His head jerked as it shoved itself back onto his shoulders properly with a click. He wiggled his fingers, his toes.

A voice behind him said in Huttese: "Interesting. Very interesting."

He spun around as fast as he could. Not fast enough. Strong hands seized him; a knee went into his gut, and he doubled over, winded. He threw his head back up to glare at Bib Fortuna, the pink-headed bastard of a majordomo.

"I assume you're the Jedi child," Fortuna said, catching his chin in a clawed hand. He scratched one of those claws down his cheek, watching the blood well. It closed before his eyes. "This is better than expected. We had assumed that Darklighter was lying to us."

"He was!" Luke shouted. "I'm not—whatever the hell a Jedi is, I'm a farmer, I'm not—"

"And just in time." Fortuna snapped his fingers. "Lord Vader is here. We must have his offering ready immediately—if His Excellency has to ask him to wait—"

"Who's Lord Vader!?" Luke bucked and kicked in that grip, but the guards bent around him, contained his wriggling with ease. He was still just a scrawny teenager, freak healing or not. "What do you want?"

"Cease your escape attempts. Your unnatural healing is impressive, but what use do you have for healing when you are at Lord Vader's mercy? It will just mean he can torture you for longer before you break."

"Who is he!?" Luke demanded. "What's going on?"

"Sir," Fortuna's comlink chimed, "Lord Vader has arrived. Is the offering—"

Fortuna looked at Luke, kicking and screaming, with a distinct lack of amusement.

"Suffocate him," he ordered. "Spend ten minutes on it. Let him die several times in the meantime. When he is calmer, demurer, and realises how much he shall suffer if he tries to injure himself in Lord Vader's inescapable captivity, we will present him." A thin, needle-toothed smile. "Then Lord Vader can take this Jedi scum off our planet for good."

"I'm not a Jedi!" Luke shouted. "I'm a farmer! I live here!"

He was cut off by the hands that tied around his throat in knots he could not undo.