Written for Angstober Days 25: Wasteland, 26: Dark Water, 27: Fragments and 28: Reunion.
Primeday. 22.10.28 AFE
He opens his eyes to nothing. Nothing is very white.
The noise drifts in distantly: chatter, concerned; footsteps, sharp and rapid; a rasping above him, monotonous and constant. The whiteness gives way to darkness, and in that darkness blink lights.
"Luke?" the figure asks. Their voice booms.
He—Luke—furrows his brows. The figure feels familiar, their cold presence swaddling him like a baby, like a—
"Father," he says aloud.
The doctor rushing past stops, turns to him, gaping. "Lord Vader?" he asks. "Does he remember?"
Lord Vader reaches for Luke's hand. Luke lets him take it. A part of him shivers at the touch, especially with how closely Lord Vader seems to inspect his right hand, but that cold embrace comes again. Luke knows he'll protect him. That's what fathers do.
"Do you remember me, Luke?" he asks.
Luke shakes his head. Knowledge is a feeling in his chest, not a memory. All he has is their word that Luke is even his name.
"Do you remember anything?"
He tries. But nothing is still as white as ice, and no matter how hard he presses at it, it does not fracture.
Lord Vader stands there for several minutes longer, his thumb robotically rubbing the back of Luke's hand. He is watching him closely, his gaze intense. Luke can sense that much. When he watches the red of his eye plates closely, he can see two pale eyes—blue?—watching him.
Then he steps away and consults with someone. Luke watches them go. The doctor he pulls with him is the eldest of the attendants in the room, and before he leaves he gestures to one of the nurses. "Fetch him a glass of water. The purified ones, from my workstation; I don't want anything potentially messing with him before we can fix this."
The nurses run to do as he asks. Before long, one of them presses a glass of water into Luke's hands; Luke thanks her profusely, but she refuses to meet his gaze, her eyes flitting like a bird's wings. He can sense nerves, disdain, towards him, but he doesn't know why.
Lord Vader's voice drifts in. "Doctor Amnedor, are you certain you can fix this?"
Amnedor hesitates for a moment. "I can fix this," he says. "I can fix this perfectly—no one understands more about this specific condition than me. You want your son back, yes?"
"I have made that clear."
"My previous interpretation would have been that you wanted a replacement for the Inquisitors—"
"The Inquisitorius were weak. As one who worked with them so closely, you should know this."
"Yes, Lord Vader, of course… I shall simply change my projected plans, then. I can fix him for you, if you want a son. The name will be important—is he also called Vader?"
"No. Call him by his name. It is important."
"Yes, I've noticed he's a bit antsy about that."
"You can do what I ask, then?"
"Of course. These past few years can be removed quite easily for you."
Luke idly lifts the water to his lips and takes a sip. It's so cool and fresh that for a moment he closes his eyes to savour the taste, like he hasn't drunk freshwater in months.
"I have to say, my lord, I did not understand at first why you would want me to treat a Rebel—"
"That Rebel is my son, doctor. Naturally, I want you to treat him. I want you achieve what you promised, and I also want to make sure this treatment of yours has no adverse side effects."
Luke chokes on the water. He hacks it up, dribbling out of the front of his mouth, a little out of his nose. He doesn't even manage to swallow any of it before his shaking hand drops the glass onto the side of the bed he's lying it. His hand lashes out, he catches it before it shatters, but the water seeps into the wet sheets. He grimaces, but he has bigger things to worry about.
Rebel?
The word feels like it should mean something, but it doesn't. What is he? He gets the sense they are against Rebels—Amnedor's tone, Lord Vader's insistence, the nurses' disdain—but when he reaches for clarity, it evades him.
"Of course, Lord Vader. I understand perfectly. It may take some time, but I assure you I will deliver exactly the results you want."
"If you do not, Amnedor, you are aware what the consequences will be. Your failure to gain anything conclusive on Astewan, your failure to hold out against that Rebel incursion, is enough to earn you a death sentence."
"But I am the best placed to save your son for you. He has already been exposed to the agent a concerning amount—I suspect the toxins will soon kick in, but I am certain I can—"
"Do not grow cocky," Lord Vader warns.
"No, Lord Vader. I will not sugar coat this, none of this might work if he has been so thoroughly exposed—"
"Fix him. Or nothing will be able to fix you."
"Understood, Lord Vader."
Luke is placing his glass of water onto the table beside him when Amnedor enters again. His eyes light up when he sees the empty glass. "All drunk up? Good. It's terrible, the effects of dehydration on a man—but with your background I suppose you know all about that, Luke, right?"
Luke doesn't respond. Amnedor nods like he was expecting that blank look.
"Of course," he says, "of course, of course… You have memory loss. I have worked with many patients like this before. Your father is of course very upset that you cannot remember him, and I imagine you are quite ill at ease not knowing who you are."
"I feel quite peaceful," Luke says frankly. There is nothing to worry about. He may not understand what is happening, but his father clearly does; he is in good hands.
Amnedor smiles. "That's very good to hear." He consults the datapad in his hands for a moment. "We will fix this—I have a number of remedies. But I would like to consult exactly how much of your memory you have left, first." He looks back up again. "What does the name Skywalker mean to you?"
"Nothing."
Amnedor's smile widens. "Excellent."
