Primeday. 22.10.23.
The straps around his chest shudder as he jerks upright. Sweats slimes every inch of him, from head to toe; his hair is pasted to his scalp. He tries to turn his head, to look around, but that is strapped down too. All he can see right in front of him is a circular lamp above his face, switched off.
He strains his neck, peering down at his body. All of him is strapped down: around his forehead, his chest, his waist, his wrists, and his ankles. His right wrist has something else attached—Subject 314. What does that mean?
"…be rid of the Rebel nuisance promptly. They will only cause complications. Blow up the prison if you must. A little drama is what they deserve after the infrastructural damage they have already done."
"Surely that is crude? Lord Vader will want—"
"Lord Vader will want Skywalker more, so I must get to work on him before he arrives."
"You're certain he's coming, then?"
"He was most interested when I explained the potential benefits."
"Why do you think Lord Vader will want Skywalker without memories? Yes, the procedure will eventually kill him, but he's a Rebel, his main worth is in the intelligence that can be extracted from him and there's more wasteless ways of executing traitors."
Rebel. Extracted. The words mean nothing, but fear spikes through him anyway. He takes a deep breath. The straps around his chest heave and tighten, taut.
"The Empire does not waste potential. We never have."
The strap around his chest snaps. Skywalker breathes, quickly and harshly, and yanks at the straps on his arms. Those snap open too. He doesn't know how he's doing this, but the forehead—snap—the waist—snap—the legs—
The door swings open. A tall, bony-faced doctor steps in, his hair too blond to be natural. He smiles as he looks up from his datapad at Skywalker. "First Brother! I am pleased to see you awake again—"
Skywalker swings to his feet, leaps off the table, and punches him. The oomph of his breath leaving his body is satisfying. He backs away, sees the door, and bolts.
"First Brother!" the doctor snaps. "What are you— security, this is Head Doctor Amnedor, capture and apprehend Luke Skywalker at all costs!"
The corridor outside is white and sterile. Only a few other doctors or security officers patrol it, but they all stare at him when he barrels out. Skywalker—Luke Skywalker, a subject that Doctor Amnedor does not wish to lose—pauses for less than a heartbeat.
An explosion rocks the building. When he looks out of the window, it shatters inwards. The shards of glass do not touch him, fanning away from him the moment he thinks about dodging, so he is free to stare at the building opposite, now blazing with a dark red flame.
He can hear screaming. It sounds familiar.
Before anyone can apprehend him, he leaps out of the window and runs.
There is a comm in his pocket. His jacket is intact—it says Luke Skywalker on the neckline—and his water flask still hangs at his hip. He runs towards the burning building, but more officers run towards him. He flees in the opposite direction, into the wasteland beyond.
It feels like he runs for miles before he loses them. When he does, his comlink bleeps. He does not answer it in time, but he dials back immediately and rants into it, desperately hoping someone can hear.
"This is Luke Skywalker," he says. "This is Luke Skywalker, I—" Tears prick his eyes. "I don't know who I am beyond that. I've escaped Doctor Amnedor, but I'm in the middle of this"—he looks around, despairing—"wasteland. I don't know what is happening."
He sloshes through a stream. Pauses to toss water in his sweat-drenched face, cool himself down by sipping some of it. The comlink does not ring again. Perhaps no one heard him.
"Help me," he whispers.
Then he stands, shaking, and marches on.
