Disclaimer: I own nothing. George Lucas owns everything. I make nothing from this. The title isn't set in stone yet. This is AU, DarkLuke stuff. Most likely some slash later—if you don't like that sort of thing, run for the hills, my friend.

One: The Business End of Bureaucracy

If, in your travels through the galaxy, you are confronted by a storm trooper, it would be cause for mild alarm. If that storm trooper brought you before his commanding officer, it may be time for you to do a bit go quick thinking and see how fast you can get out of there. If you fail to do either and end up in the company of, say, a Grand Moff, it's probably time to beg for mercy (but don't expect it). There's a good chance that Grand Moff will bring you before Darth Vadar and Starkiller Luke Skywalker, and then there's nothing to do but make peace with your maker.

Luke Skywalker was generally easy enough to handle. He was a diplomat, or the closest you could have to a diplomat in the Empire, an ambassador of sorts who was considered very merciful for an Imperial officer. But his strange powers, especially when combined with that of his father, created a force that was know as the business end of Imperial bureaucracy.

Skywalker was the carrot. He was a lovely creature, blonde and blue eyed, with an easy but slightly icy smile. He was fluent in both the light and dark side of the Force, making him an apt healer, teacher, and mediator of small disputes. But he also had a devil of a temper when provoked.

When provoked, he was joined by his father. Darth Vadar was the stick—violent, aggressive, taking delight only in his own dark powers and the growing powers of his son.

They made their home aboard the Death Star, and it was here where a small, aging freighter with a hell of a lot of modifications was pulled aboard by a tractor beam.

"Good day, Lord Skywalker," the young lieutenant said, snapping his heels together briskly. "We have alerted Lord Vadar to the presence of the ship. We believe it to be carrying known Rebel leaders Leia Organa and Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Skywalker's face hardened visibly at the name, and he adjusted the black leather gloves over his thin fingers. "My father is meditating and is not to be disturbed again—I will handle this myself. Have you searched the ship?"

"Yes sir—we've turned up only a smuggler by the name of Han Solo and some contraband."

"Solo? Wasn't he one of our defecting officers?"

"Yes sir. Once we discover what has become of the Princess of Alderaan and Kenobi he will be executed for his treason."

"Good. I will see to the interrogation and execution personally. You are dismissed." The generally smooth, frigid voice had taken on a quiet but pronounced edge which all the officers knew well to precede a rage.

Luke Skywalker, first Imperial Starkiller, watched with a bitter smile as two white clad storm troopers dragged a stunned Solo between them toward the detention block.

"What the hell d'ya put in these blasters, vaporized Morpharine?" Han Solo tried to sit up, but his spinning head had him on his back again before he could even get up on his elbows. So hard a fall on the block-like projection that served for a bed in the cell was unfriendly to someone whose brain was already in chaos.

He heard a snort and turned to stare blearily at the dark figure in the corner. The younger of the two infamous Skywalkers was seated casually on a stool in the corner, dressed in smooth black with his gloved hands laid on his knees. "You know well that an opiate that potent is against Imperial law to possess—you were caught smuggling last year back to an uncharted settlement on Hoth."

"Yeah, and you were the one who set up the execution of the officer I bribed to get out of it." Solo's smile was much braver than he felt. "So tell me, what does Vadar and his Starkilling son want with some low life smuggler?"

"We want your cargo."

"My cargo?" he repeated with a slight sound of disbelief. "A Wookie copilot and thirteen gallons of the best Corillian booze a man can steal? That's all I got."

"No. An old man—" his eyes hardened—"and a young woman, perhaps some droids."

"Hey, I don't deal in human cargo," Han said, pushing himself up and opening his empty hands in front of him. "Chewie and I have a very strict moral code when if comes to slavery."

A rabid look came into Skywalker's eyes and he straightened in his seat, slipping off one of the black gloves. His hand, Han saw, was pocked and scarred…or maybe that was just the strange colors his eyes were picking up on things around the cell. "Not slaves. Rebels."

With that look and tone of voice, the black clad youth looked decidedly evil. How could I have thought he was the easier of the two? "Some old man? What harm could he be? I've heard he's one of those Jedi sorcerers…I thought you and Vadar killed them all off, though…"

Fluid, graceful, and deadly as a panther, Skywalker sailed through the air and landed on Han, pinning him to the slab with a blow that started his head spinning all over again. Well, there's the famous temper we've heard so much about, he thought dazedly.

"That man is no Jedi." The voice was low and dangerously controlled, but his blue eyes were frozen on Han's face with a vicious fire. "He is not harmless. He is a traitor and a murderer."

Skywalker straddled him, pinning him down with one gloved, clawed hand, and drawing the bare hand over his head with one extended finger. "Those traitors, those leaders of the Rebellion, were last seen with you in a Mos Eisley cantina." He spoke slowly, annunciating every syllable and not letting Han look away from his eyes. "You are going to tell me where they are, or else you are going to suffer a fate so wretched you will beg for death before it is over."

"Then we're gonna be here a long time, kid, because I have no idea. I didn't even pick them up, because I didn't want—"

But his voice broke off in a blast of pain as a singular blue bolt of Force lightening from Skywalker's finger connected with his Solo's chest. He writhed in unreal pain, scarcely able to breath.

"Damn," he coughed when the electric blue light stopped flowing into him. "And I was told you were the easier half of the Imperial dream team. Isn't personal torture without evidence a crime under the new code of the Imperial Senate?"

"Let those moronic Senators bicker all they like," he spat with a twisted grin, "But we—my father and I—we are the true power of this democratic Empire."

"Democratic Empire my ass," Han spat, "your Emperor is as much a figured head as your Senate. Everyone knows that the real power is held by—"

Again, he could not complete the sentence, choked this time by the hand around his throat closing. "You will show no disrespect toward my master," he snarled, "or I will kill you here and now."

"Okay," Han croaked, "okay, I'm sorry! Stars, have you got a devil of a temper!"

"Trust me, smuggler, this is only the beginning of my rage." He did not let up the strangle hold he had on Solo's throat, even when the door slid open and Darth Vadar himself entered.

"Luke," he said, "release him."

The room was silent but for the harsh sounds of Vadar's respirator.

"Yes father," he finally conceded, sitting up but remaining on Solo with curious eyes. The calculate rage was gone for now, although Han had a feeling that if he saw the pretty boy again it would be back.

"I will take control of the interrogation from here, my son," Vadar said decisively, "You may return to your studies."

Luke rose, and taking one last look at Solo, left.