Disclaimer: Star Wars does not belong to me.Too bad
Thanks to all who reviewed; I greatly appreciate it (Too sleepy to reply personally...). Thanks even more for being patient with me. Real life leaves practically no time for fanfic. Hopefully this part is worth the wait.
Part II
Luke Skywalker awoke from his disturbed, restless sleep with a burst of adrenaline. Yet another nightmare. They were all so vivid…often he failed to tell them apart from reality. Perhaps reality was just a dream…a nightmare. Steadying his quickened breathing, he sat up and rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes. It wouldn't go away. A light mist hung over his vision, as if he were peering through a sheer veil. He felt faint, but he dismissed it as an effect of sleep deprivation – on a good day, he could squeeze in five hours.
He moved to pull on the worn, scuffed boots that lay strewn across the floor of the bare, cold room. Not that the cold bothered him anymore. It had been three years since he had lived on Tatooine. He almost let out a bitter laugh. It was hard to believe that three years ago, he had had nothing to worry about aside from chores and how to persuade his aunt and uncle to let him go to the academy. In hindsight, he was glad they had kept him on that sandpile, otherwise he would have joined the Empire.
Somehow his thoughts always boiled down to the same thing. Empire. War. Death. Darkness. Father. He grew weary of it all. He was tired of running, hiding and fighting. He was tired of killing and watching everyone die. He was tired of the dark that never left him, that lurked at the back of his mind, beckoning. Tired and afraid. Afraid that he might one day wake up and no longer know himself, that he may one day no longer care enough to maintain his resistance. The disturbing thought of betraying himself and giving in was ever-present.
A dull purple gleam in the corner across from him caught his eye. Perhaps his eyes were beginning to play tricks on him. Scratching at an irritatingly itchy bite on his neck – Force, the place was filled with vermin – he stood and approached. It would not hurt to take a look.
An oddity of a creature – like an armored spider – scuttled out from its hiding place. Its less than attractive appearance – and presence, for that matter – made him hope it wasn't the thing that had bitten him. Then again, he seemed to suffer no ill effects. Squatting next to it, he gingerly touched it. It did not seem to be intimidated, choosing instead to crawl across his left wrist onto his forearm. If you looked closer, it had a unique kind of beauty…
While he had been busy admiring it, it had positioned itself over a vein. Before he made the connection, it sunk its sharp, vicious little fangs in, attempting to suck his blood. He shook it off onto the floor. Crunch. That was the sound its carapace made as, under the impact of his booted foot, it was reduced to shiny fragments of exoskeleton and wet, black pulp tinged with red – blood. He squished it to an even finer pulp, until it was just a dark stain on the floor. Disgusting piece of filth.
What had that been all about? Honestly, they had to do something about the things that lived aboard the ship. Still, why had he felt such a sick pleasure from killing the thing, whatever it was? It was a living being, not so different from him. Yeah…Well you don't try to sink your teeth into other people's flesh.
He walked into the small, dirty 'fresher with cracked tile walls that had once been white but were now a muddy grey and stepped into the shower. He would never get used to real water showers, especially ice-cold ones... Suppressing a shiver, he stepped out, throwing on a towel. Looking into the grime-covered mirror, slightly chipped and cracked at the edges – practically everything was in that state – he could barely recognize himself.
He did not look much different than he had a few months ago, a time that now seemed all too distant, his features perhaps a little sharper, his appearance perhaps tougher, harder. It was inside that he was changed beyond recognition. It felt like death, to find himself a different person, one he did not care for. One he only held in contempt, reduced to a shell of his former self. He sorely wished he could simply turn away and return to believing in everything and knowing nothing at all. He wished he did not have to stare at this lie of an image before him. In some ways, it would have been better if he had been gruesomely scarred. At least his appearance would have been a reflection of himself.
He allowed his face to fall and his shoulders to slump in defeat. Why did he feel so dead? If only he could blame something, someone…but sometimes it was no one's fault. As if to counter his thought, the darkness deep within his mind, at once right beside him and distant as the stars, stirred.
I blame you. You turned me into this. You ruined my life. You brought me into this hell. I wish you would just die. I wish I could strangle you with my bare hands. I want to kill you. I swear it, I will. I hate you. And, to his dismay, the darkness answered. You and I are one and the same. Do not deny what you know is true.
He, in turn, had nothing to say. Enraged, he brought down his shields, forcing it out his thoughts. Him. If he's an it, then what are you? -- Shut up. This was what went on every single day of his now dismal life, ever since Vader had told him. Damn it, Obi-Wan, why did you lie? Did you think me too weak to face reality? Did you want me to slay him without ever knowing? Kenobi was fortunate he was already dead. Normally, he would have kicked himself for such thoughts, but he found that he lacked the will to care. Once more, he threw a glance at the mirror. Under that mask, do you have blue eyes as well? Despite everything, he still managed to wonder. He still managed to dream. He was tired of it all.
After pulling on some fresh clothes, he dragged himself out of his room. It was 0515 and he had yet another long, dull, tiring mission to fly.
The mission was tedious and dragged out, as he had foreseen, until they encountered a squadron of TIEs. Nothing unusual; dogfights had long since become routine. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for the fighter with the bent, jagged solar panels. A TIE advanced. Luke did not need the Force to know what it meant.
His heart pounded, and the flame inside blossomed into a firestorm, and before he knew it, he was firing away with every ounce of speed he had, with every spark of rage in him, downing two of the Sith's wingmen. He could hear their death cries in the Force, one a wordless, despairing scream, the other a sorrowful goodbye. And he found himself relishing it, sadistically basking in their pain, as if their agony drained his own.
While most of the fighters launched themselves at his own squadron, the leader, pulling an elaborate maneuver, or rather a dirty trick, peppered him with a spray of shots. Kreth, he's good. And Vader did not seem at all threatened. He was enraged to find that the Dark Lord radiated cold satisfaction. Want to kill me? Not gonna happen, Vader. I'm not dying for you. But the vindictive little thought managed to sneak in yet again. But would you turn for him? Never. Never would that happen.
The fight ended with him crippling Vader's fighter. He and the two remaining wingmen then proceeded to retreat, but not before the Sith could send a message. This is not over. We shall meet again. Unfortunately, they would.
Mara Jade stood in the hangar bay as Rogue Squadron returned, one fighter short. Skywalker, of course. He was surely dead by now, thanks to her. Oddly, she was not in the least proud. Never before had she had a conscience. Never before had she been ashamed. But the feeling was drowned out by shock as she recognized the man who climbed out of one of the X-wings. It couldn't be…it was. Skywalker. Why are you still alive? Why are you still here? What was he doing here? Mara had killed him.
She had not realized that she'd been standing there dumbly, staring at nothing, until she was shaken from her trance by Skywalker's irritatingly smooth voice.
"Are you alright? Can I help you?" Mara was tempted to say "no" or formulate a sarcastic retort, but, to her dismay, something altogether different slipped out of her mouth.
"Skywalker – You're alive…" Skywalker raised an eyebrow.
"So I am. Surprised?"
"What-er…no…I…never mind."
It was unlike her to be so inarticulate, but this time he had caught her off guard. That had been a close one – fortunately, he suspected nothing. But what would she do now? Why wasn't he dead? Was this part of the plan her master had spoken of?
Ego strokes? Hate mail? Rotten tomatoes? Death threats?
