a/n: quotes and whatnot, do yon bingo.

He paced. He sat. He glanced out the window. He stood. He walked around the table. He tapped its surface. He strode to the window. He laid his gloved hand on it. He rapped it. He turned. He walked to the door. He exited. He stalked down the hall, out the entrance, to stare at the landing pad, the only one near this fortress.

Any moment now. He could sense the Jedi who held his fate in hand, the executioner of Anakin Skywalker, the author of Darth Vader's completion. They had been connected ever since that forsaken planet, and he could feel Anakin's death approaching with every jump through hyperspace the Jedi must be making. It was a faint connection, not enough to betray the Jedi to him, not enough to hasten his metamorphosis. Could the Jedi feel it too? Why couldn't the Jedi hurry up?

He snarled, and with a swirl of his cloak retreated to the cooler interior.

He had been there for weeks, lingering, waiting, biding his time until the Jedi came. He was sure after their encounter that the Jedi would arrive soon after. They would battle, and Anakin Skywalker would burn until only Darth Vader remained. If he prevailed over the Jedi, Anakin Skywalker would still die. He was ready, ready for this uncertainty to be purged from him with lightsabers and fire. Only then would he develop the strength to save the galaxy, first from itself, then from his master. It was the only way.

But the Jedi was late.

Ahsoka hesitated at the door and looked back at her master. He sat on his bunk, mind already lightyears away from their conversation, from the fact that she and the clones were leaving. It could be a testament to his detachment as a Jedi master, but Ahsoka knew what Obi-Wan was thinking about. If only either of them had answers surrounding Darth Vader, Anakin, Lars. "What are you going to do?"

Obi-Wan's gaze flicked over to her as his hand gripped his beard. "I will do what I must."

Weeks passed, the Jedi's presence creeping closer. He cursed the distance keeping him from his destiny, that demanded patience when all he wanted was for it to be over, Anakin Skywalker taken from him, only one path remaining. Anakin Skywalker was weak. Darth Vader would do what he could not. He needed that.

An alarm blared.

He ratcheted from his bunk, senses focusing on the only presence that mattered.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was here.

All affectations of patience abandoned, he dashed from the installment out to the blazing heat. The atmosphere was murky, yet he strained his eyes, searching for the first glimpse of the ship bearing the Jedi. Physical sight failing him, he shut his eyes and stretched out in the Force. The Jedi was there, lurking in the sky. There were others with him too, his companions from before-the determined senator, the friendly Gungan, and he can only presume the quippy R2 unit, and hopefully C-3PO-

He crushed the thoughts from his head. One thing mattered, and one thing alone. He knew the Jedi could sense his presence as well, the two of them aware of each other, both waiting for the Jedi to make his move. He clenched his fists. He was tired of waiting!

"Face me!" he yelled to the obscuring clouds, not that the Jedi could hear it.

Still, the Jedi withheld himself from battle. He pictured the Jedi staring down from his portview on the volcanic planet, judgement waiting to be passed. The Jedi had the power, and the Jedi's weakness would only allow Darth Vader to grow stronger! But the Jedi wasn't supposed to show weakness until after the battle, after defeating the remnants of Anakin Skywalker and not killing the monster that remained. The Jedi wouldn't dare ignore the call of destiny, would he?

He felt a lessening in the Force, and knew it to be true. Kenobi was leaving, and with him all the certainty of the Son's visions. His breathing was already heavy, heartbeat fast, his body tuned for battle, but the rage that simmered inside boiled over at the Jedi's act.

"Coward." He paced the landing pad, jerky movement and as he scrutinized the sky. The feeling lessened again. "Coward!"

He ran for the fighter that always lay there, covered in soot and metal almost too hot to touch, and slid into the cockpit. He adjusted the controls, settled into the seat-

There was a pop in the Force, a ship jumping into hyper-space, and Kenobi's presence was gone. "No!"

He slammed the control board. "I'm ready!" Slammed it again. "Isn't this what you wanted?" Slammed it again. "Isn't this my destiny?" Slammed it again.

The last hit elicited a shower of sparks, jolting his organic hand. "Kriff!"

He leaned back in the seat, throat tickling from the grimy air he'd breathed in. What would happen now? Perhaps Kenobi would return. He doubted that. The moment was gone, fizzled away to nothing.

He pulled a sonic screwdriver from an emergency kit under the seat, removed the cover of the control board, and set to tinkering on the control panel. The kit had spare parts, and the damage was mostly superficial. He went to work, replacing two wires, re-aligning more delicate components. It was short work, and soon he placed the cover back over. He shifted it slightly to help it fall into place, but it wasn't falling correctly. A frown heralded the return of his thunderous feelings, and he searched around the edge to discover what was hindering the cover. There, a wire slipping out under the cover. He pried the cover up and nudged the wire only to receive a strong shock.

He yelped. The cover awkwardly clanged down while he flicked his numb left hand, numb to the elbow, cussing statements that would have C-3PO stuttering. He slapped his hand on his leg, tingling exploding painfully through the limb. He rubbed his fingers some more, until finally his sense of touch came back, he could feel the grooves and calluses of his skin. He relaxed, heartbeat thumping down to a steady beat, and turned his attention back to the board.

Carefully, he lifted it back up to view the errant wire. Holding the cover up with his left hand, he used his gloved right hand to gingerly reconnect the wire to its socket. That accomplished, he gently lowered the cover, which now fit snugly, and secured it in place. He held the sonic screwdriver loosely in his hand, lost in contemplating it and his hands, the mechanical and the organic. An idle thought meandered through his mind of what should he tell the Emperor, the other eager party of his transformation, but it didn't seem important at the moment.

Then, realization seeped in. He still had his hand.

He put down the tool, fascinated by his hand, then glancing to his legs and feet. They were still there, he could feel them. His limbs, his lungs, his hair-the surprise had him laughing and numb all at once as he patted himself down, curious to it all being there. He had been one hour away from life in a suit, and here he sat, as physically whole as usual. Maybe Kenobi would come back tomorrow, or the day after, or in ten standard years, and his vision would play out, loose limbs splayed on the ground, but he still had them today.

He slipped off his glove and compared his two hands. The right was spindly, dark metal acting as bones and sinews, a useful replacement of what he had lost. Carefully, he slid his left fingers up his right sleeve, feeling the seam of metal and skin. With three new limbs like this he had planned to take over the galaxy, vision tinted red and breath forced through a tube. He had depended on that physical transformation to give him power, a mask behind which he could face the galaxy, a way to defy the Force and let it and everyone know that he could not be hurt anymore. More machine than man. He had sought this moment of loss and change to define himself, crystallize him into the monster he thought himself to be.

He slid his left hand back down, brought it before his face and watched the play of skin over muscle, bone, and sinew, before reaching it up to touch his hair. It trembled. A soft plip of moisture landed on the console, then another. Anakin Skywalker wept.