Star Wars belongs to Lucasfilm Ltd., itself property of The Walt Disney Company. I make no lucrative nor commercial use of my writings in relationship with the Star Wars license.

A woman, dressed for sleep, standing on a balcony and playing with a strand of curly brown hair. He watches her as she carelessly talks of dreams and plans for the future, of their baby and how she sees life after the birth. He answers, a smile on his face, with ideas and feelings of his own, but neither of their attentions is on the content of their conversation. They are too thrilled to find each other again, enjoying each other's presence after such a long separation. He begins flirting, complimenting her, and she replies. Their words are clumsy and senseless, but their emotion true, radiant. He approaches and kisses her, and she throws her arms around his neck, the two of them lost in bliss.

Darth Vader opened his eyes, his heart beating fast and hard, and found himself in his meditation chamber. His whole body was shaking in longing and in grief, the memory of Padmé's breath still on his lips as she was torn from him all over again. It was but an illusion: she was long gone, dead by his hand.

He rose up and roared in anguish, too far in his rage to care about the instruments shrieking and imploding around him. He was over this, had been for a long time! Why did these images come back now, years after they had stopped tormenting his every hour? They could no longer hurt him. The past had no bearing on his current life. Her death had been written in destiny, precipitated by Obi-Wan's doing despite all his efforts to prevent it. There was nothing he could do to change it.

He rubbed his scarred and bald face with his fingers, relishing the burning anger simmering in his stomach. Mechanical hands, forever bound in leather, instruments of torture and death rather than the tenderness they were once capable of, in his own image.

These emotions didn't befit him. He shouldn't let himself be bothered in this way, shouldn't be this weak, prey to his own sentiments. He opened his mind to the Force, let it feed off him and revelled in the promises of power and radiance it brought him.

He was strong. He had grown. He was better than this now.

And yet his chest was still aching with a yearning he couldn't suppress, a helpless wish for the vision to return and engulf him in everlasting oblivion.

It was all because of this boy, he thought in fury and loathing, this insolent young pilot strong with the Force, so full of life, too much like he had once been. Ever since the youth had entered his squadron, he had been troubled by him and his potential. His naiveté, coupled with his raw talent, brought back memories of a time when he too had had such optimistic expectations of the world... happier times, before he had been confronted with the harsh truth of the universe.

It was driving him insane. The boy was insolent and brash, and nothing seemed to be taming him. For weeks now, Vader had been behind him, watching his every movement, scolding him as soon as he made a step out of line, and the young pilot yet had to give in. If anything, it had only made him more rebellious... The encounter of the morning replayed itself in his mind, Lars' incensed remarks at his superior's intrusion.

A bitter smile found his lips. He had to hand it to him, he had guts. Few would dare to oppose him this way, yet the boy hadn't hesitated a moment before speaking out against what he considered an injustice. Vader had to admit he'd grown a grudging respect for him, despite his irritation with Lars's antics. It was infuriating.

So was the mystery around him. The Sith Lord had encountered many Force-sensitive children, but this youth intrigued him in ways no other ever had. Why hadn't he been discovered at birth when the test had been performed, with his obvious strength? What was Obi-Wan doing next to him on barren Tatooine? Had he been the one falsifying his midichlorians count? Why did he have the impression the boy was purposefully hiding something from him?

And why, oh why was the Force around the boy calling him that way? It was beckoning him, driving all his thoughts towards Lars, to the point of obsession. Nothing about that boy made sense, and the eclectic pieces of knowledge he held never ceased dancing in his mind, unable to lay down in a proper picture.

But he would discover everything. He would bring the young pilot to heel, break his confidence and extract all the answers out of him. He would teach him the mercilessness of existence, shatter all his illusions like his own had been, so long ago. It would be doing a favour, after all: he should already be dead by his hand... More than once, he had been seized with a strong desire to kill him. And each time, he had stayed his hand in the hope to know his secrets.

His commlink beeped, interrupting his thoughts. It was one of the officers he'd tasked with finding the Rebel base. Vader sat down and waited for the mask to descend on his face, annoyance still lingering inside him.

The hyperbaric chamber opened, and he turned his chair around to face the man waiting there.

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"My lord, we have received data from the probes. We were able to compile a list of places likely to hold the Rebels."

Vader took the datapad he was handed, pleased with their progress.

"Very well. You are dismissed," he waved at him.

The man walked away, and Vader focused on the datapad and the list of planets. There were a dozen of them, but none that immediately struck him as a good hiding place for the Rebels' purposes. He would have to meditate on it and study the files in depth, as well as look at the conclusions drawn by his team...

The commlink rang again, but Vader didn't need to answer to know who it was. A bright Force signature was waiting outside the door, one that had become familiar. Vader checked the time: the boy had taken longer than he thought to complete the datawork he had sent. He was sending off waves of powerful emotions, tiredness and anger, fear and frustration, a boiling soup ready to explode. Visibly, he was going to be a piece of work to deal with. Vader hadn't forgotten about his insolence of the morning.

He was growing tired of this game. The boy would tell him what he wanted to know, or he would face the consequences.

Vader rose and left the pod, waiting for it to close before he commanded the door to open. Lars entered, looking exactly like he did in the morning: rigid as a plank of durasteel with dark circles under his eyes and a mutinous pout on his lips. He put himself at attention and didn't react as Vader approached him, arms crossed on his chest.

"Ensign Lars," he greeted him. "You are reporting later than I expected."

The boy blinked.

"I apologise, my lord."

His voice was strained, no louder than a whisper. So it seemed he could be respectful when he fancied it. It was a shame it didn't occur to him more often.

Vader took the datapad the boy had painstakingly sorted and set it aside, making a show of his lack of interest in it. Despite the effort Lars must have put in it, he didn't react, to Vader's surprise. Perhaps he was learning something, after all. He should be pleased by it, but instead he found himself somewhat disappointed by his apathy.

It didn't matter. He was going to get his answers and be done with it at last.

"Now," he said, his voice cold and dangerous. "You will tell me about Obi-Wan Kenobi."

The boy swallowed.

"I don't know him, my lord," he answered, a tired edge in his voice. Vader had already asked him several times with as much success.

"You know who I am talking about," he snarled, his patience spent. "The man you call Ben Kenobi."

Lars sighed.

"I already told you, I only saw him from afar. He was just an old hermit living beyond the Jundland Wastes, my uncle didn't like me near him."

"And that was wise of him," Vader retorted. He probed the boy in the Force, and found only truth in his words. It was infuriating. "Nonetheless, did Kenobi never try to approach you? To teach you?"

It would only make sense for Obi-Wan to try and teach him, with his strength in the Force. Vader had trouble to believe it was only coincidence that saw his old master settle so near a boy who emitted such a bright light.

"Teach me?" the boy asked, incredulous. "What would he teach me?"

"Answer the question," Vader snapped.

"No, he didn't," Lars replied, all the frustration of the world in his voice.

Again there was truth, teasing Vader, annoying him. It couldn't be. It went against all reason. The boy's strength in the Force, the falsified midichlorian count, their proximity, everything pointed to Obi-Wan's and Lars's destinies being linked. He couldn't accept that Obi-Wan having lived so near him had served no purpose.

He thought back about their confrontation, four years ago, that finally led to the death of the man that had maimed him then eluded him for fourteen years. The details escaped him, but he remembered Obi-Wan's fear back then... a fear dissonant with his apparent serenity at the prospect of his death, with his words of nonsense when Vader had finally disarmed him, with the peace on his face when the red blade finally ran through his body. Vader had been too thrown by the disappearance of Obi-Wan's body after his death to ponder that fear of his, apparently devoid of object. Now, however, he was starting to wonder about it.

Could Obi-Wan have been worried about Lars? He wouldn't put it past his old master to have been overruled by sentimentality over that boy, who looked so much like Vader had at his age, was as strong as him. Just for that, Vader would have been delighted to find the boy earlier and kill him in front of Obi-Wan's eyes... But if that was the case, why wasn't he trained?

Unless...

"Nothing?" he probed. "Not even to conceal lies under a veil of truth? Protect your mind against those who would invade it?"

"What?" The boy's eyes widened, and he threw him a terrified glance. "What are you talking about? How is that even possible?"

Still no lie. Vader was losing his patience.

"But even if it were true, you would not admit it to me, would you?"

He called the power of the Force, pushed it against the boy's consciousness. Lars gasped and shuddered, but the meagre resistance was not enough to keep Vader out completely.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lars repeated. His breath was growing faster, his eyes wide and afraid.

Even in his very mind, Vader couldn't find anything belying his words. There was a vague sense of dissimulation in his thoughts, a secret he was didn't wish known, but Vader was unable to find out what it was. He couldn't even know if it was relevant or just a natural reaction, a defence mechanism against such a violation of his intimacy. In a surge of rage, he withdrew and turned away, mindless of the boy's grunt of pain.

"That remains to be seen," he snarled, a vibroblade in his voice, his fists clenching to reign in a murderous intent. "I am going to figure you out, boy, sooner or later."

How sick he was of this boy and the mystery around him, of his insolence and brightness in the Force, of the way he always seemed to be at the back of his thoughts. He wanted him gone, wanted him to never have crossed his path and disturbed his peace of mind in the first place.

"What is there to figure out? I don't even know what you want with me!"

He whirled and waved a finger in the boy's face, who recoiled.

"Do not talk back to me, or you shall regret it," he warned, hatred growing every moment he beheld the clear and defiant eyes, the small nose, the stubborn set of his chin, the all too familiar features. His fists tightened, and he recklessly hoped for him to make a mistake.

"Then why can't you leave me alone?" Lars said, looking him in the eye.

Vader's blood boiled. His ears ringing, he stretched out his arm and unleashed the roaring power of the Force. The boy made a strangled sound, his mouth opening and closing as he vainly tried to get air into his lungs. His fingers shot to his throat, fumbling to grasp at the invisible hand restraining him. Vader raised his arm and the boy's feet left the ground; he kicked and wriggled uselessly in the air.

He had gone too far, defied him one too many times.

"Your insolence displeases me, young one," he said, taking vicious satisfaction in the overwhelming terror flooding the Force in waves, like a dying star sending its last rays before collapsing on itself.

He stepped forward, fingers of metal joining the immaterial ones around the boy's neck, pinning him against the wall. Crude artificial sensors joined with the Force allowed him to feel the skin and muscles under his grasp, the blood beating wildly in the boy's veins. Small fingers frantically tugged on his own, boots hit his unyielding prosthetic shins. He drank in it all, revelling in the young man's panic at the imminence of his death, in the dark power madly whirling around the both of them.

It was a wonder it hadn't come to this before. How many times had he longed to do this...

The boy closed his eyes. His shoulders hunched in an attempt to free himself, voiceless guttural noises escaping him in his agony. His lips were changing colour, his face reddening. Vader could feel his consciousness dim, his light diminish, gradually vanquished by overwhelming shadows. It was but a matter of seconds now before –

An invisible force tugged on his hand. His fingers twitched for the shortest second, loosening their grip on the boy just long enough for him to heave in a gulp of air. Astonished, he opened his hand; the young man fell to his knees, coughing and wheezing with senseless moans of pain.

It was impossible. No unaware, untrained Force-sensitive should be able to resist him like this. Slightly frightened, frustrated beyond all measure, Vader bent to seize him again, this time by the front of his shirt. Lars croaked out a protest, but Vader paid him no heed.

"Who trained you?" he roared.

The boy was transparent, shaking like a leave caught in a whirlwind. He tried to speak, but only a groaning cough left his lips.

"Answer me!"

"I – no one, I – I don't – I don't know –"

Vader's glowing blade was under his throat before he could even finish his sentence. The boy let out a hoarse cry.

"This is the last time I ask it," Vader snarled. "It is pointless to lie to me. I know you are a Jedi apprentice, and you will tell me who your master is now!"

The boy was hyperventilating, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"No! I'm no Jedi! Please – I don't know – p-please..."

He kept repeating it over and over. Aware he would get nothing out of him in this state, Vader turned off his lightsabre and let him go. Lars collapsed in a heap of nerves, unable to stand on his own from the shock, fear and pain. Vader stood motionless, looking down as the boy sobbed at his feet, trying to catch a panicked breath through a damaged throat, eyes shut down tightly and features contorted in pain.

It was impossible, but it was true. The boy was completely untrained, oblivious of what the Force even was. The Force clinging to him was screaming of truth and desperate honesty; whatever he was able to do with it was instinctual.

And yet what strength was his, what raw power lay untouched in his slender form! Vader could hardly believe it. He had already known him to be strong, but not to this extent, not to the point of fighting him – and overpowering him, even for the briefest moment – without any kind of previous practice. His potential had remained untapped and hidden for so long; who could say what else he was capable of?

Vader knew he should finish what he had just begun and take the boy's life before he had the chance to do any damage. He was a threat, a loose cannon that would prove utterly disastrous should he ever be used against them. Every passing day made that clearer. But a far more enticing alternative was presenting itself to his mind, eclipsing all thoughts of killing him. If he could take him as an apprentice...

Now that the idea had entered his mind, it didn't let him go. To turn him, to teach him, to be the one to tame this wild power, to explore this unknown well of undiscovered gifts: it was too alluring a thought to pass. What a team they would make in their combined strength! His head spun merely picturing it: they would be unstoppable...

For the third time that evening, his comlink beeped. He took a step back to answer it.

"My lord, the Emperor commands you to make contact with him," the holograph of an officer said.

"I will be there shortly."

He hung up and reported his attention on the boy, who was picking himself up on wobbly legs and threw him a terrified glance. He would have to deal with him later, he thought with some irritation. A shame... but maybe it was for the best. His anger was not completely spent yet, and he would need a cooler head to win him over.

"Return to your quarters," he dismissed him.

Lars didn't need to be told twice. As fast as he could, he scrambled to his legs and hurried away without turning back.

Vader headed to his communications chambers, still reeling from the strength of the power he had sensed in the young pilot. That must have been why he had felt so drawn to him: even though he hadn't noticed his sensitivity, he must have felt it to some level. The Force sometimes worked in unfathomable ways: such was its place at the core of life itself that it couldn't always be understood. More often than not, its messages could only be experienced through one's instinct. It made mastery of it difficult, but all the more fascinating.

As he knelt on the platform and waited for the transmission to reach Imperial Centre, he did his best to cast all thoughts of the boy away. Soon enough, a huge blue hologram with the shape of his master's head appeared, twice his own size. His face was sunken so deeply in his hood it was impossible to see any of his features but his eyes, two disturbingly shining spots. Vader bowed his head.

"What is thy bidding, my master?"

"Lord Vader," the Emperor greeted him with a slick and guttural voice. "I would hear about your search for the Rebels base."

"The probes have been sent, as you suggested," Vader replied. "The first data reached me today. More satisfying results should follow soon."

"Good," the Emperor nodded, "good."

Vader waited, still kneeling. This could only be an accessory, an introduction before his master's real reason for calling. Such a trite matter could have been dealt with easily in one of his regular reports, and it was of no particular urgency. The Emperor must have something more significant to speak to him about.

"There has been a disturbance in the Force," he finally said, proving Vader right. "Have you felt it?"

"No, my master." Vader frowned under his mask. He searched in the Force for the anomaly Sidious was talking about, but couldn't find anything.

"It is strange," the Emperor whispered. "You felt nothing?"

"I was busy dealing with one of my new recruits. It is possible I have not noticed it."

As he talked, he wondered if it could be that Lars was at the origin of it. Was the boy that powerful, enough for his emotions to ripple throughout the whole galaxy? Had it been his own, the Emperor would have recognised them...

"A new recruit," echoed Sidious. "Young Luke Lars?"

"Yes, he is the one," Vader replied, startled. It wasn't in the Emperor's habits to pay much attention to the movements of men under his command, never mind knowing the names of his squadron members. This was highly unusual. Was it a test? Had the Emperor sent Lars to Black Squadron, did he expect him to discover something about the boy?

Sidious sketched a smile under his hood.

"Yes... A remarkable individual. I believe he is under watch by ISB, who brought him to my attention."

"The Security Bureau put him on file?" Vader asked, more and more puzzled. He was unaware they had people capable of detecting Force-sensitives, except for the thorough screening Imperial legislations put newborns through. "Why?"

"They believe he may have ties with the Rebellion. He was flagged at the Academy for his associations and has been under surveillance ever since. If he is in league with the Rebels, he could lead us to them."

That made sense. It was usual procedure for suspected Rebel spies or sympathisers to be followed in order to try and gain information on the insurgents. It was very efficient, sometimes going as far as providing them with information even if the subject was not actively involved. Less usual, however, was posting suspect people so high in the elite forces of the Empire.

"Do you wish for me to keep an eye on him? Is that why he was stationed to my personal fighter squadron?"

"Oh, no, he went through the regular process," the Emperor waved a hand. "I understand he showed considerable talent during his training. Nonetheless, the Force does things well. I have no doubt you will catch any suspicious activity he might attempt. Watch him and report anything unusual about him to me."

"I will, my master." He hesitated for a second before continuing. "I believe him to be Force-sensitive."

Immediately Palpatine's interest sparked. He leant forward.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, my master."

"Is he strong?"

Vader paused, not sure whether he wanted to reveal the extent of Lars's power to his master. Doing so would put into question why he hadn't killed him yet, what he planned to do with him. But if his master was already aware of the boy, he would be highly suspicious of any attempt to conceal him... Was hiding him really worth it?

Besides, he was still undecided what to do about him... His master's guidance would hopefully help him discern whether he should kill him or let him live, obey this strange reluctance to strike him down that had stayed his hand before, and which seemed whispered by the Force itself.

"Very, I think. I was not able to assess his whole potential yet."

The Emperor narrowed his eyes, observing him in a way that made him feel small and exposed.

"And you wish to train him."

It was more a statement than a question. The Emperor's voice betrayed none of his feelings towards the project, and Vader found himself at a loss.

"He could be of great use to us, if he is as strong as I suspect him to be," he justified himself.

A silence, that seemed forever to Vader. He still couldn't read anything in his master: it made him nervous, defensive. Had he made a mistake in talking to him about it? The more he thought about it, the less convinced he was it was a good idea...

Force-sensitives had to be dealt with. Strong ones, especially, were a threat. According to all logic, he should kill the boy as soon as he saw him again...

"He could be a great asset indeed," the Emperor said at last. "Do as you wish."

He cut the transmission, leaving Vader to exhale in relief.

.

The journey back to the squadron quarters was a torture for Luke. His legs were so unsteady he had to use all his focus just to walk, his chest hurt so much every beat of his heart was a stab wound, and his throat was on fire. He cleared it several times, but it only made it worse.

He hoped he wouldn't meet anybody. The mere idea of speaking left him queasy, his head feeling as though it could explode any moment.

To his great relief, the familiar surroundings of the squad quarters were empty. He helped himself to a glass of water and added some ice to alleviate the pain. Swallowing was awful, though, and he winced as the cool liquid went down his throat.

He made his way to a bench and collapsed there, sitting with his eyes closed, his head tilted back against the wall and his mouth half open. His skull was throbbing painfully. He had never felt this terrible in his entire life...

Noise in the hallway made him look up, half thinking of retiring to his bunk. Before he could do so, however, Mauler entered the room together with Dark Curse and the new people, who probably came back from sim training. It was hard to realise he had only welcomed them this very morning: it felt so much longer ago...

He waved with a half-hearted smile as they greeted him and came to join him. Had it not felt like it would rip his throat apart, Luke would have groaned: this was hardly the ideal circumstances for them to meet properly...

"This is Luke Lars, our FNG," Mauler introduced him to the new pilots. Luke nodded at them, but didn't say hi.

"Nice to meet you," the pilot with the dark skin and the white hair said. It was the one Luke had spoken longest to this morning, but for the life of him he couldn't remember his name. "Although we already saw each other, right? You're the deck officer."

Luke nodded, keeping his lips stretched in the semblance of a smile.

"You aren't so quiet usually," Dark Curse said, frowning in concern. "Are you all right?"

Luke nodded again, vacantly staring at his drink. He had a feeling he wasn't fooling anybody, but he really didn't feel up to explaining. He took the glass to his lips once more, swallowed water and grimaced, regretting it.

"Hey, don't shut us out, what's the matter?" the older man insisted.

Luke sighed.

"I just don't feel like speaking," he tried.

The words came out as a barely understandable squawking and rasping mess, then disappeared in a violent coughing fit. Luke winced and closed his eyes, unable to hold back a moan of pain. He didn't want to see the startled looks he knew the other pilots were exchanging.

"I'll just go to bed," he said, standing up. Mauler's hand on his arm stopped him.

"What happened to you?" he asked, staring at Luke's throat. "You have red marks on your neck."

"It's nothing," Luke waved, desperate to leave. He didn't want to have this conversation. "I... I tripped and fell down."

"And strangled yourself?" Mauler said, eyebrows rising. The red light of his robotic eye made Luke ill at ease. He looked away.

"Something caught my uniform and my collar strangled me." He knew his tale didn't hold up, but he didn't care. They didn't need to know the truth, didn't need to advise him to be careful and not to antagonise Lord Vader. He didn't want their pity, their worried glances.

"I was unaware there were devices with such a capacity on the docks," Mauler said, an accent of certainty in his voice.

Luke looked at him. Mauler knew. He was only trying to get him to confess to it, to say it out loud.

A potent rush of anger seized him, and he rose up. This was none of Mauler's business. Luke was tired of being constantly interrogated, doubted, watched. Couldn't they leave him alone for once?

"I don't want to talk about it, sir. I'd rather go to sleep."

He didn't look at any of them as he all but threw his drink down on the table and headed towards the dorm, reminding himself to take deep breaths despite the pain it caused him. His hands were shaking, but they had no reason to be, and he even felt angry at his own body. He was alive, his lungs were working, he could move as he wanted and there was no looming shadow towering over him. It was all in the past, he shouldn't be so affected.

He was reaching the door when Mauler's voice rose again.

"Take a painkiller in the first aid kit."

Luke turned towards him, nodded, then slipped out.