6 ABY. Two years after the death of the Emperor, and the destruction of the second Death Star.
Cerea. A paradise world, untouched by the distant wars, isolated from the destruction wrought by the galaxy's troubled politics. On Cerea, they spoke very little on the matters of rebellion, or of oppression. The Galactic Civil War passed them by, as inoffensive and as forgettable as a passing cloud. After the tragedies beset upon them by the Clone Wars, isolation was exactly how they liked it. Never again would a million civilians die in someone else's war. They told no stories of distant heroes or infamous villains, except for their own mythologies. As a result, Cerea might have been one of the few places in the galaxy where even the most infamous monsters in the galaxy would not be recognized.
While the Cereans had long-ago chosen nature over technology, that did not dissuade their cities from expanding ever further across their planet surface. Their capital, the largest example of Cerean expansion, was Tecave city, a metropolis of stone domes, temples and amphitheaters, built to shelter, but also to inspire. The architecture was intricate, organic and free, their windows wide and open, their entrances without gates or doors, so that the people could still look out past the boundaries of civilization, beyond the streets and columns, to remember the paradise of Cerea.
While crime was not common here, there were still problems, and problems breed desperation. On a particularly warm night, two Cereans, a female and male, only adolescents, were wandering the botanical gardens, desperately in love.
"Will you be my bond-wife?" The make asked.
"There is no other male on this world I would choose over you." The female replied. "Will you still love me, even as you begin to take honor-wives?"
The male scoffed, and replied, "Not even a million honor-wives could overshadow you, my love. I would trade them all, and all the money in my wallet, if you were to say yes."
And the female, overwhelmed by joy, cried out, "A thousand times, yes! Yes, so that every ear in the city may hear!"
In their joy, as they ran and laughed and skipped along through the Tecave City streets, they grew ignorant of their surroundings. How quickly the quality of a city can shift from street to street, how sudden the disparity can be between each neighborhood. These lovers, too obsessed with their own joy, hardly noticed that they had entered the worst part of town.
A group of females with knives removed themselves from the shadows, surrounding the couple, halting them in place. The bandits demanded the male. "Not enough of them to go around, these days," They said, "And he is a fine prize."
The male, petrified, offered money, but the bandits refused. "Money is not why we are here. Hand him over!"
Surrounded, the lovers called for help, but only now did they realize they had found themselves in one of few neighborhoods, where locks and boarded windows were the rule. No one was coming to save them, not in this place. The fiancé defended her male, but she was quickly pushed aside.
That was when the phantom came. Of course, whenever a serious crime is committed, witnesses would be brought before the Council of Elders, the governing body of Cerea. Their words were law manifest, unquestioned and divine. The couple found themselves in the council's atrium, still bruised and tattered from the night before, their eyes dark and sunken from exhaustion. Neither had slept a wink the night before. Not after what they had seen. Now, mere hours after the event, they gave their testimony, their nervous voices echoing through the marble walls.
"If the phantom had not come," The female explained, "The other women would certainly have killed me and taken him."
The elders inspected the two after hearing their testimony, then asked, "What did this phantom do?"
Afraid to recall every detail, the fiancée explained with a sigh of dread. "The bandits were dragging him away. They were about to cut my throat, when we all heard this…rasping sound, like the gasping breaths of a corpse, returned to life."
She let out a trembling whimper to recall the rest: "Just then, everything went quiet, except for that- that damned breathing. At once, our attackers were pulled from us, high into the air, just floating there. It was as if a ghostly hand had taken each one by the throat. Then, as they hung in mid-air, their necks started breaking, one by one. The last one to die was the most afraid, after seeing the others- and then, once they were all dead, they were thrown aside, like seaweed cast to the shore by a wave. Gods, I can't stop seeing their faces-"
Standing before the weeping woman, the elders whispered to each other, before asking one last question. "Did you see it? The phantom?"
The woman shook her head, but the male, silent so far, raised a single, trembling hand. "I was in the street. I saw it. Gods be damned, I saw it!"
"What did it look like?" The elders asked.
The boy's eyes grew wide, and his lips quivered before he spoke: "A cloak of shadows, eyes as empty as the night sky, and a helm of death. With just a flick of its hands, they were all killed. It killed them with a thought! Just a thought! Gods, help us-"
"The Council thanks you for your testimony. You are dismissed."
Hesitantly, the young couple thanked the elders, and when the door was shut and the council left by themselves, they began to debate:
"This is the third this week. Criminals, slaughtered like animals, and only ever criminals."
"What kind of being could do such a thing, to lift a dozen off the ground with a mere thought?"
"Are you all fools? Do you not recognize a Jedi when you hear one?"
"The Jedi are all dead, and they would not slaughter so wantonly."
"The Emperor would say otherwise. Perhaps there was a reason they were hunted."
"You would insult Ki-Adi-Mundi's memory like this?!"
"I would question everything, until the truth is revealed. These people were slain by thoughts alone. What, other than Jedi, could do such a thing?"
"This much is clear. This is no phantom, but a Vigilante. Shall we inform the Empire?"
"If there is a vigilante force-user in our city, we cannot let it fester. If this is a Jedi, then we may be implicated if we hesitate. We have no choice. Put out a warrant for the capture of this phantom, by whatever means, and inform the Imperial authorities."
"If we involve the galactic authorities, it may be more than just criminals who are slain."
"If innocents die by this Jedi's hand, then its true nature will be revealed to us."
4 ABY. Two years earlier.
Alarms blaring. Soldiers and sailors scampering about, pretending as though carrying on with their duty would stop the Death Star from falling a second time. Abandon ship. A million uniformed men and women, desperate to reach the hangars before the station's inevitable destruction claimed them. Doubtless, many would be killed on this day.
These thoughts filled Vader's mind. More deaths. More screams rippling through the force, silenced all at once. How many times had he allowed himself to hear voices, cut short by him and his master? Millions? Billions? Stumbling, his suit damaged by his master's evil, with only his son to keep him upright, Anakin felt something he had forgotten long ago; regret.
Why did it take so much pain for him to realize it? Kenobi, Ashoka, so many had tried in vain to bring him back. It took the suffering of his own son to pull him to the surface again, all too late. He could feel his life support shorting out. His breath grew strained. The machinery attached to his body began to fail, until both mechanical legs gave out from underneath him. Luke tried in vain to keep going, but they both knew, deep down, that this was the end. Leaned against the ramp of a shuttle, Anakin knew there was nothing left but to die.
"Luke." Vader's synthesized voice, deep and booming. The voice of a monster. "Help me take- this mask off."
Luke offered his father a concerned frown. "But you'll die."
"Nothing can stop that now. Just for once, let me look on you with my own eyes."
Reluctantly, but with the very same understanding and kindness that saved Anakin, Luke removed the layers of life support. Atmospheric hissing released Anakin from his prison of metal. Finally, gone was the holographic red he had always seen Luke through. His son's eyes were blue, hair the same color as Anakin's, so long ago. In that moment, Luke appeared more human, more pure, than anything Anakin had known in so very long. It was enough just to see such humanity, to know that his legacy would not be only that of evil. The Skywalker lineage would be that of benevolence, of hope.
"Now go, my son. Leave me."
Luke frowned again. "No. You're coming with me. I'll not leave you here, I've got to save you."
Vader might have smiled, had he only enough strength left. "You already have, Luke. You were right. You were right about me. Tell your sister; you were right."
Before Anakin's eyes shut, he heard Luke's voice call after him: "Father. I won't leave you!"
Then, darkness. Voices from Anakin's past echoed all around him, all speaking over each other, all dissonant, jumbled. Just as the voices grew to overwhelm his senses, the darkness was gone, replaced by the bright open windows and tall ceiling of the Jedi Council chamber. The city of Coruscant lay outside, empty. No traffic, no fumes, just silence. An orange sunset cast long shadows over the polished stone floor, almost-completely hiding the figures that sat in the council chairs.
Only three were there, all from Anakin's distant past, almost forgotten. The stoic Master Yoda on the left, quietly contemplating Anakin's confused expression. Master Qui-Gon on the right, trying to hide his joy at seeing the young apprentice. Finally, an old man, stern and solemn, sat in the middle, an eyebrow raised.
"Kenobi?" Was all Anakin could think to say, to which the hidden figure replied, "Hello there, Anakin."
5 ABY. One year later.
Vader awoke, far from the Death Star, far from his son. The bacta surrounding him slithered its way into every scar, every burn, refueling his body. He hated the tank. Too much time alone with his own thoughts. Too much to think about after everything that had happened. Almost a year since the Emperor's death. Almost a year of meditation, and still, silence from the ghosts of his former masters. The only voices clear to him were those of his victims, closing in, screaming for mercy, begging for just one act of kindness. Even now, wide awake, the voices never silenced.
He envied machines. A damaged life support system could be fixed, given the right tools. A broken display could be repaired, gears replaced, circuits reset. For those of the flesh, the same could not be said. Even after a year, scars remained from where Palpatine had unleashed his power across Vader's skin. Just another scar, another memory forever bound to his bones.
For years, pain had been his only fuel, and anger, his only connection to the force. Grief, it was said, stunted a sith's powers, and so all grief had to be set aside. For so long, his anger, his fuel, was against the Jedi, against himself, and to all those implicit in Padme's death. That piece of his anger remained, like a tickle in the back of his throat that could not be cleared, but now, an even greater rage fueled him. How easily his mind had been twisted into darkness, how quickly the Emperor had turned him into a tool of his own making. It made him shudder to think how weak his mind had been, and how weak it may still be. The Emperor was dead, but this did not satiate Vader's hatred.
The ghosts of his masters had brought him back to give him a chance at redemption, but after a year of meditation, a year of hiding within his ruined fortress on Mustafar, no great plan unfolded before him. No obvious signs revealed the way forward. For the first time in his whole life, there was no one to push him forward, no one drawing lines across the maps, no great plan to pursue. He was unbound from the machinations of any master, slave to no one, except now, without slavery to guide him, he was lost.
His suit awaited him, unpolished, scratched, unkempt. Unpolished so that he might never see the reflection of his face. Scratched, so that he may always remember the damage he had done. Unkempt, because he didn't care to clean it. The cape was muddy and torn. Blast marks peppered his chest armor and shoulder pads. A year of trying to do better, of going into the galaxy and doing whatever small acts of good he could think of, without drawing too much attention. He had rescued the odd person from small criminal acts, but these paltry deeds never seemed enough to fill the empty pit of stained memories and poisoned acts. Of course they wouldn't. How could anything replace so much evil? What redemption was there to be found here?
The helmet sealed around his lungs, filling him with artificial air. The breathing apparatus rose and fell, just another thing to be enslaved by. His scarred body ground against the suit. Pain fueled his anger. It was all he knew, even then.
"Why am I here?" He asked, speaking to anyone who was listening. "What would you have me do? I am trying, but to what end? I do not know where to start. Help me find my way."
Silence. Magma bubbled in the distance. Smoke obscured the horizon.
Angered, Vader asked again, "You bring me back just to suffer? Is that not the one thing you warned me against? Guide me as you once did. Guide me. At least have the courtesy to tell me why you are silent!"
Nothing again. Enraged, Vader shouted to the heavens for answers. Only silence. Despair clinging tight, Vader fell into his old throne, with only his gasping life support for company. It was then that a small hologram materialized from his armrest, with a notification: his ship had refueled, and was ready to depart.
His armory was empty. His lightsaber was lost on the Death Star. He wouldn't want it anyway. Could he bear to wield it after he had killed so many? The red of its blade, made red by blood, offended him. The thought of making a new lightsaber, to pretend as though he had earned another blue blade, made him sick. I would not wield a lightsaber for some time, I should think. He thought to himself. Maybe never again. No longer a Sith, no longer a Jedi. His weapons would be those of the force, and only the force, raw, uncaring, powerful.
"If you will not help me," He spoke, unsure if anyone was even listening, "Then I shall do it alone, and I shall do more good for this galaxy than the Jedi ever could. I shall undo everything the Sith had done. If you can hear me, I shall meet you on Nal Hutta. Those slugs have been a plague in this galaxy for far too long."