Unconsciousness had never felt like death before.

Even in his deepest, most silent sleep, Luke still dreamt. He didn't have to remember them to know that he dreamt. Sleep was a vital part of the human condition, a time of relaxation and repairs for the brain. Whenever you woke up well-rested, you knew it was because things had been moving around, acting, working underneath the surface. Dreams were one such thing, but even without them, Luke always woke with the feeling that being asleep meant being alive.

Work had gone on underneath the surface, by the time he next woke. It would be the last time. Because when he pried his eyes open to stare at a barren grey ceiling, he did not feel groggy. He did not swallow to wet his dry throat, or wipe sleep from his eyes, or stretch stiff muscles. There was no need. It felt like his consciousness had simply switched off for some time, and now he had switched it on again. The change had happened sometime while he was unconscious, and now… This was it. For the rest of his life.

If life was what he could call it.

Before that could gather like stones in his stomach, he sat up, to take in what this new reality was.

The room he was in was larger than any of the cabins he'd seen on the seventh floor—and those were meant to be luxury cabins. This room was large enough as to be obscene on a ship with a double bed covered in blue sheets, prettily embroidered with celestial patterns. The floor had a large rug across its middle, which was bizarre to him; that too was an innocent, unassuming dark blue. The more he looked around at such a neat, homely room, he grew convinced that he couldn't be on the ship anymore. It was still nondescript to an extent, with few actual recognisable personal touches, but as a hotel room it seemed far too… warm… to be a cabin on a ferry. And yet they were definitely still in hyperspace: when he shifted, light flashing in the corner of his eye, he saw that the head of the bed was pressed against a transparisteel viewport, and he could see the galaxy whirling by.

His hands twisted on the sheets.

Basic emotions like fear and anxiety brewed in him, but it took abnormally long to recognise them. His heart didn't race, nor did his breathing quicken, or his skin grow slick with sweat. Once he realised that he was in fact feeling afraid, this realisation was so rapidly replaced by mingled fascination and horror as he stared at his hands—pale, veiny, but bone dry—then placed one palm over his chest. There was nothing but silence beneath.

His limbs were simultaneously lighter and heavier than anything he'd known before. They were heavier because the effort to move them surprised him; it took a force of will, an animation of the blood curse that bound his body together, to get them to do anything at all. But when he pushed back the covers and swung his legs to the floor, everything was lighter. No. He was stronger.

He was, himself, a vampire.

Again, the panic that swept over him was delayed, heralded not by its usual physical symptoms but only a vague awareness of mental distress. He swallowed, but there was nothing to swallow. There was no saliva in his mouth.

His hands were on his knees. His feet touched the part of the floor not covered by the rug, bare and exposed, but they didn't feel cold. In fact, he didn't feel cold at all. He should. Space was a frigid place, especially when you were alone.

Out of curiosity, he picked at what he was wearing. Soft shorts, good for sleeping in. A rumpled shirt—slightly too big for him, and less good for sleeping in. It looked to be sized for his father. Luke's last memory of consciousness was of him kneeling in blood, falling into blood, his clothes slashed apart by his father's claws. His back didn't so much as ache, despite the damage those claws had done to him.

Had his parents changed his clothes while he lay there, dead? Who had—his father, who had done it for him when he was a child, or his mother, who hardly knew him at all?

Luke had even never known his father to wear a shirt this nice. But he did know that his mother cared a great deal about fashion. And it was her word that ruled, now.

He let his hand drop, rejoining his other hand, still resting on his knees. He stared at them both—flexed them, then unconsciously his grip tightened further. They looked so different, but he couldn't pinpoint why. He wondered if ever would.

The door slid open.

He jumped—pain sparked in the flesh around his knees, and he hissed. When he looked down, he almost jumped again. His hands were arched, contorted around his knees like gnarled, twisted tree roots. White claws, two-inches long, had shot out from under his fingernails like swords from their sheaths. They were buried in his skin.

Before his eyes, blood welled up to dribble down his leg.

The smell… affected him. His eyes watered; suddenly, his mouth was all the drier. He yanked his head away, so he wasn't looking at it, and dragged his hands back. His claws were tipped in blood, and he stared at them, panicked. They were handsome things, sleek and shiny, but the wrongness of seeing them protrude from his skin made his stomach turn.

And turn it did. It gurgled suddenly, loudly, and Luke wiped his claws on the soft fabric of the shorts. When he looked down at his knees again, his skin was white, unbroken. It looked like it had never been pierced at all.

"Adjusting well?" Padmé asked.

Luke looked up. Of course it was her that had come in. She'd changed her dress again—this time, she wore white from head to toe, with neat blue buttons, light blue and ivory patterning at the shoulders and down her back, and dark blue pumps that almost blended into the rug she was standing on. All that white seemed risky, considering she was carrying a dainty wineglass in her hand, and it was filled with a dark, viscous liquid.

That she was still standing several metres away, but Luke could smell that glass as vividly as if it were a feast he was about to inhale, demonstrated to Luke exactly how sensitive his senses had become.

He stared at it, for a moment. His stomach gurgled again. But he shook his head, tore his gaze away from it, to look at her. Her eyes were brown, warm, innocent.

"What have you done to me?" he asked.

She took a few steps forwards and sat at the other end of the bed, about two metres away from him. The glass, she left on a table before she spilled it. She smiled at his hands. "I'm glad you're getting acquainted with your abilities."

"You—"

"You made your decision," she cut him off, warmly but firmly. He gaped at her. "I told you, Luke. It's a choice. You remember making your choice?"

Luke gritted his teeth. Pain lanced through his gums at the action, but he didn't heed it. He remembered, alright. He'd been weak. Looking back, he could see it clearly—the loneliness, the pressure of his parents being right there, the fear of killing his mother when he'd only just met her… He should have just done it. It would have solved so many problems.

Would he have the strength to do it now? He didn't think so. But it didn't change that he had made the wrong decision.

Padmé seemed to accept that he wasn't going to answer her. "I hope your sleep was productive."

"Productive? What does that mean?"

She smiled slightly. "That's when the majority of the transformation sets in. If you have your claws, I imagine it went well."

"It was horrible. It was like I was dead."

"You are dead, Luke."

"I didn't dream." He looked at her, eyes narrowed. "Do vampires dream?"

"When we know what we want to dream about." When her smile widened, it showed the tips of her fangs. It changed her whole face: from an attempt at warmth, she now communicated a subtle threat. "I dreamt about my family for many years. Even when I thought you were dead, the image of you all happy gave me strength."

Luke wanted to take a sharp breath at that, but his chest spasmed. He wondered if he even had lungs anymore, or if the curse had liquidated them inside him while he rested. "Why?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"This is horrible. I'm dead. My body can't feel, can't react. I'm cold… Why would you do this? If you wanted your family to be happy?"

"You'll understand," she assured him.

"Will I?" He barked a laugh. "When?"

"Now."

Luke blinked, and she was no longer at the other side of the bed—she was right next to him, in his face, her hand clasped around his throat. He could feel her claws digging into his skin—not piercing, but there as a reminder. Her face was inches from his, and her eyes blazed crimson.

They still had that mesmeric quality—the fascination of spilled blood. Even as he felt the pain, even as he knew that it was wrong, he couldn't look away.

"You want to be here," she murmured. The air that carried her words ghosted along Luke's cheeks, cold as ice. Her voice wasn't noticeably commanding, the way vampiric charms had been for Luke in the past. That was worse. Everything she said hummed through his veins; when there were no commands or charms to resist, the Force was useless to him, even as he fought to look away, to close his ears, to continue to think for himself… "You are my son. You will be a vital part of our dynasty when we overthrow the Emperor and can rule the galaxy ourselves." She winked. "But that part's a secret for now. Only your father and I know that—but I know you'll keep it quiet."

Luke's lips parted slightly in his struggle to get words out—something, anything in defiance. But what did he have to say? He couldn't deny that what she'd said made sense. If he didn't want to be here, he would have killed her when he had the lightsaber to her throat. And of course rebelling against the Empire would involve replacing it with something stronger and better. His mother was stronger and better. Even if their current allies didn't know about this yet, they would see this in time, too.

Her grip relaxed on his neck, her claws lifting from his skin. Instead, she cupped his cheek, not breaking eye contact with him.

"Vampires are superior to humans, or any other creature that might walk the galaxy." He had the chance, momentarily, to wonder who had instilled that into her—if this was part of the intense brainwashing she'd said Dooku had subjected her to, and if it had survived him even where her loyalty had not. But why would she not have come to that conclusion herself already? The ease with which his parents had hunted him down through the ship demonstrated their power, and now Luke was a part of those favoured ranks. "We do not worry about the deaths of lesser creatures. Feeding on them gives them purpose—we will live forever, and through us, a part of them will too. I don't want you having a crisis of conscience when you drain them dry. It is their honour to serve you, my son."

Luke's mouth opened further. His gums ached. The mention of food made his stomach flare up again—when had he last eaten? Had he ever eaten?—and his gaze drifted away from Padmé's to the glass she'd left on the little table next to the bed. He'd half risen before he felt her hand on his shoulder, pressing him down.

"Stop." That was a command, and he didn't have the chance to disobey or bat that one away. He heard her tut. "Apologies, Luke. I forget how intense the hunger can be for newborns who haven't fed yet. But I need you secure, Luke. I need to make sure you understand." Her voice sharpened. "Look at me!"

His gaze slid to hers and locked in, like a ship caught in a tractor beam.

Her grip on his shoulder relaxed. "We will teach you how to hunt," she promised. "It can be an art. But although we are not ordinary creatures, we must pretend to be lesser. That is what our gifts are geared towards. Pretending to be just like them, so they trust us."

It was how Padmé had caught Luke. How all of them had cornered him, isolated him, made him want to turn, to give up everything he was for them. It was a devastating tactic. It was awful to be on the receiving end of; it was evil to perform. He would be delighted to use it.

Padmé was so still, when she sized him up. They were all dead. That must make it easier, to do such awful things. You didn't have to feel it in your body; you just had to feel it in a rotting and silent heart. His heart was only newly dead, but he could already feel the connections it had made—to his mother, to his father, to his clan. There were only so many more it could form.

"I am your mother," Padmé said finally. The words brought her genuine delight to say: she beamed, and Luke beamed with her. "You will be with me and your father. You will serve our cause. You will fight for it using every weapon," she picked up his clawed hand and encased it in both of hers, "at your disposal. And you will believe in it for as long as you exist. Say you understand."

Her command came abruptly, breaking the spell she had on him. His thoughts crawled; something in him was stiff and painful. He frowned as he looked at her, squinting, trying to see her. Who was she? When had he met her? What did he think of her?

But the uncertainty didn't last long. Her words burrowed into him, leaving tunnels behind them. They gnawed at his mind until all that was left were the parts she approved of.

"I understand."

She hesitated. "Say that you love me."

"I love you, Mother."

She ducked her head, then peered down at his hand in hers. She brushed her finger down the inside of his middle finger, softly. "Relax here. That retracts them."

It wasn't a command—at least, Luke found that he could decide whether he wanted to do that or not—but he tried it anyway. His claws slid neatly under his fingernails, painless and swift.

Padmé stood. She lifted the wineglass and held it out to him, directly under his nose. "Do not touch this."

The smell flooded his senses. He made a choking sound, his fists constricting in front of him, as he stared at it. But he did not move to touch it.

Padmé lowered the glass, satisfied. "Welcome home, Luke," she said. "Your father and I are in the living room just outside this room, whenever you're ready."

Luke nodded and made to rise, but she shook her head and he paused.

"First, you have a visitor," she said. "We told him you were unconscious, but that he could see you when you woke." When she smiled, he saw all her teeth. "He's been so worried about you."

Luke was sitting on the bed for another few minutes before the door opened again. He snapped his head up—and his mouth dropped open.

"Biggs?"

Biggs hovered awkwardly in the doorway, before stepping forward so it could shut again behind him. He'd been cleaned up, just like everyone else had—no longer in his ragged, nondescript pilot outfit, he was wearing equally nondescript shirt and trousers that were noticeably smarter than what he'd worn before. It suited him, with his well-groomed moustache and combed hair. His shirt sleeves were turned up at the cuffs, exposing his wrists.

Luke's gaze, sliding down Biggs's outfit and taking it all in, arrested on the steady, twitching vein he could see in Biggs's wrist.

He didn't have the time to process the ravenous wave that swept over him. His eyes burned; he blinked until the sensation went away. By then, Biggs had sat on the bed next to him—not close enough for Luke to grab, but close. Intimate.

Biggs looked him up and down in return, before he laughed. "Luke," he said, his voice warm. "I'm so glad you're alright. Wedge said you were injured, but sleeping it off, that your mother was taking care of you—"

The genuine concern in Biggs's voice snapped Luke out of it. He looked away from Biggs's wrist and into his warm brown eyes.

Biggs broke himself off, flushing at Luke's gaze. Was he looking at him that intensely?

"I came as soon as she said you'd woken up," he finished. Slowly, he shifted closer to Luke. "Are you alright?"

Luke nodded. "Just tired," he said, trying for a smile.

"The vampires didn't get you?"

Luke's gaze slid past Biggs's irises to rest on his neck, then he forced it back. "I got bitten," he admitted. "But I'm fine now." He paused. "Just needed to… rest."

Biggs didn't seem to notice anything wrong with that. He smiled. "I'm glad you're alright. When I realised I was the only one coming through, I feared the worst. So many are dead." He frowned. He really was very attractive when he acted like a concerned, responsible citizen. "It was just me in the trash compactor, I couldn't comm you guys, and— Luke!"

A hunger pang shot through Luke. He bent over double with a gasp. In his mind's eye, he saw the wineglass his mother had brought him, and he felt something liquid—venom?—leak from his fangs in his mouth. When had he even unsheathed his fangs?

Biggs's hands were on his shoulders, holding him steady. They were warm in a way Luke would never be again. It was a warmth Luke wanted for himself. He stayed bent over like that for several long moments, letting Biggs steady his warm hands on his back, feeling it seep through his skin.

His mother had shown him how to retract his claws. Relax. He relaxed into Biggs's hands, and his fangs slipped back into the gums of his mouth, leaving slight cuts behind them. The tantalising taste of blood touched his tongue. He ran his tongue along his teeth—along the hole where his fangs had vanished.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," he grunted. He was not fine. That hunger pang had folded itself into every fibre of his being. It wasn't just his stomach that felt like it was being rent apart.

Newborns were so hungry, his mother had said. He was. His hunger felt like an existential threat to this frail, powerful new body of his. Dooku had given her a whole battalion to feast on, she'd said. She hadn't even given him her wineglass.

He sat up abruptly, so Biggs's hand fell from his shoulder. "What happened to you?" he asked. "We couldn't contact you—we were worried…"

Biggs still looked concerned, but he allowed the change of subject. "I got out of the trash compactor pretty quickly. The door had opened at the same time that Artoo opened the chute for us—he probably thought ahead for that—and I obviously didn't want to dawdle in the trash. I got out as quickly as possible. The door slammed shut behind me as soon as I was out, and I thought I heard another door shut as well."

Luke nodded. "The garbage chute."

"Did Artoo close it?"

"The vampires wanted to make sure no one else escaped," Luke said.

Biggs shuddered. "So they were onto us the whole time. I figured as much. I ran to find the first authority figure I could. It was a stormtrooper." He pulled a face. "Obviously I didn't want to talk to him, but I'd scanned for any other officials, and he was the only one I could find. He threw me in the brig for 'suspicious behaviour'." Biggs rolled his eyes.

Luke stifled a laugh. "What were you doing that was suspicious?"

"I was covered in garbage. And I smelled terrible—I should know, I was in that brig for hours without a shower. I'd clearly been in the trash compactor, and he thought that was odd. Didn't much care why I'd been in there."

Luke moved his hand to Biggs's to squeeze it, ostensibly in comfort. He could feel his warm pulse against the cold skin of his palm.

Biggs took his hand gladly, then glanced down. "Stars, Luke, you're so cold. Are you alright?"

"Fever, I think," Luke lied. "Still feeling a little off. How did you get out of the brig?"

Biggs accepted the change of subject, after a moment. He was still looking down at their entwined hands, frowning—then he glanced back up at Luke. When he met Luke's reassuring, inquisitive gaze, his shoulders relaxed, and he answered.

He laughed a little. "Just before I spoke to the stormtrooper, I'd seen him talking to one of the maids. Maybe one you'd seen before? I don't know. She came to me in the brig later and led me out, saying she'd seen what the stormtrooper had done, overheard what I'd said, and gone to speak to the owner of the ship. The owner had taken pity onto me and looked into the issue. That was a few hours ago now." Biggs looked around the room. "This is a really nice room. I guess the owner of the ship was really apologetic about what happened, huh?"

Luke smiled. "Something like that."

"What happened to the vampires?"

"It was a fight." Luke's free hand drifted up to brush his neck. It didn't hurt. It should hurt, still, for what it had done to him. He stared into Biggs's eyes still, but past them, through them. Biggs was but a human body in front of him, a flesh wall between him and all that had happened.

His gaze snapped back into focus. "But everything is settled now." His smile widened, out of creepiness and into affection. Biggs had been so good, throughout all of this. Patient, and kind, and so supportive where Luke had hesitated or been unsure. The fact he'd volunteered to go first down the garbage chute was evidence of that. He squeezed Biggs's hand again. "We're both fine. We're here now."

Something had come into his voice. Something deeper, sultrier. Biggs's heartbeat was fierce against his palm. His mouth was very dry. He needed something to wet it.

"Yeah." Biggs licked his lips, looking at Luke nervously. "We are." Then—"Are you sure you're alright?"

Slowly, Luke nodded.

That nod was all Biggs needed to lean forward and kiss him.

His lips were hot and welcome against Luke's. Luke kissed back immediately, his free hand coming up to rest on Biggs's neck. Right over his fluttering pulse. Its speed had been steadily climbing, and now it jackhammered along with enthusiasm, with lust, with desire. Biggs pressed his soft, warm body against Luke's, and Luke only drew him nearer.

"I'm glad you're alright," Biggs murmured against his lips. "I was afraid. I—" He gasped when Luke moved from his lips to his neck, pressing cold kisses there like stars dying in the depths of space. His last words came out breathy. "I'm so glad you're alright."

Luke's lips found the thrumming pulse at Biggs's neck. He lingered there a moment, making Biggs gasp. Then his fangs dropped out of his mouth and plunged into his skin.

Biggs cried out in shock and pain. His hands contorted on Luke, but Luke's hands tightened on him in return. He couldn't move, Luke's head still bent to his neck like he was in penitence. Blood poured out of Biggs and into Luke's fangs, Luke's mouth, Luke's veins.

Luke had to resist the urge to tilt his head back in bliss. As it was, his head lolled slightly, but his fangs in Biggs's neck grounded him, tethering him to heaven. His stomach roared triumphantly; the taste was exquisite. Every drop hit his tongue like water after hours out underneath Etesun's blindingly hot summers.

The edge of his hunger dulled, he unlatched his fangs from Biggs's neck and kissed him on the mouth again. Biggs flinched at the taste of his own blood, but something had kicked in while Luke had been feeding. His gaze was hazy; he looked at Luke with pleasure, with adoration, with excitement, even as his blood sat bitter and heavy on his tongue.

"What…?" Biggs tried to say past the rush of hormones through his brain. He met Luke's gaze, his features going slack as he stared into his yellowed eyes. "You're a…"

"Quiet." Luke kissed him to close his mouth; Biggs obeyed and leaned into Luke's action. He was so malleable. It was so easy to feed. Biggs was smart, and brave, and handsome, and he would do whatever Luke wanted.

Biggs was human. Humans were mere food sources; they were there for his convenience, his use. Pulling back, Luke caressed the side of Biggs's jaw to study his face. Biggs's gaze was distant, but it was drawn back to Luke's inexorably, like he couldn't let him out of his sight.

Biggs was human, but that still meant he was there for Luke's convenience. He could keep him. For this, for so much more, and because he was amazing, and could only help in their battle against the Empire so long as Luke kept him under control…

"What are we doing?" Biggs murmured. So quietly that he wasn't technically disobeying Luke's command to be quiet. "What— what are you doing? What do you want?"

"The same thing as before," Luke responded, equally quietly. "You. Can I have it?"

Biggs caught his eye, focusing on him. His mouth went slack, but he nodded. Luke kissed him again—and his stomach growled. It was so intense it pained him.

That appetiser wasn't enough.

And Biggs was his. He was beautiful underneath him, and loyal, and brilliant. But he was Luke's—and Luke's to do as he pleased with. That was what being a vampire meant. Luke wanted this, and he wanted to use this human up, drink him dry, as they were meant for.

Luke planted his fangs back in Biggs's neck and started sucking again. The taste of blood confirmed his thoughts.

This was what he was meant for. This was what Biggs was meant for. This was where all of this had been going.

"Luke?" Biggs got out. He was getting weaker, now. Did feeding hurt him? Luke didn't care enough to entertain the thought. "Luke, stop—"

Biggs tried to pull away. Luke's claws sprang out, digging into skin, fat, muscle; Biggs shrieked. But he didn't move. He couldn't.

"No," Luke breathed into his skin. "Stay."

Biggs couldn't move. He stayed, until the bitter end.

Luke was still so hungry. His hunger was a beast inside him, curled up in his torso, claws and teeth sunk into his limbs, his muscles, his throat. But Biggs's life was enough to dent it, if not dissolve it. He staggered out of the bedroom he was in, leaving Biggs's corpse on the bed. It wouldn't stain the cover too badly; Luke hadn't left any blood behind.

Just outside was a larger room, an open space, with sofas and low tables, comfortable rugs, and various doors leading elsewhere. Luke, his brain moving slightly faster now he had blood in him, but still not at top speed, peered around. He presumed he was in a set of suites. His was a bedroom; those other doors must be other bedrooms, or refreshers, or side rooms. This was the living room.

Nor was it empty. Seated around the sofa, conversing softly, were both his parents. Padmé still had her wineglass next to her, though it was half finished. She sat facing Luke's door, with her back to what seemed to be the main exit door. Anakin, meanwhile, was sat opposite her, with his back to Luke. But as soon as they both heard the door to Luke's room open, Padmé glanced up, and Anakin turned to face him.

His father smiled at him, not bothering to hide his fangs. Luke stared at him, fear seizing his gut—then it faded, uninterrogated. That was his father. He wanted to be here, with him. "Luke. You're up."

"Come here, sweetheart," Padmé called. Luke turned to her and joined them on the sofa, sitting next to his mother. Anakin looked at him intently, a small, proud smile still on his lips. Luke was hesitant to meet his gaze. Instead, he turned to view the other person in the conversation.

Senator Mothma was sat just on his father's left, directly opposite Padmé, and, if Luke had interpreted the voices he heard correctly, had been in close conversation in her while his father sat by and watched. She studied Luke, before inclining her head.

"Sir," she said.

Luke nodded back, unsure.

Padmé squeezed his hand. "I'm glad you're up. Your father and I were just catching up with Mon properly—it's been a long time—and discussing plans for the Alliance, from now on."

"We will certainly support you in your bid against Palpatine," Mothma said.

"And my bid to replace him."

"Of course, my lady."

Padmé smiled. "You always were loyal, Mon. And you're sure that the wider Alliance will follow you?"

"Establishing the Alliance in the first place has been difficult," Mothma admitted. "There is much infighting, and differences of opinion."

"You have the ability to overrule such differences, now." Padmé's tone carried a warning.

Mothma nodded. "Yes. I simply bring it up so that we anticipate the resistance we will have to use them against. But it should be no match for me. Not now." She smoothed down the white folds of her dress. Luke wondered, distantly, how many white dresses she had gone through, this trip. If newborns were hungry—as hungry as him—where had Mothma fed?

"I have my own agents inside the Empire itself, as well," Padmé said. "The war will be no trouble." Her hand fisted in her lap. "I cannot wait to have Palpatine in my grasp."

"We will do everything we can to deliver him to you," Anakin and Mothma both said at once, then glanced at each other.

Padmé nodded, gratified. "After, we'll all be free. Free to walk the galaxy. Free to use our powers. Even Jedi powers." She lifted Luke's hand slightly. "You and your father won't be criminals anymore. In this new reality, you'll be royalty."

Everyone sat in a reverent silence.

Padmé stood, still holding Luke's hand so that he stood with her. "You finished the meal I sent you?" she asked, slipping her arm around his waist and walking away from the sofa. Mothma clearly took this as a signal to leave, as she silently rose and made herself scarce. Luke hardly noticed. He was looking at his mother.

"I did," he said.

"You were tempted to keep him, weren't you?" At Luke's silence, she laughed. "You made the right decision. I understand the temptation, but he would have only made trouble for all of us. There will be more humans. There always are. It is useless, attempting to value others more than their actual worth."

"You and Father went to such lengths to keep me," Luke said.

"Your worth is incalculable, Luke." She kissed his cheek. "I can replace any lieutenant. But I cannot replace my son. I imagine you are still hungry."

Luke nodded. He didn't know how to describe it, but he supposed he didn't need to. She'd turned so many people, by now. She knew what to do.

"Good. There are several other decks of people, on this ship." She turned her head and called across the room. "Artoo—you're ready to shut off Deck 3 if people attempt to flee, aren't you?" To Luke, she confided, "Deck 3 is where the club is. No one will notice you there. An excellent place to learn to hunt."

But Luke's attention had arrested on Artoo. He looked no worse for wear, only a little scuffed up, from their last adventure, sitting on a charging port next to the door. At Padmé's call, he detached from the port and rolled over, twittering his affirmative. Apparently, the club was about to reach capacity, so the hunting ground would be especially dense with game.

"Artoo," he said. He knelt beside him when Artoo came to a stop in front of them, his mother's arm slipping from around his waist. His hand hovered above Artoo's dome. "You… I…"

Artoo did not flinch back from Luke, despite the attack he'd laid upon him. His mechanical arm came up to clasp Luke's wrist. He asked if Luke had come to his senses about his family.

"What?"

Artoo, with a sigh, asked Padmé if Luke had been suitably reprogrammed, to remove the morality bugs that had corrupted his operating systems before.

Padmé laughed, laying a hand on Luke's shoulder. It felt possessive—but that thought melted away in his mind, like blood in his mouth. "He has," she confirmed, triumph in her voice. "Your help was immeasurable, Artoo."

Luke should apologise to Artoo, for shooting him. The words came to his lips, but they shrivelled and fell back to die on his tongue. He stared at Artoo so long and hard, his mouth hung open, he could see the glint of his own white teeth in Artoo's polished optical sensor.

He should apologise.

But something in him wouldn't let him. His body still knew the phantom feeling of betrayal—the curdling in his stomach, the shaking of his limbs, the closed throat and the puffy eyes—even if his memory could no longer tell him why he'd felt betrayed.

His mother was looking at him, now. And he still felt something there—he loved her, deeply and truly, with enough affection to drown the stars.

"Luke?" Padmé asked, expectantly.

He wondered why, beneath the warm blood in his veins, beneath all his love and joy and excitement, fear and sadness still permeated his bones.

"Yes," Luke said at last. "Thank you, Artoo. For showing me that before, I was alone."

Despite growing up surrounded by love, and coming to a ship with his oldest and most devoted caretaker, he had been alone until his mother had turned him.

Why had he been alone?

Padmé smiled. Artoo chirped a hesitant acceptance of Luke's thanks, before rolling away under the weight of Luke's reproachful stare. It was like he couldn't look Luke in the eye after all.

Luke stood again. His limbs weren't shaking. That was what humans did. That was what Biggs, lying unmoving in the bed back in the bedroom, had done just before he died.

"Anakin," Padmé said. Luke turned to see his father hovering just behind him. His yellow eyes were fixed on Luke. "Go with Luke. Teach him how to hunt. It's a valuable skill—one you picked up quickly."

"Yes, Padmé."

Padmé floated away, taking her seat at the sofa again and picking up a datapad, but Anakin stayed hovering—just far enough from Luke that it was awkward. He didn't fidget. Luke had noticed that before: he didn't fidget, anymore. But still, he radiated nervousness. That cool confidence he'd tormented Luke with, in his attempts to convince Luke to make the right choice, was gone.

"Are you alright?" Anakin asked him.

Luke frowned. "I'm hungry."

"You want to be here?" Anakin said. Behind him, Padmé lifted her head, clearly listening.

"Of course I want to be here, Father," he said. Where else could he go? This was the only place to be—with his parents, fighting the Empire, expanding the rule of vampires. It was the worthiest adventure he'd ever undertaken. Humans were inferior. Luke would be a fool to miss being inferior. Weak.

Anywhere else, he was alone.

The cause of the vampires was a worthy one, and Luke would dedicate the rest of his existence to making sure his family came out on top. To make sure they won. But it didn't feel like a dream, or an adventure. Not the sort that he used to have on Etesun.

He had been alone because it was a dream that his parents had chosen to leave him for. He'd had limited choice in following them.

Padmé had relaxed and gone back to reading her datapad. Anakin glanced over at her, then stepped forward to put a hand on Luke's shoulder.

"The hunt should be easy," he said. "We are stronger than any humanoid. We are more powerful than any fighter they might throw against us. And the humanoids downstairs are weak, distracted, and also indulging in pleasures. Although they are prey, they do not expect to be hunted."

Luke nodded. "No one expects to be hunted."

Anakin paused. Something fluttered over his face, but he continued: "Nonetheless, you are only beginning to learn how to use your powers. I do not want you hurt. So you will follow my instructions without question, for your own safety. Agreed?"

"What can they do against us?" Luke asked. "What could any human, especially on their own, do when being hunted by a vampire?"

Anakin looked even more uncomfortable. "Promise me you will obey, Luke."

"Of course I will."

"Promise me."

Somehow, the command was even more powerful coming from his direct sire than it had been coming from Padmé. It didn't slip past his defences; it had no need to. It barrelled through his thoughts, his mind, his veins. The words imprinted themselves into every fibre of his being. His father's eyes blazed crimson—then they returned to yellow, and then almost to blue, when he saw Luke stiffen, his face going blank.

"I promise, Father."

Anakin tilted his head. "Are you sure you're alright, my son? You seem…" He didn't have the words to describe it. He didn't have the words for what he'd done. "Different."

"I'm hungry," was all Luke could say. There was nothing else wrong with him, nothing else amiss. He was not injured. He was not in pain. Not in any way he had the ability to articulate, anymore.

Anakin's face didn't lose its concerned look, but it softened. "Come with me," he said. "I will teach you how to live like this."

With a hand on Luke's back, he made to lead him out the door, down the corridor, and into the future. But a call from Padmé made him pause.

"Wait, Anakin. Luke."

Both of them paused and turned as one. Her eyes were still on her datapad, red with her excitement, but she lifted them to meet their gazes. A grin consumed half her face, bearing all her teeth.

"You know that I own the ferry," she said. Luke wasn't sure that he had, but it made sense. "I received a notification about a ticket bought for the night ferry that will leave the dark side of Etesun two weeks from now."

She turned the datapad around, so they could read the name in bold print that scrolled along its screen. Leia Skywalker. Third-class ticket.

"Train him well, Anakin, and train him swiftly," she said. "We have little time to prepare—and this time, we won't take so many chances. It will be a quicker, cleaner affair."

She looked between them both. "Finally, our family will be together," she said.

Luke wasn't sure whose joy it was in his chest, but it did not feel like his.

Etesun's primary spaceport was a rancid place, full of bustling bodies and cramped spaces. Leia and Threepio forced their way through it. Leia hadn't packed much, just a backpack for the trip, and every blaster she could get her hands on. Various mythology textbooks, as well—both physical, flimsi ones, and digital ones downloaded to her datapad. After Luke's message, she couldn't be too careful.

Her heart seized at the thought of it. Luke had looked so miserable—so afraid. She knew he was still alive, in that tiny, beating corner of her heart that she shared with him. She would know if he was dead. But a darkness had long since descended over their bond, and she wasn't sure if that meant what she thought it did. It might just be the stench of his fear—of the mortal peril he'd placed himself into, alone.

"Night ferry to Corellia," she muttered to herself, scanning the boards. "Bay 127."

Luke wasn't alone, anymore. She was coming for him.

Even if she didn't know what she might find, she was coming for him.

"Mistress Leia," Threepio asked petulantly, "that backpack does look rather heavy. Are you sure you need all of that? You left some rather nice dresses and clothes at home in order to accommodate such equipment—"

"I hope I won't need it, Threepio," she said. "I hope Luke succeeded. At whatever plan he put together."

Leia had no idea what she might find. But between her father's message—which was apparently a lie—and Luke's, she had made some guesses.

She had lost her father to the darkness. She had probably, from what Luke had said, lost her mother as well. The latter mattered less, callous though it sounded; Leia had never known her. And Leia had already pre-mourned her father when they received his message in the first place. Something Luke had mentioned said that Artoo might even have turned against him. Although Leia wasn't sure how that might work—he couldn't be turned into a vampire; he was a droid—she would bear it in mind. She was already allowing herself a healthy suspicion of Threepio himself, even if he seemed as kindly and harmless as ever.

The most important potential loss was Luke.

She didn't know what had happened to him. But did know that he was still out there—so she was going to find out.

The queue for her ferry was just up ahead. She moved to join it, taking deep breaths. The darkness of the spaceport seemed to envelope her, its floodlights blinding her to danger in a way that unnerved her.

Her backpack slapped against her back as she shifted in place. The clink of metal on metal in her bag made her tense, but no one questioned her. Good. She let herself relax minutely.

She would find her brother. And if she was too late… Well. She knew what Luke would have wanted. Even if the spare lightsaber she'd stolen from her father's weapons stash made her bag as heavy as a black hole, she knew what she might have to do. And she knew that she'd have the strength to do it.

Leia would rescue her brother, one way or another. Luke wasn't alone.

He never had been.

Thank you for reading!