Summary: Middlegame: The middle part of a chess game, after the opening and before the endgame. Often the most complex and important phase of the game. Where the fate of most games are decided.

A huge, HUGE shoutout to oleanderedits for being my beta this time around. When I sent this to her for assistance, I considered it pretty great. Unfinished in some parts, but great. But oleanderedits took this chapter and turned it from great, to what I consider masterful. She took my ideas and brought them to life in a way that I had only dared hope for. Friend, I can never thank you enough - but THANK YOU.

WARNING: This chapter deals with extreme medical torture. I DID NOT hold back on the details. I spared NOTHING. My goal was to be truthful - and to traumatize the absolute shit out of Luke. I believe that I accomplished that. Read at your own risk. It is later in the chapter but you will know when you get there.

Chapter 5: Middlegame

It was a strange thing to go from the near nothingness of sleep and then to suddenly be aware of a shift happening in his subconscious mind. Luke had the distant thought that it felt a little like stepping through a doorway and then he was immediately surrounded by a thick, cloying fog. The air around him was cold. Uninviting.

He held still for a long moment, to try and get his bearings in the strange place he'd found himself in. There was the fog around him, dancing and twisting in intricate little patterns, obscuring his view of anything more than a few feet in front of him… and then nothing. Nothing but darkness.

Luke barely had the chance to wonder why he was here before a picture suddenly appeared in front of his eyes, like the too-bright flash of a camera. There were lights on the ground, in a circular pattern… the symbol of the Imperial cog. In the center of the lights, was an empty metal… table of some sort. Luke blinked to try and see it more clearly and then the image changed; there was something on the table now.

It was… it was human?

It was twitching.

Luke had the thought that it couldn't possibly be human. It hardly resembled a man at all - but then… the… the thing on the table lifted what could only be a hand upwards. Light glinted off the outstretched limb and it wasn't flesh and bone at all - it was a black metal prosthetic. Suddenly the smell of burnt meat wafted in the air, making him feel sick to his stomach, as he realized that it was coming from the table. From the body. From the… the man that was on it.

Luke recoiled and immediately the image fractured like broken glass and disappeared.

His heart was pounding now and a terrible, horrible thought of what… no… who he had just seen came to his mind. It scared him. More than anything had before.

Luke swallowed thickly and when he looked down at the ground, he realized that he was standing on a dirt path with little pebbles and weeds sprouting upwards, just barely visible through the twisting, eerie fog.

…Luke knew this place.

He'd been here once before.

But this time, it wasn't just a dirt path with the choice of going forward or backwards… Luke spun in a slow circle, taking it in. Counting.

Four options.

A crossroads.

A choice.

The last time he'd been here… both paths would have been fine choices, despite the obvious difficulty of one over the other. But at the moment, there were no signs. No impressions from the Force. Nothing obvious to indicate which path was better or worse.

Why was he standing here?

Why now?

Hadn't Luke already made this choice, all those months ago on the red planet?

Why did he need to choose again? What had happened that caused this change? What had he done? What had -

Or… what was going to happen? To force him to choose once again?

A chill went down his spine as his thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of something else moving somewhere just out view. There was something awful in the darkness around him, Luke remembered, watching carefully for any sign of that terrible evil that wanted to put him on his knees. He could feel it and hear it even better now that it had made itself known - it sounded like the swish of cloth in a quiet room.

Whispers of a voice that had nothing but evil and lies to speak.

Sidious… the Sith Master, who was responsible for everything that had happened. Who wanted, more than anything, to stop Luke from achieving his goal. The goal which had set him on this path in the first place. Luke spun in another quick circle, looking for the light in the darkness that he had seen the last time this vision had visited him.

Where was it?

Was the darkness thicker this time, hiding it from view? Or had the light grown dimmer? What direction was he supposed to go?

Father! Where are you?

There was no answer to his desperate plea. Instead, his voice seemed to echo for a brief moment and then it disappeared, swallowed up by the void. As if it had never existed in the first place.

He couldn't feel or sense his father anywhere but Luke knew that he was out there somewhere.

He had to be.

Father!

The darkness smothered his voice before it could go anywhere and he thought he heard Sidious laughing at his effort.

…young fool… it is destiny…

Luke felt his lip curl. The Sith Master had nothing to offer but lies and pain and destruction. Luke wanted nothing from him.

For all of his immense power and proclivity for terrible evil and the plans that he knew Sidious had in store… Luke didn't fear him. Not like he had last time, when the darkness had tried to swarm him and destroy everything that made him who he was.

He wielded his power with a different kind of confidence now.

Luke planted his feet and squared his shoulders, glaring at darkness. I am a Jedi, he declared boldly.

Somewhere in the darkness, Sidious hissed in anger. Luke could feel his rage billowing a storm cloud in the dark fog around him.

I am a Jedi, Luke repeated without apology. I am the son of Anakin Skywalker. And someday soon, we are going to kill you.

The darkness seemed to grow darker around him, enraged by his words, and then there was a crack of blue lightning that shot across the sky and the distant sound of tinkling chains. The instant that the lightning disappeared, a shadowy, hooded figure appeared on the path in front of him, barely visible through the twisting fog. Sick, angry yellow eyes glared at him from inside the hood.

Slave, Sidious whispered. You will kneel at my feet and I will make you beg for death.

Luke curled his fingers into a fist, ready to fight, and was then surprised to find that he was holding a lightsaber. It hadn't been there just moments ago. He dared to take his eyes off his enemy for a moment and looked down instead. He immediately recognized the hilt of the weapon he was holding - it was the blue lightsaber that he had lost a few months ago.

Quick, flickering images of Owen and Beru, dead and rotting in the hot Tatooine sand, Darth Vader emerging from the cave on Dagobah, I am your father on Bespin, Yoda and his disapproval, Ben and his untimely murder on the Death Star - so many moments of his life that had defined him passed wildly in front of his eyes in what felt like the span of a mere second or two.

Anger.

That was the dominant feeling for each of those moments.

Anger and grief.

Luke looked back up at Sidious. The Sith Master was waiting for him to strike… almost daring him to act.

You are too easily provoked to anger, his father's words of warning from just yesterday whispered in his mind. A hypocritical sentiment from an angry, fallen man. But then… who else was better qualified to warn Luke of the dangers of anger then someone who knew the emotion?

Vader had made mistakes but he had his own unique wisdom now for having made them in the first place.

Luke would trust his words on the matter.

Anger wasn't the answer.

It never had been.

Sidious, his presence here now, was just a distraction from what was important. If Luke looked past him, he could see the four different paths being presented before him, waiting silently for him to choose which one he was going to take.

Luke knew that he had made mistakes with the vision that he had experienced in the cave on Dagobah. He hadn't listened or understood what Yoda had vaguely attempted to teach him. Luke had only reacted and his anger and desire for vengeance had destroyed him.

Powerful is the one who cannot be provoked to anger.

Master Yoda might have been disappointed with him at the time and the whole experience had felt like one big failure… but it didn't define him now. Luke could be different. He could change. He would do better.

There was something more important than fighting.

With all the focus and control he could muster, Luke let go of his lightsaber and it disappeared in the twisting fog before it ever hit the ground. Sidious disappeared as well, though Luke could still hear him whispering in the shadows. It was hatred and evil and promises of pain that Luke understood that he would one day know in the swiftly coming future.

The darkness was billowing and furious in the background, promising to attack him the moment that he made his choice.

Luke ignored it all, closed his eyes, and listened instead.

It took him a few long seconds to tune out everything that seemed determined to try and distract him. There was… there was a different sound out there. It was faint… and strange. It seemed out of place here. It sounded like… tools? The whirring and clinking of metal on metal.

And… intermingled with the tools… it sounded like a scream. Not of metal on metal, but of someone crying out in agony.

The sound of it sent another chill up his spine. Luke hesitantly reached out into the Force to try and find his father again and this time, he was immediately met with a sense of suffering that was so powerful it stole the breath from his lungs and nearly knocked him to his knees.

It was fire and burning and emotional, mental agony that went so far and deep, it was worse than any physical wound that Luke had ever known. It felt like drowning in a pool of pitch black darkness, a place so deep in despair and so desperately lonely that it seemed impossible to ever escape. It was guilt and self-hatred, misery and doomed resignation, and a terrible, terrible feeling of 'I deserve this.'

Luke opened his eyes, heart pounding and breath short.

The intense pain remained fixed in his mind and there were no words in any language that Luke knew of that could describe the level of torment and torture that he was now a part of. And if there were words… he didn't want to know them.

The paths.

He still had to pick one.

Luke forced himself to focus and approached them, one by one, trying to determine the correct path, the way he was supposed to go.

Two of them felt marginally safer and more comfortable. The pain in his mind eased the closer he was to them. It was a soothing balm, like cold water on a hot day and he automatically hoped that one of them would be his final choice, if just to ease the agony a little. There were differences in both of them as well, but he had the thought that he wouldn't know what those differences were unless he walked them himself.

Reluctantly, Luke turned towards the direction of the paths that were darker. The fog seemed thicker and more ominous, obscuring everything from view except what was immediately in front of him.

They were harder. The end goal of each path more difficult to achieve. There was no soft, warm light in the distance this time to tell him if it was worth pursuing. And something… something inside of him desperately wanted to turn around and not find out what laid beyond the trailheads. Even still, Luke stepped a little closer to both of them, rocks crunching quietly under his feet.

There was… screaming… coming from one of the paths, Luke realized. The tormented cries of agony that he knew, deep in his soul, were coming from his father. There were others, as well. Different, faint echoing screams of what seemed like thousands.

Luke could guess but he didn't know for certain why the sound of others screaming and crying was important.

His hands were shaking as he turned to the fourth and final path. It was much quieter than the other one but… also eerier, somehow. Colder. Less alive. It felt… a little more hateful. Full of resentment and bitterness. It… it was the path that Sidious was hiding in, he realized. The Sith Master was simply obscured by the twisting fog.

The feelings of anger and bitterness on that path belonged to Luke. He was certain of it. And… the longer that he looked, the more he realized that there was a fierce justification intertwined with the anger and resentfulness that he felt.

…he had a right to be angry. Furious, even. There was no forgiveness for the wrongs that had been committed. No mercy for the mistakes that had been made!

…

Luke stepped backwards, startled as those thoughts tried to take root in his mind. Insidious little seeds attempting to secure a place from which they could grow, twisting around his emotions, feeding his anger, his hate. Weeds that would choke out his joy, his happiness, his love.

His heart was still pounding as his father's tormented cries from the other path became nigh unbearable.

…Padmé, help me!…

It… it sounded like his father was being torn apart and cruelly put back together and at the same time the echoing screams of the other people began to sound younger and younger, until the sounds could be mistaken for that of children. …he hoped it was mistaken.

It made Luke want to cry. Not just cry, but sob ugly tears of grief and pain. Only a wretched monster could cause those terrible sounds to come from the smallest and most vulnerable. He didn't want to know what had happened to them. Why they were so loud within the echoes of his father's pain. He couldn't face that. Not right now. Not with everything else.

Instead, Luke dared to glance backwards at the lighter paths; the pain he was experiencing eased instantly once again, the screams quieting… and it was Leia and other friends of his from the Rebellion which came to mind.

It would be easier.

It would be.

But….

The warm, distant light that had guided his previous choice wasn't to be found on either of those paths.

Darth Vader or Anakin Skywalker… his father simply didn't exist in the future of those choices.

Luke thought of Leia. Of Han and Wedge. Yoda and Ben…. All those people that he loved and admired and who had helped him when he had needed their help. Even if there had been other motives involved with their decision to do so, they had helped him because they cared. Even when it hurt them.

I'm sorry, he whispered his sorrow to those that would never, could never, hear his apology. Could not…would not want to understand. I can't. I can't leave him. He needs me.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a gust of wind seemed to blow past him, stirring the fog, curling it almost mournfully, until those two paths disappeared entirely.

With their absence, the pain he was experiencing grew until it was nigh intolerable and the screaming from the one path became louder and louder and more miserable and tortured until Luke had the desperate thought that he hoped whoever was making that awful sound would die just so they could be spared any further agony.

The haunting sound of jingling chains seemed to mock him from Sidious' path. He backed away from it, moving closer to the one full of pain and screaming. To the only other path left.

The path that his father was on.

Somewhere, hidden by nightmares and pain, Anakin Skywalker was waiting.

…Luke, help me!…

The sudden sound of his name being added to the horrific cries of agony had him taking off at a dead sprint. He couldn't see anything ahead of him and just like last time, the darkness immediately began to rush him, trying to force itself down his throat and his mouth and consume everything that he was. Luke kept running, refusing to fall down to his knees this time - instead, he tried to ward it back by bringing up every good memory and feeling that he'd ever had, from the time that he was a child to the present time.

It worked - for now, Luke thought wildly. But he knew that if he stopped or got distracted, it would come rushing back and it would be even harder to resist or overcome.

He didn't know where he was running or what he would have to endure in order to get there… all Luke really knew was that his father's painful cries echoed around him the entire time.

03:15 Hours

Nelona 24th,Galactic Standard Time

SSD Executor, Conference Room #2381

Firmus walked with calm purpose down a long corridor. It was early in the morning and a little over two hours before shift change. He was dressed in his military Class A-1 uniform, which he only had reason to wear in a very limited and select number of circumstances. It had been laundered and pressed so that there wasn't a single wrinkle to be found and the buttons had all been polished to perfection. The Imperial cog sat on his right shoulder sleeve and his rank insignia plaque sat prominently over his right breast.

He approached an unassuming door that was outwardly no different from any other except that it was currently being guarded by two officers who were likewise dressed in A-1 uniforms. Their weapons were holstered at their side and the settings were pre-set to Lethal. When he was within six to eight paces away, they both simultaneously saluted him, though neither of them looked at him, instead keeping their gazes forward and standing at attention.

Firmus acknowledged them both with the smallest of nods and stepped between them to scan his code cylinder. A few seconds later, the locking mechanism deactivated and he pressed the door open to step inside, the door closing silently behind him.

The conference room on the other side was large and rectangular in shape with a massive table in the center and around twenty black chairs circling it. A chessboard sat in the middle and a decent-sized viewport that looked out on the planet of Endor gave the room an impressive view. Framed on the wall directly behind the table was a massive Imperial flag, the iconic six-spoked cog symbolizing power and might. Stenciled in black, directly to the bottom left side of the frame were the words 'Long Live the Empire'.

This room was the same as hundreds of others on the Executor, differing only in one sense; there were no security cameras. No audio recording devices. Firmus didn't even have a comm on him - anything which required his attention would be redirected to Commander Gherant since any and all communication devices would short out and become unusable the second that it was brought into the room. The walls were soundproof and the room itself was airtight, operating on its own independent filtration system the second the door was closed. It had all been done post-completion of the ship itself, with no record or paper-trail to speak of the alterations that had been made, and the workers that could not be trusted to keep silent quietly eliminated, the room itself was known to only a small handful of people on board.

It existed for one purpose: to discuss matters regarding treason.

Firmus took a single step out of the doorframe and then stood at attention, offering a crisp salute to the room's lone occupant.

The figure at the viewport turned around slowly and met Firmus' gaze with red eyes. He was dressed in a double-breasted white tunic and matching slacks which complimented his alien skin tone, and a rank insignia of twelve squares, three blue and three gold over trios of blue and red.

"...Admiral Firmus Piett, I presume?"

"Grand Admiral Thrawn," Firmus greeted, dropping his salute. "Welcome aboard the Executor."

03:15 Hours

SSD Executor, Private Residence of Commander Luke Skywalker, son of Supreme Commander Darth Vader

Luke opened his eyes, going from asleep to awake in a split second. For a long moment, he didn't dare to move, his breathing was fast and uneven, and he quickly became aware that he was drenched in sweat. It felt like he had been running for miles and miles without stopping. The vague, shadowy whispers of his vision didn't immediately fade from his memory and instead remained painfully and vividly clear.

As did the lingering horror. It reminded him of when he'd been a small child who was afraid of the dark and the violent, howling sandstorms that would attack the Lars' homestead during Tatooine's springtime equivalent. They had terrified him until around the time that he'd turned seven or eight years old.

But that had been so long ago. Luke couldn't remember the last time that a nightmare had frightened him like this. He blinked up at the ceiling above him, still struggling to find the courage to move. Even his throat felt dry.

Suns, never in his life had he known terror or pain quite like what he had just experienced.

Except… well, that wasn't exactly true, Luke thought wildly. In the mines, when he and Vader were trying to kill the mimic. That damn monster had done something - his father had once, briefly, described it as something that was called a memory walk. At the moment Luke couldn't remember the details of what it all entailed. All he knew was that it had projected pain at him and had completely knocked him off his feet in the process.

It had been his father's pain. From some… terrible memory that the mimic had forced across their bond.

Luke had put it out of his mind in the aftermath of the fight. He'd had to. It had been too much to even try to comprehend. He hadn't wanted to remember the suffering that he'd felt and he'd justified his decision solely on the fact that he had been certain that whatever memory had been shared… it had happened a long time ago.

It had to have been years and years ago - Vader was… well, he was Darth Vader. His father's health wasn't great but it couldn't have been completely terrible either. He couldn't be functioning in any real capacity if Vader was experiencing that kind of agony all the time.

It wasn't possible.

No one could do that.

And Luke… Luke would have known by now. He had asked to make sure just a few months ago. And… and even if Vader hadn't wanted to tell him the details… Luke was his son. He was certain that he would know if things were that bad.

He would.

He would.

…wouldn't he?

Luke lifted his hand and ran it through his short hair, taking a moment to release a slow breath to try and calm his racing heart.

He would know, he decided fiercely.

Because that was what family did for each other. They looked out for one another. Vader was looking out for him and Luke had promised to do the same. They were a team now. He would have noticed if his father was suffering.

…but why did he have that vision? What was the point of it? What warning was the Force trying to give him? What was he supposed to understand about what he had just seen? For the life of him, Luke didn't know the answer and the lack of knowing scared him more than he was willing to admit. The Force did things for a reason but he couldn't think of why this would be important now.

…

…

…

It was a slow realization, as he started to put his thoughts in order, but something felt… wrong. The horror wasn't fading from his mind the way that it should be. It felt… too alive.

Luke sat up carefully, his silk sheets pooling around his waist as he did so. The muscles in his back were sore and tender from where his father had struck him with his lightsaber yesterday morning. The bruise had been pretty impressive last night when he'd caught sight of it in the mirror and it hurt. But it was mild compared to what he had experienced in his vision.

A trickle of fear flitted through his mind and it made the hairs on his neck stand up straight. Luke looked around his bedroom, searching for anything that seemed out of place.

"Lights, thirty percent." he said quietly.

The room brightened incrementally and it all came into better view. The dresser that sat against the wall opposite the foot of his bed… the grand bookcase, exquisitely carved from a brylark tree and weighing several thousand pounds on the far wall nearest to the door. The door to his walk-in closet, the inside of which was almost the same size as his bedroom, was still ajar, and some of his clothes from the past few days piled up in the doorway just a few feet from the actual hamper. Artoo, in his charging port near the viewport window.

Everything seemed to be as it should be.

Except that it… wasn't.

It… it wasn't his fear that he was feeling, Luke realized. It was….

Damn it. Those feelings hadn't just been some lesson from the Force - they were real and they were happening right now and if the feelings weren't his then they had to belong to… to….

Luke threw his covers off and scrambled out of bed, snatching his lightsaber from where it sat resting on his nightstand. He sprinted through his private rooms and threw open the door that led to the main "living room" that his and his father's quarters shared.

It was completely dark. He paused for a moment, igniting his lightsaber and squinting as the sudden flare of bright green hurt his eyes.

"Father?" Luke called out.

There was no response.

He turned his attention inwards, tracing the string of light that represented their bond back towards his father. It was quickly apparent that he was being deliberately blocked out from their connection.

Well.

Mostly.

Vader was definitely trying to block him out but… what Luke was feeling from him… the whispers of apprehension… the murmurs of fear… the soft lament of a heart tormenting itself into breaking over and over again… they were still slipping through.

There was no room for any thought he wanted to share to be heard in the quiet cacophony of suffering echoing soundlessly through the Force.

For someone of his father's immense power and skill, that didn't make sense. What was wrong with him? And why was he scared?

Practice shielding your mind.

Was this why Vader had told him to 'practice'? It must have been. But what was happening?

Luke had never sensed this kind of emotion from Vader before.

He moved cautiously through their home towards his father's rooms, feeling tense and wary. He halfway expected to get jumped or find some kind of assassination attempt in progress - but everything around him remained dead silent. He quickly cleared Vader's office and all the other minor side rooms that were down on this level, searching for any sign of his father until he finally came to the meditation pod that his father so often frequented.

He had never personally been inside and hadn't asked to see it either. Though like with so many other things and places, Vader had implied that Luke was welcome to see him there if it was ever necessary.

The notion he'd gotten was that it was immensely private and was one of the only places where his father wasn't entirely confined to his suit. Luke had decided that he would never impose there if he could help it, if only to respect what little privacy they had between them.

Luke did, however, know how to open it.

He hesitated for a moment… but… the fear he was feeling… that wasn't normal. Far, far from it. If his father was indeed in there and if something really was wrong… then this was an occasion where even an unwanted intrusion must be okay.

The pod had no switches, handles, or even a power source that operated the damn thing. The outer shell of it was electrified with enough energy to kill someone if they touched it and it couldn't be cracked through any kind of slicing either. There was no passcode to unlock the airtight seal. Instead, it opened up only through a unique blend of the Force and absolutely ingenious engineering.

Luke lifted a hand, using the Force to determine where the proper mechanisms and panels were so that he could shift them out of place and thereby unlock the pod with his mind. It responded willingly and a few seconds later, the air hissed as the pressure inside was released, blowing a small gust of wind in his face.

The top and bottom portions of the meditation pod separated, rising up and lowering themselves, respectively, until the inside was visible.

An inner light flickered to life, illuminating the space.

It was empty.

And it wasn't… quite what Luke had imagined it being on the inside either? For one thing, it was smaller than he had thought it would be and the walls of it were white. Bright white. Most of the space was taken up by a powered chair that looked like it would rotate to face the back, where a console sat. The seat was made out of leather and parts of it were worn out, cracked and creased from use. The only part of the machine that didn't look well-maintained and in good repair.

There was a grotesque sort of medical apparatus hanging from the ceiling with long arms that could extend downwards and clamps at the end of them. For the mask, Luke was horrified to realize. There were panels and lights and a circular air vent as well, the normalcy of them making the rest of it all the more unsettling.

An impression of his father, not unlike the one that Luke had recognized on the bridge, only much stronger, was lingering in the Force.

It was just pain and suffering.

Misery.

Self-hatred.

Even a faint, but long-held desire, to die.

Luke stepped back, his heart beginning to pound again.

He didn't like this space.

Not at all.

Vader wasn't here. He had already gone to… wherever he was now. The fear that his father was feeling was growing more and more intense, though Luke could tell that he was making an active effort to try and suppress it. If Luke had been blocking him out the way that Vader had wanted him to… he might not have noticed that anything was wrong at all. He waved his hand and reactivated the mechanisms that would close the pod. He watched to make sure that it was tightly sealed before he quickly retreated back to his own rooms.

He flipped the lights all the way on this time and made his way swiftly towards Artoo. The little droid had gone to visit with his father late last night - if anyone would know, he would. His friend was already awake, dome swiveling back and forth as Luke approached.

"Artoo," Luke asked urgently, "where did my father go?"

There was a long pause and then Artoo whistled a guilty apology.

REPLY: Unable to comply with request.

"What? Why?"

REPLY: PRIMARY: ANAKIN SKYWALKER issued a PRIORITY ONE command at 07:19 Hours on Nelona 23rd, Galactic Standard Time. DATABANK REFERENCE: Additional clarifying PRIORITY ONE commands were issued at 22:00 Hours by PRIMARY: ANAKIN SKYWALKER.

Luke felt his brow furrow, baffled and irritated. Then a thought occurred to him. "Am I still a primary?" he asked cautiously.

Surely Vader wouldn't have gone that far as to remove him from Artoo's database like that - and if he had there was going to be one hell of a fight between them over it.

DATABANK REFERENCE: Yes. Artoo assured, alleviating that concern. You have been a PRIMARY user since -

"Then you should be able to answer my question." Luke insisted impatiently. "Please, Artoo - this is important."

CLARIFYING INFORMATION: Shared PRIMARY status cannot override a PRIORITY ONE command unless specifically stated by the PRIMARY who issued the order.

"Replay the order for me."

ACCESSING:... ERROR... [reattempting]... ERROR ACCESSING: [...REDACTED INFORMATION… REDACTED INFORMATION…REDACTED INFORMATION] [reattempting] ACCESSING: [able to comply: "...Luke cannot know about this and you may consider that a priority order."

"What were the clarifying commands?"

ACCESSING: ...ERROR: UNABLE TO COMPLY: File FLAGGED by PRIMARY: ANAKIN SKYWALKER for PRIVATE ACCESS only.

Luke swore angrily, sitting back on his heels and running a frantic hand through his hair. There was obviously a first time for everything because clearly Artoo wasn't going to be of any help.

What was so damn important that Luke wasn't allowed to know about it? Why the hell had Vader lied yesterday and then gone through this level of effort to keep him in the dark? Luke hadn't thought they were actively keeping secrets from each other and it angered him to have realized that he was wrong.

He'd thought… damn it, but he'd thought his father was treating him like an equal. He'd thought this situation was different from the one that he'd been in with Ben and Yoda. They had both cared about him, but they had also used him. Lied to him.

Luke had thought… he had really thought Vader was different.

That Vader saw Luke as capable. Able to handle the truth, no matter how terrible it might have been.

That Vader, of all people, trusted him. Maybe not to understand why something was the way it was, but to accept the truth of it - whatever it may be.

That Vader trusted him.

…

He was wrong.

Obviously he was wrong.

Luke sucked in a quick breath, hands curling into fists and chest aching with a dull ache that was entirely his own. He didn't know what it was about himself that made these people he trusted decide he couldn't be trusted in turn, but if his father really wanted to burn the only bridge that no one else had managed to not collapse under the weight of their lies, then he could deal with his problems himself.

If Vader was afraid of something, Luke had no illusions that he couldn't handle it on his own. After all, he was Darth Vader. Fucking Fist of the fucking Empire.

The bitter thought crossed his mind and was almost immediately replaced by a sudden and gut-wrenching premonition with enough striking clarity that it chased the bitterness right out of him, before it had the chance to settle.

No, the Force seemed to whisper. Go. Find him.

Luke stilled as a new sense of urgency gripped him and just as quickly, pain pricked at the edge of his awareness. Different from the whispers of fear that had peppered him thus far. It felt like getting stuck repeatedly with a hot needle, making him wince in surprise.

What the hell was Vader doing? Luke got to his feet, trying to think of what could possibly be going on. He barely managed two steps before he stopped, the answer suddenly, almost stupidly obvious.

In the vision there was pain. Vader's pain.

And an operating table.

Luke pulled on a pair of boots, grabbed a shirt, and took off running.

03:20 Hours

Thrawn stared at Firmus with a hard to read expression on his face. A few seconds ticked by in total silence and at the moment where it was just shy of being uncomfortable, the grand admiral acknowledged him with a slight dip of his chin.

"Lord Vader has appointed you to speak to me in his stead?"

Firmus nodded. "He has, sir."

The grand admiral stepped towards him, taking controlled, measured steps around the room until he had come to a stop directly in front of him, separated by a polite amount of distance. Thrawn held himself with an impressive air of competence that had surely intimidated many a fine man. Had Firmus had not worked under Lord Vader for as long as he had, he could have been among them.

Red eyes scanned him critically, up and down, as if the Chiss was searching for even the smallest hint of a flaw in his appearance or conduct. Firmus allowed it, entirely unintimidated by the dominance display and knowing that there was no outward flaw to be found. He had been meticulous in his preparation for this meeting. Merely looking the part of a competent officer would not be enough to gain him any sort of favor, however. It was simply expected and the bare minimum amount of effort he could have put forth.

"You are shorter than I expected you to be, admiral… for a man of your reputation." Thrawn finally said, meeting his eyes.

Firmus raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You have a reputation in the fleet," Thrawn repeated coolly. "Of being Lord Vader's favorite admiral. Why is that, I wonder?"

"I do my job well, sir."

"As do many others," was the dismissive reply. There was a short pause where Firmus had the distinct impression that the grand admiral had been bored by his response. Thrawn's red eyes looked him up and down once again. "I know Lord Vader does not care much for my company… but I still did not expect him to send a lackey in his place."

Firmus felt the first stirrings of irritation in his chest. To be so openly disrespected on his ship was an insult that he was not inclined to tolerate from anyone. He did, however, understand the subtle steps to the dance that they were currently engaged in with one another. It was a skill that not every admiral or officer in the Fleet could claim to have. He let a tight smile cross his lips, refusing to rise to the bait, but ready to play in turn.

"I'm certain that his Lordship meant no disrespect. As I'm sure you understand, the Supreme Commander is quite busy and his time is precious to him. However," he continued politely. "I believe our conversation today has the potential to be beneficial for the both of us. Unless you feel as though your time will be better spent elsewhere, in which case, I will not ask you to waste it any further with a mere lackey such as myself, and will see to it that you are escorted back to your shuttle. No one need know that you were ever here."

Thrawn blinked and if he was surprised, his expression remained unchanged. "You speak quite boldly, admiral. I am almost impressed."

"My time is precious to me as well," Firmus said bluntly. "I am a busy man and it was not I that requested this meeting, but you. If you believe that there is something of importance which we can say to one another, then let us talk. If not, well… I do not beg and if you decide to waste my time, then I will not make room for you in my schedule twice."

There was a long silence while they both regarded each other. Firmus stood tall and confident, making it clear that he would neither apologize for or take back what he had said.

There were a lot of braggarts and power hungry cowards in the military. Firmus personally knew and was aware of many of them. They were those who would speak a bold game but didn't have the courage, influence, or intention to back up their own words. People who, when it really came down to the wire, would crawl on their bellies and beg like a filthy street dog if they thought it would get them something they wanted.

He personally hoped to one day see every single one of them dishonorably discharged from the military and prosecuted to the highest caliber of the law. Cowards and liars, all of them.

Firmus prided himself in the fact that he was neither a coward nor a liar - beyond that which was necessary to protect Imperial secrets. He wanted this conversation to happen but he would not put himself or their plans in a position of perceived weakness to get it.

Strength through power and competence.

That was the only way to do things - the only way to maintain the Empire's position as the galaxy's biggest superpower and controlling government.

The Empire and the legacy that she had built over the last two decades demanded nothing less. And no one in their right mind would dare join them in their coup against the Emperor if they had any reason to believe that those planning it would fail in their effort to overthrow him. The cost of failure in this endeavor wouldn't just be their lives - it would be a drawn out, torturous death, the likes of which were reserved specifically for traitors. It would be the lives of everyone they knew and cared about - and if they failed to destroy the Death Star, it could even be the cost of their homeworlds.

The latter two would almost certainly come first, long before death was ever an option.

Firmus did not make mistakes lightly and in this, he was absolutely determined to succeed. He let all the resolve and confidence that he felt reflect in his eyes, showing his thoughts clearly as if he had spoken them.

They would do this, with or without Thrawn. One would simply be easier than the other.

A minute passed and then two. Whatever it was the grand admiral was looking for, he must have found it.

"Very well then," Thrawn said simply, a hint of a smile playing at his lips for the first time, before he finally asked the question that Firmus had been waiting to hear. "Would you care to play a game, Admiral Piett?"

A 'game'.

It was the neutral way of discussing things that couldn't be fully said out loud. Dangerous, treasonous things. Things that would get someone killed if they ever left the room. The conversation was had over a chessboard and the unspoken rules were that they could talk for however long the game lasted and that whatever was said in the game, stayed in the game.

Assuming that one's opponent was honorable, of course. Which was why it was important to choose one's opponents carefully and with great discretion.

There were very, very few individuals within the Empire who Firmus would ever accept such an invitation from. He was at a disadvantage, having never met Grand Admiral Thrawn until now. It was, he knew, why the grand admiral was testing him as much as he was - to figure out beforehand if Firmus was someone he was willing to play with.

Reputation was all that they had to gauge one another by. Thrawn was well-known as a brilliant tactician and a ruthless strategist. One of the rare, non-human officers in the entire Imperial Navy and the only one that Firmus knew of who held both a notable rank and the Emperor's favor.

His request for an under the table meeting hadn't been one that could be ignored. Denied in person, perhaps, but not ignored completely. Officers that held his level of power and authority only asked for a very few, very select, reasons. It was wise to assume going into the meeting that Thrawn had, at the very least, some small idea that there was something going on. He was either here to sniff out the details under the guise of a partnership… or he was here to take advantage of the opportunity their presumed coup was presenting for him.

Firmus did not know enough about the Chiss to know for certain which of the two plausible scenarios was the correct one.

What he was certain of was that Thrawn was dangerous and a fair bit smarter than Firmus himself was. He had no doubt that whatever the grand admiral might be willing to reveal in their conversation… it would only be a small percentage of what he actually knew and was aware of.

Firmus studied the grand admiral for a long moment, keeping his body language unhurried and his facial expression neutral. Appearing overly eager, which he wasn't, could be just as detrimental as refusing the game entirely; it made one look desperate and no one who was wise would play with someone like that. Desperate meant uncertain, weak, and liable to change their mind at the first sign of trouble. Refusing would be the end of any potential alliance; no one asked twice.

The most powerful and influential leaders of the Empire amounted to a very small handful of people. With Tarkin and Krennic both dead and gone, Thrawn was right up there with Lord Vader and Grand Vizier Mas Amedda. Lord Vader and Grand Admiral Thrawn might not care much for the other in terms of likability… but they did respect each other, which was far more important, in his opinion.

Firmus was also aware of some circles in the Empire which considered Thrawn to be a worthy successor to the Emperor himself. Beyond that, he commanded as much respect and loyalty, among a not-insignificant portion of the Imperial Armed Forces, as Lord Vader did. It was a significant risk, but with the power and influence Thrawn commanded - enough so that those who might not be willing to follow Lord Vader when he took the throne might be more open to doing so if Thrawn was backing the Dark Lord's reign - it was too good an opportunity not to take that risk.

Find out what he wants, Lord Vader had said.

Well. As they say: risk never, win never. Firmus hadn't gotten this far in life by playing it safe. Lord Vader wouldn't have given him this duty, either, if he'd thought Firmus would mishandle it. If nothing else, he could trust that if Lord Vader was looking for an opportunity or excuse to kill him, he would have to look no further than the span of deck that usually separated their places on the bridge.

He could do this.

"Please," Firmus finally said, sweeping his hand out and inviting the grand admiral to sit down at the table first.

Thrawn graciously took a seat, claiming the 'white' side of the table. Once the grand admiral was settled, as was proper, Firmus stepped away from the doorway for the first time and walked the long way to the opposite side of the table. It put him on the 'back' of the room and the 'black' side of the board.

A disadvantage for him. Only roughly twenty-six percent of chess games were won by black and being the highly capable strategist that he was, Firmus was willing to bet that Thrawn played at or above the level of a grandmaster. It would take a great deal of thought and cunning on his part if he was going to stand a chance at winning.

Not that the outcome of the chess game would determine whether an alliance or an agreement could be struck - but it helped to play well and certain aspects of the game were important for players to understand. The opening moves in particular were more than just for show.

No matter.

Firmus had planned on playing black. It was the way the rules of the game worked; whoever initiated the meeting would start the game and the conversation. If the game went well, both parties would leave with blackmail material - ideally enough that neither of them would try and turn on the other for fear of being taken down with them. If someone played and spoke poorly, then the blackmail would go one way and that was very dangerous. Especially if an agreement or alliance couldn't be made between the players.

Firmus had a feeling that Thrawn was not overly worried about putting himself in a bad position. Or being put in one by his 'opponent'.

True to expectation, the grand admiral looked at the board for only a second or two before moving his pawn to d4.

Bold. And a rather telling first move… but not what Firmus was interested in or what their coup needed. Without hesitation, he moved his horse to f6, declining the gambit.

Thrawn hummed, moving a second pawn into c4. "I have," he began slowly, his red eyes sliding upwards to meet Firmus' head on, "sufficient reason to believe that are those in the Imperial military who seek the end of Emperor Palpatine's reign."

Direct and straight to the point.

Firmus did not answer immediately. He looked down, breaking eye contact as he did so. Unhurried, he took his time to study the board and decide on his approach before making his move. Pawn to g6.

"Dissension is not unheard of," Firmus agreed, meeting Thrawn's cool gaze once more. "I suppose no one is truly immune to dissatisfaction when it comes to government. Though I find disloyalty to the Empire abhorrent, myself."

"Are you a loyalist then?"

"Long live the Empire." Firmus said without irony.

"And in your opinion of these dissenters, what would make supposedly formerly loyal patriots turn on their own government. After a lifetime of service? Why have they chosen now to be dissatisfied?"

Firmus raised an eyebrow. "I, of course, cannot speak for them."

"Of course."

"But if you'll excuse my hyperbole, perhaps Alderaan upset more individuals than just the rebels. It could be that these dissenters, as you call them, feel that they cannot ignore what they perceive to be an abuse of power any longer."

The Chiss moved one of his horses to c3. "You speak with the air of a rebel about you, yourself." he remarked. His tone remained casual but the comment itself was pointed. "Did you know that?"

Firmus shrugged nonchalantly. "I am well-versed with their rhetoric. It is important to know one's enemies."

Thrawn stared at him unrepentantly. "That it is," he agreed. "What do you think of them? The rebels."

"I consider them terrorists, mostly." Firmus said with complete honesty. "They are dangerous and I don't particularly approve of their ideals spreading any further than they already have. It would do the Empire no good to have more of its citizens' minds poisoned with their dangerous ideas. However," he paused for a moment. "As I mentioned previously, I do understand some of their reasons for being as angry as they are. Their ideas for government are severely flawed and radical and there are more proper ways to take action… but their anger is not entirely unjustified."

"Proper?"

"Legal."

"Ah, but they consider the Empire a dictatorship, admiral." Thrawn reminded him, a brief finger pointed in his direction before he continued. "And the only thing legal in a dictatorship is that which the dictator proclaims is legal. Are not all things at his whim and pleasure?"

"Their perception is not reality," Firmus countered, though, of late, he had been having an ugly notion rear its head more and more frequently… that the rebel's perception may have more basis in reality than he was giving it credit for. He suppressed it, as he always did. "The Empire itself is neither good nor evil. It is simply a form of government, one which is better than what they are stupidly fighting for. Their understanding of what we have is tainted by misplaced nostalgia of the Republic's halcyon days and the removal of ineffective leaders they were none-the-less confident in. A different man on the throne could eradicate the issues we now face and set at ease those within the Empire who have been disillusioned."

"The point of succession has never been addressed," Thrawn pointed out, "and I do believe that it is still treason to wish death upon the Emperor. Or even to cast aspirations regarding his future demise."

"How fortunate we are that I have done neither."

"Only because you choose your words carefully."

"An occupational precaution. I have not attained my rank or position through mere happenstance, Grand Admiral Thrawn," Firmus replied mildly. "My name holds no meaning or influence in larger circles, except that which I have given it. I know my business and as I said earlier… I do my job well."

There was a long moment of silence where Thrawn leaned back in his chair, studying him openly and unapologetically. There seemed to be some real interest in his red eyes now.

"Are you unsatisfied, admiral?"

"In the right company," Firmus said, meeting his eyes. "Perhaps I would be."

There.

The door had been opened and a short but poignant silence fell between them. Thrawn considered him for a few moments more and then leaned forward once again, directing his attention towards the chessboard between them.

"It may surprise you… but I rather detest unnecessary civilian casualties," Thrawn finally said, appearing to accept the invitation. "I consider their frequent occurrence to be one of the Empire's greatest faults. I myself have told the Emperor that his resources would be better spent elsewhere than on the Death Star. Wars are won by men. By logic and strategy, not superweapons of mass destruction."

That was… encouraging.

Remember who you're playing with, Firmus chided himself. It was too early in the game; one comment of shared sentiment did not an alliance make.

Breathing steadily out through his nose, he took another moment to consider Thrawn's words. They could be a ruse - something said with the intention of prompting him to admit guilt. But… if Firmus recalled correctly… Thrawn had been vocal enough about his dislike of the Death Star for the years leading up to the completion of the first….

Yes… yes, he remembered now. The Chiss had held the position that Imperial funds would be better spent on additional star destroyers and fighters. It was not an expected position to hear from one of Palpatine's favorites, particularly given the otherwise usual support military officers had for any project that increased military power - however perceived or genuine that power actually was. Most Imperial officers who knew about the project were, at least prior to the destruction of Alderaan, enthusiastically in favor of the Death Star. It did a good job of matching the size of their egos and ideas of superiority.

Firmus had assumed that Thrawn had relented in that opinion after being offered the position of grand admiral. Wealth and power always seemed to be the great undoing of even the most resolute minds. It was… encouraging, that while the promotion had obviously been accepted, his thoughts and feelings on such a controversial topic appeared to have remained unchanged.

Firmus wished that he had been as wise. It might not have changed anything but he would have considered himself a smarter, less ignorant person. In hindsight, the arrogance it took for any of them to allow the Emperor to build that weapon and even think for one second that they would be the ones in control, and never suffer any consequences, was astounding.

It appeared, at least in the short term, that Thrawn had been smarter than all of them. Being a high ranking favorite of the Emperor, he would almost certainly know of other top government secrets and plans that the wider military knew nothing about. He may even know of some that Lord Vader, with as frequently as he fell in and out of the Emperor's favor, was unaware of.

"Seeing as the construction of the second Death Star is still in progress, I can only assume that your opinion has remained unheard." Firmus remarked, moving his bishop to g7.

"Emperor Palpatine cannot be moved from his position in this matter," Thrawn agreed. "He does not understand or, at least, refuses to acknowledge that the Death Star has limitations that can, and will, be overcome by those who are determined to see its end." The grand admiral clicked his tongue. "It should have been obvious after the destruction of the first. But then again," Firmus watched as Thrawn moved another pawn to e4, "That is why Emperor Palpatine appoints individuals like myself… to protect those limitations."

The safest way to interpret a comment like that would be as a veiled threat. A warning. That should Firmus fail to entice the grand admiral properly, they would need to get past him and whatever was in his charge if they wanted any chance of success.

It was something to take into consideration, certainly.

"I am curious," Firmus said slowly, tapping a finger on the table for a moment before moving his next pawn to d6. "What was it that prompted you to join the Imperial military? If I recall correctly, your people are not part of the Empire."

"Indeed they are not," Thrawn stated, immediately moving his bishop to e2. "But to answer your question, I joined for the same reason that all good men and women join the military. To protect what I care about most. That is still the campaign rhetoric that we're preaching, isn't it? At least to those worlds who don't have a mandatory draft?"

"It is," Firmus agreed. "But we protect our own worlds and our own government. I do not believe that you can claim the same."

"Can I not? The Emperor and I have an agreement, admiral," Thrawn stated swiftly. "My place here in the Empire, my work and my loyalty to him… in exchange for the protection of the Chiss Ascendency."

"Your homeworld."

"Correct."

"Forgive my ignorance, but if protection is what you seek… why not simply join the Empire?"

Thrawn raised his eyebrows, giving Firmus a look that implied he'd thought the question bordered on asinine. "And give up our autonomy and independence? No," he shook his head. "We will not be dominated by an outside entity. And neither will I allow my homeworld to be subjected to the same level of care and compassion with which the outer world territories of the Empire receive."

Firmus paused, realizing that his king was sitting in potential danger. He castled it with a rook, removing it from harm's way.

He supposed that Thrawn had a point. The outer rim was severely neglected and was primarily run by gangsters and crime lords rather than any semblance of law. The most the Empire did with it was tax its citizens for the right to exist and use the profits they received to fund the military. Taxes which were then used to protect more important core worlds and their resources.

A man as proud and dignified as the grand admiral would never suffer such an insult.

"What, exactly, do you seek protection from?" Firmus asked, curious now that the matter had been raised.

Thrawn paused, his eyes narrowing for the first time. He had been aloof thus far in their conversation, playing his cards close to the chest and giving away little in terms of where he did or did not stand. An intense sort of gravity replaced that, giving the immediate impression that his next words would be of deep significance to him.

"Why do you ask?"

"I know of you through reputation alone. I am merely curious as to what might bring a man of your standing and position to my table."

What protection did his world require that allowed him to not only disagree with the atrocity that was the deaths of two billion sentients, but to also risk future genocides of equal mass destruction? What aspects of the Empire were important to him and what might he be willing to negotiate on in the event that there was a forthcoming transition of power? What did they need to offer in exchange for his assistance?

Fortunately, the grand admiral was willing to answer without need for Firmus to ask such direct and probing questions.

"You ask why I am here; it is because I believe that there are far greater threats in the galaxy," Thrawn said seriously. "Then that of the Emperor's paltry superweapon. Threats that are beyond our comprehension. These threats come from outside what you would call the Unknown Regions of space. They are known to my people as the Grysk Hegemony. My world is but one, belonging to itself. Should such dire threats come, as I firmly believe that they will, does it not make sense to align oneself with the most powerful governing force the galaxy has ever seen? To give oneself the best chance they have at survival when that threat rears its head? And again, if that were true, would it not make sense that I might be concerned about rumors of a potential coup d'etat against the same government with which my agreement was made?"

"I did not think that you were the kind of man who would put much stock in such idle rumors," Firmus said mildly.

Thrawn moved his horse to f3 and raised his eyebrows, an invitation to continue and warning all the same. While they were certainly dancing around the topic, they weren't doing the Counter-Bore Waltz. Such obvious and heavy-footed wordplay was disrespectful and Thrawn was likely not a man to entertain it for long.

Firmus had endured his own share of infighting and bullying in his career, before his sudden and meteoric rise to Fleet Admiral. He would not bend to the subtle threat. Not now.

"Allow me to answer your question with one of my own," Firmus answered the silent challenge tossed him, "if there were such threats as the Grysk Hegemony, and I will take your word for it that there are, what exactly does your planet offer us in return for our resources? What are we benefiting from? What trade agreements? What alliance has been officially struck that the Empire is contractually obligated to fulfill? What do we gain in return from protecting your people at the expense of our own?"

He moved another pawn and set it down on e5 with a little more force.

03:34 Hours

Luke had made it up several decks and probably sprinted two and half miles, having startled a fair number of on-duty officers while forcing them to move out of his way or else get run over, as he made his way through the long, never-ending passageways that made up the Imperial flagship. He stuck to the side corridors, not daring to go through the main halls which were sort of a central hub for everyone on board - they were busy, no matter the time of day or night. He only slowed down when he was forced to wait for another lift to take him up a few more levels. The stairwells would take too long. The ripples of his father's pain were almost constant now and with them had come the subtle prompting from the Force that no matter what, Luke needed to be present for whatever was happening. He didn't know why but it was important.

He couldn't help but think that something… something pivotal in their future was hinging on whether or not Luke came to Vader's aid today.

Luke had been half-tempted to rip the doors open and jump up the damn shaft to the floor he needed, but as soon as he'd committed to doing so, the lift had finally arrived. He'd gotten on, grateful that it was empty, and used his security code to make sure it wouldn't stop at other floors. He had neither the time or patience for anyone else right now.

It was, however, of no surprise to Luke that his security team was waiting for him when he got off again at the right floor. He didn't know the full extent of resources that the Executor had put into surrounding him but he knew it was expensive and that, at this point, it probably had its own privately funded budget that was being discussed on a weekly basis. Regardless, what mattered was that Lieutenant Suba knew, day or night, if and when Luke left 'home' by himself. He was no doubt going to get a stern dressing down from him and the admiral later today for managing to get this far without them.

Fine by him.

Luke rarely did anything wrong anyways. They should be grateful that he didn't actually thrive on causing chaos - and he would endure the reprimand a thousand times over so long as he got to where he needed to go without interference.

"Where we going, Commander?" Dogma asked, matching his quick stride and somehow easily keeping pace. Dogma was his favorite out of his security officers; he was calm and even-tempered, though he often seemed weighed down by sorrow. He reminded Luke of Ben sometimes, when he was of the mind to think well of his old friend. Two other stormtroopers that Luke recognized and had come to know followed just a few steps behind him.

"Medical," Luke said, keeping his eyes forward. "My father is there and I need to see him."

Surprise immediately bloomed in the Force and to his vexation, Dogma also immediately reached out to try and grab him.

"Commander -" Luke dodged Dogma's attempt, refusing to be deterred and was then instantly frustrated when the clonetrooper lunged and grabbed a hold of him. Perhaps his father's high and mighty nature was rubbing off on him after all because Luke found that he was offended that Dogma would even dare. "Luke!"

Luke stopped, his chest heaving slightly. "What?" he demanded, turning on the clone.

Dogma hesitated, "I… I don't think that's a very good idea, kid. You should go back home. Now."

"Is that an order?"

"It could be."

"Then I'll take that as a no."

Luke jerked his arm back and resumed his fast pace. His father's pain was getting worse. Fear was turning into an almost mindless panic. His security followed him, torn perhaps between their duty to his father and their understanding that stopping him probably wasn't going to work out.

Let them try and stop him. Their attempt would be over before it ever started.

Judging by the apprehension and frustration that he felt, Luke was certain that all three of them knew that. Another time, he might have been pleased that his reputation had grown enough to evoke that kind of response.

"Commander, I understand that you feel like we're trying to get in your way -" Dogma tried again, using long strides to fall back in step beside him.

"No, you don't understand," Luke interrupted impatiently. "He needs me."

"Be that as it may," Dogma continued fiercely. "Whatever his Lordship is doing, he won't want you there. Some things are better off being left alone. You're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

As if Luke didn't already know that.

No one on this ship was more personally aware of the fact that there was a damn good chance his father was going to be pissed off at him in the aftermath. Hell, he might even get the beatdown of his life for daring to invade Vader's privacy after it had been made abundantly clear - through preventative actions, if not words - that his father didn't want him around for this.

If it had only been Vader's lies, Luke would have agreed with them. Would have likely kept to himself. The two of them could have had it out with each other later over the whole issue of there being an obvious lack of trust between them.

But it wasn't just the lies.

Every second that went by, the warning that he would miss out on some unknown opportunity grew stronger and stronger. If Luke dared to turn back and leave it alone, some part of their future would be lost forever. The opportunity to fix it would not come again.

He had to be there.

"Well, neither you nor him or anyone else will decide this for me," Luke growled. "You can come with me or you can leave." He thought of the darkness and pain that had obscured the path in his vision, and how he hadn't known what was down the road he had chosen. How he still didn't know…. "I'm going. Either way, I'm going."

He sensed more than saw the clone troopers glancing between one another. Luke knew that they would not test his resolve - they had known his father for much longer than him and surely they would know it was pointless.

Nearing an intersection in the corridor, he spied a wayfinding sign mounted at the end of the wall with MEDICAL BAY listed at the top in bold letters.

He was getting close. Just a few more minutes.

03:34 Hours

"The details of the arrangement between myself and the Emperor will remain between us," Thrawn declared. "But it suffices me to say that the Ascendency is of no threat or consequence to him."

His red eyes looked down at the board once more and Firmus had the thought that he was planning his next move with a little more consideration. After a few seconds, he castled his king.

Firmus had anticipated the move and immediately moved his horse into c6. "Alderaan was not a threat either," he said firmly. "That fact did not protect the two billion people who lived there."

"The Death Star will not be used against my people," Thrawn repeated nonchalantly. After a moment, he glanced up with a knowing look in his eyes. "You mean to try and make me uneasy, admiral, by implying that the Emperor will not hold to his promise. It will not work."

"It was you, not I, who said that your planet was of no threat or consequence," Firmus reminded him, resting his elbows on the conference table and steepling his fingers under his chin. "I am not a genius by any means, but I can read between the lines well enough. Your world holds no value to the Empire beyond what you yourself offer. Nor do I believe that the Emperor will risk everything he has to protect it should more dire circumstances arise. When it comes down to the wire, the only person who holds that level of esteem in the Emperor's eyes is himself."

"My contributions, which are not insignificant, speak for themselves and guarantee its safety." Thrawn moved one of his pawns into d5.

"Yet, here you are. Speaking to me." To that, the grand admiral fell silent, appraising him almost expressionlessly now. Firmus got the feeling that he'd struck a small nerve. He didn't know if it was good or bad though. He decided to push ahead anyway, "And what of the other hundred quadrillion sentients in the galaxy?"

"What of them?"

"You have gone out of your way to ensure the safety of your planet. What of the rest of the lives in the galaxy? The civilians who have done no wrong except live quietly and anonymously, trusting that their Emperor has their best interests in mind? The worlds who have no promise to save them from destruction should someone of significance step out of line and offend the throne? You say that you were chosen as the man to protect the Emperor's limitations. I ask you, who protects the rest of us?"

"As long as I get what I want, my decision and agreement with the Emperor makes the Death Star an unfortunate asset. It will be used as is deemed necessary. Again, unfortunate, but such is the way of things."

It was a cold answer; one that Firmus had heard a thousand times before from everyone that he knew who had had reservations in regards to the Death Star. Defection in the Empire was seen as a far greater evil than simply looking the other way. If Thrawn was truly in opposition with the weapon, then he likely had the same mindset, if only out of preservation. Still. Firmus decided to push a little and see what he would say on his own.

"Two wrongs make one right then?" Firmus asked, more curious than condemning, as he moved his horse into e7 in order to avoid it being taken by the grand admiral's pawn. "Is that what you are saying?"

"That is a logical fallacy. I do not believe in the notion of good or evil, Admiral Piett. I believe that there are only positive and negative consequences. More or less of one or the other determines the rightness of the action that must be taken."

"And in this case, the continued existence and protection of the Chiss Ascendency weighs more on the scale of moral obligation than that of countless other worlds?"

"A curious position for an Imperial officer to take," Thrawn shot back at him pointedly, moving his own horse into d2. "Do not your people live by the creed, 'regrettable, but necessary'? Hasn't it long been agreed between both politicians and military career men and women that collateral damage is unavoidable in the pursuit of power and the attempt to prevent utter chaos? Seeing as you have made it this far, I think that I rightly assume you to be one of them. Yet you seek to try and lecture me?"

"Am I not allowed to grow in my opinion?"

"I merely find the moral superiority that is often associated with such proclaimed growth vexing," Thrawn stated flatly. "The educated man might too often forget that he, too, was once a fool to start and then deny any and all responsibility to the events which occurred in his time of ignorance. Those wise enough to see the truth, who prepared and planned and worked to earn the assurances of safety they received, in an otherwise unsafe society, and who suffered the fools in turn, because they could only be suffered…they then become the ones at risk to lose everything in the following era of delayed enlightenment."

Harsh words.

All the more harsh because there was truth in them. However, it was the opinion which fueled the statement that garnered Firmus' primary notice and attention. The argument in which it was based seemed to come more from the kind of man who had grown… comfortable. A strange adjective that Firmus would never have thought to use in regards to the grand admiral. Thrawn was an immensely successful conqueror - the vast amount of territory that he had obtained and controlled throughout the Empire was not insignificant. Even now, the Seventh Fleet was actively deployed in the Unknown Regions, mapping it out and presumably seeking to pave the way for future control.

Perhaps… perhaps it was possible that Thrawn was satisfied with what he had achieved in relation to himself and those whom he was protecting. As he'd just said, a coup d'etat against the government, successful or otherwise, had the potential to disrupt what he had already set in place. The Emperor's word might not be worth much but Thrawn could be banking on the idea that he could keep Palpatine satisfied whilst he simply waited out his reign. Afterwards… who was to say that he wouldn't attempt to pursue something more then.

Still. Firmus did not believe that he was wrong to think the grand admiral was not a man who would choose comfort over taking a risk and pursuing a higher achievement if he thought it were attainable.

"You speak as though change equates to inevitable chaos," Firmus stated, raising an eyebrow of his own.

"Does it not?"

"Not if the change is controlled," Firmus said emphatically. "And it can be. Done properly, there is no need for mass hysteria from the citizens. Uprisings can be suppressed and any information released regulated to ensure it reflects only supported views. But do you really think chaos is preventable with a weapon like the Death Star being allowed to exist? How many worlds will need to be destroyed? How many cultures must be eradicated? How many lives stolen, before the Empire falls apart all on its own, with all of its remaining citizens rising up in rebellion against it, motivated by nothing except the fear of potentially being next?" Firmus moved his next pawn into c5. "It has already happened. Our government is already fighting against itself. It has been engaged in a war with its own citizens for years and it has no end date in sight. You are here because you need or want our protection, grand admiral, but I guarantee you that your world, which offers us nothing, will not be a priority to anyone. We will take care of ourselves before we ever lift a finger to try and take care of you."

"Which is precisely," Thrawn moved a pawn into a3,"why I am here."

"Your promise is only as good as the Emperor's word," Firmus looked up, meeting his eyes, unflinchingly. "If it were currency you trusted, you would not be here."

03:40 Hours

SSD Executor, Medical Bay

Maximillian Veers sighed deeply, staring up at the boring white ceiling of the exam room that he was currently trapped in. He felt distinctly annoyed with himself and very out of place with the predicament that he had put himself in.

It could have been worse, he supposed.

There could have been an audience around to witness.

The fact that there hadn't been did little to make him feel better about the fact that he'd apparently cracked from the level of stress he was under and the lack of sleep that he'd been getting recently.

Even when he was tired, he stayed up late and tossed and turned for hours. When he was able to sleep, it was often for barely an hour or two, and usually right before his next shift, leaving him exhausted and irritated by the exhaustion. He was harrowed up by uncomfortable memories from the past that seemed determined to haunt him at every opportunity. Tonight, or rather this morning, Max supposed, the memories had come to him in the form of an awful nightmare.

That, in itself, wasn't entirely unusual. Nightmares came with the territory - no one who entered into military service and who were unfortunate enough to see battle ever got to escape them.

This one had even been a familiar one; in the early days of his military service, it had used to visit him often and then as he'd gotten older and more experienced, it had lessened until it only reared its ugly head every few years. Max knew what to expect and as unsettling as it always was, there was also something morbidly comforting about the familiarity of it now as well, and made bearable by the fact that the military was where he thrived.

It was a large part of his identity and it came with its own unique burdens which he had long ago reconciled himself with. Taking a life was practically a guarantee and while he tried not to disrespect the fact that actual lives were being taken during war and battle, he did not necessarily regret the deaths he had caused either. He was not at fault for dueling out a just punishment for the actions and crimes of other people. Callous, cold, unfeeling - he had been accused of it all by ignorant civilians who knew nothing of what was required to maintain their peace.

It did not, could not, matter.

He had only ever allowed one death he'd been directly responsible for to have that kind of power over him: the first.

Max could remember the face of the first man he'd killed with perfect clarity. He knew his name, how old he'd been, what planet he was from. Where he'd grown up and the names of all his immediate family members. It had felt fair, at the time, to know who all he was hurting in that moment. To know the names of the people whose lives he was ruining by doing his job and protecting his government. The face of that man haunted him still, even decades later.

But the men that came after the first, he had no memory of and little feeling for. He hadn't allowed himself to know - it was too much and if he wanted to be effective in his work, he had determined early on that he simply couldn't care.

Max's dream tonight had been of that first kill.

It was the same as it always was. The cloudy sky overhead and the smell of rain and smoke and blood in the air. The feeling of the wind chilling him through his military jacket as he slowly stepped forward, still feeling stunned by the fact that he'd actually pulled the trigger and that someone had collapsed on the ground as a result.

Max had been afraid but also morbidly curious to see what he had done. Only this time, when he'd walked across the battlefield with his rifle in hand, leaves crunching under his boots, to see the face of the life he'd just taken, it hadn't been twenty-two year old Solske Whither.

It had been Zevulon.

The man that he'd shot in the heart and who had momentarily choked on his own blood before all the life faded from his eyes, had been his son.

When Max had jolted out of sleep, he'd felt like he'd been having a heart attack. After the pain in his chest and in his arm hadn't gone away on its own in twenty minutes, he'd gotten dressed and walked himself to medical.

The doctors on duty had taken his blood pressure and vitals and had then assured him that he wasn't having a heart attack - just a panic attack, apparently. They had said it with that annoyingly dismissive way that doctors always seemed to manage which implied that they felt he had wasted their time and were tolerating his stupidity out of the kindness of their hearts.

It was humiliating.

Now he was trapped here, resting in a small recovery room and ruminating on his failures.

He had no love for rebels or anyone that opposed the Empire, really. He had served as a naval cadet for the Galactic Republic for a brief time and then had gone on to become an officer in the Imperial Army. He'd made a name for himself and had an impressive reputation that had won him his fair share of promotions.

He had always done his job well. It was a source of pride to look back on his record and see so few devastating mistakes, compared to those of other officers.

For someone who had always gone out of his way to do things right, it was a painful, agonizing, and degrading process to reflect and then admit that he had failed. In more ways than one. Prior to a few months ago, Max had spitefully placed all the failings in their relationship on his son. But if he was honest with himself… that wasn't fair.

Max had always stood by the Empire before anything. Its strict practices had bled into his personal life with his family and while he liked to think that he had been a good father, he knew that he had also been a distant one as well. But all his life, his thinking had been that that wasn't supposed to have mattered - he had done the hard part and set the example.

Everything he had done, everything he had made himself, he had done it all for them.

For his wife, when she had been alive, and for his son.

The sacrifices he had made, the men that he had killed, the nightmares that had followed because of hard choices he'd been forced to make, all the time away from home - it had all been for them. They were supposed to appreciate the sacrifice. They were supposed to understand that he was only doing his best and that his love and loyalty to the Empire was actually his love and loyalty to them.

Instead, he'd lost his wife and in the aftermath of her death, he had distanced himself from his only son and sent him away to COMPNOR, where Max wouldn't have to be witness to the boy's grief. His own had been more than he could handle. Zevulon's added on top of it would have undone him.

It had been easy to rationalize that it was time for Zevulon to get started with his own military life and service. It had never once been a question in Max's mind whether or not Zevulon would join. Of course he would. It only seemed natural that the son would follow in the footsteps of the father.

And CompForce would have been good for him. Direction. Discipline. A distraction from his grief.

A chance to stretch his legs and grow up as a man.

Max hadn't expected Zevulon to disagree. And if he had, he would have still expected his son to trust that his father knew better than him. Instead of respect, he'd gotten a surprising amount of pushback and the topic had been the start of many harsh arguments between them.

In the end, Zevulon had gone on to COMPNOR and instead of sucking it up… he'd done the exact opposite.

He had left.

He had defected.

Thrown away everything that was important like a small child throwing a tantrum and had run off to join a damned terrorist organization. Humiliating his father in the process.

Zevulon had gone and joined up with the same kind of people that Max had worked against his entire career - the same people who would see the end of the safety and security that the Empire gave them. It had been the biggest slap in the face he'd ever known. In his own fit of rage, he'd promptly disowned his son for the betrayal, for the… the cowardice, and utter weakness of mind. Max had alternated between spitting that he had no son when the topic of him came up, or else cursing Zevulon out entirely for being a complete and utter disappointment.

That was what a good, loyal Imperial citizen did. It was what a good father did - stand by his decisions. Hard decisions, but decisions he'd made on behalf of his family.

He wasn't going to relent and thereby imply some kind of fault on his part. He wasn't going to apologize for all the things he'd done to keep his family safe and secure. It was asinine and utterly disrespectful for him to even consider. For Zevulon to even want him to do that.

Max would have been happy to die on that hill and if he never saw Zevulon again, then so be it.

But then… then reality caught up to him. The consequences of Zevulon's actions and the inevitable path it would lead him to; he couldn't escape it. The only way it would end was in death. The memory of his wife and how much he had loved her and how angry she would have been if he'd ever allowed their son to die the ignominious death of a traitor, tormented him.

Even with that pressing on his mind… he'd still had some reservations. Of course he did. The fact remained that it was Zevulon who had burned the bridge between them, not him.

The rest of his reservations about the matter had all gone out the damn window when Luke fucking Skywalker appeared on the scene, being introduced as Lord Vader's son, of all people.

What was he supposed to do in the face of that?

The Rebel Alliance's actual posterboy. The person responsible for some of the Empire's biggest losses, in terms of life, infrastructure, and credits.

If there had been one person who Max thought for sure would have agreed with the decision and position he'd taken against Zevulon… the Empire's Enforcer was certainly it. Not that he'd ever have thought to ask- that wasn't a conversation one simply started with the Supreme Commander. But Lord Vader had been a force within the Empire since its inception. He had lived for it, fought for it, done as much to shape it through military might as the Emperor had the political sphere. If anyone would take the stance that a child who had literally rebelled was to be disowned and disavowed, and the parent that did it justified in doing so, it would be Lord Vader.

But it wasn't.

Instead of disowning the son that had actively stood against everything he had worked for… Vader had embraced him.

A rebel.

And suddenly the safety and security of the Empire was no longer his first priority.

Hell, it wasn't even second or third on the list of things Lord Vader seemed to consider important. Skywalker was being treated as a beloved heir that could do no wrong. Politics and differences of opinion forgiven, if not forgotten. And if the plans to commit treason against the Emperor had not been enacted for the sole purpose of protecting the boy, Max would eat his hat.

...

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was more to it than that. But Max wasn't a fool. People didn't just drop their political stances on a whim. If one's family was the determining factor of how political opinions were fixed, then his own would still be intact. He had no doubts that Skywalker was still very much a rebel, no matter how hard it was pushed among the crew that he was a defector.

And if that was the case... Max couldn't understand why Skywalker's political differences and background weren't preventing him from accepting Darth Vader as his father. It was true that the Empire discouraged disagreements in political thought to the point that, yes, parents disowning their children occurred. Max was not the first. He would not be the last. But the sentiment went both ways. Children also disowned their parents, in turn. Zevulon...

Except, it seemed, for the galaxy's two most unlikely people. It was as if everything that was established as the proper - nay, the only- course of action for anyone having or holding to such extreme differences... just went away for them. Instead, Skywalker was trying to make it work as much as Lord Vader seemed to be. Genuinely.

It wasn't fair.

And it hurt. All the time. To have to stand around and watch the two of them grow closer to each other while his own son was somewhere out in the galaxy, getting into who knew what kind of danger. …and Max had no idea whether or not he'd ever have the chance to see him again.

How had Max done all of it wrong? How had he done everything for his family and he'd still lost both of them in the end? Just for someone else to gain a family in spite of the same differences that had driven his apart?

Had his priorities really been that skewed?

…

A commotion taking place outside his recovery room interrupted his thoughts and when it didn't dissipate after thirty seconds or so, Max slid off of the recovery bed and walked across the room to ease the door open out of both irritation and curiosity.

His room was up near the front - his concern about having a heart attack meant that they hadn't wasted much time and had grabbed the first available room. The infirmaries on the Executor were the most advanced in the Fleet's. Due to the large number of crew members that were required to operate and maintain the flag ship, they had the capacity to hold and assist several hundred, if not several thousand people at a time. In truth, Max had never seen the full extent of them, and thankfully, they had never been used to their full capacity.

This bay was largely staffed by sentients but also had trained medical droids which could assist in more complicated procedures that might require an especially steady hand or the ability to endure particularly long surgeries. The droids were, surprisingly, the more bearable of the two options. In Max's personal experience, doctors and medics often had a god-complex that made them particularly exasperating to deal with.

He glanced around to find the source of the commotion and… it was Skywalker. Accompanied by some of his regular security detail.

Of course, of course it would be him.

It would appear that religious fanatics were right, after all - the devil was everywhere.

The boy wasn't even dressed properly - just a pair of sweatpants and a random t-shirt that was entirely inappropriate for being out in public. Time of day notwithstanding. It was the first time Max had seen the kid so completely informal since the first day of his arrival.

Since then, Lord Vader's son had always presented himself as a calm, well-dressed individual. Polite, respectful, patient, willing to take correction… he seemed like a good kid. The kind of son that every father hoped to have.

It was aggravating. The brat didn't even have the decency of acting like a spoiled child with a wealthy, influential parent. Why couldn't Skywalker have been flawed? Tremendously so, so that Max's anger towards him could have at least been justified? Skywalker didn't respond to the things people said behind his back, when they thought he couldn't hear. He didn't even seem too upset by the fact that he was so unpopular with the crew. He had the audacity to understand their dissatisfaction.

Of course, they had been a lot less inclined to voice those opinions since the assassination attempt had taken place; the security video of what occurred had been sent out to the crew in a mass holomessage. There had literally been nothing else attached. No words of warning. No threats.

Skywalker's deadly skill had spoken for itself.

Likewise, the vengeance that Lord Vader had promised and then dealt out to everyone involved had also spoken. In total, they'd lost roughly seventeen crew members to the whole incident. A loss that had stunned everyone on board. Max had been angry at himself in the aftermath for feeling like the actions that were taken against loyal Imperial's were entirely justified. He… he would have done the same thing if it had been Zevulon.

The shift lead on duty - Doctor Läkare, who had done his best to make Max feel like a moron just an hour or so ago - was currently blocking Skywalker from entering further into the medical bay. The man seemed more stressed than angry - but his tone of voice was entirely inappropriate considering just who he was speaking to.

"Boy, unless you are ill or injured, you have absolutely no business being here and I insist that you leave right now!" Läkare snapped, jabbing his finger into Skywalker's chest. The finger fell away when the security with the boy shifted their blasters into a more ready-to-use position.

"I already told you, I need to see my father - where is he?" Skywalker insisted, that infernal politeness of his clearly the only thing keeping him from pressing forward.

Läkare gave the trooper a disgruntled look but reluctantly backed away while still ensuring that further entry was barred. Breathing out through his nose with some forced level of control, he said, "The Supreme Commander is in a procedure right now and he has no time for you. You cannot be here."

"Well, I have clearance," Skywalker said, frustration finally starting to show. He fumbled, searching his person for a moment as if to try and find his security card but coming up empty. He must have left home in a great hurry to have forgotten that.

"Whether you have clearance or not is irrelevant," Läkare said impatiently, "You will not be permitted to see the Supreme Commander until his procedure is complete and once he is out of recovery." He pointed a finger towards Skywalker's small security detail. "Troopers - get him out of here now."

The expression on Skywalker's face suddenly twisted in anger and instead of retreating, he shoved past Läkare, none too gently and to the doctor's great offense, making his way up the corridor. His guards followed after him, obviously choosing not to take orders from anyone other than the one they were mandated to protect. Max found himself following behind them without meaning to, curious.

"Commander -" Läkare used the title with great disdain, bustling to catch up. "You have no right to be here!"

"I'm his son, I have every right to be here."

For the first time since the boy's arrival, in the months that he'd watched and come to know Skywalker from a distance, Max finally saw the shadow of Lord Vader in him. Others would say they saw it in the tight confines of the hall as the kid proved himself every inch as deadly as his father. But that had been self-defense. There was no drive to any of his actions that did end with the desire for a peaceful solution. There was little in it that Max could call a family resemblance beyond the superficial trappings of a lasersword and the strange power they both wielded.

But it was here, now, as the boy hurried past his room, that Max understood what had been lacking to make the connection.

There was fire in Skywalker's eyes. Steel. A fierce determination to get what he wanted, no matter what it took.

It was almost funny... that it had taken some kind of perceived threat to Lord Vader for Skywalker to finally decide to push his weight around.

Skywalker was here.

He was here for his father.

They were doing more than just making it work, apparently.

Max wondered... privately and selfishly, if he ever had the chance to see his own son again... if maybe... maybe they could...

"Let him go, Doctor," Max ordered, drawing their attention. All eyes turned towards him, seeming surprised by both his presence and interference. He squared his shoulders, using the best 'listen to me' voice that he had. It was a shame that he was in a patient's gown. "If indeed Lord Vader has a problem with his presence later, I will take full responsibility for his admittance."

Skywalker immediately turned his eyes on Doctor Läkare, daring him to say something now.

"You heard him," he said fiercely. "Let me pass."

Luke didn't stop or even think of thanking General Veers for interfering, too distracted by the urgent promptings from the Force. The moment Doctor Lucas or Läkare or whatever the hell his name was relented, Luke was gone. He moved quickly, not caring to notice anything else around him. He only paid attention to the signage.

Surgery was what he was looking for and as soon as he spotted the right indicators, he sped up again, almost but not quite running full tilt. He could hear his security huffing and puffing a little behind him in their attempt to keep up.

Triage.

Sterilization and Pre-prep.

There.

Operating rooms.

He passed by each of them - empty, empty, still empty - not needing to glance in to know if his father was there or not. But the line of rooms was coming up short as the hall reached a T-intersection. So Vader… he had to be here. He had to be because if he wasn't, then Luke had no idea where he was supposed to look.

He reached the intersection and glanced right. That's when he knew he'd found the right room. Not because of any indicator from the Force that he'd found the right place or because of some weird father-son psychic link. It was because the entryway to one particular surgical room was barred by four assassin droids.

Found him.

The four droids turned on him in a swift, deadly movement, raising their weapons, ready to fire. Luke stopped in his tracks, feeling an uncomfortable spike of adrenaline race through his body as he lifted a hand to ward off any forthcoming attack, the other dropping to his lightsaber.

But nothing happened.

Luke hesitated, uncertain as to why - assassin droids usually shot first and asked questions never. Unfortunately, there was nothing to sense in the Force regarding the intentions of a droid. As lifelike as they often were, with unique and entertaining personalities that made them as good of a friend as any sentient individual - they weren't alive.

The four droids glanced between one another, perhaps confused, by their own lack of action. One of them stepped forward, raising its blaster rifle higher and aiming it at him.

One of the clones stepped in front of him then, no doubt intending to defend him with his life.

A warning in the Force had Luke reacting instinctively, pulling the trooper behind him at the same time one of the weapons finally went off. Luke deflected its incoming shot with a quick wave of his hand and the lethal bolt hit the wall with a loud bang. Shouts of alarm from other parts of the medical bay began to filter in almost immediately.

Luke didn't move. He blocked the clones with his own body, waiting for another to fire.

None did.

Once again, the assassin droids seemed frozen and unable to act.

Understanding came to Luke in an instant. It wasn't that they didn't work, it was that they weren't allowed to kill him.

"Don't do that again," Luke ordered, keeping his eyes steadily forward. "Just stay behind me."

He swallowed, trying to catch his breath as he allowed himself to relax a fraction, then approached the droids. "I want to enter," he declared, his words drawing their attention away from the potential threat waiting behind him and back to him. "Let me in."

There was a long pause as the droid seemed to grapple with its own inability to act. Then, the bright red lights that were the droid's eyes narrowed to a thin line and projected outwards, scanning Luke's body from top to bottom. Its eyes returned to normal as the light receded and the scan was completed.

"IDENTIFYING: Subject is LUKE SKYWALKER. Medical records indicate a CPI match of 99.3% to LORD DARTH VADER. CONCLUSION: Biological variant."

"Yes," Luke stressed impatiently, glancing towards the door again. The pain was constant now and he was so damn close. He turned back to the droid. "I am his biological variant. I don't mean Lord Vader any harm. Let me in."

"Negative," the droid spoke emotionlessly. If it had been living, Luke was certain it would have been scowling at him. "DIRECTIVE: Protect LORD DARTH VADER at all costs. RISK FACTOR ASSOCIATED WITH REQUESTED ACTION: Extreme. Subject: LUKE SKYWALKER, you are armed. My programming prohibits me from allowing you further entry."

Luke dropped his hands, fumbling with the lightsaber that he had hastily clipped to his waistband. He didn't hesitate to toss it towards his security. One of them caught it but he didn't spare the time to see who.

"I'm not armed anymore," he insisted quickly, raising his empty hands to prove his point. "Risk factor eliminated, right?"

The assassin droid's eyes narrowed once more. "ALL SENTIENT ENTRY is prohibited per Standard Protocol."

"But did Lord Vader specify me?" Luke insisted. Damn him to hell if he had.

"ANALYZING: PRIORITY COMMANDS: [Sentient Medical Staff PROHIBITED]... [Executor Command Staff PROHIBITED]... [All Crew Members PROHIBITED]... [Sentient Security Staff PROHIBITED]... [Unidentified Intruders PROHIBITED]... [PRIORITY ONE COMMAND FOUND: Individual Subject: LUKE SKYWALKER… DO NOT HARM. PROTECT AT ALL COSTS.]"

The assassin droids looked between one another.

"DATA INTERPRETATION: Subject: LUKE SKYWALKER is an anomaly. Standard Protocol does not apply."

"Individual Entry was not specified."

A second droid stepped forward, repeating the same scan on him that the first one had done. Luke allowed it, though his patience was growing shorter by the second.

"Subject: LUKE SKYWALKER [is] unarmed. RISK FACTOR: Unknown."

"INTERPRETING DATA: [PRIORITY ONE COMMAND: Subject: LUKE SKYWALKER]... [analyzing]... [analyzing]... [analyzing]... CONCLUSION: LORD DARTH VADER does not appear to anticipate MORTAL ELIMINATION from Subject: LUKE SKYWALKER."

There was a pause as the four of them processed that, then the first droid jerked its head towards him once again."It has been decided. Subject: LUKE SKYWALKER… you may enter."

The red light on the door suddenly turned bright green and the sound of several different mechanisms unlocking themselves filled the corridor. There were at least six. When at last it was quiet, the push door creaked and swung open a little. The droid blocking his way stepped to the side.

"...wait for me over there," Luke ordered, directing the comment to his guards as he indicated a spot far enough back not to trigger the assassin droids' combat protocols. His heart was pounding. Then he pushed forward, opening the door and closing it behind him just as fast. The locks immediately reengaged; he knew that they were intended for protection but listening to them seal the room felt more like being trapped. Locked in. Nowhere to escape to.

The immediate entryway was dimly lit by one or two overhead lights and then just a few steps further, it looked as though it opened up to a larger, better lit space. The main part of which was blocked from view by the wall itself. Swallowing thickly, knowing that there was no going back, Luke took the last few steps that were between him and his father.

He turned the corner… and nothing - nothing - could have ever prepared him for the sight that greeted him.

He froze in the doorway, horrorstruck, and felt like he'd been kicked in the chest by a raging bantha.

It was worse…

Worse than anything he could have possibly conceived on his own or in his wildest imaginings.

The main surgical room was brightly lit. The walls a stark, unfeeling bright white color. Medical instruments, that were more reminiscent of torture devices than anything else, were neatly lined up on a metal table. Most of them already had a sheen of blood glittering red and beading like pearls on their sharp edges.

And on the table…

Raw meat restrained in a mocking masquerade of what should have been a man. A person burnt so thoroughly that Luke was halfway certain the organs and skeletal bits he saw in the many, many gaping wounds was not a trick of his own, horrified mind.

His torso - not his arms - no arms, they were gone, cut off, and his legs, no legs, they were gone too - !

Severed, dismembered, nothing but crude, metal prosthetics remaining in their place.

If Luke lived a thousand years, the memory of this moment would remain seared in his mind. For the first time in his life, Luke understood, just a fraction, the anger his father had for Ben. And Luke didn't feel at all guilty for hoping, for one brief moment, that Ben Kenobi was suffering somewhere in whatever hell the galaxy had for men who did this kind of thing to someone they professed to love.

As the assassin droids outside had revealed, there were only medical droids in the room. Cold, unfeeling, impassionate. They were working methodically, unbothered by the scene that was before them. Probably the only beings in the galaxy that could possibly endure looking at what remained of the man that was his father, to operate on him - and not throw up in the process.

And Suns, they were cutting -cutting strips of dead skin off of him. There was blood all over the table and in a slowly growing puddle on the floor. The cell saver used to catch and recycle his blood, to clean it for reintroduction to his body already over-full and no effort made to further keep to sanitary procedures.

The pain that had been bleeding through their bond all morning had reached a crescendo. Luke wanted nothing more than to slam close his shields and hide from it because it was worse - so much worse now that he could see the reason for it. His feet felt too heavy to move. The only sound he could hear was that of his own heart pounding a frantic beat in his ears.

He had gotten here. He had made it.

He had no idea what to do next.

His legs moved him to approach the operating table. Slowly, cautiously. Uncertainty in every step as Luke wished he could turn around and run from this place. But he -

He couldn't.

He had to be here. He had to be here.

It was the only coherent thought in his mind. The only thing keeping him steady as everything that he was now seeing somehow seemed to get worse with every step he took.

There was so little left.

Vader was restrained, armor weave straps stretched across his body at two intervals - the top of his thighs and then across his chest, just below his shoulder joints. His arms - what remained of his arms - were likewise restrained. The image of his father that Luke had come to know and love - the one that had been so big and untouchable -gone forever. What was underneath…

It amounted to a torso and the burnt, stumpy remains of severed limbs.

How could he be Darth Vader…

And also this?

And… his… his face wasn't what Luke had been expecting either.

He had come to know Anakin's face through a few rare pictures that he'd found of him and his mother together in the personal files his father had shared with him. It had been a handsome face. His father had worn his hair long, down to his shoulders and had seemed to favor dark robes. He'd had a scar over one eye and a cheeky smile in those ones where he seemed more relaxed than serious.

This face… it was so very different from the one Luke had been picturing hidden under the mask.

Pale, like a corpse. Bald, with wounds of all sizes marbling his skin. The largest, a gaping thing, wet and red with pus and inflammation, split the top of his head and ended somewhere in the back of his skull. Hidden where his head lay on the table.

Another scar purpled the skin under his left eye. Like bags that came with poor sleep, but stretched and cratered. It could almost be thought a mockery in its exaggeration, if it wasn't clearly so unintentionally placed... and the fact that the man had circles that were darker still. So heavy his eyes seemed to sink into them. Practically drowning in the evidence of more nights spent awake then asleep.

Yellow eyes. Sickly. Bloodshot.

They flickered to Luke as he approached - wild and delirious.

Luke thought he had experienced the full extent of horror that was waiting for him but found himself capable of exploring new depths. Because Vader… his father…

Was still awake.

Luke recoiled. He hadn't quite connected the dots - the signs had all been there, since the moment he had woken up. And maybe he was just guilty of not wanting to acknowledge the awful, gut-wrenching truth about what it all meant - that all the pain and all the fear that was slipping through their bond without reservation - it was because Vader was still awake.

Luke spun, turning on the closest medical droid that was calmly, methodically, and inhumanely using a pair of surgical scissors to cut away more of his father's skin. It, and the other two droids in the room were entirely unbothered by his presence. "Stop -stop, he's still awake!" Luke attempted to order in an authoritative tone, though his voice sounded far away, detached from himself and rather more desperate than he wanted. "He can feel everything that you're doing to him!"

Cutting.

Slicing.

Peeling.

"REPLY: It is orders, sir." The droid responded mildly.

"Damn his orders!" Luke snapped in increasing panic, his eyes turning to meet Vader's once again. They stared back without any recognition in them. "This is torture!"

"REFUSAL: We do not answer to you," the droid said with infuriating calmness. "CLARIFYING INFORMATION: The Emperor alone can command us. These are his orders. We will continue."

A horrid kind of helplessness came over him.

"W-what about painkillers?" he demanded angrily, desperately - like a child, wanting something to be different than it was and having no authority or control to make that change. "Why the hell does he have to be awake for this?"

"REPLY: It is orders, sir."

Blunt.

Emotionless.

Terrifying. The level of malice and cruelty that had to exist inside of a person to give an order like this.

What the hell was Luke here for, if it wasn't to stop this? He couldn't stop it - he didn't have any medical training beyond first aid and field triage - why, why did the Force want him to see this? What was the point? Tears of panic pricked at his eyes for the first time and his hands tangled themselves in his hair.

…

…maybe that was the point.

Maybe he was just supposed to be…

Here.

Because there was no one else.

He was the only one.

He was the only one left who could be here. Who would be.

The only one who still cared enough to be.

…Luke, help me…!

In his vision, his father had called out for him. Because some part of him must have believed that Luke would come.

If he were another man, he might have already succumbed to the urge to be sick at the sight and smell of a living, rotting corpse. If he were an Imperial officer, he might have turned and ran, leaving the body to its fate and hoping that one day the memory would fade from his mind. As another rebel, he might even have seen the remains of a monster and tried to finish him, going so far as to see it as an unjust mercy because what kind of life was this? If he were Palpatine, the bastard, he might have watched his slave suffering... and simply laughed at his torment.

But he was Luke Skywalker.

And the man laying on the table was his father.

Luke would be damned if he turned away and abandoned him now.

He breathed in deeply, feeling a resolve that he'd never known before slowly replace his panic and apprehension.

"You stupid…stupid son of a bitch," Luke whispered, approaching once more, attempting to meet his father's eyes and finding no recognition there. Only a man lost in his suffering. "Why didn't you tell me?"

There was no answer. He didn't expect one. Not with the state Vader was in….

But Vader -his father had to know he wasn't alone. He had to. Because while Luke couldn't stop it, any of it, he could still be here and he would be here and if his father had to be awake and aware of the pain then he damn well would be aware that Luke was there for him, too.

Without further hesitation or thought, he used the Force to shove the droids away from the operating table, stalling their cruel work and giving his father a moment's reprieve, however unlikely it was he'd notice. They beeped in offense and anger for the sudden interruption and trundled back into their places as Luke joined them at the head of the table. He just noticed their instruments beginning to once more cut into Vader's skin as he grasped both sides of his father's head - he shoved them away again, with more force, pushing them into the walls. When he was certain they understood they were to wait, he bowed his own head down until it was almost touching his father's, attempting to block out the reality that was everything else except for himself.

"Look at me," he ordered firmly, fiercely, before his words bled into a pleading litany, "- look at me, I, I'm here - I'm here, Father. It's Luke! I'm here, I heard you and I came, and I'm here -"

Over and over.

He couldn't tell how long it took - whether seconds or minutes or even hours - hell, it could have been a lifetime and Luke wouldn't have known the difference. He only recognized the moment when Vader recognized him in turn. Through the pain and insanity and desperate desire for all of it to just be over - Luke felt it in the Force, through their bond - when Vader's thoughts cleared just enough for him to think Luke is here… my son….

It was a spark of clarity in an otherwise terrible void of darkness. Luke reached for it, desperate not to let it go. When he physically pulled back, Vader was looking at him. Something desperate and wild shone out from his yellow eyes. They seemed to beg for him to leave - to stay, to save him -

He placed a hand cautiously on a relatively safe looking portion of his father's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I - I am here," Luke confirmed, softly, sending his words through their bond. so that he could be certain that they were heard. "Father, I'm here. I know… I know that you didn't want me here… but I am. And I'm not going anywhere."

Luke summoned a stool that had been placed to one side of the room, unnecessary for the droids, and sat down on it without releasing the grip on his father's shoulder or breaking eye contact. They would get through this together.

The droids whirred in agitation to either side, surgical instruments in hand. Still waiting. He hated them. With every fiber of his soul, he hated them and what they were programmed to do. A well of hatred so deep, so dark he finally thought he understood the power - the drive to lash out and destroy and leave nothing but terror and death in his wake - that such emotion could inspire. The satisfaction that would come from indulging it. That could fuel a person for decades. That could create a man like his father.

"Finish it." Luke ordered.

03:55 Hours

Black horse to e8. White pawn to b4. Black pawn to b6. White castle to b1. The game continued at pace. Black pawn to f5. White pawn to f3….

"You have surprised me, admiral." Thrawn said once he had finished his move. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over his knee. "And I am not easily surprised."

Firmus raised an eyebrow, re-moving his pawn to f4 so that it would not be stolen, "Is that because my observations have not been made in error or because you find that the conversation between us has proved more stimulating than you previously supposed that it would be?"

Thrawn moved another pawn to a4 and then offered him a coy smile. "Perhaps we can agree to settle on… 'your reputation appears to have not been unjustly given'?"

"Of the two of us in the room, the only one here who may have had doubts regarding the validity of the accreditations which are associated with my name and reputation was you," Firmus said dismissively. He had never felt the need to preen when a compliment was sent his way; took pride in one, yes, but let it go to his head? Never. It was impolite no matter what the situation was. "However, I acknowledge that a comment like that from someone of your standing is never lightly made and I therefore accept it as the compliment that I believe you intended it as."

The grand admiral tilted his head. "I take it that you are not one to accept idle compliments."

"I prefer criticism, actually. The giver of which is almost always speaking their true mind."

After some deliberation, Firmus moved a different pawn to g3.

"That is a rare attribute in our purview. Most officers, and particularly those of notable rank, would take great offense at the idea of anyone who would do anything other than satisfy their festering ego."

Firmus felt a small smile tug at his lips for the first time.

"In my experience, a man who cannot take correction and who will admit no fault or wrongdoing will eventually suffer a rather humiliating and lackluster death. My predecessor is a fine example of the danger involved with feeding and enabling one's… mm, how did you say it? Festering ego?" he huffed, amused. "I, personally, have never heard anyone mourn his loss."

The grand admiral took the same pawn he'd moved previously and advanced it to a5. After some deliberation, Firmus responded by putting his castle in f6.

"The price of failure can be steep," Thrawn agreed. His red eyes surveyed the board, taking stock of it. "A wise man may deliberate a course of action all his life before he makes a choice; he must weigh the advantages and disadvantages against each other carefully, lest he misstep and bring himself swiftly to ruin."

"And yet, to delay brings about its own consequences. Failure to act is perhaps the greatest failure of them all. When someone is in gross error, is it not the moral obligation of another to try and set that error to right?"

The grand admiral moved his pawn to c5, claiming Firmus' own pawn. It was an acceptable sacrifice, but he would have preferred to have not been the first to lose a piece.

"Once again, admiral, you speak of morals and obligations reminiscent of the propaganda preached by the terrorists whose actions you have recently condemned."

"They would see the end of the Empire entirely," Firmus corrected bluntly, using his pawn in b6 to claim the one that had stolen his own. "While perhaps the ideological foundation upon which my feelings are based may have trace similarities, the root of my desire is that of a stronger, more efficient Empire - one which will not fail or abuse the trust of its citizens. Nor, might I add, the promises which have been made to those outside our borders. It is to correct the course of the government which has begun to stray with alarming swiftness from its intended purpose."

"I can see that your sentiments on the matter are fixed," Thrawn observed, openly studying him once again. He didn't even look down when he moved his horse to b3. "Yet I perceive that you are not a man to commit to action without sufficient cause to believe that you will succeed. The divided mind is a weak mind."

"Yet, through labor and painful effort, we can move on to better things." Firmus countered. "The forethought and effort and people involved with a coup d'etat of such magnitude that this one, presumably, might require, would not be - could not be - insignificant."

Thrawn waved a hand dismissively. "The logistics and math involved with such problems are trivial. They can always be made to look good on flimsi."

"What, then?"

"The issue is not in the numbers. If that were the case, then the rebels would have met their defeat by now, and scurried off back to their holes in the ground with their tails tucked between their legs. Yet here they remain. Defeat after humiliating defeat, the odds of success stacked astronomically high against them, and still… they come back to fight. Again and again."

Firmus listened attentively. Despite his own resolve, he found the words and the way in which the grand admiral spoke them compelling.

"This issue is not the numbers," Thrawn repeated firmly. "The issue in which I might be inclined to judge your chances of success and thereby my willingness to contribute, is found in the matter of resolve, admiral."

Firmus felt his heart skip a beat in his chest.

He recovered quickly and turned his attention to the game once more in order to give himself an acceptable reason to not immediately respond.

They were not dancing a waltz anymore.

Firmus moved his castle to g6 and then cleared his throat. "It was not I that you wished to speak to today."

"No."

"...I see your point," he said slowly before meeting the grand admiral's eyes. "Yet, I fail to see your primary source of concern and how it relates to the Supreme Commander."

A half smile tugged at Thrawn's lips as he moved his bishop to d2. "And here, Admiral Piett, I find my first criticism of you. Shall I speak it plainly?"

Firmus hesitated just long enough to move his horse to f6. "Enlighten me."

"Very well, then," Thrawn seemed to approve. "And humor me for a moment whilst I make my point… but do you know how things like genocides and dictatorships start?"

Firmus raised his eyebrows. "There could be several factors involved; bias, prejudice, long-standing hatred, and discontent."

"Textbook. Do try not to be boring now," the grand admiral chided. "The answer to which I have found most suitable for such circumstances is that genocides, holocausts, and other events involving the extreme loss of life… began first and foremost with an idea. An idea so carefully cultivated and powerful that it supersedes all common rationales.

"An idea can range, of course, according to the end goal one is attempting to achieve. Wealth. Superiority. Fear. Malcontent. Submission. Power," Thrawn moved his king to h1, tapping his fingers against his leg, his eyes seeming to bore deep into Firmus' own. "The point that I am attempting to make is… do you understand the idea behind Darth Vader?"

"I'm not quite sure that I understand."

For the first time, the grand admiral seemed to sigh, taking on the air of a particularly patient superior who was exasperated by the lack of common sense which surrounded him, "What does he do?"

Firmus' first thought was that that was an asinine question… but for the sake of the conversation, "He is the Enforcer," he said simply.

"Against what?"

"Rebellion. Uprisings," Firmus answered, picking up a pawn and turning it over in his fingers for a moment before setting it down in g4, "He protects the Empire."

"Quite the job for one man alone to achieve. And yet, for the last twenty odd years… he has been relatively successful in that endeavor. Certainly his victories have outweighed his failures. He has become a symbol - an icon. Some might even be so bold as to call him the face of the Empire itself. The Imperial Navy, whether they agree with him or not, worship the very ground that he walks on."

"Pray, make your point, sir."

"All these things, Lord Vader has done at the request, and in the service of the Emperor. He has built his reputation to such that only the most desperate of fools would take a chance to stand against him. And they know well enough that to face him personally in battle is to face death," Thrawn set a white pawn down in g4, taking the pawn Firmus had baited him with. "The idea behind him… is for everyone to think that there is no chance of winning and therefore no reason to try."

Firmus felt his brow smooth as understanding came to him. He could see where the grand admiral was going with this.

Thrawn continued, noting the change. "To my knowledge, admiral, Lord Vader has only ever been a loyal servant of the Emperor. I know of no great disputes between them. I have never heard even a whisper of perceived disloyalty. So as it pertains to your coup d'etat, I must ask myself…why? Why now? You have repeatedly used the Death Star as your main point of contention but I can list numerous campaigns and events during the Empire's short history which compel me to believe that Lord Vader himself is not overly concerned about the safety and welfare of other people as they sit in relation to the importance of maintaining the Emperor's seat of power. The timeline of events which I have attempted to trace would suggest that it wasn't the destruction of Alderaan which prompted this… potential… change in loyalty either. And if it was not the deaths of two billion sentients… then what was it?"

"You think me weak-minded?" Firmus asked, his tone cool now as he moved his horse to g4 and took the pawn there. "That I offer my trust blindly?"

"Not in quite so many words," Thrawn denied, considering the board for a moment before he moved his castle to f3. "But I think history has proven that it is easy for men to follow an idea, if and when it may suit them. Especially when the idea has had ample time to sit and marinate in the back of their mind. Lord Vader is powerful, intelligent, successful - he may lack the political finesse required to be viewed by the public as an acceptable successor to the throne," the Chiss paused for a moment, letting the tension build as Firmus moved his own castle to h6. "...but to a military man? To an army - he is the man that you want fighting with you on the battlefield. Has it not been long established that he is the one that will see you through to victory? His name alone strikes terror in the hearts of your enemies and courage in those of your allies. What I am saying, admiral," Thrawn leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table now. "Is that I think you may be guilty of wanting Lord Vader to be the right choice because you know of no other person who could possibly succeed."

Silence fell between them. Heavy. Poignant.

Thrawn's words were not something that he had ever considered before. Inwardly, Firmus felt the stirrings of unease for the first time. He kept his expression neutral, letting the silence remain while he attempted to sort out some of his thoughts. Considering that Thrawn had intended to prompt him towards reflection, he did not think he would mind.

White pawn to h3. Black horse to g6. White king to g1. Black horse to f6. It was true enough that the image of Lord Vader in the eyes of the galaxy had been shaped as much by propaganda as it was by deeds. Outside of the military, especially, as the more fear that the rebels and rebel sympathizers had of him, the less likely they were to strike out with any efficiency.

White bishop to e1. Black horse to h8. White castle to d3. Black horse to f7. Within the military, it could almost be said to be worse. Because not only was there Imperial propaganda pushing his superiority and someone you wanted leading you, not leading the fight against you… there was Lord Vader himself, proving on a regular basis that his reputation was far from exaggerated. It made believing in him, trusting that he will see them through a fight and to victory, very easy to do.

White bishop to f3. Black horse to g5. White queen to e2. Black castle to g6. But that was just it, wasn't it? Lord Vader's reputation was earned. He was capable of impossible things, and powerful, yes, but more than that…more than that, Lord Vader was a competent commanding officer that respected ability over lineage. He expected his men to be competent. His disappointment when they were not was lethal, it was true, but he put more trust in those under his command than most of the Moffs might put in their personal staff. And when Firmus had been approached by Vader... he hadn't, not even for one moment, thought it would fail. Because Lord Vader did not suffer failure.

"You have offered me something to reflect on, grand admiral," Firmus finally acknowledged. "And while perhaps, to your point, my perception of Lord Vader has been… limited… in some regards, the fact remains that I am nevertheless confident in him."

"The idea at work," Thrawn pushed, seeming dissatisfied with his answer.

"No," Firmus denied, the fingers of one hand unconsciously tugging at his collar.

The grand admiral stared at him expressionlessly for a long moment.

"Then your confidence in him is admirable," Thrawn broke the short silence as he moved his king to f1, "But, again, I wonder if you have asked yourself the question of whether or not he will succeed? That, Admiral Piett, is the only question that really matters. Will this man, who has never lifted a finger in protest against the Emperor, actually follow through in the end? What does he have that drives him to ensure that failure is not an option?"

Firmus' first - and only - thought was of Skywalker.

Prior to Skywalker's arrival on the Executor… Thrawn might very well have been correct in all of his observations. Lord Vader had started to put his plans in motion just before Bespin. Firmus had begun contacting the individuals that the Supreme Commander had pre-selected and identified as being useful to them. He had had the time to get everyone on board and committed and then just as quickly, it had almost fallen apart when Lord Vader had returned from Cloud City without Skywalker.

His loss of interest, after all the effort that had been made, was palpable. And alarming, to those people who had been contacted and identified as willing to help. It had taken everything that Firmus had had to maintain confidence in their co-conspirators, who had been deathly afraid that the whole thing had been a ruse meant to identify non-loyal members of the military.

Skywalker had changed that.

While Firmus was in charge of many great aspects of their coup d'etat, Lord Vader was nevertheless fully active in his participation once again. Even more so than previously. Firmus knew and understood that protecting Skywalker was Lord Vader's ultimate goal in all of this. He didn't necessarily understand what the kid needed protecting from - but that was fine. He didn't care about the reason - only that there was one.

The same way that he didn't care that Maximillian Veers had been brought into their plans because he had broken down one night, after months of denying that he even had a child, because he was terrified that Zevulon would get himself killed. The general hadn't been on their list at all - but Firmus had taken advantage of an opportunity, and he had not been disappointed.

Fathers and their sons.

Firmus moved his horse to h3, taking a pawn. Lord Vader had all the motivation that he needed.

"He will succeed." Firmus said, resolute in his answer. "I have no doubt."

Thrawn raised a dark eyebrow and moved his pawn to h3, capturing the horse Firmus had just placed. "Are you certain?"

"I am. In fact, I am staking my life on it," he replied, his bishop moving to h3 and taking the pawn that had just taken his horse.

Thrawn studied the board, expression easing as he took a moment to consider both his move and his words. When he had decided, he moved his king to f2, "Might I ask to that which your confidence is based on?"

"You may," Firmus tilted his head, his horse to g4. "But the answer is not mine to offer."

Bringing the Supreme Commander's son into the conversation was entirely out of the question. His involvement was no one's business and neither did Firmus believe that the addition of one man, Jedi or not, would be enough to sway any opinions in the realm of the Imperial Navy where the question of achievability was concerned.

In fact, Skywalker had not been wrong on the day of his assassination attempt; the Jedi and the Force were not viewed favorably by the Empire. They were an old idea, and it had long been pushed that they were deceptive, manipulative, and that their presence would result in suffering and chaos. Lord Vader's power was acknowledged and respected to some fearful degree, but he also had twenty plus years of success and effectiveness to back him in terms of whether or not he could be considered an asset.

Skywalker had no such reputation. In fact, his involvement with the Rebel Alliance would have helped affirm the rhetoric surrounding the Jedi, and his place in the Empire now would be seen more as a detriment. One, because he was young, relatively inexperienced, and came from a questionable background. Two, because no one in their right mind would put their trust in something that they couldn't see or understand.

It would be the equivalent of asking a life-long atheist to suddenly believe in deity without thought or question.

The less people who knew of Skywalker's involvement, the better off they would all be. Everything would run smoother in the time leading up to the Death Star's completion. There would be plenty of time to address him after the superweapon and the Emperor were finally gone.

And they would be. Soon.

Thrawn did not need to be aware that Skywalker was the determining factor in whether or not Lord Vader had the will, the desire, the passion…to remove the Emperor from his throne. Nor did Firmus have the authority or desire to make him aware. Thrawn had already been given enough to decide his own place on the board when the real game began. If he would be one of the hands deciding the maneuvers… or the one being maneuvered, as he must have just realized he had been.

The grand admiral had only one move he could make. Thrawn's fingers touched his bishop. He either had to play it, and see what happened, or he had to take his hand away and, in doing so, concede.

The grand admiral moved his piece.

Firmus moved his bishop to g4, taking the one Thrawn had just placed, "Checkmate."

There was a moment of rather poignant silence.

The game was over.

Which meant that their conversation had officially come to an end.

Though the expression did not appear on his face, Firmus had the thought that the grand admiral was surprised at how the game had played out. He stared at the board, red eyes moving between the pieces that still remained, as if attempting to trace exactly where he had gone wrong. After a few more seconds, he tipped his king over with a finger and sighed.

"So it seems," Thrawn pushed his chair away from the table, accepting the loss with dignified grace. "I like you, Admiral Piett." he said, rising to his feet. Firmus followed his lead and stood up, offering the Chiss a single nod. "You have given me much to think about. Perhaps we will play again sometime."

"Perhaps we will." Firmus agreed.

"Good day, admiral," the grand admiral dipped his head ever so slightly in turn, a small gesture of respect. Then he turned and left, the door to the conference room closing silently behind him.

Firmus waited a few seconds before he circled around to the other side of the table, looking at the board from Thrawn's position. They had both played well, losing a surprisingly few number of pieces total. Slowly, he picked up the last piece that he had lost.

Firmus closed his fist around the knight and smiled.

04:27 Hours

There was a clock on the wall in the surgical room.

Every minute, every second that ticked by seemed to take a lifetime. Just when Luke needed time to move fast, it slowed to a complete standstill instead.

He could feel everything.

All of it, right alongside his father. It was a cruel mix of his own empathy driving him, depths of compassion and anguish that he hadn't known were possible, and the fact that he wouldn't close their bond. Vader's shields of resolve had crumbled some time ago. It had been shredded in slow, agonizing inches, along with each strip of necrotic flesh that was cut from his body and discarded as waste in a steadily filling bio-containment bin.

Whatever paralytic that had been used to keep his father from lashing out and destroying everything around him wasn't working as intended. Either it was beginning to wear off, or the pain and torment was so intense that Vader's body was trembling in spite of the medication. Ragged gasps of air, consistent enough in effort that Luke was certain they'd be full blown screams, had Vader the capacity, fogged the oxygen mask at regular intervals.

And if it were just that, just the pain, Luke could endure that -would endure it, on his father's behalf. A thousand times over if it were necessary. But it wasn't just pain. It was memories, too. Intertwined with a desperate litany of broken pleas for mercy. For death. Luke knew that Vader was trying, genuinely trying, to remain aware of his son in the midst of his own suffering and somehow keep it all together...

But where his father could triumph on a battlefield, no matter the overwhelming odds... it seemed that in this place and at this time, he had neither the strength or ability to do more than endure.

He surfaced for a moment or two, like a drowning man gasping for the barest gulp of air, before slipping back into the pain induced madness. Everything else gone from his senses except the torment he was forced to suffer. Each time it happened, it became more difficult to bring him back. To remind him he wasn't alone.

Words. Names. Places. Things that made no sense when jumbled together as they were. They all kept bleeding through their bond. A chaotic cluster of thoughts and pictures - hazy things, grainy images Luke could barely make out before they changed and became something or someone else. They seemed to pull Vader down, into his past. Haunting him and taunting him.

Over and over they dragged him away from Luke and it was all he could do to try and offer some comfort. A reminder, whenever his father slipped into full blown panic and terror, that he wasn't alone. That someone was there. That someone was fighting to help him escape the morass he was trapped in.

"It's going to be okay," Luke whispered, closing his eyes tightly for a few moments. He was trying not to watch the 'surgery' as much as possible, lest he destroy the droids in his own anger. His mouth had gone dry a while ago.

A flashing image passed between them. Lava and fire, two blue lightsabers clashing together again and again in a terrible battle. The echoes of old pain.

…I loved you… I loved you… I loved you…

Luke couldn't be certain. Wasn't certain, not entirely.

But the voice sounded like Ben's.

And… he couldn't help but suspect that the memory, in which there was so much pain and anger and torment associated with it… was the last time that anyone had said those words to Vader.

Luke never had. It wasn't… it wasn't how they did things. It was implied between them, not directly said. He hesitated for a moment. He had never actually spoken the words aloud before.

"OBSERVATION: Heart rate is accelerating,"

"What does that mean?" Luke demanded, looking up at the nearest droid as a sudden spike in the Force told him he needed to pay attention.

"REPLY: The Supreme Commander has been experiencing severe tachycardia for over fifteen minutes now. If we continue, he will be at risk of having a heart attack," the droid explained calmly. Luke couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a droid with eyes so empty and hollow. Were all Imperial droids so terribly cold and emotionless, or was it just the ones dedicated to overseeing his father's 'health'? "He is not allowed to die. The Emperor forbids it. We cannot continue with the rest of the debridement surgery today. We will reschedule for next week."

Luke dared to look away and glanced at the rest of his father's destroyed body. "What does that mean? He'll have to come back and do this… do this again?"

"REPLY: Yes. Debridement surgery is a necessary process to keep burn wounds clean, "the droid confirmed, ignorant or uncaring of Luke's rising horror. "Lord Vader's wounds cannot heal. He comes as often as is necessary."

As often as necessary.

The words made Luke feel sick to his stomach.

All the deep, deep scars that covered every inch of his body. How many countless times had Vader endured this hell?

How many times had this been necessary?

How many times had his father begged for death, for mercy, for someone to care and offer the smallest shred of comfort while he endured this torture and there had been no one there to give it?

"If you finished today - when's the soonest that he would have to come back?" Luke demanded.

"REPLY: The Supreme Commander comes as often as necessary."

"But when - " Luke attempted to insist before it hit him that 'as often as necessary' was the best assessment they could give him. As much as they were programmed to keep his father awake and in pain, they were also programmed to ensure his father continued to live. It would happen whenever the program that was monitoring his father's health determined it was time for the surgery - likely based on a variety of factors that had to do with cellular health and necrotic tissue percentages that Luke couldn't begin to understand.

He wanted it to stop.

He couldn't stand the idea of it continuing, of being here and watching this happen for another minute. But he also couldn't stand the idea of his father having to suffer through this again - and sooner rather than later if he left 'early'.

Worse...

Whenever the 'next time' was, Luke had a gut feeling that he wouldn't be able to help. His father would never allow this to happen twice.

It needed to be finished now. Now so that Luke could try and figure something out before it happened again - and have the time to do so.

An idea came to mind. Almost like a thought that wasn't his.

Luke stood up. He could feel blood rushing into his legs. It made his feet feel uncomfortably tingly and he could only guess at how long he had been sitting for. "I want to try something," he said. "Just…" he swallowed thickly as he paced and allowed himself a moment to stretch. "Just give me a minute to figure it out."

Vader's eyes followed him as Luke stepped behind the head of the table once again

"I'm," Luke let out a deep breath, trying to control his thoughts and emotions. "I'm going to put you to sleep, okay? So you won't feel anything and they can finish."

He had never actually tried to put anyone to sleep before but he believed that it was essentially a Force suggestion. That he could do… but only if Vader would let him. His father was so much more powerful than he was - it would take strength to keep him under and ignorant of the pain. If Vader resisted… Luke wasn't certain that he could do it.

Very, very gently, Luke placed both hands on the sides of his father's head once again. He closed his eyes, breathing in slowly and then exhaling. He did it twice more and then opened his eyes, determined.

"Sleep," he commanded, his spine tingling as his power rippled through his body.

Luke felt Vader resist -please, Luke begged, please, please let me do this -and then slowly… slowly, his resistance began to melt away. Vader's yellow eyes fluttered and the monitor's beeping slowed… slowed…. "I love you," Luke finally whispered. "And it's going to be okay."

"OBSERVATION: Heart rate is slowing. Tachycardia ended. Risk of having a heart attack dropping into safe zone. ASSESSMENT: Surgery can continue."

"Sleep." Luke repeated, pushing him further under. "It's going to be okay. Just…sleep."

It was a relief - relief like Luke had never known before in his life - when it all finally came to an end. Luke did his best to ignore most of it, focusing all of his attention and energy into keeping his father asleep and ignorant of the pain. It was hard work - perhaps the hardest thing he had ever had to do.

When the droids had finished with the upper portion of his body, they had turned him over. Every jolt of Vader's body being moved seemed to spark a pain so sharp and terrible that it would drag him back up to the surface in a deranged panic all over again. He would only relent and allow himself to be pushed back under once he recognized Luke was there, still with him.

When it was over and the medical droids began preparing his father for a bacta bath, he sat, still and stunned and feeling like his body was somewhere far away. They didn't have to go far. There was a small tank in a side room Luke had been ignorant of until now. Already prepared and ready. Filled with cheap bacta - the color and lack of consistency were telling. It would be more of a temporary pain reliever than anything else. Like sticking a slappatch on a blaster wound.

He watched as they lifted his father into the vat. Barked at them once or twice when they were not gentle enough though he lacked the energy to do much more. But he could hate them. He could hate how carefully they cleaned the rest of the room, delicate in comparison to their treatment of his father, after Vader was safely tucked away in the bath.

It wouldn't facilitate any real healing, if any was even possible at this point.

He is not allowed to die. The Emperor forbids it.

Luke felt his hands curl into fists.

Never again.

As soon as his father was removed from the tank and put back in his suit, Luke was going to destroy the damn things. Sever their limbs with his lightsaber and crush their parts into nothing. Vader could afford new droids and Luke would make sure that they were programmed differently than these ones.

This would never happen again. He was going to figure something else out. He didn't know what that was just yet… but something.

The Emperor could go to hell.

Luke slowly pulled his power back, finally releasing the hold he'd gained over Vader. He left the impression of 'sleep' lingering in his mind. The part of his father that was aware of Luke's presence didn't reject it and he had the sense that Vader had been tired and weary of life and living for a long, long time. He didn't want to abandon the relief that sleep offered him just yet.

Luke didn't blame him.

He was also certain, more than anything, that Vader would not want him here when he woke again. He would be angry and humiliated when he learned and could more fully understand what he'd been feeling. What Luke had felt and made him feel in return.

There would be words. It was also very likely there would be a fair amount of destruction involved as well.

With the procedure over, Luke finally allowed himself the time to take the room in. He had been so focused on his father, and the slab of metal where he was being tortured, that he really hadn't seen the rest of it. The bacta waiting to one side. The monitors on the wall.

His father's suit.

Laid out in pieces on a long counter where the overhead arms could easily reach and lift each part as it was needed in turn. The back. The chest plate. The shoulder piece.

The mask.

Luke approached and stretched his hands out towards it, hesitating for a moment just before his fingertips brushed the surface. He glanced back at his father, checking to be certain that he was still asleep.

Swallowing, he turned back and picked the mask up. It was heavier than he expected it to be but the weight didn't surprise him either. He stared into the red lenses for a long moment - until today, they had been the only eyes he'd ever known his father by. He had gotten used to them. They were… familiar. No longer alien.

Having seen Vader's real face, shocking though it was… Luke found that he much preferred it to…

To this.

This was a lie. He knew that more than ever now.

It hid the truth from everyone - that Vader wasn't some unfeeling monster. That he wasn't some overpowered superhuman god that couldn't be touched or harmed. The damn thing was a farce - preventing anyone from seeing the man underneath.

A man who had done wrong, yes, but… but a man who had also been a son. A friend. A husband, a father -

It stole his humanity.

Reduced him to nothing except the tool Palpatine had turned him into.

Luke wasn't certain what exactly prompted him to do so but after a few more seconds, he turned the mask around entirely to look at it from the inside.

There were… Suns, there were needles.

Luke suddenly felt cold.

His hands went completely numb and slowly, very slowly, he put the mask back down on the counter with the rest of Vader's mantle.

It wasn't until the door closed behind him and he could hear the sound of the locks reengaging that he realized he must have… left. Walked out. The assassin droids standing guard outside didn't acknowledge him, except to step aside in order to allow him to pass, and then step back into place.

"Commander Skywalker?"

Luke looked up at the sound of his name. It took him a few seconds to register that it was his security - Dogma, West, and Deadshot. They had waited for him the whole time. Though he couldn't see their faces, he could feel their concern. It felt distant. Like an echo from a lifetime that was no longer his and could not be again.

Dogma stepped forward, raising a hand as if to touch him but then changing his mind just as quickly. "Are you okay? Luke?"

No.

He had never been less alright in his life.

"...yeah, I'm okay," he lied, the words sliding out of him by rote politeness. He wasn't okay, but they could do nothing to help, so there was no reason to burden their souls.

"You have blood on you."

"It's not mine." Luke said automatically. Robotically. He looked down at himself. He wasn't drenched in blood. But it was on his hands and a line across his shirt where his chest had pressed against the table's edge. "It's not mine," he repeated.

There was a long pause. He felt Dogma struggle to try and find the words to say - comfort to offer - but whatever the clone saw on his face, he must have realized that none of it would be enough.

"Commander, you should clean up before we leave. Take a break." Dogma said instead.

Luke glanced at him and then at the door leading to his father. After a few seconds, he nodded and turned away. His chest felt tight and he could feel his breathing growing more and more erratic. Whatever calm exterior he'd been able to maintain for the last few hours was quickly going away now that he didn't need it and a delayed panic was replacing it.

Luke avoided looking anyone he came across in the eyes as he walked, certain that all of the emotions he was feeling was perfectly evident on his face, searching for somewhere to go and be alone. Home was too far away. Not with how quickly it felt like he was unraveling. His hand - the real one - felt almost completely numb. Luke passed a few empty rooms but they were too close to the front of the med bay. He wanted - no, he needed - privacy. He kept going, searching for refuge.

It was quieter in the back, less life to feel pressing in on him.

There.

A fresher.

Luke pushed the door open and immediately locked it behind him. It was a larger fresher, with a number of stalls that were all empty. He felt his whole body shaking and the nauseous feeling in his stomach grew more and more intense. He lunged for the nearest stall, pushing the door opening and dropping to his knees at the base of the toilet just as the contents of his stomach came up his throat.

Oh, Suns.

Oh, Force.

The tears that he'd held back during his father's surgery quickly slipped from the corner of his eyes as he gagged so hard at the same time that a desperate sob escaped his mouth. Luke shakily propped himself up on the toilet seat with one arm, knowing that he wasn't done yet, his fingers tangling themselves in his hair.

Oh, Suns.

That stupid, stupid, lying son of a bitch, Luke thought wildly. All of the need to be strong and present and able to endure what he witnessed was gone. Replaced by grief and anger and liar, Liar, LIAR.

Vader should have said something.

He should have told Luke the truth - he should have, he should have….

Luke threw up again, the force of it making him feel lightheaded. For a few moments, he was afraid he would pass out entirely. He didn't though, and some small part of him remembered that it was still early in the morning. He hadn't eaten today and once his stomach ran out of bile, it would resort to pathetic dry heaving.

But what he'd seen and witnessed kept flashing in his mind's eye.

His father, limbless, and burnt. So horrifically that Luke would have believed it was possible to still be living had his father not stubbornly done so for - Suns and Stars for twenty years. Dead skin on a living body. Blood and pus… oozing out of sores kept open so often and so long they may not be capable of healing. The metal mounts that had been surgically added to his body, sticking out from his torso like grotesque rebar beams just to support the weight of his suit.

Those medical droids peeling Vader's decaying skin off of what little remained of his body. None of them had any idea how badly Luke had wanted to rip them all to pieces for the pain that they had caused his father.

The fucking needles that held the mask in place.

Those needles would haunt him for the rest of his life. Tears streamed down his face at the thought of them, his whole body shaking from the force of his sobs.

Luke hated himself for having sat there as long as he had, letting it go on, before he thought of trying to put his father under. Before he thought of doing more than just being there. Before he thought of attempting to spare him the agony.

No one deserved to experience that level of torture.

No matter what they had done -no one deserved that. Not Vader, not Tarkin, maybe not even the Emperor himself.

It took some time - and Luke didn't know how long nor did he care beyond the fact that his father hadn't woken yet - before he was confident that he wouldn't throw up again. He pushed himself backwards, out of the stall, and pressed himself against the fresher wall that met him. He took a deep breath as he pulled his knees in to his chest.

All those faint echoing memories that had been unknowingly shared between them. They had branded themselves on his psych - he felt he could remember each and every horrible detail that had happened like they were his own.

Vader, being… being made. Altered, destroyed, torn apart, rebuilt.

The desperation and suffering Anakin had felt, the terror as his vision was veiled in red… the loneliness….

Padme, help me!

Luke had never experienced anything so terrible.

Force, how had he not known it was so bad? How could he have been so oblivious to that level of suffering? Vader had told him that he needed help in killing the Emperor. Why the hell hadn't he told Luke that things were this bad? Why hadn't he made some kind of effort to fix this?

With all the power and credits that he had, surely there must be something that he could have done to make it even a little more bearable?

…

Why hadn't he tried?

Suns, why hadn't he tried to do something more than just lay down and accept this?

The question… and the answer to his question… haunted him with yellow eyes and a sound like the swish of cloth in a quiet room, whispers of a voice that had nothing but evil and lies to speak. Taunted him with a cackling laugh from a dark and twisted path that his father had chosen when he had once faced the choice at the crossroads.

His chest grew tighter and tighter, his breathing short and ragged. Certain that no one was around to witness him break, Luke buried his face in his arms and began to sob all over again.

06:48 Hours

Nelona 24th, Galactic Standard Time

Tantive IV, Personal Starship of General Leia Organa

Leia Organa paused, her fingers stilling in the act of unbraiding her hair for bed. She felt her brow furrow as a familiar… and yet unfamiliar sense of pain and heartache flickered across her mind. It was brief, like a whispering echo from somewhere far, far away… but the emotion was intense enough for her eyes to well up with tears all on their own.

It felt like there was a knife lodged in her heart, twisting itself around cruelly and making it difficult to breathe. She lifted a hand, pressing it against her breasts in a vain attempt to alleviate the sensation, and resisting the overwhelming urge to cry.

She'd felt pain akin to this before - when she'd lost her parents and her planet. It wasn't something easily forgotten. It was a devastating mixture of grief and guilt, anger and frustration, loss… and love. Love that ran so deep and was so desperately powerful that it was a torment all on its own to actually acknowledge - it was as painful as any physical wound she'd ever known.

Leia didn't know what had happened and she didn't really know how she knew either… but she knew that wherever he was… Luke was suffering terribly.

A/N I apologize for nothing.

Some facts, for those who might be interested:

Conference Room #2381, where Piett meets Grand Admiral Thrawn - 2381 is the US Code in Federal Law for treason.

Thrawn and Piett played a real chess game that occurred on April 8th, 1970 between two grandmasters. - Viktor Korchnoi vs. Robert James Fischer

In the old Legends canon, Vader's mask was partly held in place by needles that were literally inserted into his face.

Galactic Standard Time: Luke is experiencing the events in the MORNING. My theory is that Vader and the rest of the Death Squadron's time is correlating with that of Coruscant, despite not being there physically. But Leia, who is in a completely different sector of the galaxy, at the same time, is going to bed. I did NOT make a mistake there.

Thanks for reading.