Post by Zyobot on Oct 12, 2018 21:33:33 GMT
Prologue
Darth Vader beheld the spectacle unfolding over Endor. X-Wings blown to bits by endless TIE Fighter swarms. Mon Cala cruisers scorched and burned, their hulls eaten away by the emerald fire of approaching Star Destroyers. What few enemy ships remained, for all their ducking, weaving and success in taking some Imperials with them, had backed themselves into a corner from which no one saw escape. The Rebellion was on life support now, desperate to stop its excruciating, gunpoint-enforced march towards the doors of death. But the demented cackles echoing through the chamber ruined it for him.
“Is it not glorious, Lord Vader? A band of ragtag fools thought to resist me, their ruler, their master, the Dark Lord of the Sith,” the Emperor drawled, sulfuric eyes twinkling with twisted delight.
Vader stood silently, save for the wheezy, mechanical breathing of his respirator. Raising an eyebrow at his unresponsive apprentice, the elder darksider continued. “To think that a 10,000-strong Order of Jedi walked into my trap. That countless trillions believed my lies, my scapegoats, my persona as the friendly senator of Naboo,” he ranted, channeling the voice of Palpatine on that last line in a sarcastic, mocking tone.
Again, Vader said nothing. He loathed to admit it, but he missed the days where he knew the Dark Lord as the Galactic Chancellor, the for-once pleasant politician who welcomed young Anakin into his office, poured him coffee, and let him rant on and on about secret and turmoil without fear of scorn or judgment. He was the acquaintance—and dare he say, friend—who young Anakin could always come to and find a personal fan to praise him, a shoulder to cry on, and a father figure that offered consolation and advice more helpful than whatever the Jedi, in their inflexibility and dogmatic indifference, had provided.
Even now, his blood boiled at the mere thought. Being cooped up in that Temple, behind his fellow Younglings who showboated their training, nicknamed him 'Little Orphan Ani' and otherwise tormented him, and made to kowtow to older Jedi—many of whom were 18-year-olds, for kriff’s sakes!—that expected unquestioning submission, and winding up reprimanded, even punished for mere frustration or disagreement with the status quo, young Anakin felt alienated, lost in a world that he one day aspired to call his. He felt deceived, betrayed even, and subsequently ensnared in a club, better yet a dictatorship that he unbelievably dreamt to be part of. Apparently, the wishes of a humble slave were too tall an order for all-powerful Fate, which went out of its way to screw over his mother, his marriage and everything that he loved, one way or another.
When the Sith Lord finally came knocking, marketing himself as the twenty-something Knight’s one-and-only antidote to his inner turmoil, the impending death of his wife, and the horrors of the Clone Wars, Anakin snapped. Perhaps that’s why he executed Operation: Knightfall with such genuine rancor that separated him from Maul, and zeal and passion that distinguished him from Tyranus. He had grown to hate his life so much that when told to scorch the earth, he dumped oil into the fire and never stopped pouring. He hated everything, but his beloved Padme, and the dead alter ego of who he now knew to be the worst man in the Galaxy.
“It feels almost as if he made my life Hell,” Vader thought, careful not to let his gloating Master ‘overhear’ him. But the elder darksider seemed too busy to pay his apprentice with much attention. Though his dramatic revel got aggravating rather quickly, especially when accompanied by that crepitating laughter.
“It was I who orchestrated the demise of our ancient enemy, I who brought the decaying Republic down with them. And what I have built—the first empire to span the galaxy in millennia—shall reign for 10,000 years! Yes, I am, truly, the Sith’ari, through and through.”
“Couldn’t concur more on that last part,” Vader snorted silently. “The galaxy knows all about ‘your’ achievements. You still required the help of millions to accomplish the Grand Plan. Namely myself.”
He suppressed a sigh as the Emperor continued the latest in his line of overdone monologues. Apparently, the old coot never got over the Declaration of a New Order speech that he gave two decades ago, to a Senate that he made applaud through sheer mind trick abilities. His Master demonstrated a consistent need to run his mouth at an apprentice who already suffered enough ever since, not to mention take credit for every little thing that brought the Siths’ goals to fruition. Vader long stood by the claim that life in an armored coffin and indefinite servitude to the man who ruined him was the worst fate imaginable.
“Amazing,” the cyborg told himself then, “every word of what you just said was wrong.”
“But nonetheless, the Empire has much work to do,” his Master croaked, snapping Vader out of his reverie. In textbook apprentice-to-master fashion, the cyborg bowed on one knee before the elder Force-user, awaiting the orders that he anticipated were coming.
“What is thy bidding, my Master?” Vader recited, bass synthesizer rumbling throughout the chamber. To his surprise, the Emperor waved away the inquiry. “Your assistance won’t be necessary this time, my friend. Either way, however, you must know what I am about to tell you.”
Vader didn’t hear the word rise anywhere in that statement, keeping still in a lasting genuflection. What he did detect was something off. The casual listener may not have realized it (Vader never fathomed why not), but whatever his Master uttered could mean that someone was about to die. The poisoning of a senator, the removal of long-time officials from their positions, the assassination of an admiral who proved too cunning or ambitious, even the culling of an entire population might all be traced back to a word, a pause, a subtle fist-clench or other euphemism that the Emperor had disguised as mere emphasis or gesture. In this case, the sudden lack thereof nearly turned Vader’s blood into ice. He understood that nine times out of ten, the fates of those never heard from again were no accident. Paranoia was more than warranted in—as well as out of—the presence of the most powerful Sith Lord in recent history. For many, it boiled down to the only way of surviving him.
“For years, this Rebellion,” the Emperor began without attempting to hide his distaste, “has afflicted the Galaxy from end to end. And the fires will certainly not end here, let alone throughout the Empire. You see, when the spark has already been set, those who seek to extinguish what it escalates into must endure the full might of the universe.”
Vader felt a tremor in the Force, but kept quiet. Interrupting his Master carried the gravest of consequences. And now, in the elder Sith’s displeased state, was as bad a time as any to blurt. He witnessed objecting politicians shot and protesting officers suffocated, and not just from himself. Few got away with slighting the autocrat who ruled most of known civilization. Vader, sadly, was not among those few. Nor did he have the means to escape this obnoxious lecture.
“Artist and writer alike create pieces and posters glorifying liberty, and bashing dictatorship in clear reference to the present. Hackers and slicers pollute a still-yet-to-be-purified HoloNet, lurking in its darkest corners, defaming Imperial authority and spreading propaganda to the masses. Insurgents launch attacks on our offices and facilities, adding insult to injury with their insolent graffiti. Trillions now chant the forbidden slogans promoting democracy, staging demonstration after demonstration, even daring to bear arms while doing so,” the Emperor sneered, “and the Galaxy glorifies them for that. I have spoiled them so, Lord Vader. They know not of how their forefathers had toiled and suffered to build such a providing existence for them. If the sheer scale and carnage of the Clone Wars cannot sway their thinking, then perhaps nothing can. And you are very much to blame for this.”
"There it is," Vader mused, "that’s where you look for scapegoats, claiming that it’s always someone else’s fault that you failed. Care to provide an example, dear Master?"
“Once, I marveled at the endless potential that you possessed as Anakin Skywalker. I read report after report of your victories against the Separatists, your equal footing with Ventress and Tyranus, and your epithet as the ‘Hero With No Fear’. My wish for the perfect apprentice proved flawed, however, when you nearly got yourself killed on Mustafar.”
The Emperor swiveled on his throne to face Vader directly, a scowl plastered to his face as he resumed the tirade. “I was forced to rebuild you, spend thousands of credits to salvage a broken toy and hope that it wound up half-useful in the end. That was your first failure, and by no means the last.”
The Dark Lord kept at his diatribe, unaware that his erstwhile apprentice was now running through the possible outcomes of the situation. “For your many successes as my chief enforcer, I’ve witnessed equal, shall we say, disappointments. You attacked me mere moments after I brought you back from the brink, unable to defend yourself and soon at my mercy. For every Jedi that you cut down, several escaped and evaded capture. Let us not forget when you trained that Galen Marek boy behind my back in hopes of overthrowing me, and that you tried again by cloning him. When sent to capture young Skywalker, you let him plummet into the depths below Cloud City. Frankly, it’s miraculous that he has survived up to this point, and even more so that you have.”
The Emperor’s eyes bored into Vader’s helmet from atop the chamber’s staircase, golden orbs smoldering with building fury. “Young Skywalker—your son—shows much promise. Far more than you.”
Vader’s head lifted questioningly, only to find his Master’s mood…disturbingly different. A grin was making its way onto the old man’s face, his eyes once again twinkling.
“You see, Lord Vader, the Empire is akin to a cosmos-sized machine. It requires ceaseless maintenance, thorough oiling and replacement of broken or blunted components to work properly. To make the most of its service, it must always ready itself for this inevitability, otherwise it risks leaking, rust and internal breakdown that goes unaddressed; even worse, setbacks that go unnoticed altogether.”
At this point, the Emperor lifted himself from the throne with mock strain, his shaking arms and sweaty palms that used the chair for support but an illusion that his apprentice easily saw through. An average observer would believe that the 88-year-old darksider struggled with even the most mundane daily activities, standing up and walking the most obvious among them. This naivety got people killed; Vader knew firsthand, and now saw less and less reason to ignore the bottomless pit in his stomach.
“The countless trillions across the Galaxy,” his Master motioned to the window of pivoting starfighters and clashing capital ships behind him, “are the machine’s cogs. They are vital to keeping the machine running, every single one. For any one, two, three or more to function out of turn means one of two things: they either require prompt and permanent correction, or removal and subsequent replacement. The needs of the machine outweigh the freedom of its parts.”
The Emperor started to shuffle down the staircase, each step indicated by an echoing metallic clank. For Vader, his Master’s descent inspired dread; something bad was about to happen. The cyborg’s hand, with the attached arm still resting on his thigh as he knelt, quietly called for his lightsaber, still nestled at his side.
“As perhaps the second most important cog in the machine, I hoped that you would be the perfect apprentice, the ultimate disciple.” The Dark Lord maintained his diatribe, with the now-clear intent of delivering the grand finale. It was one that Vader would regret ever witnessing.
“But look at you now. You kneel before me as more mechanical than organic, with your connection to the Force crippled, and your aforementioned failures proof of the point that I make here. You act like a broken part that I waited so long to replace, for fear of losing the best out of my narrow, and mediocre set of options. Young Skywalker is not among them, for he stands head and shoulders above every candidate—including you.”
“Come on,” Vader urged his quivering lightsaber with outstretched fingers. In a matter of moments, his Master would attempt to kill him. But not yet; the cyborg’s timing needed to be absolutely perfect in order to stand against the upcoming onslaught.
“Do not mistake me, my apprentice, I understand that giving up your position will be difficult, to say the least,” the Emperor assured him with false sympathy, “but the complete fulfillment of the Grand Plan demands that I find an another solution. Now that I have found one, your services are no longer needed.”
The Dark Lord stopped short of the floor, raising his hands, one above the other, as his fingers stretched out towards the still-kneeling Vader. “Now then, Skywalker,” he paused, “You will die.”
PWAAASH! The crimson lightsaber activated, just in time to catch the incoming barrage of Force Lightning. Vader’s quaking arms and planted legs braced to endure the surge of ultraviolet death. The bolts that bounced off his shaking blade collided with the rest of the chamber; sparks emitted from damaged sections of the floor and walls, which multiplied in number as the Emperor ramped up his assault. Computers and electronic displays shorted out, defaced and rendered irreparable by the raging lightning. The entire room trembled as the Dark Lord of the Sith unleashed his electrical broadside upon his apprentice, who was evidently losing.
Standing his ground in the eye of the storm nonetheless, Vader’s prosthetics began to convulse, and his blade to lose control in increasingly shaky hands and spasm-wracked fingers. His rectangular chest panel hissed and whined in damaged aggravation, while the sound of squeaky wheezing overlapped with the signature mechanical breathing, before completely replacing it as panic consumed the outmatched apprentice. The lightning was bypassing Vader’s defenses. As he grunted and strained to endure a combination of ceaseless onslaught and maddened cackling from the Emperor, a voice tugged at the back of Vader's hysterical mind.
"Whyyyy doooo youuuu struggle?" the almost wind-like voice drawled out, enunciating each syllable in a tone that piqued some of the cyborg's attention, currently concentrated on mere survival instead of searching for the source of this unknowable utterance. "For years you have served the man who ruined. Your. Life. Who pretended to befriend you from day one. Who used you to destroy democracy from inside out. Who deliberately designed the bloodiest war in thousands of years, and at its end turned youuuu into his slaaaave."
Without warning, Vader felt something rush through his exhausted arms and fingers, which reestablished a grip on his saber and re-braced it in front of his chest. His planted legs, feet once dug into the floor and coerced further and further backwards, stomped forward in lunges. Overpowering rage engulfed the cyborg’s mind as he zoomed in on a new objective: kill Sidious.
"You are the Chooosen Oooone,” the voice bellowed at him, “and you must fulfill that role now!"
Vader strained to inch his blade any further as it hovered mere centimeters over his target's chest. In fact, the cyborg's entire body, an engine of energized rage mere seconds ago, hung suspended in paralysis; only his wider-than-saucers eyes were active, and they stared in horror at the face of unscathed Emperor Palpatine.
"Fool," the elder Sith sneered through decayed yellow teeth, “did you truly believe that a mere leap could kill me? You’re even more useless than I surmised.”
The Emperor raised one arm from his throne, clenching his fist in telekinetic deactivation of Vader’s lightsaber, then relaxing his would-be-killer’s fingers before the hilt dropped to the floor with an unceremonious clank.
“Perhaps after my initial barrage of lightning, I would’ve relented and kept you as a court jester of sorts,” Palpatine continued, sulfuric orbs burning with menace and off-white visage contorted in anger. “But your attempted resistance proves that I cannot allow you to live, triply so since I have found a replacement. Young Skywalker shall serve especially well. And he, like his father before him, will. Be. Mine.”
Those were the final words from Sidious’s mouth before he unleashed a second torrent of lightning, fresh streaks of death enveloping the exposed cyborg in supreme agony. Ultraviolet bolts danced upon Vader’s writhing frame from head to toe, deeply scarring and even partially melting the already-dilapidated armor. Electromechanical components fried and short-circuited inside and out, notably the prosthetics that oscillated uncontrollably as the barrage intensified to ever-deadlier levels. The cyborg’s ravaged respirator let loose one last, excruciated scream of suffering and fury, before going silent as the Emperor finally hurled him through the air and straight into the Death Star II’s shaft. A bright blue explosion of Dark Side energy signaled the completion of his fall.
Darth Vader—former slave, Chosen One, and Dark Lord of the Sith—was dead. But that was not the last of what the galaxy would see of him...
Author's Note
As you can see, I've finally gotten around to publishing something other than a thread or post in one this time. Although the idea lingered for months now, I only completed the first chapter tonight after letting what I initially had sit for several weeks.
My decision to put the result in the Writer's Forum primarily serves to test out whether I should continue TTL or not; I'd have the chance to get feedback no matter where I inserted it. But feel free to share your thoughts, especially if you believe that I ought to write more.
Thank you for reading and for your advice in advance,
Zyobot
