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radioactivepeasant · 4 years

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Fic Prompts: Revenge of the Star Wars Wednesday

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the dashboard... (It’s an entire chapter of the same au as This Free Day Thursday I did a ways back, where a splinter cell of the Rebellion hands Luke over to Vader in a deal with the devil. The context: Vader got called away before getting a chance to tell Luke what was going on, and had to leave the poor guy in his hyperbaric egg chamber of doom. Which is air conditioned all to heck because that suit gets toasty. Unfortunately, Luke is from a very warm climate, and high powered air conditioning does not agree with him. At all. He’s having a bad day by the time Vader gets back and Many Blankets are required.)

Luke dreamed of falling.

"Alright, Skywalker. This is your stop."

He saw Leia screaming.

"You're wrong! You're wrong!"

She was calling for him. He knew that she was.

"I'm here!" He tried to call back to her, "I'm here, Leia! Help me!"

But the wind scattered his words, and he fell.

He fell past Leia's horrified face, towards a range of mountains. Faces he might have recognized formed and disintegrated in the snow around him, and the wicked looking peak directly below.

With a choked cry, Luke flailed his arms and met with stiff resistance. Well. More soft than stiff. And heavy. Very heavy. Slowly, by degrees, Luke became aware of his surroundings. He could barely move. Something was holding him down on a-

A bed.

He was on a bed.

On a Star Destroyer.

Everything came back to Luke in a rush. Kobyvern. The handoff. The cell. The cold.

And Vader.

Luke opened his eyes. He didn't hear the respirator, but the sense of foreboding looming over him suggested that the dark lord was somewhere near. It was imperative that Luke not be so...so vulnerable when he returned.

Why couldn't he move?! Had he been strapped down? Panic flooded Luke's veins.

No no no, take it slow, Skywalker! Breathe in- breathe out.

When his heart had resumed a slightly more normal pace, Luke took a slow breath and tried to sit up.

This turned out to be more difficult than he'd expected. If he craned his neck, he could just make out heavy black cloth beneath the blankets, wound around him and pinning his arms to his sides. Well, that was one way of keeping someone from escaping. Arguably more embarrassing than handcuffs, but also preferable to them.

The amount of effort it took to free just one arm was a thorough enough distraction that Luke didn't hear the door hiss open. He pulled at the cape and blankets, already cursing the cold his free arm hinted at. It was tempting to nestle down into the pile of blankets -- there had to be at least four of them -- and let the warmth drag him back down into sleep. But that would doubtless be akin to trusting the hospitality of a Hutt. You didn't get something for nothing. There was going to be a price to pay for this, and Luke wasn't sure he'd be able to afford it.

Luke tried to push himself up into a sitting position and nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand appeared from his peripheral vision to push him back against the pillows.

"Rest easy, son. You've had a hard day."

Vader had returned.

It was difficult to know what bothered Luke more: the uncharacteristic gentleness in Vader's hands, or that he'd called him son.

Luke recoiled as far from Vader as he could.

It wasn't that far.

"You are not in danger, young one. Be still." Vader held out a placating hand.

His jaw ached from clenching and chattering, but Luke gritted his teeth again nonetheless. "I'm s- s-s s'posed to b-believe that-t-t?"

Ugh. It was still cold outside the blankets.

He did not like that he could actually hear amusement in Vader's voice when the man answered, "If I wished harm to come to you, young one, do you really think you would be here?"

Luke picked at the covers and tried to scowl. But being in close proximity to Darth Vader for an extended period of time didn’t exactly bolster one’s courage. The most he could muster was an anxious frown. Don’t let him get to you. He’s manipulating you. Waiting for you to let your guard down. Then he’ll bring in the torture droid.

“Yeah.” He narrowed his eyes. “D-don’t trus-s-t you.”

Alright, that might’ve been a bit too blunt.

Vader inclined his head -- helmet? How much of that was his head? Did Luke actually want to know? -- and made a sound curiously like a sigh. “That is to be expected. We were not introduced under particularly favorable circumstances.”

Luke stared at him incredulously. Introduced? As if they were diplomats crossing paths at a senator’s ball? Introduced?!

This was the man who just...slaughtered anything and anyone that got in his way. He was there for every horrible thing that happened to Leia. He was the reason Luke was stuck trying to figure out the Force on his own. He was the reason Luke was alone! And here he was, upset that Luke didn’t trust him?

“My medical droid informs me that your core temperature has...improved. But you are still feeling ill effects.” If Vader felt as awkward as he looked, he kept it out of his voice admirably. A little too calmly, he lifted a steaming cup from somewhere behind him and held it out.

Luke shrank back. “I d-don’t want it.”

Vader’s shoulders tensed, just a fraction. “It is not poisoned, young one. Nor does it contain a truth drug, or whatever else outlandish theories you have concocted.”

“You c-could be l-l-lying.”

“I could. But I have no reason to be.”

Luke could think of a few reasons. Pure cruelty came to mind. Or lulling him into a false sense of security. After all the bluster about capturing the pilot who destroyed the Death Star, having a tea party with a dark lord wasn’t really on the agenda.

He jumped when the cup was pressed into his hands.

“You do not have to drink it. But the heat will benefit you.” Vader leaned back into a chair that most certainly had not been there before. “Transitioning from Tatooine to the climate of long-term space travel is...taxing.”

No, transitioning from getting thrown out of a ship to getting locked in the Ice Pod is “taxing”, Luke thought, glaring into the cup.

Whatever liquid was inside, it was dark, and smelled almost earthy. Not caf, some kind of tea, perhaps? The steam curled up to bathe his face, and he could begrudgingly admit that it was doing him a world of good.

“My meditation chamber is not meant to hold such low temperatures for such an extended period of time,” Vader said suddenly. “The General’s summons, I fear, did not give me adequate time to reset the cooling system. You were never meant to experience that.”

Luke didn’t care if it was childish or not. He pulled his knees slowly up to his chest -- fighting through entirely too many blankets -- and rested the cup on them. He refused to look up. He would not make eye contact with his father’s killer.

Actually, where even are his eyes under there?

“D-didn’t exp-p-pect the Empire to ap-p-p-pologize to a p-p-risoner,” he mumbled.

His stammer was decreasing, slowly. He thought a warm drink would certainly help, but he was not brave enough to risk whatever was in that cup.

“I would rather you did not think of yourself as a prisoner, but I understand that your experiences have not given you cause to believe otherwise,” Vader answered. “But you are correct: that was intended to be an apology. I will not allow such a thing to happen again.”

The cup seemed like porcelain. Impossibly delicate. But it held up well under Luke’s grip as it tightened. This was getting ridiculous. The handoff. The fall. The pod. The blankets. The tea.

“Just…”

Vader stilled. He cocked his head, as if listening intently. “Luke?”

It was too much.

He broke.

“Don’t c-c-call me that!”

“It is your name.”

“It’s m-m-my! Name!” Luke’s chest heaved. “You d-d-on’t use it! Stop p-p-pretending! I’m n-n-not going to tell you anyth-th-ing!”

I can’t, I can’t do this, Father. I didn’t want to cry, don’t let me cry!

Vader leaned forward again. “Why do you believe that I am pretending?”

Was he kidding?

Luke finally looked up at him. “Y-you k-kill Jedi,” he spat. “Like you k-killed my father.”

And that was what broke the facade.

“Enough.” Vader reached down and took the tea from Luke.

He set it on the tray and whirled back to face the boy.

“Listen to me,” he growled. “Whatever Kenobi told you, whatever wild fictions he spun about your past, he lied.”

Luke’s shoulders hitched. He pulled back against the wall and turned his face back to his knees. “I d-d-on’t believe you!”

“Look at me!”

Vader took his chin in one hand and pulled it up. “Look at me, Luke. He lied to you. And he lied to me. Why do you think I wear a mask? Do you even know what he did?”

“No no no-” Luke tried to shake his head. “W-why-?”

“Why would he lie to you?” Vader asked angrily. “Why, Luke, would he be so interested in making sure that you believed I killed your father? What did you do on Cymoon, before I knew your name?”

Vader’s anger shook the room, cutting the lights into fragments as shadow overtook them. But somehow, Luke didn’t feel that the anger was directed at him as much as it was at Obi-wan. They really had hated each other, then. But why would Obi-wan lie about his father’s death? He had his lights-

The lightsaber.

Luke’s gut churned.

Vader had his lightsaber now. His father’s lightsaber. And now it was in the possession of the man who had allegedly killed him.

Allegedly.

Allegedly?

Why was he even considering Vader’s words? This was Darth Vader! He was a liar- not this time

He was a monster -- maybe so

“W-what do you want?” Luke’s voice cracked. “I d-d-on’t understand!”

The hand on his chin pulled away without warning. The shadows retreated sullenly to pool around the chair. “I know.”

Vader raised his hand again. He hesitated when Luke flinched, then rested it on the crown of his head. “I know you don’t. Not yet. Use the Force, Luke.”

“What?”

Vader tilted his head back with a gentle push. “I know that you can. Stretch out with your feelings. What did you intend to do on Cymoon?”

It wasn’t enough to simply tell the boy the truth. He needed him to see. He needed him to understand. He was a pawn. They had both been pawns. For a moment he almost wished Kenobi lived, so that he could run him through again.

“What did you int-”

“Kill you!” Luke burst out. It came out with a tiny, exhausted sob. “I w-was going to kill you.”

“Because?”

“B-because you k-killed my-”

“Because you thought that I had killed your father,” Vader interrupted sternly. “Because Obi-wan sent you, untrained, untested, into battle having told you that I was your great enemy in some noble quest to avenge a father you never had the chance to meet.”

“Stop.” Luke didn’t want to hear this. This was a kind of torture after all, wasn’t it? It was emotional. Psychological. But there could be no tactical benefit in telling him these things. Why was Vader telling him these things? Why not just kill him and be done with it?

“Who took you from your mother?” Vader’s earlier question rang in Luke’s ears.

A trickle of sweat dried cold on the back of his neck. What did Darth Vader know about his mother?

Do you really want to pull on that thread, Luke?

“What do you want?” He tried. He tried so hard to keep the tears from coming. But he was tired and afraid, and so, so overwhelmed.

Vader’s hand smoothed his hair, disturbingly gentle. “I want you to understand that you are not alone, Luke. That you were never alone.”

He raised his other hand. Held Luke’s face between them.

“Do you know why Kenobi told you that I had killed your father?”

“Don’t-” Luke whispered brokenly. He couldn’t take it. Not this. Not him.

“Luke. Look at me. What does the Force tell you?”

“I don’t know-” Luke tried to pull away. Please don’t please don’t don’t tell me don’t change things don’t let it all be lies- “I don’t know!”

“I did not kill your father.”

It was said with such an air of finality that it rang through the Force, even with Luke’s muffled attempts to read it.

“No,” he agreed.

His world had a little crack, right at the edge. It was small now, but just the right pressure, and-

“I am your father.”

Crack.

#phew! that was a long one #long post #star wars wednesday #The Handoff au #The Handoff fic #star wars au #good lord that was a whole dang chapter I just threw at y'all #fic prompts #writing prompts #my aus #my fics #darth vader #luke skywalker #dangit vader #that could be a tag on its own lol #local dingus of a sith lord does not know the meaning of Tact or Subtlety

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pineaberry · 5 years

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Fictober: #31

SWTOR

STARRING: Darth Malgus (RETURN OF THE BURNT POTATO!)

This one goes out to @doomhamster and @fluffynexu. I still owe you the rest of this fic, but I hope this will tide you over until I get to it! Also @sunsetofdoom. She’s always down for pron!

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Existence was a cruel, sadistic thing with a twisted sense of humor.

His entire life Malgus had fought for power and control heedless of the consequences. He knew what lay at the core of every sentient being: chaos. Deep down, they were all of them savages and the strongest would rule the weak. War was the perfect model for his philosophy. It was the logical conclusion of everything the Sith represented. To emerge victorious was to hold the chains of fate itself.

Friendships, family... love… he burned them all in the altar of war and cauterized his weaknesses to form a protective callous. After decades in the bloodied forge, he thought himself untouchable. Like the Vitiate of old he saw the rot spreading in the dark halls of the council chambers and vowed to raise a new Empire up from the maggots.

Illum had seemed like child’s play. Unlike Lord Scourge, Darth Marr’s new pet Wrath was young, eager to please, and so helpful it bordered on the naive. His first impression was that she was not worth recruiting. She was a symptom of a greater sickness: the Sith’s waning strength made manifest. He dismissed her as a feeble-minded slip of a girl, prone to manipulation. She had no place in his new Empire save to be used and discarded.

It had been a serious miscalculation on his part.

One of many.

Over the years he had many long hours to contemplate his failure and it all began with that single error. He mistook her smile and amenable nature to be the signs of an idiot. He saw her give her opponents a chance to surrender and thought her soft. He found her wanting and then put her from his mind.

He was too busy claiming his throne; too busy preparing to rule the galaxy to see the warning signs. He ignored her as his allies were decimated; cut down by wheat. Darth Serevin’s death weighed on his mind. While he had believed the wrath to be a flickering shadow, she in turn executed him for his betrayal and kept Talsa-ko’s decapitated head as a trophy. Something about that encounter had ignited the Wrath’s rage and they had paid the price.

He failed to see her splintering his barricades one by one and leaving only corpses behind. He failed to see the Wrath’s wrath.

The irony of it made his lips twist in a self-deprecating smile.

Blinded by his own visions of a throne well within his grasp, he did not act until she stood before him. She had been a strange contradiction of vivid hues and blackened aura. In the end, his own hubris became his undoing. Wasn’t that always the way?

In his defeat, Malgus found a better understanding of what it meant to be in chains. He was not given the dignity of an honorable death. No, he was taken back to Dromund Kaas and dragged into the bowels of the citadel where the council’s butchers awaited.

He learned his lesson there in the darkness amidst a new definition of pain. But even locked away from the stars he could not escape her. The inquisitors spoke in hushed whispers of a Wrath that came thundering down on Makeb and crushed the Hutt and Republic alike. In between his torments, he heard of Rishi and Yavin and Revan. He heard of Marr’s close partnership with her and of Vowrawn’s unlikely ‘friendship’. He heard of an Imperial always dogging her step and her habit of gifting him the severed hands of Sith and diplomats alike that failed to respect his personal space. A blatantly obvious sign that the man was her lover.

He listened and felt the caustic burn of envy.

Perhaps, if he had not been so quick to dismiss her, she might have joined him. Illum would have gone a thousand different ways if he’d had Vowrawn’s silver tongue or Marr’s charisma. It became all the more galling with the fall of Zakuul.

They were more alike than he gave her credit. In a few short years she built her own army and her own loyalists taken from the disillusioned masses. Even the fallen emperor Arcann broke under her grip and came to her on his knees to pledge his allegiance. The throne was as good as hers the moment she reached for it.

It had taken her less than a decade to do what Malgus had planned for a lifetime. It was as though she’d taken a quick glance at his work and then decided she could do it better.

Even her defeat broke differently than his. She still commanded a formidable power. Mere Sith no longer, she was referred to as The Commander and she bowed to no mortal being.

They met again on Ossus, both of them fulfilling the same mission. The difference being, it was her choice to be there. When he stepped out of his living coffin, he expected her mockery and disdain.

Malgus had been completely unprepared for her bright smile and pleasant words. She was as neon hued as ever and greeted him like an old friend instead of a foe she hadn’t quite killed off.

At first he believed she was taking a page out of Vowrawn’s book and hiding her hatred. But the more time he spent with her the more he realized she was genuinely pleased to see him. It occurred to him that the nastiness on Illum had never been personal to her. It was as though she had forgotten all about it.

When Ossus was completed, she praised him and once more left him without a dignified response. Her reasoning was beyond his understanding. What did she hope to achieve?

His thoughts were interrupted when his implants activated. Malgus winced in discomfort. It was time for maintenance on his hardware and he was being summoned.

His body moved of its own accord and he was too weary to fight the programmed obedience. He’d always despised the image of a slave being brutalized and now it seemed he was destined to die in captivity.

Vowrawn had been the first one to ‘visit’ him in his cell. The Pureblood had gleefully noted how they had hunted down his power base as he used medical instruments to forcefully remove Malgus’ cybernetic augments. It was Vowrawn who took away his motor skills and repurposed him with new parts. It was Vowrawn who fashioned his cage and locked him away in a body that no longer listened to him.

It was Vowrawn who made a point to remind him just how low he had fallen with every touch that lingered far too long in between bursts of sheer agony. Vowrawn who reduced him to a cheap whore be it out of spite or boredom.

Marr visited exactly once. Malgus remembered hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by medical tubes as restraints were welded into his skin. Marr’s unreadable mask cloaked his expression, but Malgus could feel the loathing and disgust radiating from him. For a brief moment, Malgus believed Marr would end his existence but the man was never one for mercy. Instead, he ordered the nearest guard to summon Cytharat to the council chambers and was gone without a second glance.

He didn’t know how long he lived in that special type of hell. He was kept alive to serve as an example, as a lesson, as a tool for intimidation.

“This is what happens to traitors.”

“Don’t end up like Malgus.”

“This is your fate if your hubris costs me my victory.”

The days and faces all blurred together. Only his firm grasp of the Force kept him from going insane.

The door automatically closed and locked behind him as he stood defiant as he glared at the medical bed. He had grown to detest the scent of kolto and the cold touch of metal on his skin. Discomfort laced with fear radiated from his form. There was nothing he could do to avoid it; no feasible way to escape his fate.

Acina was the first to realize his potential. Or perhaps Zakuul had simply decimated enough Sith that she was desperate enough to use him. Whatever the reason, it was she who rebuild his limbs and turned him into a weapon. She was not one for finesse and enjoyed letting the droids work on him until he was reduced to screaming in agony.

As his robes and armor fell away, he bore the marks of her handiwork etched crudely into her skin. The pain focused him, it kept his senses keen. Every step, every motion, every breath, felt as though it were cutting into him. To live was a war, and one he constantly won. He had to believe it was so or else he would be driven mad by it.

The last of his armor was cast off and he spared a glance to his captor. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the commander had taken possession of his obedience codes, after all, she had some of the best slicers in the galaxy under her employ. After their confrontation on Illum, it was understandable that she wished to inflict her own version of punishment. Funny, he hadn’t thought it was her style to be vindictive.

Calm blue eyes stared back at him with an unreadable expression that was unnerving. Cruelty or malice he could understand, but this passive response was beyond him. He broke eye-contact and lay down on medical bed as ordered. It was better than a metal table, but it did little to put him at ease. The sound of his respirator seemed too-loud in his ears as he waited for pain or humiliation or some sickening combination of the two.

Instead he felt a gentle touch on his arm and a pinprick before something warm flowed through his veins. Confusion clouded his thoughts as he felt the constant pain melt away into a blissful numbness.

“That’s better isn’t it? No need to be scared,” she smirked and he eyed her warily as she set aside the injector. Her small hand rested over his chest and it felt like a searing mark against his skin. His throat emitted a sound that was a cross between a snarl and an enraged growl.

“Scared, me? You lack the capacity to inspire such an emotion,” he snarled..

He didn’t need her coddling. He was not a child nor a fool to believe her comfort was genuine.

Tremas didn’t so much as flinch as her touch continued to rest over his sternum. Medical droids scanned his body and displayed readings he could quite make out from his vantage point. Tremas lips curled into a scowl as the results displeased her.

He wanted to say something scathing or acrid to her but the retort died in his throat as he felt her delicate fingers touch his inner thighs and firmly push his legs apart. Adrenaline surged through him but he was not allowed neither flight nor fight as his programming kept him restrained. He stared at the ceiling cursing the respirator that echoed his quickening breath in a deafening rasp.

“Now just breathe. There’s structural damage and this might sting a bit...”

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