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Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE

INERTIA

The resistance, of any physical object, to any change in its velocity.

 Vader just blasts off into space and leaves Lars standing with a calibrator in one hand and treason in the other, that’s it?

Looks like it. A muscle in Lars’s jaw jumped as the shields snapped closed. Gravity and oxygen rushed back into the hangar and the servicemen all crowded the viewport, because it turned out there wasn’t a damned thing to do in a space battle if you weren’t flying the starfighter yourself.

He took one look out the viewport, green and red flashing brighter than the white stars, and turned away with a scowl.  

You better blow that thing to hell, Darth, Lars thought as he slammed the tool back on to the console. A couple of stormies behind him jumped at the noise.

He stalked back out into the bay straight for the console of Vader’s TIE Advanced-08. Hell knew what had happened to his first seven. Lars pulled up all the diagnostics, prepping it for reentry, and modified the entries of Vader’s takeoff records to ignore the added weight and stress of the proton torpedoes.

“Shit, that was Sigma Four!” someone shouted over the clamor at the viewports. “That’s Kekovitch’s brother!”

Lars could hear the cries from across the bay as he mindlessly unscrewed the panel and pulled a multitool out of a pocket. The readouts were blurry, but all it probably needed was a couple realigned wires.

There were just whispers after Sigma Four. Someone was shouting. Lars patched up some insulation.

Now a cry––something about parents. Lars straightened out three wires and vaguely wondered if he should tell them to shut up. He was in charge, wasn’t he?

Lars scowled at the thought. He was here to fix the ships, and not another damn thing, no matter what Vader said.

Whatever. He slapped the side of the machine and the display fizzled and blinked. The calibrator still wasn’t straight. TIEs had been out there fifteen minutes. Cheers from the servicemen, sort of. Blood on both sides. Maybe another fifteen.

Twenty, thirty-three, sixty-eight. Someone was counting the bursts of fallen TIE explosions. Lars screwed the panel shut. What about the Death Star? The hell was taking Vader so long, anyway?

“Is that––Lord Vader? What is he doing?”

Shit. Lars kept screwing, arms not shaking, shoulders not tense, breathing not uneven, as his blood curdled.

“That’s the Star!” shouted someone else. “They’re headed for the Star!”

Lars abandoned the calibrator without a second thought for the viewports.

“Move!” he barked and pushed his way through. Finally.

When Lars came face-to-face with Vader––maybe only a couple klicks away from them––he was spiralling towards the side of the Death Star with an X-wing, easy to see in his modified TIE, and Lars snarled under his breath. The hell was he doing? If he missed the shot––all that talk about being the best fucking pilot ever––if he missed––

The sill of the viewport nearly dented under Lars’s grip, before Vader and the X-wing shot up, a new ship––a freighter?––came tumbling out of nowhere and then––yes––Vader spun into the trench and then out again, leftward––yes––the Death Star––

––exploded.

He didn’t feel anything. He didn’t blink as blast ricocheted outward with a furious blue band that snapped at everything in its wake. There were men on the Death Star. He didn’t know, he wasn’t told, but suddenly he knew that there had been and now there weren’t. He didn’t feel anything at all.

Done, over. Finally.  

Lars let go. He turned away from the light of the blast that blew away all the shadows on the faces of the engineer corps, and pushed his way back through them. All of them were standing, dumb and stupid with slack limbs and jaws, like they were the dead men. Just as he escaped the crowd, someone began to sob. Something about children, maybe. He didn’t hear.

He’d fixed the problem.

Except Vader caused a brand new problem.

All of the Black Squadron was either back or dead, except him. And there was no fucking way Vader was dead. Vader had crashed three ships in the thirty-six hours that Lars had been dragged along with him, and he’d walked away from each burning wreckage.

Lars’s gaze went to the viewport. The debris of the Death Star was still burning against the shields, so the tractor beam wouldn’t be any use, and the Imperials didn’t care to find those unlucky bastards who survived out there. Except Vader.

Nobody had said that and nobody had told him that the Empire didn’t care to pick the carcasses of its battles clean of the wounded. But they were whispering about it. Every other bay in the hangar was occupied with the Black Squadron’s TIEs except for Vader’s, and Lars was still trying to straighten the starsforsaken calibrator.

Not whispering about survivors. Whispering about Vader.

—-Vader’s down. Vader’s dead.

—if Vader’s not dead he’ll kill us for the delay!

—what about the Emperor? He’ll kill us—

—no, no, no, it was the new man. The one that Vader brought back, the Emperor will kill him—

—shush, he can hear you, you know what they say about Vader’s men—

Whispers. Whispers, whispers, they were all whispering, all the time—he’s the son of Skywalker, the freed slave—he can speak to the master—the master will draw blood for this—

There was blood. There was blood running down his back. Luke, why is there blood? Blood in the sands, blood in his mouth, blood in the water. Blood in his eyes.

Coward.

He could see red, everywhere.

Lars slammed the hydrospanner back down on the calibrator. The screen cracked straight down the middle. He bit back a snarl, spanner nearly breaking in his grip, and turned around.

Straight-backed. The slave thinks he’s freed, he stands too tall, master. Straight-backed, proud, free.

“Hey!” he barked. He didn’t shout, but everyone stopped like he had, looking at him with wide eyes. “Which one of you was in charge before me?”

Nervous eyes, twitching back and forth. Men twisted and nudged and shrugged. Lars glared.

Fucking finally, a man stepped forward from behind a console.

“I’m Hudsaba Maberust,” the man said. He had red hair, and looked pissed. “Former Chief Engineer. Now Second Engineer.”

“Show me how to get to the bridge,” Lars demanded. That was what they called it, right? He'd been up there with Vader right as Alderaan had blown, but hell if he could remember the mile-something long journey it took to get back and forth from it.

The other technicians were shifting and muttering, and Lars belatedly realized that Maberust looked surprised. And not any happier than before.

“You can’t go to the bridge!” Maberust protested. There was some twittering, and a few broke out into outright laughter. “Not without orders! You may not be—“

Lars ignored the rest of what he said. Skywalker can go to the throne room he can speak with the masters rang in his ears. He ignored that, too, and leaned in to grab the collar of his uniform.

“That wasn’t a question,” Lars told him. The man’s eyes were wide, but the rest of the bridge was still laughing.

On a second thought, Lars wrapped his other hand around the man’s throat. The hangar went dead silent.

About damned time.

He could feel his pulse underneath his fingertips. Or maybe remembered.

“Now, do you want to find Vader or not?”

All he could hear was the man’s heavy, labored breathing until another technician stepped forward.

“You can—you can find Lord Vader? Sir?” The other, older man asked hesitantly.

Lars dropped his hands. Maberust stood stockstill where Lars had left him.  

“I can do simple math,” Lars said flatly. He turned around and strode towards the door.

Maberust followed. The hangar was still quiet.

Maberust was silent the rest of the trip, which was took nearly an entire hour. For each elevator they entered, level they went up, and corridor they walked, uniforms got tidier, doors got thicker, and stormies got more suspicious.

That was a sight to see. Back on Tatooine, the only thing Lars had ever seen stormtroopers do was drink and use slaves for target practice.

Maberust waved, with shaking hands, his pass at every stormtrooper and gray-uniformed officer they passed, which made the trip even damned longer. Lars took a look at every viewport they passed, which got bigger and bigger the further up they got, and tried to straighten out his calculations to account for the time the walk was dragging on. Stars. They must’ve walked a solid two miles to get up from the engineering bays and they weren’t even at the bridge yet.

Finally, they hit a pair of blast doors guarded by a dozen stormies lining the hallway leading to it. Maberust handed the pass and a datachip to him with sweaty hands.

“Sir,” he said, still a twice dozen paces from the troopers. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

So he was sir now? All it took was a hand around his throat and the kid folded? No wonder Vader couldn’t stand these bastards.

Lars snatched the passes from Maberust’s hands. They were still shaking. “Keep up.”

Maberust stammered out some sort of yes sir and Lars ignored him, striding forward to the troopers.

“Identification and verification!” the first one to the left barked, next to a control panel that was barely more complicated than a standard magnetic lock.

“Chief Engineer,” Lars bit out, still moving onward, and slapped the passes into the trooper’s arms. He fumbled for his blaster as Lars punched open the override to march straight into the bridge. “Out of my way.”

Last time he'd been on the bridge, he'd been too busy looking at the stars, but now he was looking for something else. It was clear who was in charge once he was there.

A literal bridge split two banks of terminal bays full of sweaty uniforms with headsets down the middle. Screens flashed about all sorts of things that Lars could only dream up: weapons, shields, supplies, reports, spies--words he didn’t even know. At the front, a massive viewport spanned nearly the full three hundred and sixty degrees, and half a dozen officers stood at another bank of terminals with navigation screens and holodisplays of an entire armada of ships.

In the middle of it all, a slip of a man stood with medals across his chest. 

As soon as Lars caught sight of him, the man himself turned to face him. Probably heard the stormtroopers clattering about and yelling behind him, though they didn’t try to cuff him. Smarter than the Tatooinian ones, at least.

The admiral, commander, general, whatever––had a burn scar. Blind eye. That couldn’t mean anything good. Lars crossed his arms and felt for the handle of one of the blades within his wrappings.

“Chief Engineer,” Lars said, short. “I can find Vader.”

Every line on the man’s face tightened. “Lord Vader is not lost. He has simply yet to return.”

Really? Lars nearly smiled, and on an afterthought realized he was almost amused. That wasn't his problem to fix. He didn’t say anything, because if he did, it’d get him shot by the ten stormtroopers standing behind him or the two on either side.

“However…” The man took a step closer and waved off the stormies. “You came here with Lord Vader? From Tatooine?”

“Yes.” Lars bit back a scowl, hand still on the blade. So he knew him, did he? Vader tell him he was the Chief Engineer?

The man still stared at him. What, did he want him to say sir? Vader could stay lost, if that was the case.

Lars looked again at the admiral’s face, which was curling into a sneer, and unexpectedly wanted to laugh. Looked like the admiral knew it, too.

“What do you need?” the admiral asked, before pausing. He added: “Chief Engineer…?”

Lars looked around at the terminal bays, before he found what he was looking for: a vector coordinate readout, the ship sitting in the center, the Destroyer or Devastator, whatever it was called.

He swung himself down from the bridge, over the balustrade, and pushed past the uniforms murmuring into their headsets, fiddling with switches, and staring at him with wide eyes until he found the uniform he wanted. Why the hell were people always looking at him? Weren’t they supposed to be doing their jobs?

His fingertips itched the urge to take something apart and build it up again. Those terminals…if he could get his hands on them––are you as good a slave as your father?––he could make them better, faster, stronger…

“You,” he barked. “Recalculate the vector angles based on the Death Star’s last recorded coordinates and start counterclockwise from quadrants one, three, five, and seven. Track the pattern…” he tried to calculate the pattern. Left wing blown, force from the explosion upwards––“from the arccosine up to sixty-five degrees on a three-hundred and sixty rotation. Limit distance from the Death Star to two hundred meters.”

He turned back around and pointed at the curly-haired kid he’d seen at the spectroscopy readings. “You! Tune to plutonium readings.”

“Sir?” the officer stammered.

“Or whatever else is in proton torpedo detonation systems,” he said impatiently.

“Sir?” the officer asked again, this time frozen over her keyboard and looking up at the admiral. The deck was quiet, Lars noted belatedly. Nobody was speaking into their headsets anymore.

The admiral’s falhawk-sharp gaze caught on Lars before it snapped back to her. “Do as he says!”

She obeyed, quickly, and Lars kept an eye on the terminal. The display was fuzzy. Did every terminal on this ship need its wires realigned?

 “How do you know this?” demanded the admiral from up on the bridge.

Lars crossed his arms and turned back, only after he was sure the officer had tuned to the right lengths. “I saw the battle out the viewports.”

“And you knew it was proton torpedoes that were fired on Lord Vader?”

So he wasn’t stupid. Made sense. No other reason they’d keep a half-blind man around who hadn’t even bothered with a replacement eye.

“Explosion pattern.”

The admiral didn’t say anything else, but it wasn’t like Lars didn’t notice the seven different blasters still trained on him from the troopers.

“I’ve got a read!” the first officer suddenly cried. “Tracking a small craft a fifteen hundred klicks starboard! Forwarding to you, Drav!”

A second, then––“Readings match, Admiral. Sending them to navigation now!”

“Send two guardian-class light cruisers with two squadrons, now!” the admiral barked.

Finally.

Lars swung himself back up onto the bridge and wandered out as the officers sprang into action, Maberust scurrying along behind him. That was done.

 Lars had been back down in the Black Squadron hangar for only two hours, hacking apart another useless calibrator, when a voice crackled over the announcement system.

“Chief Engineer to hangar one-hundred and three. I repeat, Chief Engineer to hangar one-hundred-three at the order of Admiral Montferrat.”

Lars glared up at the ceiling. Problems with Vader never ended, did they.

Maberust followed him, which was probably good, because if he didn’t, Lars would’ve walked himself into the brig and been done with it.

Hangar 103 was at the very bottom of the belly of the Star Destroyer and had blast doors big enough to fit an army of troopers through. Probably the reason why, actually.

But the troopers here were all standing nervously against the wall opposite, and admiral’s collection of uniforms were trying to hide behind them, in a little circle around the admiral. Montferrat himself had a sheen of sweat glimmering on his brow, trembling hands folded behind him, standing ten paces from the blast doors and everyone else ten paces behind him.

Lars shoved himself past the first couple stormies, who then obediently moved aside for him to face Monferrat.

Lars crossed his arms.

“Chief Engineer,” Montferrat greeted, voice wobbling like his hands. “Lord Vader has been—has been asking for you.”

Of fucking course. “What does he want?”

The stormies sounded like they were rattling out of their armor behind him. Montferrat’s pale eyes bulged like a squashed skull’s.

“He did not mention it,” Montferrat snapped. “Go in and attend to his lordship immediately!”

His lordship. Great. Lars turned to face the blast door, back to the troopers, and waited as the doors opened.

Lars stepped in, the doors snapping closed quick behind him, and scowled.

The hangar was massive, for corvettes and cruisers, not TIEs, and the entire thing had been wrecked. Maybe a hundred ships had been housed here and every single one of them looked like scrap. An entire cruiser was crumpled under a wall and had taken a couple transports with it, wings sheared off, and the wings themselves were lodged in the ceiling several hundred meters above. Lars’s hand went to his long-gone rag before he even registered the cloudy air––dusky with smoke, sparking wires, and the slow chug of pooling coolant and fuel.

He was not cleaning this up.

Something hit his boot, and Lars looked down to kick the blaster away with a skitter. An officer was mangled underneath an even worse-off ship, limbs twitching in death throes and a hole in his chest. He could see his ribs.

The only ozone in the air was from blasters, not a laser sword. Looked like Vader had used his fists alone, and fool actually tried to fight back.

Lars stepped over the dead man and had to step over a couple dozen more. Troopers, pilots, and officers were thrown across the floor. His boots were soaking with blood and viscera that mixed with the marrow of split bones and sprays of scattered teeth, still-pulsing organs, and the innards of leaking shuttles.

There was barely a path to make it through the corpses of men and ships alike. Lars irritatedly had to shove a wing out of his way, which made the half-of-a-nav system balancing precariously on a corvette’s cadaver fall down and bisect a dead stormtrooper beneath it. The armor squeaked as it snapped in two and plunged wetly into the man’s already halved abdomen.

Ten feet beyond that, Vader, helmet bowed and hand on his sword, leaned against the hunched, disfigured frame of the TIE Advanced.

That, he’d be fixing, no doubt.

“You wanted to see me?”

Vader’s head shot up, and Lars didn’t flinch, but he had a hand on the handles of his longest and sharpest blades.

“You…” Vader rasped. It shouldn’t be making that noise. Lars glared. He’d fixed the vocoder, Vader must’ve disrupted it again. Vader flung out an arm towards the TIE Advanced, and stood up fully. “Get to work.”

Lars snarled under his breath and stalked forward, taking a vibroblade out anyway, if only so he could hack through the mutilated wings.

Lars could feel Vader’s gaze on him as he wrestled his way into the interior of the TIE, trying to find anything to salvage.

Hefting himself atop the frame of the cockpit, which was bent entirely on its side, Lars had to drop down into the hull to get to the computer systems. He knocked open the mostly-crushed casing with the butt of a wrench. The innards of the system spilled out, scattering into a thousand and one pieces at his feet.

Lars hefted himself back out onto the shell of the TIE.

“There’s nothing to fix.”

Vader sneered. “It’s there, isn’t it? Rebuild it!”

“Sure,” Lars said dryly. It’d be easier to build one from scratch. “If you gave me two years.”

Vader snarled wordlessly, and flung out a hand. Lars watched as a couple severed wing from somewhere deep in the back of the hangar screamed towards the ceiling and impaled themselves there, causing the lights to whimper and flicker.

“What are you here for?” Vader demanded.

“Not to be your maid,” Lars barked back. “If you want me to fix your ships, stop destroying them. And––” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m not cleaning that up, either.”

Lars’s other hand was still on his unsheathed vibroblade, and he waited for Vader to launch himself at him. Instead, Vader stilled.

He waited, for just a moment, before he dropped back down into the cockpit, intent on scavenging the scrap of the nav system.  

“You. You have never…lied to me,” Vader said, voice echoing from somewhere outside, “betrayed me.”

“No,” he answered, sifting through the casings on the wires. What would he lie to Vader about, anyway? He was here to fix his ships and didn’t even want to do that.

“Face me,” Vader demanded.

Lars growled under his breath, dropped the wires, and heaved himself back up out of the turned-over cockpit.

“What.”

Vader was swaying, slightly, but Lars couldn’t see any damage to his gyroscopic stabilizers.

“Tatooine,” Vader said, and if Lars blinked, he could see twin suns behind his eyes. “On Tatooine, did you know of a man named Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“No.” He hadn’t known much of anyone on Tatooine, and hadn’t wanted to, but––it struck––Luke come with me––“Kenobi.”

“Yes.” Vader moved forward, towards him, almost eager, nearly towering over him, control box at his eye level.

“There was an old man named Ben Kenobi who lived on the edge of the Jundland Wastes.”

“Did he live with anyone else?” Vader demanded. Lars watched warily, out of the corner of his eye, as his hand raised and then clenched, like he was trying to grasp something. “A boy?”

“I don’t know,” Lars said. Vader’s vocoder made a strange sound, like a cross between a snarl and growl, and Lars snapped: “How the hell would I know? I saw him twice, maybe.”

And hid the other times––coward.

“And?” snarled Vader.

“He was a crazy old man who everyone thought was a wizard,” Lars said, flat. “If he lived out in the Wastes, any family’s dead.”

Vader’s voice came out strained and shades away from a roar. “I did not say family.”

Lars’s fist tightened around the blade. Come with me––step away––“And.”

Vader stood still a second longer, then pulled away.

“Report to my quarters in one full day cycle with the coordinates ready.”

“You taking me back to Tatooine?” Lars called at his retreating back.

Vader didn’t answer, and left him alone in the makeshift morgue.

Kenobi, Lars repeated to himself. And almost said sorry, but that was a long time past for the both of them. A couple years ago he even would have said serves him right.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO

ACCELERATION

The rate at which the velocity of a body changes with time, and the direction in which that change is acting.

So. It turned out old Ben really was a wizard.

The thought hung over Lars’s shoulders no matter how many times he shrugged it off. He had dumped out flight data out of a random datachip he’d found in one of the ships, logged it with the coordinates, and handed it off to Maberust, who scurried it off to Vader. 

A day cycle later and he was in the cockpit of another TIE Advanced. This one wasn’t wrecked, thank the stars, but he was still elbows-deep in the innards of the fuselage trying to sort out whatever Vader had done to Mark 6’s landing sequencing. Somehow he’d destroyed both the reverse thrusters and the landing struts and fried the wires between the two.

The smell of all those corpses had filtered up through the vents. Lars hadn’t noticed it when he’d been draining coolant and fuel because, unlike Tatooine, there were no suns to roast the bodies like spits turning over a fire. 

The old wives used to say that the Tuskens did that. That Tuskens would steal beneath the suns and snatch up good men and women and light a fire from the rubble of a homestead. They would bind you to a pike and let you cook before they carved you up to eat.

The Tuskens didn’t. Those were stories to scare kids. But whenever Lars smelled burning flesh, sweet and sickly (and once––just once––he’d been hungry enough that it smelled good) he thought of those tales. 

The sharp scent of blood and the filth of innards eventually ate up the smell of ozone and burn. Vader hadn’t done much damage with his sword. He’d ripped those men apart with his hands.

Or, Lars thought idly, working the damaged fan out of the casing of the fuselage––not fists. The…magic.

Was Kenobi supposed to be able to do that? Didn’t seem likely. Lars’s mind dredged up a sundrenched half-memory, old Ben hunched over and tottering through Anchorhead’s market, his own hand tight in Beru’s––

Lars brought the fan closer, running his gloved fingers over the bent blades. Not unsalvageable. But he didn’t have any of his welding gear, or even a decent hammer…

It’d be a quick fight. Merciless, maybe, but quick. 

Lars cast the fan aside with a quick flick of the hand, and the blades squeaked and squealed as they impaled themselves the casing of Mark 7.

Couldn’t be saved. The man was old, anyway, and if it was quick, it might be painless, too. 

At some point, the smell of burning bodies faded. It was pushed out by the stringent smell of chemicals. Cleaning chemicals, Lars assumed, which was sort of funny. 

Last couple places he’d seen a pile of bodies, they didn’t get cleaned up. They were part of the palace. 

There was a noise behind him and he was happy to ignore it. 

In the two-and-a-half days he’d been here, he’d heard every moan and groan a ship could make, and he was starting to think Vader needed to hire a half-dozen more Chief Engineers. He’d never worked on a Star Destroyer before, but he was pretty sure nothing should be making this much noise. Maybe he’d yank out a panel or two to inspect the walls after he was done with Mark 6…

Lars wrenched another outfitting out of position and cursed under his breath as he tried to dodge a splatter of oil coming from him. His safety goggles had been left on Tatooine, thanks again to Vader––

“Sir!” called a voice. Lars yanked himself out from the undercarriage and sat straight up, only to come face to face with Maberust.

“What?” he demanded. How did he even get in here? Hadn’t Vader said only Lars was allowed in here?

“Lord––Lord Vader requires you to attend to him, sir,” Maberust said. Figured.

“Fine,” he grunted, standing. He’d finally made some progress on those ships, and now this.

Maberust opened and closed his mouth as he walked toward him.

“Sir,” Maberust finally said, but didn’t say anything else.

Lars wiped his gloved hands down with a rag. If he had something to say, he could spit it out. “Just get this over with.”

The last time Lars had been in Vader’s chambers was nearly two days ago and he’d never wanted to go back. 

Vader’s place was dark. And cold. There wasn’t a single glowlight in the place, only a white pod that unfolded like a snapping blossom. It was completely bare, except for the holodisplays, and seemed to Lars to only get darker the further in, like the mouth of a cave. It was nothing like the hut he’d had back in Anchorhead, two rooms overflowing with spare parts and extra maybe-usefuls, noontime suns beating down. 

Still. Better than a lot of other dark, dank holes he’d been in.

Lars grew more and more irritated every step he took pacing after Maberust. He didn’t know if he remembered the way, but he did know better than to mention it to the other man. A job, Vader had said. Ha. Lars was pretty sure most jobs for the Empire didn’t involve betraying it.

The minute they had gotten up to Vader’s quarters––somewhere just below the bridge by Lars’s estimate––Maberust tried to become one with the wall. The split-second the blastdoors slid open, Maberust turned tail and ran after a hasty salute. Lars was left in a blank, three-door hallway, empty of even the stormies who seemed to crop up every ten meters.

That was fine. He went straight for the door at the end, busy pulling stilettos out of his bindings, anyway.

The door slid open, revealing only the shadow of Vader’s form somewhere in the back, cast by a holodisplay. Vader’s armor and padding had all been replaced, and he had a cape, so he looked more or less just like when Lars had pulled him out of the TIE on Tatooine. A fake control panel in front of the modified control box too, he’d bet.

He didn’t look up as Lars approached from behind.

“What else do you want.”

“I warn you,” Vader said idly, crossing his arms, continuing to examine the display in front of him. Star Destroyer schematics, it looked like. “I am not in the most patient mood.”

Oh, that was funny. Neither was he.

“I’ve helped you blow up the Death Star,” Lars said, swapping out half of the stilettos in his grip for the longest knife he had. “I’ve given you coordinates for old Kenobi.”

He held the knife up to the light of the holodisplay that snuck behind Vader’s back. He flipped it once, twice, in his hand, checking the blade.

“I signed up to be a mechanic. Not a spy.”

Sharp enough.

“You're not getting the hell out of dodge, so you either you're the spy or you don't care what the boss says. But you’re not joining the Rebellion, are you? And you’d kill me, if you were, because I know too much. And it seems like you’re pretty good at that.” 

Nothing but Vader’s breathing filtered through the gap between them. Lars crossed his arms, hiding the knives only from sight.

“So. What more do you want from me?” 

Vader turned, slowly, to face him. Lars barely came up to the control box. But he didn’t falter, breath even, hands steady. 

“I want,” Vader said, short. “A mechanic.”

“A mechanic that helps you blow up Death Stars.” 

“Fixing my ships is in your job description, is it not?”

“Isn’t Imperial in yours?”

Vader considered him. “You’re growing more irritating by the second, mechanic.”

He bared his teeth, almost amused. But he waited, hands on the handles of his blades.

“I am the heir to my master, the Emperor,” Vader said, almost casually. “My will is that of the Empire’s. And the Death Star was a waste. An abomination.” 

What about the Emperor? If Vader’s dead, the Emperor will kill us––! Lars remembered the whispers in the engineering bays.

Definitely not joining the Rebellion, then. 

“All will be forgotten when I am Emperor. And my Empire will contain no such frivolities.”

“I don’t give a damn about the Empire,” Lars snapped, “I’m here to fix your ships, and I don’t even want that.”

 The air just about froze over, Lars realized belatedly. He didn’t much care.

Vader’s glare, though, was hot. He was close enough that he thought he saw Vader’s eyes, through the mask, meet his.

“This body,” Vader’s voice scraped like claws ripping through metal. “This wretched form. You have seen its damage. You have…repaired it." 

Lars met his gaze. “And.” 

“Kenobi,” growled Vader. “Kenobi, the coward who hid on Tatooine for twenty years, who battled me above the Death Star––he did this.”

Old Kenobi––what, wizard and warrior? The old man, shambling around the market, out in a hut in the desert and barely tolerating its heat? Vader dared him to question him. 

But. Back, back a lifetime ago, through the screen, huddling to hide himself, and old Kenobi there, paces from him, standing tall and proud––

Lars didn’t say anything.

“And you will help me fix it.” Vader took a half-step closer. “Fix me, and you have nothing to fear from me. You will be nothing more than my mechanic.”

“Your mechanic means more than fixing ships,” Lars growled. 

“Yes,” said Vader. “But don’t you like fixing ships that actually fly, mechanic, and don’t sit rusting in a junkyard?” 

Lars couldn’t answer that. You fix, I fly, he remembered, from a long time ago. 

Vader turned his back on him, abrupt. “Begone from my presence. The Emperor awaits me. There are further instructions for you across the corridor.”

 Across the corridor were a couple of stormies.

“Lord Vader requires you to be in uniform, sir,” reported the one on the left.

Did that stormie just call him sir?

 “Uniform grays are waiting for you in there, sir,” piped up the one on the right, before pointing helpfully to the door at the left of the entrance to Vader’s chambers. “Lord Vader also requires that you…bathe.”

 “What.”

The stormies exchanged glances. 

“Lord Vader said that there was, uh, sand,” said Left. “Sir.”

What.

Did Vader think he was fool enough to grit ruin a machine? After he’d put back together his fucking skeleton on Tatooine?

Lars snarled to himself and stormed through to the chamber, shoving the troopers out of the way. The door snapped closed behind him.

It was all black and dark like the rest of Vader’s chambers, but at least this place looked like an actual human was supposed to live there. Some rich admiral, maybe. The full room was at least three times as large as his old shop, with the most advanced holoprojectors and holodisplays lining one wall and actual, real wood cabinets lining the other.

 Underneath a full viewport sat a dining set laid with porcelain and silver and flowers. A massive, carved wooden desk sat opposite, with a slim computer terminal atop, and a chair that looked leather. An adjoining room held a bed with a green landscape overtop.

Maybe he should just rob the place, Lars thought numbly, picking up the gray tunic sitting on the desk next to the leather boots. It was a standard thing he’d seen the drunk off-duty Imperials around Tatooine wear to the bars. It was still nicer than anything he’d ever held.

He cast his gaze to the door and locked the magnetic seal. Then he pulled out a screwdriver, took the casing and a couple wires apart, and decided it was locked better.

Whatever. He didn’t like this, but he didn’t want to be bothered by every officer on the entire Star Destroyer about his dress, either.

Slowly, he pulled off his singlet and began pulling out the spares, tools, and scraps in his pockets. He unthinkingly tallied and organized it on the desk. He pulled his longest knives––two of them, each eighteen inches and slightly curved––out of each cloth-bound boot, the other knives he had hidden in his boots as well, and a couple of spare wires, before removing his overalls.

 He took off his gloves before he pulled out more blades and tools and spares, then unwound the leather binding his arms. The cloth came next.

 Lars brought three knives with him into the bathroom.

 It was dark, but gleaming tile, and with a shower bigger than an oil vat. Lars flipped the switch, expecting a sonic shower, and sputtered in surprise as droplets hit his head.

No way.

He stared up, wide-eyed, as the water ran down without end. His heart beating fast, he fumbled with the control, until the water was cool and pleasant––he couldn’t remember ever having cold water on Tatooine––and rushing straight at him.

He stepped under, hair plastering to his head, staring at the drops running down his hands in a disbelief that was a little more like awe. He looked up, standing straight underneath, until the water cascaded down in a sheet around him.

And––wait––

No––

He couldn’t––he couldn’t–– 

He choked, ragged breath after ragged breath seizing his lungs. Water pounded a tattoo against his heart. No, wait, wait, no––he clapped his hands to his mouth, stumbling back until his back hit the wall and his legs gave out.

He breathed in. Water was rushing in, choking him, killing him––

You have pleased the master, Skywalker.

No, no no––the water beat against his head, screaming in his head––he screwed his eyes shut and slammed his head against the wall.

You get first pick today.

He choked and gagged and sputtered and tried to breathe but he was––was he drowning?

You get water today.

He fought for the breath that battered up and out through chest, one hand scrabbling up to grab the wall and dig in, crush and hold it tight. Debris and dust sprayed down on his head and he stumbled to his feet and his knees hit the floor of the bathroom.

He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. He could breathe. He wasn’t drowning. No, no, not anymore––

Skywalker––

He vomited into the toilet.

The master has said––

He’d forgotten about that.

 “You have disappointed me, Lord Vader,” Palpatine said, voice high and cruel and dispassionate.

Vader’s limbs––the new prosthetics and real stumps––spasmed from the aftershocks of the lightning.

“It will not happen again, Master,” Vader vowed, still on his knees in front of the projection. His HUD was lit up with warning signs. “I will find Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Will you?” Palpatine scorned him. Vader clenched a fist, tight, and said nothing. “Twice he’s bested you. And this time in space, too. What happened to the Skywalker?”

 Vader saw red. “Skywalker is dead, Master.”

“Then see to it that his master is, as well,” Palpatine said, dismissively. “But you are under Grand General Tagge’s command, as he is new Supreme Commander of the Imperial Armed Forces. Tagge always argued against the arrogance of the Death Star as a sole weapon. He alone was properly aware of the Rebel threat. While the second Death Star is constructed his philosophy must be dominant. It was lucky he left the station before its destruction to return to his beloved fleet or I would have no one I could use. He is to assume primacy. You will act according to his will.”

“Yes, Master,” Vader said, teeth gritted.

“Oh?” Palpatine asked, leaning forward, a sickly leer over Vader. “Is that anger, I sense, my apprentice? Do you question my commands?”

“No, Master,” Vader said, the words thick and cloying on his tongue. “Only the Dark Side fuels me. I wish to destroy Kenobi for good.”

Palpatine’s smile broadened. “Well, my apprentice, consider this your punishment for your failure at the Death Star. Your hunt for Kenobi will be only at Tagge’s discretion.”

Palpatine’s image vanished with a wink.

Vader let his breaths fill the space. Once, twice.

First Kenobi. And then you, my master.

Something pulsing unfurled in Vader’s veins, sending his heart racing beyond the suit’s capabilities, something that beat in his ears and drowned out the rest of the world.

Anakin’s son, Kenobi’s voice whispered. It roared in him, now. 

SKYWALKER.

 “What happened to you?”

Lars’s hair was still damp. He’d put on the damn uniform, all of his blades and tools and most of his spares and scrap smuggled away again, but he’d tied the jacket around his waist in favor of his singlet, bound forearms, and gloves. He clipped the personnel passes on to the thick leather belt. It used to have a blaster, but he dumped that in favor of some hasty jury-rigging to make it a utility belt. If Vader wanted him to get any work done, he wouldn’t complain about it.

Vader didn’t look like he could complain about much of anything. Everything about his stance was off, cape and fake control panel gone; Vader ignored him and turned around, deeper into his chambers.

The movement was stiff, Lars noted, but not in the legs; around the hips, instead, but he’d removed the crude exoskeleton that had been attached there. All of those shitty parts had to have left their mark, but still––the legs were also strangely shaky, like a fuse had blown, but––

The pungent smell of grease and oil was enough for Lars’s curiosity to smother his flickers of annoyance, and he slunk behind Vader.

The short corridor opened into a massive, vaulted room, industrial glowlights dangling from heavy durasteel chains, with at least ten different slabs stacked with unfinished projects and drafts. Three walls were lined with meticulously organized drawers labelled with any screw, wire, and bit a mechanic could dream of. The fourth wall was twelve feet by thirty feet of every type of hydrospanner, multitool, and wrench Lars had ever seen in his life, and hundreds that he hadn’t.

Looked like the Empire paid well.

A series of projects went crashing off one of the slabs with a flick of Vader’s hand. He hefted himself up––not easily, Lars noted––and Vader laying back on the slab involved less flexibility then the stiffest protocol droid. 

‘Course. More things to fix.

Lars drew a vibroblade and sliced through the armorweave on Vader’s thigh the second he went down. He pried open the material the same way he used to gut womp rats for cooking when he was younger.

“The hell happened?” 

“The Emperor was displeased with the destruction of the Death Star.”

Lars bit back a curse. 

The condition of the prosthetics was fine, but the wires had nearly been fried. It was a miracle that Vader wasn’t screaming. The small patches where the insulation wasn’t tight enough or slipped a bit had let a charge burn through it, and no doubt it was yanking on Vader’s nerve endings. The skeleton of the prosthetic hadn’t carried the charge much, but the prosthetic port looked like it had blistering around it from burns. Hell knew what had gone on in the rest of his body.

Lars stared at it, blankly. Had Vader hooked himself up to a generator?

“The Emperor wields a secret art of the Force known as Force lightning,” Vader supplied.

Lars didn’t know what the Force was, but he sure as hell knew what lightning was. And what it did to machines.

“The Emperor’s supposed to be on Coruscant,” Lars said, a little dumbly.

“He is,” Vader replied. “That does not mean he cannot reach me.”

“Shit,” he said, already reaching for a hydrospanner. “Fine, I’m going to need to redo all this. And the control panel. Wait on killing me till I’m done.”

Vader grasped Lars’s wrist before he could touch a single thing. Lars switched the grasp of his other hand from the hydrospanner to the handle of a vibroblade.

“What.”

 “I need something from you,” rumbled Vader. 

“Yeah, a retuning and an oil bath,” snapped Lars.

Vader ignored him. “Kenobi. The last time you saw him.”

Lars’s hand tightened on the handle of his blade. 

“Years ago,” he said shortly. “Don’t remember where. Or when.” 

“The Force is the power that I wield,” Vader continued, letting go of his wrist, “and it is power beyond your comprehension. All you need to do is think of Kenobi, and I will see him.”

Lars…believed that Vader could do that. Why not? He’d slaughtered at least two dozen of his own men a day ago, with nothing but his own hands.

“My life is already in your hands,” said Vader, “you could kill me, if you really wanted.”

True. A knife through the control panel while Vader was busy mindmelding, or whatever, would do it.

Lars twisted the vibroblade in his hand, eyeing its balance as the blade caught the light of the glowlamps.

What’s the point of killing Kenobi? Lars wanted to ask. What’s the point of becoming Emperor? He wanted to go back down to the TIE Advanced o6 and lose himself in the engine with a multitool in hand.

It wouldn’t fix anything. But it wouldn’t hurt him. What did he care, anyway? 

“Fine,” said Lars, suddenly tired. “Let’s find Kenobi.”

Lars twisted the vibroblade so rested just between two switches on Vader’s control panel. Kill shot, he thought. Not even the thought of that could rouse the weariness settling into his bones.

Vader offered up his skeletal left hand. His own hand held the blade. With the other, Lars grasped Vader’s.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE

FORCE

An interaction that, when unopposed, will change the motion of an object.  

The Death Star exploded brilliantly, silently, and the last thing Obi-Wan heard before his X-wing threw itself into hyperspace was Han Solo shouting at him through the comms. 

“Kenobi! Did Darth fucking Vader just blow up the Death Star?” 

Did he?

Obi-Wan stared blankly out into the billowing blue mindmeld of hyperspace, but it was the explosion of the Death Star that was seared into Obi-Wan’s eyes. 

He did, didn’t he. 

Darth Vader had blown up his Empire’s own death-dealing terror as little more than an afterthought. Vader had tried to tear him to pieces through the Force, clawing at him with the ferocity of a starving, rabid dog. He could feel the Force pulsing around him, weeping like a wound open to the bone, the remnants of his and Anakin’s bond like the stump of a severed limb.

LIAR! LIAR, LIAR! His ears were ringing with Vader’s screams. MY CHILD, HE LIVES!

It wasn’t the unsettling brass of Vader’s vocoder that rang in his ears, though. It was Anakin’s voice. Older, rougher, angrier––but it was Anakin’s voice. Not Vader. Not Vader.

Was it Vader who blew up the Death Star, then? Was it Anakin? Is that why he felt like he should be reporting back to Master Windu about the newest Star Destroyer that Anakin had wrecked?

Years he’d spent convincing himself that Anakin was dead and Vader had risen from the ashes. But now, both were too close for comfort: Vader, with Anakin’s voice and Anakin’s rage and Anakin’s son…

Luke. 

Obi-Wan blinked, looking down at his unsteady hands through glassy eyes. Obi-Wan had slipped once, too furious for his own good, with one misstep in their disastrous duel, and Vader had torn out of him everything he’d wanted to know. Or––hadn’t known.

YOU TOOK––?

Vader hadn’t known. Somehow, somehow, by the luck of the Force, Vader hadn’t known that man he had inexplicably saved on Tatooine was his own son. He’d taken Luke anyway, but hadn’t killed Luke––not yet––and now––Obi-Wan had tried to take it back, tried to lie, but Vader––

A droplet fell on his fist. Obi-Wan slowly stretched out his hands. He was numb to the bone, and no good at piloting, just like he’d been nineteen years ago and clutching a newborn. Just like then, Obi-Wan breathed in, out, and remembered that this was for Anakin’s children. Anakin’s son was in Vader’s hands now. But his daughter was safe.

If only Leia’s protection hadn’t come at the price of her brother’s.

“We meet again, old friend.”

In Lars’s memory, the boy could barely hear the man over the cacophony of Jabba’s court. Drunken shrieking, rattling of dancers’ chains, and wailing music; it all echoed through the air in a blur of the thousand memories Lars had of this place, misting into one dim haze.  

But Vader––Vader would never forget Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice.

Was he even on Tatooine? Vader wondered. It was dark, cool; Obi-Wan’s voice was genial. He breathed on his own, a silver puff in front of him; his flesh-and-blood hands clammy and rough as he clutched his own shoulders. Stealing between the memories of another man, in the cracks between Lars-then and Lars-now and both presences casting long shadows across their own memories, he could almost slip away. Maybe he was somewhere in his own memories, tucked under his quilt in his room at the Temple, Obi-Wan in the front room of their chambers with another master––

A laugh rumbled from somewhere deep in the dark, dank throne room. He couldn’t see him, but it didn’t matter: sound died, struck dead in a split second. The wet air froze over.

 “Jee canta tytung bu Jeedai gee kahka doptkee. Hocan wata uba doth, Kotka Kenobi!”

I thought all the Jedi had died out. Yet here you are, Master Kenobi.

Sweat trickled down his spine. Fear that wasn’t his own hammered rapidly at his heart. His breath sped up. His lungs yanked at his chest, whistling with some lingering sickness. 

The master. ––He thought, Lars thought, the boy thought, all at once or none at all. He clenched his jaw until it whined to stop it from chattering. He inched as close as he dared to the grate in the wall, bare inches above the floor, and peaked into the throne room through a forest of legs. He clasped the decorative screen of the grate, iron cool and rough under his sweaty palms, knuckles white.

Lars, Vader remembered as something tugged at him, an unfamiliar pulse drumming in the back of his mind. It was Lars’s start of shock at seeing his own hands. Child’s hands, too, crusted with dirt. Not more than ten.

A beat. Lars’s young heart pounded a tattoo against his ribs.

“We are a dying species, I admit,” responded Obi-Wan, his voice too steady, deadened with some sort of wretched humor. “But I was one of the lucky ones.”

Vader snarled somewhere deep inside himself, struggling to maintain the patience to see through the memory. He couldn’t yank too hard, or he’d rip Lars’s mind to pieces. Besides––what was Obi-Wan Kenobi, his butcher, compared to the unholy relief of a few moments fully flesh?

Jabba laughed again. Vader’s rage couldn’t manifest when only a sliver of himself lived in the boy’s mind, trapped in the boy’s body: terror was scratching at the inside of his throat, clawing at his eyes. The boy wanted to cry; Vader realized belatedly.

“An haku see mah kougine pateessa, coo maban mah Rotta nei? Ahsoka Tano an bu Jeedai Poiouey Skywalker?”

And what of my old friends, who returned my Rotta to me? Ahsoka Tano and the Jedi Knight Skywalker?  

Vader felt nothing. The boy felt nothing. Every thought and feeling had fled. His grasp loosened on the grate.

And, then, suddenly, he could feel the sharp press of cool metal against a barely-healed cut on his nose as he forced his face as close as it could go to the grate. His blood and breath pounded in his ears.

“I am afraid that both were lost,” said Obi-Wan. Finally, he laid eyes on him, and hated him all the more for it. Obi-Wan looked as he had looked in all of Vader’s memories; there was a streak of gray through his auburn hair and his robes were ragged, but he was––straight-backed, proud, and free. “But not all hope is.”

“Kaa, Kotka Kenobi?”

“I’m sure you remember the despair you felt when young Rotta was taken from you, Master Jabba,” replied Obi-Wan, with a dip of the head. The court was quiet as Jabba rumbled in agreement. “And that you would not wish that on any father.”  

“I humbly entreat you, in the name of the late Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker, who saved your son, to help me in my quest to find his lost son.”

Lost. Lost son––LOST–– 

“An haku che copah hatkocanh uba wamma che mah cuee kouoioy yauma du boonowa rin Skywalker, Kotka Kenobi?”

And what price will you pay for my most generous help in finding young Skywalker, Master Kenobi?

“I have many skills you would find beneficial, Master Jabba.”

Vader’s rage was drowned out by a strike of gut-churning fear––but not his own.

“Copah,” whispered the boy to himself. Price.

His breath hurt him, now, and his chest ached when his back slammed against the stone, cold bleeding in through his sweat-soaked shirt. The raucous noise of Jabba’s court was fading into fog of Lars’s mind. Misty memories were burning away with the dawn of a new one, where Vader could see the glitter of sand grains and taste blood and the glint of steel in the light of the twin suns––

––“You gotta forge on here?”

Anakin Skywalker’s son. Lost. So lost Kenobi went begging like a starving dog to the table of Jabba the Hutt. But not dead. Not dead.

Vader tasted the thrill of adrenaline like blood in his mouth. Skywalker. His son. Out there, lost but waiting––if Kenobi couldn’t find him, Skywalker was safe for now, and a hunt for him would alert the galaxy at large…

A strong twist of a spanner brought Vader back.

Vader blinked at the glowlamps hanging above him, the red of his mask once again tinting his vision. How long had passed? Lars was somewhere to his right, but that meant nothing. The mechanic had never been bothered by schedules before.

“You never saw Kenobi again.” It wasn’t a question. Vader was sure of it––too sure of it. He would have to make sure the hasty bond he had created between them was fully separated.

“No,” said Lars, not looking up from the wiring at his arm’s port.

Vader hefted himself up to sit––smooth and painless, he noted approvingly. His control box, slimmed down from Lars’s previous repairs, was completely insulated inside and the wires sealed thrice over. More than thorough.

“I need a forge,” said Lars, “and some good metal.”

Vader cast a critical eye at Lars, who had more of the same gray insulation in hand. He was delicately twining it around some wires.

“What for?” Vader asked distrustfully, examining more of Lars’s work. Both Lars and he had done well. He, in his technique, if Lars had remained unaffected by the search of his memory. “The materials on the Devastator are more than adequate.”

He’d been out for longer than he’d thought, Vader realized with distress he refused to acknowledge. Lars had had the time––and Vader had been out of it enough––that the casing of his entire prosthetic port had been stripped and insulated. Even inside, against his skin, which was wrapped again with cotton.

There was a creep up his spine. This was––well done. Done too well. It may completely stop the charge of his master’s lightning from reaching his flesh. Was this state he found himself in not his punishment?

No. Not anymore. Vader snarled beneath his mask. His son was waiting for him, heir to his Empire, and Kenobi and Palpatine’s corpses would rest at his son's feet for their lies. He needed to be stronger than ever.

Lars lifted up Vader’s disconnected arm. It was strange to see the unfamiliar black mismatched metal that Lars had fitted him with on Tatooine as opposed to the gray durasteel he was long used to.

“I need to redo these. Melt them down and mix ‘em with something less conductible,” Lars said, “Any more lightning and you’d probably be dead.”

The Emperor was too precise for that. But––wearing him down with infinitesimally stronger shocks…that was certainly Palpatine’s playbook.

“Very well,” said Vader, almost absentminded. Bounty hunters first, supposedly for Kenobi. He needed to deal with Tagge, then. “Attach the arm quickly, then. It will do for now.” He added, impatiently: “Don’t bother with disconnecting the nerves.”

Lars grumbled but complied and Vader didn’t even bother to grit his teeth. With a snap and a spark of electricity, his nerves reconnected with a flash of pain that made his spine seize as Lars drove the prosthetic back into his port.  

Vader rotated his left arm and stood as Lars sat back, wiping off his gloves with a rag. With a flick of the Force, one of the locked drawers hissed opened. An ingot placed itself in Vader’s hand.

He offered it to Lars. “This will do best for your alloy.”

Lars took the ingot from his hand, tracing over the Imperial stamp, gaze dragging to the cache in the open drawer.

“What did you do to get this amount of beskar?” asked Lars. “Skin every Mando in the galaxy?”

Vader ignored him.

“There is a forge above the brig. The beskar will be for your use at zero-three hundred hours in two day cycles. Do not be seen,” Vader commanded.

Lars dropped the ingot, which hit the slab with a clang and turned to leave before Vader had even dismissed him. Not that it would’ve mattered.

“Obviously.”

One problem solved but bigger ones were at hand. Tagge would soon be calling.

A day later, the remnants of the Death Star still burned brighter than the setting sun in the indigo sky of Yavin IV, and the party had yet to die.

“Wanna drink?” offered Solo. Stars knew how he’d found Obi-Wan. He’d sequestered himself away from the frenzy, cross-legged on an ancient, moss grown pillar. He was trying (unsuccessfully) to meditate in the scant few hours before the remnants of the Rebellion left the planet, the Empire quick on their heels.

Needless to say, Solo had sniffed him out faster than a Utapaun bloodhound.

Obi-Wan cracked open an eye when Solo plopped himself down on the pillar, unmarked bottle in hand, and Chewbacca next to him with an amiable greeting.

“I can’t believe there is still any alcohol left on this planet, let alone base.”

“But this is the good stuff, old man!” Solo waggled the bottle in front of him, before uncorking it with his teeth. “They call it Rebel moonshine.”

Obi-Wan’s nose wrinkled. “It smells like ship fuel.”

“Probably is,” agreed Solo, taking a sip before handing it off to Chewie. “One of the pilots told me they make in their boots.”

“Top shelf stuff, then,” Obi-Wan said sarcastically, very sadly aware of the drinking habits of soldiers. He was all-too tempted to join them, but he’d had enough alcohol for several lifetimes. When Obi-Wan landed in the hangar of Yavin IV, he barely remembered how he’d gotten there, but he’d never forget how he was greeted by cheers and the best drinks the Rebellion could scrounge up.

“So,” said Solo, breaking the awkward silence before it grew on them like the moss. “Vader, huh?”

Obi-Wan surprised himself by laughing. He couldn’t help it.

“Vader,” he agreed.

Solo canted a displeased eyebrow at him. "Seriously? Vader tries to ram you down in the Death Star, blows it up, and that’s all you can say?”

All of Obi-Wan's good humor evaporated faster than water spilled under Tatooine's twin suns.

Ob-Wan folded his hands in sleeves. “I ran out of things to say about Vader a long time ago.”

“I don’t believe that,” scoffed Solo, picking up the medallion on his chest and waving it front of his face. “You remember Princess High’n’Mighty puttin’ this on our necks instead of Darth Vader, you know, the crazy bastard who actually blew up his own goddamn Death Star? You don’t even have anything to say to High Command?”

“I don’t expect they’d believe me,” Obi-Wan said lightly.

“No one would, which is why I’m pretty sure Vader’s going to show up any second and snap our necks for having seen him do it.”

For him? Certainly. But Obi-Wan was equally sure that Vader’s attention would be easily split between him and his son. Vader––even as Anakin––had never been anything less than obsessive. With Luke in the hairlines of his father’s sight, on his ship, and under the weight of his Empire, he doubted––knew––that there was no escape.

Especially when Luke had willingly taken Vader’s hand.

“If you’re part of the Rebellion, he’s coming after you anyway,” deflected Obi-Wan, if only because Solo was probably right, which Obi-Wan very much despised the thought of.

Solo sneered while Chewbacca roared at him something very degrading about what the Jedi Order had come to.

Obi-Wan scowled at that, before admitting; “Perhaps you’re right.”

Vader may not have known, Obi-Wan concluded, but he would know soon enough, and after that…

Leia was their last hope.

Tarkin, whatever his flaws, had vision. Grand General Tagge had graphs.

Vader stood next to the viewport of the conference room on the Eliminator, unerringly tracking the movements the Black Squadron as it carried out drills around the Devastator and its fleet. He was well aware of the uneasy eyes of the newly-promoted entourage of generals and moffs on him.

“I look at the state of the Empire and I ask myself, ‘How many Star Destroyers could we have made with the resources we threw into Tarkin’s Folly?’” said Tagge, from the head of the table. Vader could feel the man’s glare on him but made no move to return the favor. “The Imperial Navy is a sea. It is endless and it cannot be beaten and given enough time turns even the strongest rocks sand.”

“Regardless of the Death Star’s flaws,” Vader interjected coldly. “There must be vengeance against the Rebellion. The Emperor will want the pilot made an example of.”

“Ah, yes,” said Tagge, his smug air polluting the Force. “Lord Vader. What a lucky thing you survived, out there dogfighting with the Rebels. And to think the Empire nearly lost you––for a second time in nearly as many weeks.”

Vader turned back around to face him, temper flaring and cloak snapping. One of the moffs twitched so violently it looked like Vader had snapped his neck. "There is no such thing as luck. And the pilot who shot down the Death Star knows this.”

Tagge looked at him in disbelief. “And you know who the pilot was after minutes of failed dogfighting?”

Vader sneered at him behind the mask, fists curling as he narrowly restrained himself from tearing Tagge to pieces. “The Force reveals all. It was Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Uncertainty danced across Tagge’s for a second. Around him, many of the new generals’ confusion was clouding the Force, fear oozing from the haze. 

“Do you truly think any other pilot could have made that shot, General?” Vader asked, contempt dripping poisonously from the fangs of his fury. “You remember the Clone Wars, do you not? Of what a single Jedi could do on a battlefield?”

“Our larger plans cannot be based around any individual asset,” Tagge snapped, but doubt was creeping out. “Not even a Death Star. Not you, Vader.”

Him? It was Kenobi this fool should be concerned with. Vader let a breath hiss between them as he carefully uncurled his fists. The Rebels would eagerly listen to Kenobi sing every last sad song about the Clone Wars, and Tagge would be left mastermind of utter failure if he ignored Vader's warnings.

Very well. 

“You can ask the Emperor yourself, if you wish,” Vader said dismissively. “But I assure you––it was Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Not even our spies in the Rebellion have learned who Rebel High Command confirmed as the pilot,” interjected the new Director of the ISB. The rest of the Joint Chiefs were deadly silent.

“And you don’t think that the pilot who destroyed the Death Star won’t become a rallying point for rebels across the galaxy?” Vader couldn't resist daring Tagge.

Tagge narrowed his eyes. “I see you want to lead a hunt, Vader. You have forever been little better than your sword. Your armada could not even act to intercept escaping Rebel ships from Yavin.”

It was only the Emperor that stopped Vader from snapping his neck, and Tagge knew it––and enjoyed it.

“And you would have rather two armadas be destroyed by the Death Star?”

The Death Star’s escort––Tarkin’s armada––had been blasted to bits by the Death Star’s explosion. His own armada had been able to escape damage with its shields raised; Vader had learned that from the show at Alderaan.

“A mistake,” Tagge insisted. “Had your men not been so fearful for your life––or you taking theirs––they should have been able to take the initiative. The amount of men and resources the Empire has compared to the Rebellion is exponential.”

“And that is what the Rebellion is aiming for,” Vader corrected. “A million men dead is a blow, even to the Empire, General.”

A blow he had dealt and one well worth it, but Tagge didn’t need to know that.

“Resources is correct, Vader. The fleet’s eyes will be on the hyperspace lanes, especially the Outer Rim,” Tagge said crisply, with a touch of condescension. “Pirates, smugglers, syndicates––they may have been unchecked in the past, but that is precisely what is supplying the Rebellion. We will starve the Rebels out, force them into the Mid-Rim and Core, where our power is the strongest, not away from it.”

The Outer Rim––Tarkin’s old territory. Tagge’s thirst to outdo Tarkin’s memory was tangible, but all Vader scented was a weakness. It was enough to quell the taste of bloodlust that lingered on his tongue.

“And what of the fleet?” Vader asked idly. “Since Scarif was destroyed, all of the Empire’s plans and Advanced Weapons Research facilities were decimated, as well. Rebellion agents went down, too; Rebel Command surely knows. The drydocked Super Destroyers and Kuat Yards are easy targets.”

“They always are,” said Tagge, brusque, irritation finally breaking through in his voice. Vader made sure to helpfully yank at it in the Force. Irritation, impatience, it was all Vader needed: a single second to knock an arrow and put it through Tagge's head. “The fleet stationed there will satisfy. I have command, Vader. You may start your hunt, but let’s be clear. You are the lightsaber. I am the one who wields you. You come at my command.”

A dressing down in public to humiliate him. How…Kenobi. He let his breathing fill the air, watching as other men began to sweat.

“Of course, General,” rumbled Vader. “I serve for the good of the Empire.”

Lars never thought he'd miss Tatooine's twin suns.

Unlike back home, where he could glance out a window to see the cast of the suns' shadows, there was no way to tell time on a Star Destroyer. The viewport in Vader’s hangar had been blurred into hyperspace most of the time. The day and nightcycle lights were no use, mostly because the first thing Lars had done was override them. He’d scrounged up a chrono from a drawer somewhere, but it didn’t mean much to him, since he didn’t leave the hangar unless Vader wanted something.

But now Maberust, Second Engineer, wanted something, too.

Lars pulled himself out of the cockpit and away from the wiring of Mark o7’s sensor array at the call of Maberust, standing at the foot of the fighter.

“What now,” Lars said, standing on the ladder, wiping his hands off with a rag. He was almost getting used to being interrupted.

“Sir, the reports that were left to you need to be approved,” said Maberust.

“What reports?” Lars barked, already not liking the answer. This had Vader written all over it.

“The reports from the armada, sir,” Maberust said, with a frown. “With repairs, upgrades, and proposals from each ship. The datachips were left at the terminal in your office, sir.”

Vader was way more trouble than he was worth. Lars vaulted down from the ladder to land next to Maberust.

“Sir…” Maberust began, giving him that strange look again.

“Spit it out,” snapped Lars, impatiently.

“Sir,” Maberust repeated, looking pale. “Have you––have you left this hangar? To sle––for your quarters or office or the mess, I mean.”

His own shop had been so much easier. Lars clenched his jaw. “Just show me wherever the fuck I’m supposed to go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lars followed Maberust out of the hangar. A turbo ride ten floors up, hidden behind blast doors, and right above Vader’s hangar was the circular office of the Chief Engineer.

It had nearly three-hundred-and-sixty degrees worth of transparisteel windows that loomed down on the engineering bays below it, mechanics scurrying around from ship to ship. A couple uniforms sat at a bank of computers, monitoring the feeds from the dozens of hangars not visible. The feed didn’t include Vader’s hangar, though.

Lars looked around, unimpressed. It didn’t look like any decent engineer had ever worked here. Other than the banks of terminals and the ensigns attached to them, there was only a holoprojector in the middle and a small, empty drafting table put absentmindedly on one side.

“Where are the reports?” he asked Maberust. His voice made the ensigns start to jump up and start to salute him, and he waved them off irritatedly as Maberust hurried to the holoprojector to insert the datachip.

“The first report is for the Devastator, sir,” Maberust said as a blue projection of the ship bubbled into view. “She was far enough away from the Star that she didn’t suffer any major damage, and all shields and armaments are at full capacity…”

Lars ignored the rest of Maberust’s droning as he flipped through the report himself. Maberust was right; the Star Destroyer was functioning fine, and the support ships housed in the Devastator needed nothing but regular maintenance except for the hundred or so Vader had wrecked.

But out of the hundred TIEs on the ship that had been sent out to engage the Rebels, only sixty of them had made it back. At the very end of the part marked Devastator was a list of resource expenditures. Lars stared at the numbers and did some quick figures in his head.

“What’s with all the coolant?” Lars interrupted Maberust’s monologue. “Those numbers are too high for TIEs. Go through ‘em for leaks. Make sure there’s no electrical damage.”

Maberust stumbled to a stop, fumbling for a datapad. “Yes, sir––but––”

“Salvage whatever you can from Hangar 103 and scrap the rest,” Lars said, moving onto the other capital ships. Next up was the Avenger. “Don’t waste men rebuilding that shit. Put in an order for new ships and tell anyone who asks it’s Vader’s fault.”

Maberust made a strange noise. Lars continued: “There’s too much damage to the Avenger’s shields, check the sensor arrays to coordinate with the cannons. Same with the Stormhawk. The Tyrant needs repairs on the hyperdrive, it’s lagging. Recalibrate the sensor systems of any new TIEs before launch and keep an eye on the coolant. Run a stress test to see if that’s a manufacturer’s problem or a mechanic’s.”

Lars grumbled under his breath as he looked at the reports left––nearly a hundred pages. The chrono on the stand of the holoprojector read that he had a little more than nine hours left until he needed to be at the forge.

A blueprint of a droid unfolded in the next report. Lars had never seen anything like it before: one bulbous eye protruded out of a disk that sat on a body with a dozen legs dangling down from it.

Lars glared it down.

“What does this have to do with the armada.” Nothing, probably, and Vader was just making life harder.

“Advanced Weapons Research and Director Krennic all lost their lives at Scarif, sir,” said Maberust, pale eyes looking up from his scribbling on the datapad.

Lars didn’t know where Scarif was or what happened, but he could guess that it meant the Empire had screwed up. He zoomed in on a cross-section of the droid’s cpu.

“Until a new division can be established, the Chief Engineers have been asked to supervise the projects.”

Project Swarm, this one read, and hell knew how many more projects there were.

“I will convey your orders, sir,” Maberust said, “But night shift is about to start.” A pause, before he offered: “You were assigned room 2414 in block e, sir.”

Night shift? Lars pulled himself away from the blueprints. Right––and Maberust and the ensigns were waiting for him to dismiss them.

“Fine,” Lars said, following Maberust, who dawdled for a moment before finally turning to leave. The turbolift went down one floor, exiting onto a catwalk across a hangar.

Lars stopped dead in his tracks, barely registering Maberust running into him. He grabbed the railing of the catwalk, leaning over, heart suddenly pounding––was it––it was––

He knew that ship. The railing was being crushed beneath his grip. He’d fixed that ship too many times to count.

Slave I.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR

TORQUE

The “moment of force;” the rotational equivalent of linear force.

Lars shoved Maberust to the side with one hand as he dove in the other direction, blaster bolt whizzing above his head.

Slave I’s master was here, too.

The stormtroopers shouted in alarm but were easily outpaced when Fett ignited his jetpack and landed on the catwalk above, ten paces in front of Lars.

Long time, no see.

Lars drew his two longest knives as he threw himself up to his feet just in time to meet Fett.

Fett had a pistol pointed at Lars’s chest in a split second, but Lars didn’t blink. He threw Fett’s wrist off course with flat of his blade, another blaster bolt hurtling over his shoulder, and flipped the knife in his other hand to punch it in through Fett’s shoulder joint.

Fett hissed and jerked out of Lars’s grip, swiping a leg at Lars’s feet and forcing Lars to tear back, taking his knife with him––Lars scowled. Fett had gotten out of range quickly enough to leave only a hole in his armorweave and a splash of blood on the tip of Lars’s knife.

“Of all the places to find you,” drawled Fett, drawing a second pistol, a half-meter from Lars. “I didn’t expect it to be an Imperial Star Destroyer.”

Lars snarled.

Fett shot at the same time Lars broke away to his side. He wasn’t fool enough to try Fett’s arms again, a too-easy target extended to shoot. He jabbed a blade right at Fett’s chin.

Then Lars swung around, twisting under his own arm and leaving his back open to Fett just so he could stab the other knife underneath the beskar breastplate––it punctured armorweave and then, yes!––hit skin––Fett jerked back, switching a pistol for a grappling line––Lars faced him head-on again, flipping his knives around––

––but an iron grip wrenched Lars’s wrist above his head and he stumbled.

“What,” growled Darth Vader, “is the meaning of this.”

In Vader’s other hand he had Fett’s wrist, squeezing the beskar vambrace until Lars could hear it creak.

“You have a fresh bounty on your ship, Lord Vader,” said Fett, his free hand still training the blaster at Lars’s chest. “Jabba’s prize.”

Lars bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood and switched his blade around again, ready to throw, when Vader yanked at his arm again.

That same blade snapped out of Lars’s fist––dashing on its own straight into Vader’s hand.

“He has been officially pardoned for any crimes he may have committed,” Vader said coldly. “You’ll remember, Fett, that the Empire does not recognize any Hutt lord’s idea of crime. Lars works for the Empire. And if you would like to work for me, you’ll drop that bounty.”

He released Fett’s wrist, who rotated it carefully, the electronics of the vambrace sparking. Fett locked eyes with Lars. Vader didn’t drop Lars’s arm.

“I pay much better. But you’re welcome to go crawling back to Jabba.”

“Understood, Lord Vader.”

“And you,” Vader looked down at Lars, who ripped his gaze away from Fett to match Vader’s glare. “Chief Engineer. Don’t you have work to do?”

Lars clenched his jaw until one of his teeth cracked.

“Yes.”

Vader’s hand tightened around his wrist in warning.

“Lord Vader,” he ground out.

Vader dropped his arm. Lars felt Vader’s gaze on him as he unwillingly sheathed his knives, one by one, eyeing Fett the whole time.

He didn’t want to turn his back on Fett, but he knew there was no way in hell Vader wouldn’t throw him out.

Lars dragged his eyes away, and across the rest of the hangar.

It was dead silent. There wasn’t a single tool moving, no men working, and the eyes of every mechanic and stormie were on him, Vader, and Fett. Maberust, further down the catwalk, looked white enough to pass out.

Vader still had his other knife, glove closed around the bare blade.

Lars turned his back on Vader and Fett, every bone in his body protesting, and stalked in the other direction, pulling at Maberust’s shoulder and dragging him out with him.

The blast doors snapped shut behind him.

The tension in his shoulders didn’t fade. Maberust straightened up, dusting off his uniform from when Lars had shoved him to the ground.

Lars walked on. He knew the way to Vader’s hangar by now. He drew a blade before he even realized he’d done it, just to feel the weight in his hand, but his stance felt off without the second blade.

Second time he’d survived a Mandalorian bounty hunter. And Vader––had saved his life, or something.

For now. 

There was no guarantee Vader wouldn’t kill him for it, though.

“Vader,” repeated Mon Mothma.

Aboard Home One, surrounded by the odd collection of generals and senators––Mon Mothma and Leia; Dodonna, Rieekan, and Madine all in a ring of chairs around the room, Captain Solo awkwardly beside him––Obi-Wan felt like he might be back in a Jedi Council meeting.

The blank, judging stares really weren’t all that different from the Council.

“You’re certain,” Mothma asked; it wasn’t truly a question, but a lack of anything else to say.

Obi-Wan dipped his head. “I know it’s unbelievable, but I assure you, it’s the truth. Vader’s presence is like none other in the Force. It’s…unmistakable.”

It was, but that wasn’t the reason Obi-Wan was sure.

Obi-Wan would have rather pulled his own teeth out than have this conversation, but he was becoming quickly and cruelly reacquainted with the realities of war. Namely: if the sentry didn’t speak fast enough, everyone else’s deaths were on his head. 

“Yeah, Senator,” Solo chipped in. He and Chewbacca looked so visibly uncomfortable in the stark white of Home One’s chamber that they almost made Obi-Wan look at ease. “All right, not about the Force stuff, but I could hear Kenobi shouting over the comms. I saw it with my own eyes––a TIE Advanced went in the trench and shot. None of us were in position to make it. Nobody else who saw it made it out alive.”

Mothma sat, slowly, face carefully blank and eyes trained on the holoprojection of Yavin IV and the Death Star. The generals were exchanged looks with one another, but Obi-Wan snuck a glance only at Leia: her eyebrows drew together, her lips pursed, and she said nothing.

“I heard stories in the Clone Wars about what Jedi could do,” Rieekan began, “but this is––” He shook his head.

“The only thing that could take down the Death Star was proton torpedoes,” interjected Madine, “and no TIE is outfitted with those. This wasn’t some last-second hairbrained scheme that accidentally worked out. This was planned. But if it really is Vader––Vader, betraying the Empire––he’s the Emperor’s iron fist––”

“I believe General Kenobi,” interrupted Leia. Obi-Wan gave her a small, grateful smile, which she returned with a studied look. “It’s…nonsensical, perhaps, but I believe he is telling the truth.”

The Force was whispering to her, Obi-Wan thought, not without sadness.

“Besides,” Leia continued, “Imperial politics are deadly, especially among the Joint Chiefs. Many of the brass would sell out the Emperor’s own plans for a little more power from the Emperor himself. Vader wasn’t on the Death Star at all, not even when Tarkin fired on Alderaan.”

There was a little hitch in Leia’s voice, and the Force trembled with her, but no one said anything. Mothma only steepled her fingers together.

“True,” she allowed. “But Vader has never been…proactive before. And he has certainly never betrayed the Emperor like this. Dogfighting, yes––but not blowing up his own military installations in a secret coup.”

Unease rested like leaden weights on her shoulders before Mothma straightened up. “Our spies have been scattered since the Death Star blew, but I’m sure the reshuffling of the ranks will include Vader somewhere at the top. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. The Alliance will celebrate Master Kenobi and Captain Solo as the pilots who destroyed the Death Star.”

Obi-Wan offered a genial smile while he could feel Solo rolling his eyes behind him.

“We can’t look a gift horse in the mouth for publicity,” agreed Dodonna, “and any leak about Vader would only create chaos in our ranks. Needless to say, you’re both sworn to secrecy.”

“If I may, High Command,” Obi-Wan stepped forward. “You should know that Vader and I have had some…bad blood. He knows very well who he was fighting above the Death Star and he will tell the Emperor about my survival. I only survived the dogfight because I caught him off guard. Vader will be looking for me, and his hunt will be ruthless. If the Alliance attempts to step between us, you may only end up offering yourselves for slaughter.”

The Force shifted beneath his feet, like vines creeping up and trying to tie him down. Leia––she wanted him to stay. Well. That was an unexpected feeling…pleasant, too, he supposed.

“Bad blood,” Mothma repeated, leaning forward, her gaze sharp and narrow like the crosshairs of a sniper rifle. “So, I take it that it was you who put him in that suit, Master Kenobi.”

There was a gasp somewhere in the room, and Obi-Wan felt everyone’s attention on him, piercing as blasterfire. His throat felt dry and parched, suddenly, like breathing in air of Tatooine. Or Mustafar.

“Yes,” he said. The cool, pristine white of Home One helped him dispel the smoke of the burning Temple. “A duel gone…terribly wrong. But let me tell you now: I can’t do it again. I can’t defeat Vader.” Obi-Wan felt like he swallowed half-molten glass and lava was dripping off his tongue as he spoke. “And I certainly can’t defeat the Emperor.”

The generals’ questions began at once, a whole rush that Mothma stopped effortlessly with a raised hand.

“Tell us more about the Emperor,” she entreated.

“He’s the Sith Lord,” Obi-Wan said simply. “Darth Sidious. The one the Order was looking for all those years ago. The Clone Wars were orchestrated entirely by him to put him where he is now. He was Maul’s master, Dooku’s, and now Vader’s. He’s more powerful than any of them––except maybe Vader. Master Windu, Grand Master Yoda––they all went up against him. They failed.”

He blinked away security recordings of Anakin kneeling––no, Vader––

“But you succeeded,” said Leia, quiet.

“Against Vader,” Obi-Wan agreed. “After––after Order 66, Master Yoda and I were the only ones left. He chose the Emperor. I chose Vader.”

I thought I could reason with him.

“And Vader still lives, after all that. I didn’t have the power to kill him.” Or maybe it was just strength he lacked.

“The Emperor,” said Mothma, drawing the attention back to herself. “He must be defeated? For the Empire to die?”

Obi-Wan sighed. “I don’t know how old Palpatine truly is, but I doubt he’ll be dying from age––and his patience has always been his strength. If he isn’t killed, he will try again, no matter how many years it takes. So, yes, he must be defeated.”

“Can anyone kill them?” asked Dodonna. There was a quaver of fear in his voice that had the whole room trembling in the Force. “The Emperor. Vader.”

Obi-Wan carefully didn’t look at Leia.

“No chance they’d kill each other,” Madine muttered to himself, slumping back in exhaustion.

“Vader would never betray the Empire,” said Obi-Wan. Vader had burned down the rest of world to get it. “It is all he has in the world.”

Not anymore. There was––there was a chance that Vader would betray the Emperor, but it would only be to replace Palpatine with himself and his son.

“As for the Emperor––the Dark Side is fueled by death, destruction. As long as war wages, he is powerful. Believe me,” warned Obi-Wan, “the Dark Side––the Force––are very real. Have you seen Vader fight? Even alone, with only the Dark Side at his call, Vader can wreck planets.”

Madine cursed.

“Then all we can do is win the war,” said Mothma, with finality. “And leave Vader and the Emperor for the last.” She stood. “If you are willing, Master Kenobi, I would like to offer you a place in this Alliance. Vader will be after you, yes, but your knowledge and experience make you an invaluable ally. How does Command vote?”

Ayes followed, one by one, Leia first.

Was there any way Obi-Wan could say no? He was too old for another war. Too tired. He’d lost the first one, anyway.

But Mon was as old as him, these men just as tired, and they had all lost the same war. Maybe not in the same way. But Leia, at least, knew what he felt.

And Princess Leia, with fire in her eyes and steel in her spine, would never leave the Rebellion.

“You have me,” Obi-Wan said with a bow, “Or whatever is left. Lightsaber, advice, life––you may have it all.”

Six of the galaxy’s best bounty hunters he’d gotten––good enough for a handful of leads on a few Rebel bases. But Vader needed better.

“When they said there was an Imperial buyer interested in my droids,” said Dr. Aphra, “I didn’t think they meant you, Sir Darth Vader.”

He didn’t need a bounty hunter. He needed an archaeologist.

“I’m a big fan. Huge. How can I help?”

“Private business,” Vader said, curt. He had seen some of her reactivated droids and gone to the trouble of chasing her down before the Death Star, but now he wanted her services for a different purpose. “I destroyed some of your reactivated droids. They impressed me––even for antiques. You are an archaeologist, correct?”

“Thank you, Mr. Lord Vader,” said Aphra, touching her hand to her heart. “Sir? Your Majesty? Your Illustriousness? Honestly, no idea. I’m a rogue archaeologist, not a protocol droid.”

“I have some digging for you to do,” said Vader, ignoring her yammer. He took a step forward, shadow looming over her.

“Yes, sir!” Aphra said with a chipper salute. There was suspicion in her eyes she hid well when she asked, “Anything else?”

He opened his hand. The datachip lit up.

“You…” Dr. Aphra looked down, the holo dancing in the reflection of her wide eyes. “…are even more interesting than I could have hoped, Sir Vader.”

“Lord Vader,” Vader corrected. “If you live.”

Zero-three-hundred hours. The forge was empty except for the beskar. And he wasn’t dead yet, so he might as well get to work while his good luck lasted.

Lars lit up the forge. It alone was bigger than his entire shop, a vat made for mass-producing starfighter parts and gunnery pieces; when the ring of blue flames bloomed to life it cast a strange glow over the rest of the dark workshop. The rest of the smithy was nothing but raw metal ingots, each marked with the Empire’s seal, arranged into pyramids that towered far above him. The stack of beskar––tiny compared to the colossal mounds of everything from gold to durite to chromium––laid at the feet of the forge.

Lars picked up a single ingot of beskar, dropping into the vat. He watched it melt. The Imperial crest oozed away into nothing but liquid silver.

Then came the rest: durasteel, carbonite, tungsten, bismuth, titanium, and more. Lars felt a strange feeling of satisfaction as he watched them meld––or maybe even something like excitement.

The regulation ingots were more precise than anything he’d ever forged on Tatooine, which had all been made of scrounged and bartered scrap. He could do more than just prostheses––specialized circuits or converters, hell, the forge was big enough maybe he could even manage a few starship parts…

Lars punched in the correct dimensions for the prosthetic arm into the terminal next to the forge. The display rippled, a million miniature columns of cast steel rearranging themselves and solidifying into the hollow cast of an arm.

He couldn’t help but stare, marvelling. When he’d first forged Vader’s prostheses, he’d had to use desert sand for a mold. Now, it seemed almost too easy.

Lars plunged a foundry ladle into the molten metal before pouring it into the premade cast, watching as the liquidized alloy––burning as bright as the blue flames of the forge––filled the rivulets of the cast. Lars pulled down the top of the cast with a pressurized hiss just as another mechanical hiss filled the room.

Lars didn’t turn around, clamping metal braces to the cast.

“Don’t bother killing me yet,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m not finished.”

“Believe it or not, mechanic,” said Vader, voice rumbling over the growling of the forge. “You require the least of my ire. For now.”

Lars snorted, unlocking the cast. With a pair of tongs, he pulled the new arm out of the mold, still glowing with blistering orange heat. He plunged the prosthetic into the cooling vat, hot steam billowing, before he locked it in place on an anvil.

“I observed your orders for repairs to the fleet and your modifications to the Advanced Weapons Research projects. I was impressed.”

Lars picked up the striker that leaned against the anvil, gripping with two hands as he hefted the hammer over his shoulder and brought it down in one clean stroke. The shriveled metal hangers-on from the mold fell off the prosthetic with a shudder.

Lars straightened up, striker still held loosely in one hand. He looked over at Vader, suspicious. Vader stood opposite the forge; the pinpricks of blue flame reflected in his mask. An impressed Vader was not a good thing. It only meant more work for him.

“I have given the order to begin production on Project Hive, effective immediately,” continued Vader. Lars grunted and turned back around, replacing the striker with a smaller one as he began work out the rounding of the joints. “And I require your oversight on another matter. Project Pax Aurora.”

Vader’s tone left no room for argument. Lars didn’t care. He looked up, but didn’t drop the hammer or tongs.

 “I’d get this done a lot faster if you stopped interrupting me,” Lars said sourly.

Vader made a noise of impatience, garbled through his vocoder.

“Fine.” Lars dropped the tongs and crossed his arms, hammer still in hand. He added the vocoder to the growing list of projects, if he lived past this conversation. “What is it.”

A holodisk drifted through the air and lit itself up in front of him. Vader followed shortly after.

“You might even like this one, mechanic.”

Unwillingly, Lars’s eyes slid over the projection. Twelve Star Destroyers, but only…almost. He looked at the scale and blinked.

“Those are––"

“Super Star Destroyers,” Vader replied, almost eager. “Project Pax Aurora. All in construction at Kuat. The one nearest completion is my new flagship. And you will make it mine.”

At his words, the holodisplay readjusted itself, refitting to the schematics of the Super Star Destroyer, the engine core displayed most prominently. Lars stared, feeling his heart beat a little faster. The hyperdrive alone…

“And what do you think?” asked Vader, impatient. “Will it work?”

Lars’s eyes slid unwillingly back to Vader. He wasn’t really sure how he was still alive, and he wanted Vader to get on his execution. If this hurried it up, whatever.

“It couldn’t dock anywhere but space,” Lars granted, with a grumble. “Too big. It’d destroy half the planet if it entered the atmosphere, let alone landed.”

“Very well,” Vader said, sounding pleased as the holodisplay shut off itself off and dropped itself in front of Lars’s feet. “I have some alterations for you to make to the blueprints.”

Lars had things to do and no time to waste. “Are you gonna kill me or not?”

Vader made a sound of annoyance. It was becoming vaguely familiar.

“Do not make me repeat myself. As long as you do my bidding, you have nothing to fear except from me. Since you have yet to irritate me enough to snap your neck for the mere inconvenience of your existence, I believe you can consider your life safe,” Vader informed him with a touch of impatience. Lars snorted. “I have projects for you, mechanic, and larger plans. There are men in the galaxy bigger than Jabba the Hutt. I am one of them. Whatever the bounty is, I will buy it out.”

Lars dropped the hammer back on the anvil. “It’s not a bounty. You can’t buy it out.”

“And why not?”

Between Vader’s bulk and the vast still-hot forge, there wasn’t room for escape.

“It’s not a bounty,” Lars repeated, gaze on the half-shaped arm. He would have to melt the prosthetic down and remake it. It had already cooled too much for him to be able to pattern it. “It’s a prize. I escaped. Jabba didn’t like that. The only reason I’m here is I killed everyone he sent after me. Now, it’s an honor.”

Vader said nothing for three long, steady breath cycles. Lars’s breathing wasn't so steady.

And then: “I will kill Fett myself if he proves an irritant. Until then, I believe this belongs to you.”

Lars looked up. Vader drew Lars’s blade from his belt and held it parallel, silver catching the light as he tested the weight in his hands.

“One of a pair. Your vibroblades are Mandalorian make,” said Vader. His gaze raised from the blade to Lars.

“They’re good knives,” he said, folding his arms. “Clean cut through almost anything.”

“And how might you have acquired them?”

Lars grinned with all teeth and no smile.

“Skinned a Mando,” he said, almost joking.

Vader flung the blade at him. It reeled around itself, vibration ringing in the air. Lars reached out caught it by the handle.

Lars raised it eye level, running his gaze along the blade’s gentle curve, and opened his hand. The blade dropped unceremoniously into the forge. The beskar spit and hissed with a vengeance as it bubbled away into molten silver.  

“Why,” said Vader, unamused. “Did you do that.”

“Because,” said Lars. “I can make it better.”

Her dreams promised her. Her dreams lied to her.

When Leia slept, there were no nightmares. Only dreams. That was why Leia never slept, though no one needed to know that.

Because, when she slept, her dreams offered her nothing but the most precious, thoughtless, beautiful things. Alderaan in all its glory: the Hanging Gardens, green branches heavy under fresh fruit, her aunts laden with baskets to harvest for the city’s people; the golden light breaking in iridescent crescents across the floor of her mother’s throne room, high in the purple mountains of Aldera; the too-blue cloudless sky as her father’s ship broke the atmosphere.

When she slept, she thought nothing of it. Leia smiled in her sleep. Her father embraced her, her mother kissed her cheek and there was not the slightest inkling they might be dead and gone. It was too sweet and too soft and too kind for Leia to bear those dreams in her waking hours. Instead, when she woke, Leia wept.

So Leia never slept.

In the scant week since the Death Star, Leia had taken her mandatory eight-hour night shifts without a fight. Everyone was watching her, Princess of the Late Alderaan, and she couldn’t afford any hint of weakness, of pity or sympathy or even care. Not right now.

So, when her door chimed with a knock, Leia made sure to take the time to look properly sleep-ridden before she answered.

“General Kenobi,” she said, surprised. General Kenobi’s eyes looked bluer in the dim glow of the night cycle lights and the bags under his eyes even heavier.

“Princess Leia,” he responded, dipping his head in a slight bow. “My apologies for waking you.”

“No––” Leia said, but before she could stop herself, the truth stumbled out. She let her façade fade as she slumped against the doorway, head dropping against the wall. “I…wasn’t sleeping, anyway.”

“Ah, yes,” said General Kenobi, the hint of sad smile sketched on his face. “Forgive me––I did not believe you were.”

“Oh,” Leia said, “that obvious, huh?”

“I disagree.” Strangely, Kenobi’s smile got a little wider. “A fine ruse. Well-played. Forgive my intrusion: please, Princess, there is something I want you to have.”

Leia watched with wide eyes as General Kenobi unclipped the second saber from his belt and held it out to Leia. She blinked. It couldn’t be!

“This is––this is––“

“A lightsaber,” agreed Kenobi, “an elegant weapon, for a more civilized age.”

“But I’m not a Jedi,” protested Leia.

Kenobi held out his spare hand. A little dumbly, Leia extended her own. Kenobi held her hand, gentle, hands rough and worn with calluses. He folded her hand around the saber, and closed his other hand atop hers.

“Maybe not,” said Kenobi. “But I can think of none better to wield it and...it will defend you well, all the same. Treat it carefully––it is far more powerful than any blaster. Besides,” Kenobi withdrew his hands to let her feel the weight of it. “What am I supposed to do with two lightsabers?”

Still awed, Leia lit the saber. With a snap-hiss the blade unfolded bright blue before her eyes.

It was so blue, so bright, and there was such intensity that she couldn’t help but close the blade.

“This wasn’t yours, General Kenobi?” Leia asked, watching him as she held the saber unsurely.

“No,” replied Kenobi, and he seemed sad…no, not sad. Wistful. “It belonged to a good friend of mine. His name was Anakin.”

Anakin? It couldn’t be––Leia’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “You mean Anakin Skywalker? General in the Clone Wars? Commander of the Open Circle Fleet?”

“Oh, yes,” said General Kenobi, with a smile and a little laugh. “He’d be delighted you knew his name.”

Leia opened her mouth, suddenly filled with the same rush of unanswered questions she’d pestered her tutors with, but closed it again. Even with a laugh, Kenobi seemed sadder than ever.

“My father spoke of you both,” she told him. Her chest ached at the thought, but she thought maybe General Kenobi understood that. “He said you were inseparable.”

Kenobi smiled again. “Bail always saw things much more clearly than me. This is a poor return, but consider it an apology I never got to give Bail. He asked me many times to leave Tatooine and come protect you. I should have listened, and I certainly wish I had done a better job of it. Hopefully, this might do you more good.”

Leia was startled. Her father asked General Kenobi to come guard her? Why? And General Kenobi had come to rescue her from the Death Star…on her father’s word?

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Leia said, trying not to choke out the words. Even after death, her father was still trying to protect her. She fought ferociously against tears. “I––I don’t know why you couldn’t leave before, but you’re here now. Please, General Kenobi.” She reached out and took his hand. “Stay with us.”

“I will do my best, Princess,” said Kenobi and it didn’t sound like an apology. It sounded like a promise.