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Rough hands pushed Luke to his knees, causing him to hiss in pain as his knobby joints collided with the cold, solid floor.
He had no clue where he was—the burlap hood covering his face obscured his sight, and Force suppressant cuffs bound his wrists behind his back. The pungent smell of rotten eggs and burning matches assaulted his senses as soon as he exited whatever shuttle he had been trapped in, and fuck, was it ever hot on this planet.
He cursed inwardly for the hundredth time, his mood wavering between disappointment and outright fury. The empire had promised an exponential, life-changing number of credits for Luke’s capture, and in his distracted state, he failed to notice that an organized cadre of bounty hunters, fully trained and capable of subduing a Force-sensitive individual, had followed his trail.
Luke’s rational side conceded that it was his fault to a certain degree—the events of Bespin a few months prior had left him saddened and disoriented. Gradually, after the shock had passed and acceptance set in, Luke began acting with a recklessness that was unbefitting a Jedi-in-training.
Luke had to do better next time.
Assuming there would be a next time.
His captors were speaking in hushed voices about the terms of the empire’s reward—wanted rebel pilot, Luke Skywalker, destroyer of the Death Star, alive and unharmed—and he stayed motionless as their words filtered through the dense fabric of the hood.
“So, uh, is he supposed to meet us here?”
“That’s what he said on the holo, that he’s on the way. Man, that mask was fucking terrifying up close. As soon as we get those credits, let’s fucking split.”
“Why the fuck would we stay here? You wanna have dinner with Darth Vader or somethin’?”
“Fuck no, and I don’t wanna see his bounty get shot through the head neither.”
Luke pictured himself standing in front of a firing line and flinched. Unfortunately, one of his captors spotted the movement and yanked his hood upwards, along with a generous amount of his hair. His yelp of discomfort died in his throat as the reek of stale cigarettes invaded his nostrils.
“You gotta problem, Skywalker?”
When Luke didn’t answer right away, the man pulled harder.
“Ouch! No, sir,” Luke said, his teeth clenching through the burning grip.
Another few seconds passed before his captor let go, and the force of the release caused Luke to fall onto his face. Tiny pinpricks of fiery pain tingled along the top of his scalp, and he accidentally bit down on his tongue, drawing blood. A cacophony of obnoxious laughter boomed above him, and all Luke could do was seethe silently.
“Fuckin’ pathetic. And this is the empire’s most-wanted criminal? This nobody who blew up the Death Star?” one of them said.
Luke curled into a ball, attempting to bring stability to his lower body so he could clamber to his knees. But a sudden kick to the ribs made Luke gasp, blood spilling from his lips, and a boot to the lower back rammed him to the floor again.
“What the fuck! Vader’s gonna fucking kill him on the spot for being so fucking weak.”
Luke breathed deeply and counted to four, inhaling and exhaling with the same rhythmic precision, finding solace in the familiar meditative technique Yoda had taught him. But dormant anger unfurled in his bones like a poisonous serpent, and he didn’t feel the need to stop it. The rush felt good and righteous, and somewhere within Luke, a primordial need for vengeance ignited and blotted out the swell of bodily pain.
Because it wasn’t just Luke his captors were insulting. It was his father, too. They shared the same name, the same blood, the same abilities with the Force.
How dare they.
With a vicious growl, Luke clenched his fists and felt the cuffs rattle and break apart. Tiny fragments of durasteel cut into his flesh as they clattered to the floor, the sharp edges slicing his left palm and tearing through the synthskin of his prosthetic right hand.
The uproarious laughter abruptly ceased once Luke wrenched off the hood, revealing stony eyes and a hardened expression.
Luke felt in control, even as the Force returned to him all at once, like a blast of gusty air. The temperature dropped, and Luke smiled unkindly when his captors shivered.
He looked around, but there wasn’t much to see. No furniture, nothing lived in. Marble flooring and obsidian walls provided an interesting contrast of colour and texture, but the highlight of the room was the trapezium-shaped window overlooking rivers of lava and an erupting volcano in the distance.
Eyes flickered back to his captors, four of them in total, now huddled together in a sports-like formation. Their weapons—blaster guns of various sizes—pointed at him with deadly aim.
Luke tentatively searched the Force for the presence he knew was there. The storm cloud was easy to locate, and he observed its form for a moment. Twisting plumes of smoke reached for him like a pair of outstretched arms, and Luke extended his metaphysical fingertips to feel the sinewy texture. Its residue clung to him even as Luke turned away.
“You think you can take us?” asked a human male, his lips twisting in a smirk.
Luke observed the speaker, about his own age, if he had to guess. Round brown eyes looked nearly insectoid in the dim overhead light, and stringy auburn hair fell to his shoulders. Ripped clothing draped over a tall, slender frame, and Luke almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Another one of his captors issued a raspy laugh. Luke immediately recognized the man as the one who shoved him to his knees. “Look at the runt,” he said with a wicked grin, exposing a blackened gap where his two front teeth used to be. “He ain’t gonna do shit.”
Luke released a breath and took his time assessing each bounty hunter. Despite their bravado, an undercurrent of fear drained into the Force and mixed with the surging energy of the dark side, creating a potent cocktail Luke found difficult to resist.
There must be something about this planet. The dark side—whenever Luke had encountered it—had never felt as beguiling as it did now. The light made him feel weightless, pure, as radiant as a gleaming star. But the dark was an anchor, sinking him lower and deeper into the abyss. To Luke’s dismay and curiosity, he was not afraid of its infinite depth.
The desire to strike pulsed like an ache behind his forehead. The storm cloud drew closer until it covered any remnants of the light. A voice whispered in his mind that everything was alright, that his feelings were valid, that he rightfully held the power over life and death.
His captors jeered and hurled words of abuse at him while Luke waited.
What was he waiting for?
A short Pantoran male bounced on his toes, emboldened by Luke’s inaction. “Fuck Vader. I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you right now, mate.”
The blasters fired, brutally loud in the enclosed space. But Luke thrust his hand out, and the shots deflected. They hit the wall in rapid succession, searing the glass surface with streaks of bubbling flames that quickly ebbed away. A stunned silence followed as the captors stared at their weapons with widened eyes.
“What the fuck…”
Luke pinched the tips of his thumb and forefinger together, and the captor standing the closest to him—the stringy haired man—lifted in the air. His blaster dropped to the floor as his fingers clawed his neck, desperately trying to remove the invisible pressure crushing his windpipe.
His comrades shrieked and grabbed the man’s twitching legs to pull him downwards. But Luke drove them back with a Force push, then froze them in place. They struggled and cursed until Luke used the Force to seal their lips shut.
Terrible, awe-inspiring power overheated his skin. Every nerve ending was ablaze. The dark side serenaded him and pledged riches beyond his dreams. Meanwhile, the storm cloud raged on in his mind, constricting around Luke’s own Force presence, leaving him stunned and breathless.
Luke had never felt this way.
He was formidable.
He was his father’s son.
A shiny coating of sweat covered the bounty hunter’s skin. Eyes protruded from their sockets, and desperate gasps for air escaped his open mouth. His comrades looked on, impotent and utterly frightened, their confidence dashed in an instant.
Luke could end the man’s life, and the lives of the others. It would be easy and free of pain. A kindness.
But the rumble of an engine sliced through Luke’s heady thoughts. The floor vibrated as a shuttle landed several stories above them. He blinked sluggishly, as if awakening out of a trance; the Force seemed to hold its breath in response.
Luke dropped his arm, and the bounty hunter dropped with it. The man howled as he hit the floor with a hard crash, and his crew quickly encircled him. His right knee bent at an awkward angle, signalling a break of the bone. Without a word, the captors quickly hauled the man upright, dragging his arms over their shoulders to support his working leg.
They were talking; some words streamed into Luke’s awareness. But he could only stare at his hands in horror.
He had willingly slipped under the dark side’s transformative spell without even a hint of remorse or consideration for the consequences. Even now it stuck to him, and Luke tried unsuccessfully to shake off its shadowy hold. His chest heaved as waves of nausea churned deep in his guts.
What have I done? Luke thought in despair. This isn’t the Jedi way.
A creeping dread settled over the room as the echo of approaching footsteps reverberated like a shockwave. The telltale sound of a respirator became louder.
Everyone stilled, facing the door as it swung open to reveal the massive figure of Darth Vader.
He crowded the entrance for one heart-stopping second before stalking towards the trembling, sobbing mass of bounty hunters.
“My orders were clear. And yet, you dared to hurt him,” Vader said, anger deepening his modulated voice to a sinister level.
“No-no, L-lord Vader,” one captor said, surprising Luke with the audacity of speaking in such circumstances, even though fat tears trailed down his pockmarked cheeks. “Alive a-and uh…unharmed. See?”
Vader turned towards Luke, his cape swishing from the act. His Force presence, as heavy and domineering as Luke remembered from Bespin, completely overwhelmed his own. But Vader’s touch was featherlight as it probed him for injuries and catalogued every bruise and abrasion. Luke noticed his left palm had stopped bleeding from breaking the cuffs—a small victory amidst the chaos.
After completing the inspection, Vader’s attention catapulted back to the bounty hunters, although a tendril remained focused on Luke.
Vader’s helmet bore down on them, reflecting light in a way that seemed to swallow hope itself. Luke knew, firsthand, how intimidating and spine-chilling the experience was.
He also knew that Vader could act unpredictably if he chose to. What Vader must be thinking or what he planned to do, Luke was unsure. But then he lifted his arm in a swift and violent motion, his gloved hand tightening into a fist.
“You will learn what happens to those who defy me.”
In a synchronized frenzy, the captors frantically scrambled at their necks and squealed like barn animals. The stringy haired man with the broken bone, no longer supported by the others, toppled to the ground; his anguished, prolonged wail cut through Luke’s inertia.
“Stop this and let them go,” Luke said, aloud and through the Force. But Vader, unmoved by his plea, merely squeezed harder.
“Stop!” he repeated. Still no reaction.
Luke stared helplessly at the horrific scene before him. The stringy haired man writhed on the floor; the remaining captors collapsed to their knees, choking on saliva, blood, and bile. Veins bulged like ropes against frail, blue-tinged skin. They were dying, slowly and painfully. One of them convulsed, as if zapped by lightning. Urine soaked the pants of another.
Luke ran to Vader’s side and placed a firm hand on his bicep. The Force rolled through him—light and dark, passion and pain—but it was too intense, too blinding, and he needed Vader to end the onslaught, now. “Father, please. Stop. Just let them go.”
Vader tilted his mask at Luke. Narrowed eyes of gold-yellow glared at him through semi-transparent black lenses. “Do not ask me of such things.”
An obsene crack followed, then silence. Aghast, Luke’s vision blurred as a torrent of emotions welled up inside him and a lump in his throat made it impossible to speak.
What did Luke expect—for his father to relent and release his captors? To show them even a modicum of mercy?
The dark side blazed through the room, triumphant, but it was ash between his fingers. Gone was the fascination, the forbidden allure. Luke saw it for what it was—a pathway to a lifetime of rage and destruction and soul-crushing bitterness. The truth lashed at him like the heat of a thousand suns; the seductive veil had melted away to expose a burned-up carcass underneath.
Luke felt sick.
He was only peripherally aware that Vader had wiped the dried blood from his chin and grabbed his shoulder. They were walking now, passing through vaulted doorways and identical corridors. At some point, they climbed a winding staircase. Finally, after what felt like hours but was perhaps only a few minutes, Vader gently pushed Luke down onto a plush leather couch in what appeared to be a living area of some kind.
“These are my personal quarters,” Vader said, looming over him like a specter. “You will stay here and rest, my son.”
Luke nodded, not quite understanding what he was agreeing to. He ignored the faint warning alarm in the back of his mind and sat numbly, complying with his father’s request. All the while, the dark side teased its tantalizing power once more, its unseen talons clutching his arms as if to remind him of the futility of escape.