Chapter Text
Fire. Ash. Blood. The revolting slaves of Tatooine rose up like a great, terrible wave and in their vengeance slaughtered their owners like beasts. The city of Mos Espa was burning, and the instigator of the uprising was a small boy with eerie, fathomless eyes far too old for his face. He had materialized out of the night like a phantom, and said follow me. There was a palpable weight to his words, something that sparked a fragile hope in the hearts of a beaten down people. So they followed, and watched as the boy bent the very fabric of reality to his will. Buildings crumbled under his power; flesh rent and twisted with a single wave of his hand; the shadows themselves came alive and licked at skin like fire. Corpses crawled and squirmed like animals in the dirt, gnashing their teeth and clawing at the enemies of their lord. The boy was a calamity, a force of nature. An incarnate god sent to liberate them. He had freed them from the chains of slavery. The oppressed were all too happy to follow in his footsteps and swarm like vultures around the fallen. They took up blasters, vibroblades, blunt weapons—anything they could get their hands on, and soaked the earth beneath their feet with the blood of their oppressors.
Vesper had been a slave for most of her life. She was taken from Ryloth when she was a young girl and sold to the Hutts to be their plaything. Female Twi’leks were coveted across the galaxy, and were always in high demand. It was seen as a mark of high status to own one, and Gardulla the Hutt so did love her trophies. Vesper’s age didn’t matter—the Hutts cared only for the soft swell of her breasts and the dusky pinkness of her lekku. She was treated like a thing instead of a person, passed around to be used. Vesper danced for, fucked, and praised her captors for years, but she had never forgotten what it was like to be free. She had never forgotten Ryloth. She swore to herself that one day she would escape this hellhole, and that she would traverse the stars. Distant nebulae and solar systems would be at her fingertips, and she would decide what course her life would take. Vesper only had to wait for the perfect opportunity to arise. It came sooner than expected, when a boy with eyes like the twin suns stormed the palace of Gardulla the Hutt, an army of slaves at his back.
Vesper was in one of the many pleasure chambers located off the main hall of the building, entertaining a guest, when she heard the distant crumpling of the thick, metal door that barred the entrance of the palace. Screams of agony and terror soon followed. She knew instinctively that this was her chance. She would be free, if only she had the strength to attack first, before they struck her down. She had prepared accordingly for a moment such as this—she had hidden a sharp piece of metal within her decorative circlet. Her client jerked underneath her, torn from his haze of pleasure by the commotion. Vesper didn’t give him enough time to react more than that—she grabbed the piece of metal and stabbed it into his throat. Blood spurted from the wound, spraying across her face and chest. He thrashed violently, nails raking bloody furrows across her skin, but Vesper refused to relinquish her iron grip on the weapon, and jerked it cruelly upwards. It carved a long, jagged line up the hollow of his neck. The man shuddered and convulsed weakly, blood dribbling down his lips. All of the fight had been bled out of him. She spat out the tangy liquid and rolled off his body. She lay on the bed for several moments, panting. She was numb with shock. It was one thing to fantasize about killing; it was quite another to do it. Vesper laughed, voice tinged with hysteria. She turned to face the corpse.
“You piece of shit—it didn’t have to be you. You were just convenient. It could have been anyone; you were just enough of a bastard to want to fuck a slave.”
The shock was fading, brining her back to the reality of the situation. Vesper knew that she had to move quickly if she wanted to get her hands on a deactivator wand during the chaos. She dressed herself hastily and wrenched the piece of metal from the man’s throat. It was her only weapon. She crept out into the hallway, feet ghosting lightly across the floor. The arched entrance to the throne room was ablaze with an unholy light, and it cast ominous shadows down the length of the hallway. The screaming was louder now, coming from the main room of the palace. Vesper continued her path, creeping along the walls so as not to be seen. She peeked her head out slightly to see just what the hell was happening, and nothing could have surprised her more.
Slaves, grimy with dirt and gore, were viciously fighting their way through Gardulla’s horde of thugs. Their eyes were wild and fierce, their movements amateur yet brutal. These were the eyes of a people starving for the taste of freedom. Mothers and fathers and children—they all participated in the destruction. An orgy of violence was laying waste to the tyrannical Hutt Cartel, and at the center of it all was a young boy with two burning pits in his hateful face. A murderous rage radiated from his small form as he lifted thugs and tossed them aside with the barest wave of his hand. It was . . . enthralling, that hatred of his. It was magnetic and magnifying at the same time—amplifying her fury at her helplessness, her vulnerability to the filth that ran this infernal planet. Inexorably drawn into the frenzy, Vesper growled and leapt forward.
Her target was a female slaver who was holding a wicked looking pair of blades in her hands, stained to the hilt with blood. Vesper struck from behind, tackling the woman to the ground, clawing blindly for the deactivator wand. The woman beneath her bucked wildly, managing to get enough leeway to swipe one of her knives down Vesper’s leg. Vesper screamed in pain and released the hold, allowing the slaver to throw her off and roll on top of her. The woman raked one of her blades down Vesper’s left eye, the action punctuated by a sickly squelch as Vesper’s eye was pierced. A gleeful smirk twisted at the woman’s lips.
“We have no use for broken things like you, whore.” She sneered as she clambered off Vesper’s trembling form. “We discard defective property.”
The woman detonated the transmitter, and Vesper burned. Her world was narrowed down to that one agonizing moment—an explosion of blistering heat that arced up the length of her body. A broken wail was torn from her throat. White spots danced across her vision. What was once her left leg was now a charred, bloody stump. Horrible burns crawled up near the blast radius, leaving her skin gooey and pliable. Vesper drew in a ragged breath and coughed wetly. This was to be her last stand—killed in a botched attempt at escape by a fucking slaver? If she had to die here, then she was going to take this bitch down with her.
The woman continued to hover over Vesper, looking pleased.
“You should have never tried to be more than what you are—” Her voice choked off as a pinprick of red blossomed across her throat. Her eyes rolled up into her head, and she collapsed.
Vesper flopped back onto the ground, convulsing weakly. The needle she kept secreted away in her mouth had been a last resort. It was dangerous to move it around, and her aim had never been very accurate. But it seemed that the Fates had smiled down upon her for once, because she had managed to spit the needle exactly into the woman’s jugular. It was getting harder to breathe, now. The pulpy mess that was once her left eye pulsed, and he bloody stump of a leg spasmed. Darkness encroached across her field of vision. The world dimmed, and Vesper knew she was going to die.
“Your ferocity burns bright, even amongst this madness. I could use someone like you.” A cold, high voice murmured.
Vesper’s head lolled; the axis of the chaos stood above her, eyes burning. The boy looked like a wrathful god—a crazed, bestial twisted his face, and pure malice emanated from his small form. His mere presence was suffocating. Vesper wished he would either leave or just kill her. Incoherent as her thoughts were at this point, she was still cognizant enough to understand the sinister undertone to his words. She didn’t particularly want to extend her suffering, but there was nothing she could do but lay there shivering.
The boy crouched down next to her. His eyes raked along her prone form, flashing a clear blue. A soft glow emitted from his hands, and Vesper’s agony abated. She gasped. However, the darkness crept ever closer, and Vesper slipped into unconsciousness.
Vader finished his healing and stood up. The Light Side was something that he hadn’t touched in years, but it flowed freely through him now. His fingers prickled faintly with power, and he felt electric. So this was what bringing balance to the Force meant—being equal in power in both sides of the Force. Not truly belonging to one or the other, but being situated in the gray area between. Vader realized that in the first timeline, it had not been the act itself of killing Sidious that had brought balance to the Force, but the fact that he had accessed the Light Side one last time in order to save his son. This was why he could use Jedi healing techniques while having moments ago been employing Sith Magic. Though he was planning on killing Sidious again—Vader fucking despised the man, and he was a dire threat to the galaxy as a whole. However, right now there was other filth that needed to be dealt with. His eyes flared a poisonous gold.
Gardulla the Hutt was cowering behind a group of armed guards, who were furiously battling a mass of slaves. They were far more skilled in combat, but the slaves of Mos Espa had righteous fury and massive numbers on their side, and were slowly gaining ground. Gardulla was shouting angrily in Huttese, her snake-like eyes wide with fear at being cornered. Vader stalked towards the spectacle, casually blasting Force lightning at members of the Hutt Cartel and deflecting blaster bolts with a wave of his hand. When he reached the outer edge of the mass, he uttered lowly.
“Move aside.”
There was a pregnant pause in the action before the horde parted enough to give him room to pass through. He began to wade through the sea of blood and corpses, electricity sparking at his fingertips. Gardulla’s yelling increased in its intensity as he approached.
“Attack the boy! He is their leader!”
Her guards were too busy fighting for their lives now to pay any heed to her words. Vader smiled wickedly.
“Do you remember me, Gardulla? I remember you. I’ve never forgotten what you did to my mother and me. Not to mention the other countless crimes you’ve committed over the years. You’re time is up, scum. Now die!”
Vivid images of he and Shmi being whipped mercilessly while Gardulla laughed flashed through Vader’s mind as he spoke, increasing his rage exponentially. He had never liked to dwell on that time of his life, but his anger at what happened served him well now. A bolt of pure hatred arced out of his hands at Gardulla, striking her in the chest. She let out a long, agonized scream and began flailing wildly. Vader howled with laughter at the sight, and inched closer. The Force flowed through him so freely that it made intensifying the beam easy. Gardulla’s putrid flesh bubbled and melted, dribbling down her body like wax. The smell of burning lard assaulted Vader’s senses. He didn’t let up, allowing Gardulla to fully experience the exquisite agony of this particular ability. It caused the victim to feel a terrible pain unlike any other while the voices of a thousand damned souls screamed inside their minds. When you added enough power, it would liquefy the insides of the victim. Vader watched gleefully as Gardulla literally melted into a sloppy pile of softened innards and deliquesced flesh.
The last of the remaining cartel members fell, and a loud cheer echoed through the cavernous room. They had taken Mos Espa, and soon the revolution would spread across the whole of Tatooine.
“It is our time, now—no longer will we be bought and sold like chattel. We are sentient beings, and we deserve liberty!” Vader cried, the slaves chorusing alongside him.
The new suit had been created to solve the problem of Vader’s weakness in physical combat. The original nine-year-old Anakin Skywalker had been an emaciated slave boy who had never been in an altercation in his life. His combat skills would have to be built from scratch again, and he would have to adjust his method of lightsaber combat to fit his smaller form. A mechanical body would help ease him through the adjustment period, allowing Vader to utilize Djem So and fight in the intermediary period. It would also serve as an adequate intimidation factor, seeing as he was a child now. Most of his forces knew what he truly looked like, but he doubted that anyone watching the holo-vids would be daunted if they saw a child leading the slave rebellion of Tatooine.
It had the height and breadth that his previous suit did, and was hollow in the torso, thighs, and bicep areas to allow for his small form. The rest would be completely mechanical, and would have kinetic interfaces so that he could properly control the limbs. The whole of it had been painted in varying shades of matte gray and black. The mask protected his face and concealed the oddity of his child-sized head in comparison to the monolithic body. The respirators were added because they were actually needed for Vader to be able to breathe while using the suit. The vocalizer was also added to disguise his high, childish voice.
When he first tried it on in the early stages of testing, a cold weight had settled over his shoulders. Vader felt like he was entombing himself in yet another cold metal prison. The phantom pain of his stumps, and the persistent ache of his lungs haunted him. It was another life suddenly superimposed over this new one he was making for himself. His breathing quickened, and the echo of the respirators thundered loudly in his ears. He unclasped the helmet and tossed it to the side, inhaling wildly. He reached out to the Force for comfort, and it immediately flowed through him like a cool, soothing stream. Vader counted to ten, slowly. He was alive; he was whole. Soon, the suit wouldn’t be necessary. He only had to use it until he could fight properly. Then, he would stand on his own two feet in battle.
He had planned for this particular day for months. His fleet of bastardized Hutt Cartel starfighters had been notified of both the Nubian Cruiser and the Scimitar’s arrival. They were to allow them through without a disturbance, and a select group of ground troops were to meet the Nubian cruiser and escort their party to his workshop. If all went well, Vader would convince Kenobi and Jinn to escort Shmi to Coruscant, where she would petition the Senate for Tatooine’s entrance into the Galactic Republic. Vader would also be able to use this opportunity to dispatch Maul, if he ambushed them by the cruiser as he had the last time. It was also his best chance of getting his hands on a synth-crystal. His plans just had to come to fruition . . .
Vader could sense Kenobi and Padmé as they approached. His former bond with Kenobi was still a frayed, broken mess, but it was there. He could easily catch snippets of Kenobi’s thoughts and feelings—most of which were dry, acerbic observations and nervous worry for his mission. It gave Vader an intense feeling of déjà vu; Kenobi was still the same sarcastic bastard he’d always been, even at twenty-four. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed the man—not the decrepit sage who he’d killed on the Death Star, but the actual man. It was strange to feel this way. He’d expected that old, blistering hatred of Kenobi to return once he felt his presence once more, but it was absent. Vader only felt—well, nostalgic. And wasn’t that odd. He’d never felt that way about anything in his life before. He had always just pushed forward, leaving the past where it belonged. Dwelling on his history never boded well for him, so he thought only of the future—of what could be.
And Padmé . . . her presence was like a supernova. She burned so bright, like an inextinguishable flame. Her strength of will was exceptionally strong, even at the tender age of fourteen. It was no wonder she was the youngest elected queen Naboo ever had. Vader had missed her so, so much. It had been an ever-present ache in behind his breastbone for decades. He would have moved the heavens and stars just to see her smiling face one, last time. And now she was actually here! It was stupefying just how lucky he was to have been given this chance by the Force. His angel, his Padmé . . . he was going to see her again. Vader could have wept when Padmé strode in, looking every bit the child she was.
He hadn’t realized that she would be so young. She was a good decade younger than his daughter. Her eyes still held that sparkling glimmer of innocence to them, and her cheeks were still swollen with baby fat. Padmé had looked like a goddess to him when he first met her as a child, but seeing her now like this was truly mind-boggling. She was certainly still beautiful, yes—but she looked like a little kid to him. I could very easily be her father, was his first coherent thought. It was disheartening. Even though he had expected her to be youthful, he sure as hells hadn’t realized she would be this shockingly young. He supposed that a small part of him had been expecting his wife to walk in behind Threepio, not this girl. Though he was still desperately, miserably in love with her. Not for the girl she was, but for the woman she would one day become.
Kenobi’s youthfulness was surprising as well. He was younger than Luke, with an unlined, clean-shaven face and close-cut auburn hair. His eyes were pale and narrowed in unease. As much as it hurt to feel Padmé in the Force, it was soothing to feel Kenobi—he still retained the same calming fluidity he’d always had. Though it was utterly horrible to actually comprehend just how much older he was than what were once the two most important people in his life. They were both younger than his children—his own children were older than them. He needed to stop thinking about this. He turned to Vesper, having blatantly ignored Jinn’s queries. It was time to set his plans in motion.
Vader was fuming. He had underestimated Maul’s ingenuity in planning out his attack, and now Qui-Gon Jinn was dead, again. Taking advantage of the ongoing war between his forces and the Hutt Cartel required a shrewdness he didn’t think Maul was capable of. Vader had planned on Maul attacking their group as they approached the Nubian Cruiser, as he had the last time. Vader would dispatch him easily in a duel and then the group would be able to leave for Coruscant safely. Maul’s demise would also enable him to steal the synth-crystal from his lightsaber, which would prove to be an invaluable weapon. Instead, Maul had decided to cleverly strike during one of the Hutt Cartel’s bombings, easily separating them in the confusion. It didn’t help that a good portion of their party was dead now. Aside from their group, the only ones who had lived through the initial bombing were Sabé and Vesper. They seemed to be several blocks over, fighting gang members.
Vader set Padmé gently down on the ground. He turned to Shmi, who was still hovering by his side.
“Watch her carefully. Kill anyone who approaches.”
Shmi nodded, fingering the blaster strapped to her waist.
Kenobi had already started a furious volley of head-on attacks against Maul, instead of favoring his usual defensive style of Soresu. His anger was a double-edged sword—it was giving him the strength to match Maul blade to blade, but it allowed his emotions to cloud his judgment. Kenobi was ill suited to Juyo, and not at all practiced in the ferocious staccato strikes that were needed to execute his attacks. The mental state of raging aggression was also foreign to the Padawan. His opponent couldn’t have been worse. Maul was a consummate master of Juyo, and was quickly gaining ground on the injured Kenobi.
It only took one misstep, and Maul carved a deep slash into Kenobi’s torso. Kenobi cried out and stumbled back. Maul twisted through the air and kicked him harshly in his wound. Kenobi was thrown to the ground, where he lay gasping erratically.
“I enjoyed killing your Master, and I will enjoy killing you.” Maul cackled, and swung his lightsaber down in a fierce arc.
There was a sharp fluctuation in the Force, dark and twisting. Kenobi parried Maul’s blow, and flipped to his feet. He spat out blood, and there was a manic gleam in his pale eyes that had never been present there before. Vader grinned maliciously. This . . . could prove to be very useful, as long as he played his cards right. Maul pressed forward, leaping high with his lightsaber angled downwards. Kenobi raised his saber in retaliation, parrying harshly. They both jumped back, sabers at the ready for the next attack, but Vader was done with watching.
Vader waved a hand, and a large chunk of adobe slammed into Kenobi, flinging him backwards. He had been too preoccupied with the battle to pay attention to his surroundings, though he would certainly learn better with time. Vader strode forward and stepped into the opening move of Djem So.
“The boy is done. I will be your opponent now, scum.”
Maul sneered, his eyes trailing over Vader’s vibroblade disdainfully. Then he lunged, furiously twirling and twisting his lightsaber in deadly arcs of red. Vader matched Maul blow for blow, his mechanical limbs giving him a strength that Maul lacked. Vader brought down his blade in a heavy curve, pressing Maul’s close enough to his chest to singe. As expected, Maul took a calculated fall backwards, and then flipped back to his feet. The bastard was just as annoying to fight as he had been the last time. He was like a snake, weaving in and out of Vader’s blind spots. It was of no consequence, though. Vader would finish this soon enough.
Maul darted forward again, swinging the dual-ended blade in a wide arc. Vader met the blow easily, steeping forward into Maul’s space to viciously swipe his blade in a jagged motion up the length of Maul’s abdomen. He then switched to a downward strike that mirrored the first one. He was crowding Maul, which meant that Maul would feint to the side or fall back as his next move. Maul feinted to the right, but Vader swung down in a high arc, catching Maul unawares and lopping his head off. The Zabrak’s horned head rolled across the ground, and his stump of a neck spewed out thick jets of blood.
Vader wrenched the lightsaber out of Maul’s hand. Finally, he had a synth-crystal. He would now be able to create his own lightsaber, uniquely suited to his needs. He had so longed for one in the past few months. It just wasn’t the same, using other weapons. None of them had ever felt as right as the thick guard of a lightsaber. The Force sang all around him, and Vader cautiously allowed himself to feel happy. Sure, almost everyone on the Naboo Royal Cruiser had died horribly, there were dozens more dead or dying littering the bombed-out streets of Mos Espa, and all of his plans had gone to shit—but Vader now had a lightsaber, and his beloved Padmé was safe. And Kenobi was proving to be more useful than previously anticipated . . . Vader let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. Things could very well be worse. He could have lost an arm.