The legend of Darth Vader had always been terrifying.
But now it was becoming something else entirely. Something that transcended mere fear and entered the realm of myth—the kind of story that parents told misbehaving children, that soldiers whispered about in barracks, that criminals invoked when they wanted to describe the worst possible fate.
It had started with the Fondor Incident.
A rebel cell had infiltrated one of the Empire's premier shipyards, planning to sabotage the construction of three Star Destroyers simultaneously. They had been clever, patient, and well-funded. They had bribed officials, falsified records, and planted explosives in locations that would have caused catastrophic chain reactions throughout the facility.
They had not anticipated Darth Vader arriving unannounced for a "routine inspection."
The official report stated that Lord Vader had "neutralized" the rebel threat with "minimal collateral damage." What the official report did not mention was that Vader had killed seventeen armed insurgents in less than three minutes, using nothing but his lightsaber and the Force. It did not mention that he had stopped two of the bombs mid-detonation by freezing the explosive reactions with sheer will. It did not mention that the sole survivor—a rebel lieutenant who had been hiding in a maintenance shaft—had emerged to find Vader waiting for her, having apparently sensed her presence through six inches of durasteel.
The lieutenant had been "interrogated" and "transferred to Imperial custody." In reality, Vader had extracted the location of three other rebel cells from her mind through the Force, then arranged for her quiet disappearance to a remote Outer Rim colony where she would spend the rest of her life as a moisture farmer.
But the stories that spread were considerably less nuanced.
"He killed fifty rebels with a wave of his hand," one version claimed. "Stopped their hearts simultaneously. They didn't even have time to scream."
"He caught a thermal detonator in mid-air and threw it back at them," another version insisted. "Laughed while they burned."
"He doesn't need the lightsaber anymore," a third version whispered. "He just looks at you, and you die."
The stories were exaggerated, of course. Vader had killed seventeen people, not fifty. He had used considerably more than a wave of his hand. And he had never laughed—not audibly, anyway.
But the exaggerations served his purposes perfectly.
Fear is a tool, Vader reflected, reading through the latest intelligence summaries on his reputation. The more afraid they are, the less they resist. The less they resist, the fewer I have to kill. It's practically humanitarian.
The Fondor Incident was followed by the Kessel Operation—a raid on a spice mining facility that had been secretly funneling profits to rebel sympathizers. Vader had arrived with a single squad of stormtroopers, walked through the facility's defenses like they didn't exist, and personally executed the facility's administrator in front of his entire staff.
Then there was the Corellia Affair, in which a corrupt Moff had been discovered selling military secrets to the highest bidder. Vader had tracked him to his private estate, bypassed his personal security force of forty trained mercenaries, and presented the Moff's severed head to the Emperor as a "gift."
And most recently, the Incident at Nar Shaddaa—a mission to eliminate a Hutt crime lord who had been harboring Jedi fugitives. Vader had entered the Hutt's palace alone, killed the crime lord and his entire retinue of guards, freed the Jedi (only to hunt them through the streets for sport), and departed without a single blaster bolt touching his armor.
Each operation added to the legend. Each story grew in the telling. And with each passing month, the name "Darth Vader" became less a title and more a force of nature—an inevitability that could not be bargained with, could not be escaped, could not be survived.
"Lord Vader," Captain Screed reported during their daily briefing, "intelligence indicates that rebel recruitment has dropped by approximately thirty-seven percent in sectors where your operations have been publicized."
"Only thirty-seven percent?"
"The remaining recruits appear to be..." Screed hesitated. "Exceptionally motivated, my Lord. The kind who join causes specifically because they are dangerous."
True believers, Vader thought. The hardest to break, but also the most predictable. They'll come to me eventually, convinced that their righteousness will protect them. It won't.
"Continue monitoring. Inform me if any patterns emerge in their recruitment or operations."
"Yes, my Lord."
As Screed departed, Vader returned his attention to the datapad he had been studying—a compilation of reports from his various operations and assets. The Kaminoans had sent their weekly update: Second Cohort was developing on schedule, with preliminary testing indicating capabilities that exceeded even the First Cohort's impressive benchmarks. The Nightsisters had completed their latest round of fortress enhancements, adding layers of magical protection that would confound even the most determined Imperial assault. And his network of informants throughout the galaxy continued to feed him intelligence that Palpatine's official agencies never saw.
Everything was proceeding according to plan.
Which meant, of course, that something was about to go horribly wrong.
Meanwhile, in a small freighter orbiting Mustafar's outer asteroid belt...
Ahsoka Tano had not slept properly in three weeks.
It wasn't for lack of trying. She had a perfectly functional bunk in her ship's cramped quarters. She had meditation techniques that should have calmed her racing mind. She had even acquired some of the herbal remedies that the Togruta healers of her homeworld used to treat anxiety and insomnia.
None of it helped.
Because every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. The black armor. The mechanical breathing. The mask that hid whatever remained of the man she had once called Master.
Skyguy, she thought, the childhood nickname carrying decades of complicated emotion. What happened to you? What did they do to you? What did you do to yourself?
She had been watching the fortress for months now, cataloging its construction, noting the comings and goings of its mysterious inhabitants. She had identified the Nightsisters—a development that concerned her greatly—and observed the arrival of what appeared to be military transports carrying cargo of unknown nature.
He's building something, she had concluded early on. Something that goes beyond simple meditation retreat or personal sanctuary. He's accumulating resources, gathering allies, preparing for... something.
The question was: preparing for what?
Her intelligence network had provided fragments of an answer. Rumors of enhanced soldiers being produced on Kamino, off the books and outside Imperial oversight. Whispers of ancient Sith artifacts being collected from across the galaxy. Reports of Vader's increasing independence from the Emperor's direct control, his operations becoming more autonomous, his decisions less predictable.
He's building a power base, Ahsoka had realized. He's positioning himself for the day when he no longer needs Palpatine.
The realization had sent her heart racing with hope so intense it was almost painful.
If he's planning to oppose the Emperor... if there's still enough of Anakin in him to resist Palpatine's control... then maybe he can be reached. Maybe he can be saved. Maybe everything I've been working toward isn't impossible after all.
She had begun keeping a journal. At first, it was just intelligence notes—observations about the fortress, analysis of Vader's operations, speculation about his long-term goals. But gradually, it had transformed into something more personal.
Day 47: Observed Vader's shuttle departing for Alderaan. Official records show no Imperial business on that world. What is he doing there? Who is he visiting?
Day 53: Intercepted communication between Kamino and an encrypted relay station. Partial decryption suggests military production continuing despite official decommissioning orders. Vader is building an army. For what purpose?
Day 61: Nightmare again. Same as always—Anakin reaching out to me, asking for help, but every time I try to grab his hand, the armor appears and pulls him away. Woke up crying. Again.
Day 67: The Nightsisters performed some kind of ritual on the fortress grounds. Green energy, chanting, the whole thing. Whatever they did, the Dark Side presence on Mustafar intensified significantly. Vader is not just gathering allies—he's binding them to him with magic.
Day 74: I need to make contact. I need to know for certain whether Anakin is still in there, or whether I'm chasing a ghost. But how do I approach the most dangerous man in the galaxy without getting killed?
The journal had grown to hundreds of pages, filled with observations, analyses, and increasingly desperate speculation. Ahsoka read through it sometimes, searching for patterns she might have missed, insights that might guide her next move.
She had also, she was forced to admit, developed certain... habits.
The holos, for instance. She had compiled every available recording of Vader—official Imperial broadcasts, security footage from his operations, even a few shaky recordings taken by civilians who had survived encounters with him. She watched them repeatedly, studying his movements, his posture, his combat techniques, searching for traces of Anakin in the monster's motions.
There, she would think, pausing the playback on a particular gesture. That's how Anakin used to shift his weight before a lunge. He still does it. The body remembers, even if the mind has changed.
And there—that's his impatient stance. The way he holds his shoulders when he's waiting for someone to stop being stupid. I remember that from a hundred Council meetings.
He's still in there. He has to be. All of Anakin's instincts, all of his habits, they're still present in Vader's behavior. The hardware has changed, but the software is the same.
She told herself it was tactical analysis. Useful intelligence for the eventual confrontation that she knew was coming. A professional exercise in understanding an opponent's capabilities.
She did not acknowledge—could not acknowledge—that she watched certain recordings more often than others. The ones where the lighting caught his armor at specific angles. The ones where his cape billowed dramatically. The ones where he demonstrated combat abilities that made her professional soldier's mind whisper magnificent before her conscious thoughts could intervene.
This is not obsession, she insisted to herself during long nights in her cramped quarters. This is dedication. This is loyalty to a friend who needs help, even if he doesn't know it. This is what Jedi do—we don't give up on people.
I'm not obsessed. I'm just... thorough.
The lies were becoming harder to maintain.
Because the truth was, Ahsoka Tano had been in love with Anakin Skywalker for as long as she could remember. Not the passionate, consuming love that he had shared with Padmé—she had accepted long ago that she could never compete with that. But a deep, abiding love that had shaped her entire adult life. The love of a student for a teacher. The love of a soldier for a commander. The love of a friend who had never stopped believing in someone, even when believing seemed impossible.
She had buried those feelings during the Clone Wars, channeled them into loyalty and dedication, told herself that they were inappropriate for a Jedi. She had walked away from the Order partly because staying meant watching Anakin from a distance, loving him without ever being able to express it.
And now he was Vader. A monster. A killer. The betrayer of everything she had once believed in.
But also alive, her heart whispered. Also building something independent of the Emperor. Also, perhaps, still capable of being reached.
What if I could save him? What if I could bring him back? What if, after all these years, I could finally tell him how I feel—and have him actually hear me?
The fantasy was dangerous. It was delusional. It was the kind of thinking that got people killed.
But Ahsoka couldn't stop herself from entertaining it. Couldn't stop herself from watching the holos, writing in her journal, planning approaches that might allow her to make contact without dying immediately.
Soon, she promised herself, pulling up the latest images of the Mustafar fortress on her ship's display. Soon I'll be ready. Soon I'll find a way.
And then, one way or another, I'll have my answers.
On Kamino, where it was raining (as always)...
Nala Se had worked with many patrons over her long career.
The Republic had been demanding but fair, paying well for soldiers who met their specifications, providing clear requirements and reasonable timelines. The Separatists—during their brief, secret collaboration—had been more ambitious, requesting modifications that pushed the boundaries of what Kaminoan science could achieve.
And then there was Lord Vader.
Lord Vader was, without question, the finest patron the Kaminoan cloning facilities had ever served.
"The latest batch of growth acceleration supplements arrived this morning," Taun We reported, her elongated neck craning to study the datapad in her delicate fingers. "The quality is exceptional—significantly better than anything we could source through official Imperial channels."
"Lord Vader's supply networks are extensive," Nala Se agreed. "And his resources appear to be... unlimited."
It was not an exaggeration. Since the initial transfer of 2.4 billion credits, Vader had provided an additional 800 million in funding, along with access to equipment, materials, and expertise that should have been impossible for any individual—even an Imperial enforcer—to acquire. He had sent them samples of exotic genetic material from species across the galaxy. He had provided specifications for enhancements that pushed the boundaries of biological engineering. And he had never, not once, questioned their methods or micromanaged their work.
He trusts us, Nala Se realized. He gives us objectives and resources, and then he trusts us to achieve results. No other patron has ever shown us such respect.
The results, consequently, had been spectacular.
The First Cohort was performing beyond all projections, their enhanced physiology allowing them to operate in conditions that would kill standard soldiers. The Second Cohort, currently in development, incorporated improvements based on First Cohort data, promising even greater capabilities. And the experimental Third Cohort—the one with the Force-resistance modifications—was showing preliminary results that had Nala Se genuinely excited for the first time in decades.
"We should consider expanding our production capacity," she told Taun We. "Lord Vader's current projections call for fifty thousand soldiers within five years. With additional facilities, we could potentially double that number."
"That would require significant capital investment," Taun We noted. "And construction would be visible to Imperial observation satellites."
"Then we build underground. Or we establish secondary facilities on other worlds—worlds where Imperial surveillance is minimal." Nala Se's large eyes gleamed with ambition. "Lord Vader is building something significant. We should position ourselves to be indispensable to his success."
"You speak as if we are choosing sides in a conflict that has not yet begun."
"Every conflict begins before anyone realizes it has started." Nala Se turned to face her colleague, her expression uncharacteristically intense. "The Emperor ordered our facilities decommissioned. He decided that our life's work was expendable, that our art was worthless. Lord Vader disagreed. Lord Vader recognized our value."
"And if Lord Vader's ambitions bring him into conflict with the Emperor?"
"Then we will have already chosen our side." Nala Se's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "We are Kaminoans, Taun We. We do not forget those who dismiss us. And we do not abandon those who value us."
The decision, when framed that way, was obvious.
Vader had given them purpose when the Empire had tried to take it away. He had provided resources beyond their wildest projections. He had treated them as partners rather than servants.
If the time came to choose between Vader and Palpatine, the Kaminoans would choose Vader without hesitation.
And we will make certain he knows it, Nala Se thought, returning to her work with renewed determination. When Lord Vader moves against his enemies, he will find Kamino standing firmly at his side.
In the corridors of the Star Destroyer Devastator...
Mara Jade was having a problem.
The problem was that she couldn't stop thinking about Darth Vader.
This was, objectively, concerning. She was the Emperor's Hand, trained from childhood to serve Palpatine with absolute loyalty. Her entire existence was dedicated to her Master's will. Personal attachments were weaknesses to be exploited by enemies, distractions from her sacred purpose.
And yet.
The way he moves, she thought, lying in her quarters aboard the Devastator, staring at the ceiling while her mind replayed memories she should not be treasuring. The precision of his strikes. The absolute control in every gesture. He makes killing look like art.
She had watched him train in the Mustafar arena, fighting those massive rancors with nothing but his bare hands. She had observed him executing Jedi with efficiency that bordered on elegance. She had studied his methods, his tactics, his approach to problems that required violence.
I should be taking notes for the Emperor, she reminded herself. I should be analyzing him for weaknesses, identifying vulnerabilities that my Master could exploit if Vader ever becomes a threat.
Instead, she was fantasizing about what it would be like to train with him. To fight beside him. To earn his respect, his attention, his...
Stop it, she commanded herself. You're sixteen years old. He's a burned, scarred cyborg in life support armor. This is inappropriate on multiple levels.
But the commands didn't help. They never helped.
Because Mara Jade had spent her entire life being told what to want, what to value, what to pursue. The Emperor had shaped her desires as thoroughly as he had shaped her skills. She had been programmed to admire power, to respect strength, to be drawn to those who embodied the Dark Side's gifts.
And Vader was all of those things, magnified to an intensity that her conditioning couldn't process.
He's more powerful than my Master, she thought, the realization surfacing despite her attempts to suppress it. Not in the Force, maybe, but in presence. In capability. In the way he makes people feel when he enters a room.
The Emperor controls through manipulation and fear. Vader controls through sheer overwhelming force. One whispers; the other roars.
And I... I want to hear him roar.
The thoughts were treasonous. If the Emperor discovered them, Mara's life would be measured in hours. But she couldn't stop them from coming, couldn't prevent her mind from drifting to Vader during quiet moments, couldn't control the way her heart raced whenever she was in his presence.
I need to report this, she told herself. I need to tell my Master that my objectivity has been compromised. He'll understand. He'll help me purge these feelings.
But she didn't. Couldn't. The thought of the Emperor knowing—of him seeing inside her mind and discovering these shameful desires—was more terrifying than anything else she could imagine.
I'll control it, she decided. I'll maintain my professionalism. I'll complete my mission, observe Vader's activities, report what needs to be reported. And I'll keep these feelings locked away where no one can find them.
Including myself.
It was a lie, and she knew it.
But it was the only option she had.
In the depths of the Mustafar fortress...
Mother Shelish gathered her sisters in the ritual chamber, their pale forms illuminated by the green glow of enchanted crystals. The chamber was deep beneath the fortress, protected by wards and barriers that would prevent any sound or sensation from escaping.
They needed the privacy. Because the conversation they were about to have was not one that Lord Vader could be allowed to overhear.
"Sisters," Mother Shelish began, her voice carrying the weight of her authority. "We must discuss our patron's... situation."
"His situation?" Sister Karis raised one elegant eyebrow. "He grows more powerful by the day. His enemies fall before him. His plans proceed without obstacle. What situation requires our concern?"
"The women."
Silence fell across the chamber. The other Nightsisters exchanged glances that carried volumes of unspoken communication.
"Ah," Sister Merrin said finally. "The women."
"I have sensed it," Sister Nyla added, her voice troubled. "The Emperor's Hand who lurks aboard his ship. Her desire is... intense. Unhealthy. If allowed to develop unchecked, it could create complications."
"She is not the only one," Mother Shelish confirmed. "My sources indicate that several of Lord Vader's officers have developed similar... attachments. The admiral with the red hair. The medical officer who oversees his suit maintenance. Even some of the naval technicians."
"Lord Vader seems unaware of the extent of their interest," Sister Karis observed. "He treats them as subordinates, nothing more."
"Because he is focused on his objectives. Power, resources, preparation for eventual conflict with the Emperor." Mother Shelish shook her head slowly. "He does not see the danger that these attachments represent."
"What danger?" Sister Nyla asked. "Surely devoted subordinates are an asset?"
"Devoted subordinates, yes. But these women are not merely devoted—they are obsessed. And obsession makes people unpredictable." Mother Shelish's glowing eyes swept across her assembled sisters. "The Emperor's Hand, in particular, concerns me. Her feelings are in direct conflict with her mission. Eventually, that conflict will force a crisis."
"You believe she will betray the Emperor for Vader's sake?"
"I believe she will be forced to choose between them. And if she chooses poorly—if she reveals information to Palpatine that compromises our patron's plans—then everything we have worked for could be destroyed."
The gravity of the situation settled over the chamber like a shroud.
"What do you propose?" Sister Merrin asked.
"Protection." Mother Shelish rose from her seat, her silver hair catching the green light like a halo of moonlight. "Not the kind that Lord Vader would recognize or approve of. Subtle protection. Wards that will... influence the emotional state of those who threaten our patron's interests."
"You want to use magicks on the Emperor's Hand?" Sister Karis sounded equal parts impressed and concerned. "She is Force-sensitive. She might detect our interference."
"Not if we are careful. Not if we work slowly, subtly, nudging rather than compelling." Mother Shelish's lips curved into a smile that contained centuries of Nightsister cunning. "We will not try to eliminate her feelings for Lord Vader—that would be too obvious. Instead, we will... redirect them. Channel her obsession into forms that serve our patron's interests rather than threatening them."
"And the others? The admiral, the medical officer, the technicians?"
"Similar treatments. We will ensure that their attachments remain beneficial rather than dangerous." Mother Shelish paused, considering. "We might also take steps to... organize them. Create informal connections between them. If they see each other as allies rather than rivals, they will be less likely to create the kind of dramatic conflicts that draw attention."
"You're suggesting we cultivate a support network for Lord Vader," Sister Nyla said slowly. "A collection of devoted women who will protect and serve him from positions throughout the Empire."
"I am suggesting that we protect our investment." Mother Shelish's voice hardened. "Lord Vader saved us from extinction. He gave us sanctuary, purpose, a future. We are bound to him by magic and by gratitude. If these women threaten him through their uncontrolled emotions, we will take steps to mitigate that threat."
"And if Lord Vader discovers what we're doing?"
"He won't. We are Nightsisters." Mother Shelish smiled, a expression that contained no humor but considerable satisfaction. "Subtle manipulation is what we do."
The sisters nodded, accepting their Mother's logic. The ritual preparations began, green energy swirling through the chamber as ancient incantations shaped the magicks that would protect their patron.
Whether he wanted protection or not.
On Tatooine, where it was hot (as always)...
Vader's shuttle descended through the familiar yellow sky, and Marcus Chen's buried consciousness screamed with every meter of altitude lost.
This is insane, the inner voice protested. This is literally the stupidest thing you could possibly do. Obi-Wan Kenobi is on this planet. Obi-Wan Kenobi, who cut off three of your limbs and left you to burn. Obi-Wan Kenobi, who is watching over Luke specifically to protect him from people like you.
And you're just going to... land? And visit? Like it's a casual social call?
Vader ignored the voice. He had become quite skilled at ignoring it.
I need to see Luke, he told himself, the justification feeling thin even as he formulated it. I visited Leia on her birthday. Luke deserves the same attention. It's only fair.
You visited Leia in the middle of the night, using advanced concealment techniques, on a planet with minimal Force-sensitive presence. Tatooine has Obi-Wan. Tatooine has sandpeople and Jawas and Hutts and approximately seventeen thousand other complications.
And yet here we are.
The shuttle touched down approximately ten kilometers from the Lars homestead, in a rocky outcropping that provided concealment from casual observation. Vader emerged into the Tatooine evening, the twin suns casting long shadows across the sand that he had hated since childhood.
Still hate it, he confirmed, feeling grains already working their way into the joints of his armor. Coarse, rough, irritating. Gets everywhere. Some things never change.
He set off across the desert, using the Force to sense threats and enhance his speed, covering ground at a pace that would have been impossible for an unaugmented human. The Lars homestead appeared on the horizon after approximately forty minutes—a cluster of domed structures half-buried in the sand, surrounded by moisture vaporators that hummed with quiet industry.
And there, on the edge of Vader's Force awareness, was a presence he had been simultaneously dreading and anticipating.
Obi-Wan Kenobi.
The old Jedi Master was somewhere to the northwest, perhaps three kilometers distant, his Force signature carefully dimmed but not invisible. Not to someone who had known him as well as Anakin Skywalker had. Not to someone who could feel the specific texture of his former Master's presence like a half-forgotten memory.
He's watching, Vader realized. Of course he's watching. He probably felt me enter the atmosphere. He's wondering if I've come to claim Luke, to destroy the homestead, to finally have our long-delayed confrontation.
For a moment, Vader genuinely considered seeking Obi-Wan out. The old man had aged significantly—Vader could sense the weariness in his presence, the years of exile taking their toll—and defeating him now would be pathetically easy. One less Jedi in the galaxy. One less obstacle to his eventual plans.
But.
No, Vader decided, the strategic calculation overriding his vengeful impulses. Not yet. Not here.
Killing Obi-Wan now would serve no purpose. The old Jedi was already neutralized, hiding in the desert, posing no threat to Imperial operations. More importantly, killing him would draw attention to Tatooine—attention that might lead investigators to wonder why Vader had come here in the first place. Questions would be asked. Connections might be made.
Luke must remain hidden, Vader reminded himself. For his sake and for the timeline. Obi-Wan serves that purpose, whether he knows it or not. Let him continue his vigil. When the time comes for our final confrontation, I'll seek him out on my terms.
He continued toward the homestead, carefully masking his presence, approaching with the patience of a predator who had all the time in the world.
The Lars family was inside, eating dinner. Vader could sense their simple emotions—contentment, fatigue, love. Owen Lars was thinking about water rights and equipment repairs. Beru Lars was thinking about the baby who had brought unexpected joy into their lives. And Luke...
Luke was a bright spot in the Force, his potential shimmering like a star waiting to be born. Even at one year old, his sensitivity was obvious to anyone who knew what to look for. He would be powerful. Perhaps as powerful as Anakin had been.
Perhaps more powerful, Vader thought, a strange mix of pride and apprehension stirring in his chest. He has none of my weaknesses. None of my baggage. He could become something extraordinary.
He crept closer to the homestead, using concealment techniques that the Nightsisters had taught him, wrapping shadows around himself until he was virtually invisible. Through a window, he could see the family gathered around their table, Luke secured in a high chair while Owen and Beru discussed the day's events.
The boy was laughing.
It was a sound that Vader had not heard in what felt like centuries—pure, unfiltered joy, expressed without self-consciousness or restraint. Luke was laughing because Beru had made a funny face, or because Owen had dropped something, or simply because laughter was what babies did when they were happy and loved.
He's happy, Vader realized, the observation carrying weight that surprised him. Genuinely, completely happy. They're taking good care of him.
He had brought a gift for Luke, as he had for Leia—another enchanted pendant, designed to protect and enhance. But looking through that window, watching his son laugh with the family who loved him, Vader found himself hesitating.
He doesn't need me, the thought came unbidden. He has everything he needs right here. A home, a family, safety from the galaxy's horrors. My presence in his life would only bring danger.
It was the same logic he had applied to Leia, but somehow it hurt more with Luke. Perhaps because Leia had been adopted into royalty, surrounded by wealth and influence. Luke was being raised as a moisture farmer's nephew, destined for a life of hard work and limited horizons.
But he's happy, Vader reminded himself. Happiness is worth more than luxury. I of all people should know that.
He placed the pendant on the homestead's outer wall, near the window to Luke's room, trusting that Owen or Beru would find it and—assuming they had any sense—would keep it safe for the boy. Then he retreated, slipping back into the desert as silently as he had come.
On his way to the shuttle, he passed within a kilometer of Obi-Wan's hiding place. He could feel the old Jedi's awareness prickling at the edges of his concealment, could sense Obi-Wan's confusion and alarm at detecting something without being able to identify what.
Hello, old Master, Vader thought, not bothering to project the message. I was here, and you never knew it. Your vigil is not as effective as you believe.
But I'll let you keep believing. For now.
The shuttle lifted off from Tatooine's surface, leaving behind sand and memories and a son who would grow up never knowing his father had watched him laugh.
Vader was not in a good mood.
He needed to destroy something.
Jabba's Palace, approximately two hours later...
The Hutt's major-domo was a Twi'lek named Bib Fortuna, and he was currently experiencing what he would later describe as "the most terrifying thirty seconds of my entire miserable existence."
This was because Darth Vader had just walked into Jabba's throne room, unannounced, uninvited, and utterly unconcerned about the sixty armed guards who were now pointing various weapons at his armored form.
"Lord Vader," Jabba rumbled in Huttese, his massive bulk shifting on the dais that served as his throne. "What an unexpected pleasure. To what do I owe this... visit?"
The chamber fell silent. Every bounty hunter, every dancer, every servant and slave in the room understood that they were witnessing something unprecedented. Darth Vader, the Emperor's enforcer, had come to Jabba's palace. This was either the beginning of a very profitable negotiation or the end of everything.
"I require rancors," Vader said, his vocoder cutting through the silence like a blade. "Five of them. Mature specimens, properly aggressive."
Jabba blinked his enormous eyes, processing the unexpected request.
"Rancors," the Hutt repeated. "You have come to my palace... to purchase rancors."
"Is there a problem with my request?"
"No, no, of course not." Jabba's massive tongue slithered across his lips, a sign of nervousness that Bib Fortuna recognized immediately. "I have several excellent specimens in my menagerie. The price, of course, would be substantial..."
"Name it."
Jabba named a figure that would have bankrupted most planetary governments.
Vader didn't blink. "Acceptable. I want them delivered to these coordinates within three days. The payment will be transferred upon confirmation of delivery."
"It will be done, Lord Vader." Jabba was practically radiating obsequiousness now, his fear of the dark figure before him overriding his natural greed. "Is there... anything else I can provide?"
"One thing." Vader stepped forward, and every guard in the room tensed. "Your basement arena. I wish to use it. Now."
"The arena?" Jabba's confusion was evident. "But there are no scheduled fights today—"
"There will be one." Vader's vocoder dropped to a register that promised violence. "Release your largest rancor into the arena. I will be waiting for it."
Understanding dawned in Jabba's bulging eyes. The Hutt had not survived centuries of criminal enterprise without developing an instinct for reading people, and what he read in Vader's posture was simple: the Dark Lord needed to kill something. Needed it badly. And he didn't particularly care what.
Better a rancor than my guards, Jabba calculated. Or me.
"Of course, Lord Vader. Bib, escort our guest to the arena. And release Pateesa."
Bib Fortuna led Vader through the palace's winding corridors, down stairs that descended deep into the bedrock beneath the structure. The air grew hotter, thicker, carrying the musk of large predators and the copper scent of old blood.
The arena was a circular pit, perhaps thirty meters across, its walls too smooth to climb, its floor covered in sand that had absorbed countless deaths. Bones were scattered in the corners—humanoid and otherwise—remnants of Jabba's "entertainment."
Vader descended into the pit without hesitation.
"Release the beast," he commanded.
The gate on the far side of the arena groaned open, and Pateesa emerged.
This rancor was bigger than any Vader had fought before—easily eight meters tall, its claws like curved swords, its hide scarred by years of combat. It had been Jabba's prized fighter for over a decade, responsible for the deaths of hundreds of unfortunate beings who had displeased the Hutt.
It saw Vader and roared.
The sound was deafening, shaking dust from the arena ceiling, causing observers in the gallery above to cover their ears. Pateesa charged, moving with surprising speed for something so massive, its claws extended for a killing strike.
Vader did not draw his lightsaber.
He waited.
At the last possible moment, he sidestepped, his mechanical body responding with enhanced speed. His left fist drove into the rancor's knee with Force-enhanced strength, and even through the beast's thick hide, the impact was devastating. Cartilage cracked. The rancor stumbled, its charge disrupted.
Vader pressed the attack.
He was a blur of black armor, ducking beneath claw swipes, rolling between the rancor's legs, delivering punishing blows to joints and soft tissue. Each strike was calculated, precise, designed to cause maximum pain without immediately disabling the creature.
Because he didn't want it disabled. Not yet. He wanted it to fight.
This is what I needed, Vader thought, catching one of the rancor's claws and twisting with mechanical strength that should have been impossible. Something that fights back. Something I can destroy without consequence.
The rancor screamed as its wrist snapped, the claw dangling uselessly. It swung with its other arm, and Vader caught that too, using the Force to anchor himself as he redirected the beast's momentum, sending it crashing into the arena wall.
Pateesa was hurt now, bleeding from multiple wounds, its roars becoming whimpers of pain. But it was still fighting, still dangerous, still providing the outlet that Vader desperately needed.
He released his grip and backed away, giving the creature space to recover.
"Get up," he commanded, his vocoder flat and cold. "I'm not finished with you yet."
The rancor struggled to its feet, one arm hanging useless, its breath coming in ragged gasps. Its tiny eyes fixed on Vader with something that might have been hatred, might have been fear, might have been simple animal confusion at facing a predator worse than itself.
It charged again.
And Vader met it head-on.
What followed was less a fight than a systematic dismantlement. Vader broke the rancor apart piece by piece, using his fists and the Force and the cold, precise violence that had become his art form. By the end, Pateesa was a broken wreck on the arena floor, still alive but barely, its remaining limbs shattered, its hide torn, its spirit utterly destroyed.
Vader stood over his fallen opponent, breathing heavily—or as heavily as his respirator allowed.
Better, he thought. That's better.
The rage that had been building since Tatooine—the frustration of seeing his son and being unable to claim him, the buried grief of watching Obi-Wan from a distance, the endless complicated emotions of being a secret father to children he could never acknowledge—all of it had been channeled into violence.
It wasn't healthy. It wasn't admirable. But it was necessary.
"Lord Vader." Bib Fortuna's voice drifted down from the gallery, trembling slightly. "Shall I... have the creature disposed of?"
"Put it out of its misery," Vader commanded. "And ensure my purchased specimens are properly cared for during transport. I want them healthy when they arrive."
"Of course, Lord Vader. Immediately, Lord Vader."
Vader ascended from the arena, leaving behind the broken rancor and approximately forty traumatized observers who would spend the rest of their lives having nightmares about what they had witnessed.
As his shuttle lifted off from Tatooine's surface—finally leaving that Force-forsaken sand trap behind—Vader felt something approaching equilibrium returning to his circuits.
The legend grows, he reflected. Every story, every witness, every demonstration of power adds to the reputation. By the time I'm ready to move against Palpatine, the galaxy will already believe I'm unstoppable.
And belief has a way of becoming reality.
His comlink chimed with an incoming transmission from the Devastator.
"Lord Vader," Captain Screed's voice reported. "We have received intelligence regarding Jedi survivors on the planet Lothal. Your orders?"
Vader considered for a moment, then smiled behind his mask.
"Set course for Lothal. I will deal with this matter personally."
The hunt continued. The legend grew. And somewhere, in observation posts scattered across the galaxy, various women with unhealthy attachments monitored his progress with varying degrees of professional interest and personal obsession.
Vader remained blissfully unaware of all of it.
Which was probably for the best.
[END OF CHAPTER SIX]