FIC: Synergy (1/10)
Hey. everyone. Some of you might remember a story I was posting here years ago called 'Whither Wander with no Love.' Recently I went back and edited it and wrote some more. (and changed the stupid title). I'm going to post everything I have so far, and more will be coming over the next couple of days. Right now the story is exactly half finished (according to the vague plot outline in my head); hopefully you'll enjoy this little tale over the holidays. Very Vader/Emperor centric.
Title: Synergy
Author: Ziggy Sternenstaub
Words: 3800 in in part one
Rating: PG-13
SYNERGY
by Ziggy Sternenstaub
Synergy (from the Greek syn-ergo, συνεργός meaning working together) is the term used to describe a situation where the final outcome of a system is greater than the sum of its parts.
Darth Vader remembered very little of the time directly following his reconstruction. He only vaguely recalled waking up after his many surgeries, having succeeded in blocking out the memories of the terrible process itself altogether. His mind had more than enough to handle in retaining its sanity following his mutilation; he did not waste effort hanging on to the first horrible weeks that directly followed, a time spent floating in the disbelieving haze which surrounded the news of his wife’s death at his own hand, pierced only by vague recollections of a journey over Coruscant in Palpatine’s personal craft. The other man’s presence, comforting even after all that had happened, had seemed to hold him up with the sheer strength of the older Sith’s bald will. Neither had spoken, and in Vader’s mind Padme fell again and again to the landing platform, an empty husk already being erased from his life. It was with a persistent masochistic fascination that the newest Sith Lord examined this truth during the journey, sitting still with nothing to do but think, nothing to picture but her sick shock and fear. He set himself to examining the events in even greater detail, agonising over his actions and raging at her betrayal.
The process took place in a silence broken only by an occasional mechanical beep and the disturbing, unfamiliar sound of his own breath. He looked at nothing, wished to see and hear nothing, feel nothing, but could not escape the relentless intensity of his mechanical sensors. They were dead to the purity he’d so taken for granted just days before, instead analysing and delivering more information than he had ever before been aware of. Shades of heat, depths of shadow he had never seen, complexities of scent and organic compositions he had not once in his life observed, along with precise pitches and tones of sound that demanded his attention even through his clear reluctance to give it. Nothing escape him now. Sounds or images projected in hundreds of combinations could no longer be construed as confusing or even slightly misinterpreted. He was able to determined their content and composition immediately, the information fed directly into his brain. It was an overwhelming alteration in his perception of the universe and one he was not ready to accept. He tried to sleep, but rest escaped him. Palpatine had assured him that he was still human enough to need sleep, but apparently sleep did not need him. He attempted to meditate but the Force seemed to slip away from him. It felt slimy and corrupt, avoiding his grasp and dribbling away. It was like trying to capture water in the palm of his bare hand. He was there, it was there, but there existed no means of holding on to it. Panic began to chew at him, slowly but inevitably. The question came to him then: Had he rejected the Jedi, destroyed his former comrades and killed his wife only to lose his own power? He did not know the answer and did not dare ask Palpatine. What good was an apprentice who did not have the Force? The answer to that question might well mean his death. He wondered then if he wanted to live, wanted to continue on without her, which brought Vader back to the memory of her pleading eyes, completing the circle of his thoughts. His agony returned and what was now history played out again in his mind’s eye.
The end of the journey was not quick enough in coming and the only thing that Vader remembered of their return to 500 Republica was following Palpatine away from the landing platform. His vision had been fixed on the walk under his booted, foreign feet. He refused to glance at the people, the workers that were no doubt present, refused to see himself mirrored in their eyes, to witness his own monstrosity. The Jedi had been destroyed, but at the cost of his revealing his own darkness for all to see. The Sith would not rule under the guise of benevolence. The galaxy would look at both Master and Apprentice and know them to be creatures out of their own nightmares. Neither Vader nor Sidious could conceal it. Their nature was written in every hideous line of their living bodies.
The Emperor led his servant to a strange apartment and told the droids waiting there to prepare his apprentice for rest. The machines removed his armour and attached him to his new life support systems. They injected him with something then and he made no sound or move of protest, too apathetic to care. Moments later, he was asleep.
***
It was not a human voice. It was high and pure and full of heartrending pain. The words were unfamiliar, the language unknown, but Vader lay listening and it seemed to him that he could hear the story behind those soaring notes. Someone had been lost, this man had lost something more precious to him than his own life, and he would never again have this thing, never possess his heart’s deepest desire. Vader’s eyes attempted to produce tears, the agony of his own loss allowing him to experience a sympathy he would never have otherwise admitted to. The scar tissue forming up on his face in the aftermath of third degree burns did not allow him even this small bit of comfort and he remained prone, his bare mortal eyes fixated on the white duraplast ceiling, the unremitting glare of its too bright surface penetrating his deadened optical impressions. He wondered that he even had eyes left to him.
The singer stopped and Vader swallowed painfully, unsure whether he was glad for the sudden silence. The complicated system of wires and breathing apparatus covering his face itched and he reached up to scratch around the equipment as best he could. Cool metal met his blurry gaze, grey and inhuman. Vader observed his hand for several indifferent moments before it penetrated his fuzzy consciousness that this hand should look different, that this hand should be real. He flexed his grip and saw the metal digits respond accordingly. Vague panic began to eat at him, memories scratching at his wandering attention. Slowly, almost too slowly, Vader lay the hand back down at his side, deliberately closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath.
Nothing happened. His lungs remained cold and dead in his chest while the mechanical equipment continued its inexhaustible labour of breathing for him. Vader gritted his teeth to hold back an impossible moan of horror. Of course he had known what had happened, but he’d hoped, he’d hoped. . .
Very vaguely then, he felt someone approaching. This person seemed to be moving against his perceptions of the Force in the same horrid, deadened fashion that was afflicting his physical self. He likely would not have noticed the other were it not for the complete silence, his utter aloneness leaving him open enough to notice his visitor.
A hand fell gently on his forehead and he briefly flinched before he sensed the intention behind it: support and an intense desire to energise him. It felt familiar and he realised that this hand, this presence, had breathed life into him before, when he’d had none of his own. Without this hand, he’d be dead.
Vader glimpsed the bare of a plain black robe before Palpatine seated himself beside Vader’s prone body. The younger Dark Lord shifted his gaze to the other man’s face.
“Lord Vader, I felt you awaken,” the old Sith said quietly. His voice sounded distorted and distant. With Vader's damaged eyes preventing him from seeing the man properly, it almost seemed to the younger Sith as though this were the benign Chancellor Palpatine, rather than the ambitious Darth Sidious. He wondered what the different was, but felt that on some fundamental level that there was one: a gaping divide spanned by a treachery that his wounded mind could not begin to comprehend.
“Yes,” Vader finally attempted, feeling that some response was required, but shocked when no sound beyond a painful, dry rasp was able to escape his branded vocal cords. I heard singing...
“Do not attempt to speak, Lord Vader. I have been assured that, with time, you will regain some unassisted use of your voice, but for now restrict yourself to the vocoder, when you have the use of it. As for the rest of you, your sight and hearing have both maintained some noteworthy damage, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, and scent and taste functions appear to have been utterly destroyed.”
Vader blinked to show that he understood while sudden frustration and horror overwhelmed him as he realised the depth of his unexpected predicament. His health was destroyed. His body had been shattered like a broken droid and in turn had been repaired as a droid would have been.
Am I any better than that pathetic creature Grevious now? Am I even human any more? Am I a man at all? The thought was a mental face full of cold water.
“Do not trouble yourself at this moment, Lord Vader. You will be given time to recover and come to terms with your new circumstances,” Palpatine assured him in a functional tone.
Vader blinked again, unable to escape his furiously pursuing fears: the Dragon reborn, or perhaps its offspring-- the next generation of Anakin Skywalker’s terrors.
“I will inform the droids to dress you now. You are to be instructed in the functions of your life support systems, both during rest and mobility. I am sure that you, my apprentice, with your technical talents, will have no trouble.”
A small and painful smile crept over Vader’s once sensual lips. His technical expertise. What he’d once used to modify and maintain everything from droids, ships, and fighters to the enormous tea brewer in the Jedi Temple kitchens, he would now use to maintain himself. The newly named Dark Lord had enough self awareness to be painfully attentive of the irony. If Palpatine were similarly aware, however, he said nothing on the subject. The older man stood and left the room. Moments later, the droids entered, their cold silver forms gleaming monstrously in the sunlight creeping in from a window just beyond Vader’s range of perception. The Dark Lord suddenly longed to creep back, to reject them. The Force would help him, but the last time that he’d to actively use the Force, upon waking on Mustafar, it had seemed so distant, had seemed to completely reject him. He didn’t dare try it again now for risk of confirming his deepest remaining fear: that his gift, his talent, the thing that made him special, was gone. So he did nothing, merely allowing the GH-7 droids to close in on him.
They replaced the jump-suit first, smooth cushioned padding and broken black on the outside, a mass of wiring on the inside. It took exactly ten minutes and thirty six seconds to connect the breathing apparatus to the chest plate controls. He watched the clock on the wall until they gave him his gauntlets and boots: unbroken leather which covered his durasteel hands and feet. The boots were lined with thick padding and he wore two pairs of socks, so that his footwear didn’t fall off the bare artificial outline of human legs which now carried him. Last of all came the armour on his shoulders, an immense weight under which he was uncertain he would be able to walk, much less do battle in. His entire body felt like a stone mass, a thousand times more immense than anything he’d ever carried. Vader remained still throughout the process, feeling keenly the loss of his human mobility.
At last the droid in front of him held up the mask, and for the first time the Dark Lord saw his new face. It was black, gruesome, resembling nothing less than a human skull. In that initial moment, he was disturbed and slightly contemptuous, but there was a strange appeal to the thing which quickly occurred to his addled consciousness. It was utterly impersonal, that face, immobile and cold. There was no passion there, none of the fear, rage or even hatred which had overtaken his heart and lead him to the Dark Side of the Force. It was, he supposed, more a work of art than anything, an iron casting capable of turning the Dragon of fear which had so long haunted him onto his victims. While they trembled he would be safe inside, cold and untouched. Perhaps, he thought, his personal prison need not be quite as uncomfortable as it threatened to be. But Vader almost changed his mind as the droid, having finished hooking the thing up to the breathing apparatus wiring up from under the neck guard of his armour, lifted the mask up over his face The helmet came down from behind after it, both pieces fitting together with a hiss.
“Lord Vader, we are finished,” the lead GH-7 informed him.
Vader inclined his head heavily, feeling the pull of the armour at his neck weighing him down and forcing him to concentrate far more than usual on executing his movements smoothly and gracefully.
“I will explain to you the systems of your personal equipment, Lord Vader, as well as the limited functions which you will be able to regulate for yourself, as I’m informed that you’re considered to be an “independent” man.” If it were possible for a droid to sound disapproving, this one had managed it. Apparently, independence was not a desirable quality in a mechanically supplemented cripple.
Vader gave no thanks but remained silent as the droid explained the process he’d just undergone, stopping now and then to ask if Vader had questions. The new Dark Lord did not. While not a medical professional, he was a trained mechanic and highly gifted amateur engineer with an intuitive understanding of machines. The workings of his life support system were hardly a mystery to him and he had no doubt that he would be able to effectively put himself together the next time.
“. . .and your bed, Lord Vader, functions similarly, though the technology which augments your damaged senses has not been included, as humans do not make extensive use of their perceptive functions during the regenerative rest period. Your breathing is merely regulated and your life systems monitored. Of course, should you desire the extra enhancement for comfort or security, the systems can always be upgraded.”
The droids provided Vader with a brief tour of his complicated sleeping arrangements before he curtly dismissed them. The GH-7 team turned to depart without complaint, mentioning only that they were at his personal disposal should he at any time require assistance.
“Very well,” Vader nodded with haughty dignity. He watched the last medical droid disappear out the door.
And then-
“Wait! What do I get to eat?!”
**
Vader eyed the nutrient shot warily. He had the option of either receiving in through a feed drip in his life support system or injecting it directly into his body. Considering that he had very little of either his arms or his legs left to him, Vader suspected that his stomach would be the most viable target for that long, slender length of sterilised metal. Better make it midnight snacks while he snoozed, then, Vader grimaced. It looked as though any future trips to Dex’s Diner could be indefinitely crossed out of his appointment book.
He would have put the nutrients back down with a resigned sigh, but even that token gesture of exasperation was denied him by the steady, rhythmic cycles of his respirator. Instead, he merely gave the object back to the silent GH-7 and pushed out of the mass of equipment that temporarily served as his bedroom. It was time to explore his new surroundings.
The fog of confusion in which he had been existing was slowly lifting and Vader was regaining his need for action. He emerged from the bedroom into a cool blue apartment with an enormous viewing balcony. The Senate was clear from where he stood, along with the charred pit containing the remains of the Jedi Temple. Vader observed his former home expressionlessly, unsure of what he should be feeling. A week ago, it had all been so simple-- perhaps too simple. The Jedi had committed treason and personally betrayed him. His counterattack had been merciless and inevitable. Now. . .
He did not quite wish to take it back, but he was beset by the oddest suspicion that, had his own actions been less irretrievable, he would perhaps at this very moment be offering shamefaced apologies to Obi-Wan for losing his temper. The apologies would be answered with a wry smile and a long suffering expression before a large hand clapped on Anakin’s shoulder and Obi-Wan invited his former best friend out for a drink. Anakin losing his temper in a moment of passion was hardly an uncommon occurrence. Anakin himself had never thought much of it, as ever hearing the words of Palpatine and Padme so much more clearly than the obviously paranoid warnings of the Jedi Council.
It’s human to be angry. . .
Anger leads to the Dark Side.
Confusion blurred Vader’s thought once more, but not enough that he could not pinpoint where they were. 500 Republica’s luxurious senatorial apartments: the very same buildings that Palpatine had once offered to hand Anakin on a golden platter, a lifetime ago.
Were they still to be his? A pretty prize for damaged goods?
The Dark Lord noticed the sparseness of the apartments as he explored further: a kitchen with no food in it, a sitting room with no furniture outside of a communications centre and a droid closet, and two extra rooms with no apparent functions. The suites were enormous, as was to be expected, but lifeless. Then there was the toilet, the thought of which Vader had so far managed to avoid. He hadn’t yet asked the droids about his more precise bodily functions, but now that he was taking his nutrition directly through his bloodstream, the toilet had undoubtedly become an obsolete location. The last room was the bath, an equally puzzling challenge. How would he wash himself now? He had always kept his artificial arm carefully wrapped and free of water during bathing, for fear of rust, and now all of his limbs were mechanical. How would he manage? Was there some way to completely isolate them from water, or would he merely be confined to washing himself by hand? Even so, his mechanical limbs would require special attention. The droids would be required to tend to their upkeep. Oiling, polishing, tinkering. . . Even being a mechanic himself, there was no way he could reach the little nuances of the limbs while they were connected to his own body. Even a Jedi was not that flexible.
With one black leather glove, Vader dusted the golden surface of the bath lovingly. Never again would he merely soak in warm water, luxuriating in the pleasure and sensation of the experience. Even attempting to take that plunge into the tub would have been idiocy now. His mere clothing had become a three act melodrama, its removal anything but spontaneous. With not a small amount of bitterness, Vader left the bath and slammed the door behind him. The heavily reinforced frame did not even shudder slightly. Vader’s restless, caged stride took him back to the balcony, where he lay a careful hand on the dura-plast window, glaring futilely at nothing. He had not been one to indulge in baths very often, his energy and restlessness preferring the quick satisfaction of a shower, but now that the option was denied him he longed for nothing more than to strip down and plunge into the tub. Obi-Wan would no doubt tell him that it was his rebellious streak, chaffing against Destiny once more. No doubt Obi-Wan would even have managed to make a more efficient and accepting dehumanised cyborg than that made by one Anakin Skywalker.
“Are the apartments to your satisfaction?”
Vader tensed, shocked that he had been caught unaware of another’s presence. He hoped his surprise had not been too readily apparent. For only one person to know of his dulled senses was for his life to be threatened. Slowly, he turned to face his visitor.
It was Sate Pestage, appearing officious and prim in his civil servant’s robes. He observed Vader with a combination of curiosity and puzzlement present only in his eyes. His bland face was far too well schooled to reveal any emotion beyond practised politeness.
“The apartments are. . .adequate,” Vader responded. His search for a neutral word lent an unusual formality to his speech while the cycles of the respirator forced him to speak more slowly than he was accustomed to.
Pestage gave the smallest of smiles. “Is there anything that you require?”
“No,” Vader responded flatly.
Pestage smiled once more. “I am relieved by your survival, Jedi Skywalker. The Emperor was considerably worried on your behalf.”
Vader froze. Pestage knew who he was! Had Palpatine told him? Vader could not recall his birth name having passed Palpatine’s lips even once since he had become Sith. Why would he have said anything to Pestage? Or was his title of Dark Lord and his Sith name to remain as secret as Palpatine’s own? Darth Sidious, who was so cunning that his triumph as the Sith Master who had destroyed the Jedi was to be concealed from the galaxy. Palpatine’s modest nature had not been entirely feigned, Vader deduced, but was instead a necessary component of his cleverness. So why had he not remained silent this time? Why did the Emperor’s assistant now know who it was standing before him?
Pestage’s facial expression remained officious, blankly polite, but after a lifetime of being surrounded by the essentially unreadable faces of the Jedi brotherhood, Vader readily recognised a mask when he saw one. There was something else hidden underneath that blandness. Did Pestage think he’d scored a point because he knew of Vader’s past?
Vader turned his back on the man. It was perhaps a foolish move, but Pestage still wouldn’t dare physically threaten him. There were other means to inflicting damage, but Vader had never paid any mind to petty political manoeuvres and underhanded power struggles and did not intend to start now.
Very distantly he sensed Pestage’s perturbed expression. Of course, the man had not appreciated the contempt inherent in Vader’s pose.
Tough luck, the Dark Lord thought with a certain malicious, deliberately childish satisfaction.
After several moments, Vader’s outward stillness and absolute lack of movement left Pestage awkwardly, uncertainly shuffling about before the aide left out a long, frustrated sigh.
“Well, if you require anything, please inform staff over the com.”
Vader remained silent.
“. . .Lord Vader,” Pestage added grudgingly.
“Thank you,” Vader replied at last.
Pestage flounced out indignantly.
See: give a little, get a little, Vader thought smugly.
To Part 2
Title: Synergy
Author: Ziggy Sternenstaub
Words: 3800 in in part one
Rating: PG-13
SYNERGY
by Ziggy Sternenstaub
Synergy (from the Greek syn-ergo, συνεργός meaning working together) is the term used to describe a situation where the final outcome of a system is greater than the sum of its parts.
Darth Vader remembered very little of the time directly following his reconstruction. He only vaguely recalled waking up after his many surgeries, having succeeded in blocking out the memories of the terrible process itself altogether. His mind had more than enough to handle in retaining its sanity following his mutilation; he did not waste effort hanging on to the first horrible weeks that directly followed, a time spent floating in the disbelieving haze which surrounded the news of his wife’s death at his own hand, pierced only by vague recollections of a journey over Coruscant in Palpatine’s personal craft. The other man’s presence, comforting even after all that had happened, had seemed to hold him up with the sheer strength of the older Sith’s bald will. Neither had spoken, and in Vader’s mind Padme fell again and again to the landing platform, an empty husk already being erased from his life. It was with a persistent masochistic fascination that the newest Sith Lord examined this truth during the journey, sitting still with nothing to do but think, nothing to picture but her sick shock and fear. He set himself to examining the events in even greater detail, agonising over his actions and raging at her betrayal.
The process took place in a silence broken only by an occasional mechanical beep and the disturbing, unfamiliar sound of his own breath. He looked at nothing, wished to see and hear nothing, feel nothing, but could not escape the relentless intensity of his mechanical sensors. They were dead to the purity he’d so taken for granted just days before, instead analysing and delivering more information than he had ever before been aware of. Shades of heat, depths of shadow he had never seen, complexities of scent and organic compositions he had not once in his life observed, along with precise pitches and tones of sound that demanded his attention even through his clear reluctance to give it. Nothing escape him now. Sounds or images projected in hundreds of combinations could no longer be construed as confusing or even slightly misinterpreted. He was able to determined their content and composition immediately, the information fed directly into his brain. It was an overwhelming alteration in his perception of the universe and one he was not ready to accept. He tried to sleep, but rest escaped him. Palpatine had assured him that he was still human enough to need sleep, but apparently sleep did not need him. He attempted to meditate but the Force seemed to slip away from him. It felt slimy and corrupt, avoiding his grasp and dribbling away. It was like trying to capture water in the palm of his bare hand. He was there, it was there, but there existed no means of holding on to it. Panic began to chew at him, slowly but inevitably. The question came to him then: Had he rejected the Jedi, destroyed his former comrades and killed his wife only to lose his own power? He did not know the answer and did not dare ask Palpatine. What good was an apprentice who did not have the Force? The answer to that question might well mean his death. He wondered then if he wanted to live, wanted to continue on without her, which brought Vader back to the memory of her pleading eyes, completing the circle of his thoughts. His agony returned and what was now history played out again in his mind’s eye.
The end of the journey was not quick enough in coming and the only thing that Vader remembered of their return to 500 Republica was following Palpatine away from the landing platform. His vision had been fixed on the walk under his booted, foreign feet. He refused to glance at the people, the workers that were no doubt present, refused to see himself mirrored in their eyes, to witness his own monstrosity. The Jedi had been destroyed, but at the cost of his revealing his own darkness for all to see. The Sith would not rule under the guise of benevolence. The galaxy would look at both Master and Apprentice and know them to be creatures out of their own nightmares. Neither Vader nor Sidious could conceal it. Their nature was written in every hideous line of their living bodies.
The Emperor led his servant to a strange apartment and told the droids waiting there to prepare his apprentice for rest. The machines removed his armour and attached him to his new life support systems. They injected him with something then and he made no sound or move of protest, too apathetic to care. Moments later, he was asleep.
***
It was not a human voice. It was high and pure and full of heartrending pain. The words were unfamiliar, the language unknown, but Vader lay listening and it seemed to him that he could hear the story behind those soaring notes. Someone had been lost, this man had lost something more precious to him than his own life, and he would never again have this thing, never possess his heart’s deepest desire. Vader’s eyes attempted to produce tears, the agony of his own loss allowing him to experience a sympathy he would never have otherwise admitted to. The scar tissue forming up on his face in the aftermath of third degree burns did not allow him even this small bit of comfort and he remained prone, his bare mortal eyes fixated on the white duraplast ceiling, the unremitting glare of its too bright surface penetrating his deadened optical impressions. He wondered that he even had eyes left to him.
The singer stopped and Vader swallowed painfully, unsure whether he was glad for the sudden silence. The complicated system of wires and breathing apparatus covering his face itched and he reached up to scratch around the equipment as best he could. Cool metal met his blurry gaze, grey and inhuman. Vader observed his hand for several indifferent moments before it penetrated his fuzzy consciousness that this hand should look different, that this hand should be real. He flexed his grip and saw the metal digits respond accordingly. Vague panic began to eat at him, memories scratching at his wandering attention. Slowly, almost too slowly, Vader lay the hand back down at his side, deliberately closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath.
Nothing happened. His lungs remained cold and dead in his chest while the mechanical equipment continued its inexhaustible labour of breathing for him. Vader gritted his teeth to hold back an impossible moan of horror. Of course he had known what had happened, but he’d hoped, he’d hoped. . .
Very vaguely then, he felt someone approaching. This person seemed to be moving against his perceptions of the Force in the same horrid, deadened fashion that was afflicting his physical self. He likely would not have noticed the other were it not for the complete silence, his utter aloneness leaving him open enough to notice his visitor.
A hand fell gently on his forehead and he briefly flinched before he sensed the intention behind it: support and an intense desire to energise him. It felt familiar and he realised that this hand, this presence, had breathed life into him before, when he’d had none of his own. Without this hand, he’d be dead.
Vader glimpsed the bare of a plain black robe before Palpatine seated himself beside Vader’s prone body. The younger Dark Lord shifted his gaze to the other man’s face.
“Lord Vader, I felt you awaken,” the old Sith said quietly. His voice sounded distorted and distant. With Vader's damaged eyes preventing him from seeing the man properly, it almost seemed to the younger Sith as though this were the benign Chancellor Palpatine, rather than the ambitious Darth Sidious. He wondered what the different was, but felt that on some fundamental level that there was one: a gaping divide spanned by a treachery that his wounded mind could not begin to comprehend.
“Yes,” Vader finally attempted, feeling that some response was required, but shocked when no sound beyond a painful, dry rasp was able to escape his branded vocal cords. I heard singing...
“Do not attempt to speak, Lord Vader. I have been assured that, with time, you will regain some unassisted use of your voice, but for now restrict yourself to the vocoder, when you have the use of it. As for the rest of you, your sight and hearing have both maintained some noteworthy damage, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, and scent and taste functions appear to have been utterly destroyed.”
Vader blinked to show that he understood while sudden frustration and horror overwhelmed him as he realised the depth of his unexpected predicament. His health was destroyed. His body had been shattered like a broken droid and in turn had been repaired as a droid would have been.
Am I any better than that pathetic creature Grevious now? Am I even human any more? Am I a man at all? The thought was a mental face full of cold water.
“Do not trouble yourself at this moment, Lord Vader. You will be given time to recover and come to terms with your new circumstances,” Palpatine assured him in a functional tone.
Vader blinked again, unable to escape his furiously pursuing fears: the Dragon reborn, or perhaps its offspring-- the next generation of Anakin Skywalker’s terrors.
“I will inform the droids to dress you now. You are to be instructed in the functions of your life support systems, both during rest and mobility. I am sure that you, my apprentice, with your technical talents, will have no trouble.”
A small and painful smile crept over Vader’s once sensual lips. His technical expertise. What he’d once used to modify and maintain everything from droids, ships, and fighters to the enormous tea brewer in the Jedi Temple kitchens, he would now use to maintain himself. The newly named Dark Lord had enough self awareness to be painfully attentive of the irony. If Palpatine were similarly aware, however, he said nothing on the subject. The older man stood and left the room. Moments later, the droids entered, their cold silver forms gleaming monstrously in the sunlight creeping in from a window just beyond Vader’s range of perception. The Dark Lord suddenly longed to creep back, to reject them. The Force would help him, but the last time that he’d to actively use the Force, upon waking on Mustafar, it had seemed so distant, had seemed to completely reject him. He didn’t dare try it again now for risk of confirming his deepest remaining fear: that his gift, his talent, the thing that made him special, was gone. So he did nothing, merely allowing the GH-7 droids to close in on him.
They replaced the jump-suit first, smooth cushioned padding and broken black on the outside, a mass of wiring on the inside. It took exactly ten minutes and thirty six seconds to connect the breathing apparatus to the chest plate controls. He watched the clock on the wall until they gave him his gauntlets and boots: unbroken leather which covered his durasteel hands and feet. The boots were lined with thick padding and he wore two pairs of socks, so that his footwear didn’t fall off the bare artificial outline of human legs which now carried him. Last of all came the armour on his shoulders, an immense weight under which he was uncertain he would be able to walk, much less do battle in. His entire body felt like a stone mass, a thousand times more immense than anything he’d ever carried. Vader remained still throughout the process, feeling keenly the loss of his human mobility.
At last the droid in front of him held up the mask, and for the first time the Dark Lord saw his new face. It was black, gruesome, resembling nothing less than a human skull. In that initial moment, he was disturbed and slightly contemptuous, but there was a strange appeal to the thing which quickly occurred to his addled consciousness. It was utterly impersonal, that face, immobile and cold. There was no passion there, none of the fear, rage or even hatred which had overtaken his heart and lead him to the Dark Side of the Force. It was, he supposed, more a work of art than anything, an iron casting capable of turning the Dragon of fear which had so long haunted him onto his victims. While they trembled he would be safe inside, cold and untouched. Perhaps, he thought, his personal prison need not be quite as uncomfortable as it threatened to be. But Vader almost changed his mind as the droid, having finished hooking the thing up to the breathing apparatus wiring up from under the neck guard of his armour, lifted the mask up over his face The helmet came down from behind after it, both pieces fitting together with a hiss.
“Lord Vader, we are finished,” the lead GH-7 informed him.
Vader inclined his head heavily, feeling the pull of the armour at his neck weighing him down and forcing him to concentrate far more than usual on executing his movements smoothly and gracefully.
“I will explain to you the systems of your personal equipment, Lord Vader, as well as the limited functions which you will be able to regulate for yourself, as I’m informed that you’re considered to be an “independent” man.” If it were possible for a droid to sound disapproving, this one had managed it. Apparently, independence was not a desirable quality in a mechanically supplemented cripple.
Vader gave no thanks but remained silent as the droid explained the process he’d just undergone, stopping now and then to ask if Vader had questions. The new Dark Lord did not. While not a medical professional, he was a trained mechanic and highly gifted amateur engineer with an intuitive understanding of machines. The workings of his life support system were hardly a mystery to him and he had no doubt that he would be able to effectively put himself together the next time.
“. . .and your bed, Lord Vader, functions similarly, though the technology which augments your damaged senses has not been included, as humans do not make extensive use of their perceptive functions during the regenerative rest period. Your breathing is merely regulated and your life systems monitored. Of course, should you desire the extra enhancement for comfort or security, the systems can always be upgraded.”
The droids provided Vader with a brief tour of his complicated sleeping arrangements before he curtly dismissed them. The GH-7 team turned to depart without complaint, mentioning only that they were at his personal disposal should he at any time require assistance.
“Very well,” Vader nodded with haughty dignity. He watched the last medical droid disappear out the door.
And then-
“Wait! What do I get to eat?!”
**
Vader eyed the nutrient shot warily. He had the option of either receiving in through a feed drip in his life support system or injecting it directly into his body. Considering that he had very little of either his arms or his legs left to him, Vader suspected that his stomach would be the most viable target for that long, slender length of sterilised metal. Better make it midnight snacks while he snoozed, then, Vader grimaced. It looked as though any future trips to Dex’s Diner could be indefinitely crossed out of his appointment book.
He would have put the nutrients back down with a resigned sigh, but even that token gesture of exasperation was denied him by the steady, rhythmic cycles of his respirator. Instead, he merely gave the object back to the silent GH-7 and pushed out of the mass of equipment that temporarily served as his bedroom. It was time to explore his new surroundings.
The fog of confusion in which he had been existing was slowly lifting and Vader was regaining his need for action. He emerged from the bedroom into a cool blue apartment with an enormous viewing balcony. The Senate was clear from where he stood, along with the charred pit containing the remains of the Jedi Temple. Vader observed his former home expressionlessly, unsure of what he should be feeling. A week ago, it had all been so simple-- perhaps too simple. The Jedi had committed treason and personally betrayed him. His counterattack had been merciless and inevitable. Now. . .
He did not quite wish to take it back, but he was beset by the oddest suspicion that, had his own actions been less irretrievable, he would perhaps at this very moment be offering shamefaced apologies to Obi-Wan for losing his temper. The apologies would be answered with a wry smile and a long suffering expression before a large hand clapped on Anakin’s shoulder and Obi-Wan invited his former best friend out for a drink. Anakin losing his temper in a moment of passion was hardly an uncommon occurrence. Anakin himself had never thought much of it, as ever hearing the words of Palpatine and Padme so much more clearly than the obviously paranoid warnings of the Jedi Council.
It’s human to be angry. . .
Anger leads to the Dark Side.
Confusion blurred Vader’s thought once more, but not enough that he could not pinpoint where they were. 500 Republica’s luxurious senatorial apartments: the very same buildings that Palpatine had once offered to hand Anakin on a golden platter, a lifetime ago.
Were they still to be his? A pretty prize for damaged goods?
The Dark Lord noticed the sparseness of the apartments as he explored further: a kitchen with no food in it, a sitting room with no furniture outside of a communications centre and a droid closet, and two extra rooms with no apparent functions. The suites were enormous, as was to be expected, but lifeless. Then there was the toilet, the thought of which Vader had so far managed to avoid. He hadn’t yet asked the droids about his more precise bodily functions, but now that he was taking his nutrition directly through his bloodstream, the toilet had undoubtedly become an obsolete location. The last room was the bath, an equally puzzling challenge. How would he wash himself now? He had always kept his artificial arm carefully wrapped and free of water during bathing, for fear of rust, and now all of his limbs were mechanical. How would he manage? Was there some way to completely isolate them from water, or would he merely be confined to washing himself by hand? Even so, his mechanical limbs would require special attention. The droids would be required to tend to their upkeep. Oiling, polishing, tinkering. . . Even being a mechanic himself, there was no way he could reach the little nuances of the limbs while they were connected to his own body. Even a Jedi was not that flexible.
With one black leather glove, Vader dusted the golden surface of the bath lovingly. Never again would he merely soak in warm water, luxuriating in the pleasure and sensation of the experience. Even attempting to take that plunge into the tub would have been idiocy now. His mere clothing had become a three act melodrama, its removal anything but spontaneous. With not a small amount of bitterness, Vader left the bath and slammed the door behind him. The heavily reinforced frame did not even shudder slightly. Vader’s restless, caged stride took him back to the balcony, where he lay a careful hand on the dura-plast window, glaring futilely at nothing. He had not been one to indulge in baths very often, his energy and restlessness preferring the quick satisfaction of a shower, but now that the option was denied him he longed for nothing more than to strip down and plunge into the tub. Obi-Wan would no doubt tell him that it was his rebellious streak, chaffing against Destiny once more. No doubt Obi-Wan would even have managed to make a more efficient and accepting dehumanised cyborg than that made by one Anakin Skywalker.
“Are the apartments to your satisfaction?”
Vader tensed, shocked that he had been caught unaware of another’s presence. He hoped his surprise had not been too readily apparent. For only one person to know of his dulled senses was for his life to be threatened. Slowly, he turned to face his visitor.
It was Sate Pestage, appearing officious and prim in his civil servant’s robes. He observed Vader with a combination of curiosity and puzzlement present only in his eyes. His bland face was far too well schooled to reveal any emotion beyond practised politeness.
“The apartments are. . .adequate,” Vader responded. His search for a neutral word lent an unusual formality to his speech while the cycles of the respirator forced him to speak more slowly than he was accustomed to.
Pestage gave the smallest of smiles. “Is there anything that you require?”
“No,” Vader responded flatly.
Pestage smiled once more. “I am relieved by your survival, Jedi Skywalker. The Emperor was considerably worried on your behalf.”
Vader froze. Pestage knew who he was! Had Palpatine told him? Vader could not recall his birth name having passed Palpatine’s lips even once since he had become Sith. Why would he have said anything to Pestage? Or was his title of Dark Lord and his Sith name to remain as secret as Palpatine’s own? Darth Sidious, who was so cunning that his triumph as the Sith Master who had destroyed the Jedi was to be concealed from the galaxy. Palpatine’s modest nature had not been entirely feigned, Vader deduced, but was instead a necessary component of his cleverness. So why had he not remained silent this time? Why did the Emperor’s assistant now know who it was standing before him?
Pestage’s facial expression remained officious, blankly polite, but after a lifetime of being surrounded by the essentially unreadable faces of the Jedi brotherhood, Vader readily recognised a mask when he saw one. There was something else hidden underneath that blandness. Did Pestage think he’d scored a point because he knew of Vader’s past?
Vader turned his back on the man. It was perhaps a foolish move, but Pestage still wouldn’t dare physically threaten him. There were other means to inflicting damage, but Vader had never paid any mind to petty political manoeuvres and underhanded power struggles and did not intend to start now.
Very distantly he sensed Pestage’s perturbed expression. Of course, the man had not appreciated the contempt inherent in Vader’s pose.
Tough luck, the Dark Lord thought with a certain malicious, deliberately childish satisfaction.
After several moments, Vader’s outward stillness and absolute lack of movement left Pestage awkwardly, uncertainly shuffling about before the aide left out a long, frustrated sigh.
“Well, if you require anything, please inform staff over the com.”
Vader remained silent.
“. . .Lord Vader,” Pestage added grudgingly.
“Thank you,” Vader replied at last.
Pestage flounced out indignantly.
See: give a little, get a little, Vader thought smugly.
To Part 2