(Untitled)

[almostprimal]

WHO: Starkiller almostprimal and Darth Vader breathingsounds
WHERE: Outside the Porter building.
WHEN: Right after this post.
WARNINGS: I LIED THERE IS HORRIBLE VIOLENCE
SUMMARY: B( Life sucks then you die, and then life sucks all over again.
FORMAT: Paragraph!

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[breathingsounds]

Vader was supremely skilled in using people. It was a skill that he had acquired over the years, a lifetime of being used and using others both, and Starkiller....

Ah, Starkiller was almost entirely his creation.

He had taken the boy when he was still young and had molded him, trained him, shaping him into something that was in ways barely even human any more, something that was merely a weapon, a tool, and a highly useful one. Until, of course, Starkiller had turned on his master - but Starkiller was his, and nothing would ever change that. Even now he seemed to recognize that, and to become again what he had been raised to, what he had been trained to. The perfect apprentice; the perfect tool. Blindly trusting, blindly obedient, supremely skilled. Completely loyal. This last trait had suffered a heavy blow when Starkiller had turned his loyalties to another, but that other was gone here, and it seemed it would be a small matter indeed to turn him back to where he should be. Perhaps, in time, he'd be able to correct his foolish

[almostprimal]

He vaguely remembers the things he'd felt on Kashyyyk, the brief glimmers of life he once had before Vader came, but they weren't enough to argue over. Vader was right: he had been cut down too many times, but he always came back. Maybe it really was his fate.

What was wrong with him?

He schooled his expression and slid silently off the bike when Vader's attention turned toward it so it stands between them, a clunky monument to everything inefficient about this planet. What is it? "Slow," he mutters with considerable distaste- his life at Vader's hands may have been one constant stream terrible things, but at least Starkiller had always been given the the fastest, shiniest toys when sent out to do his Master's bidding. He really, really misses his beautiful, compact starship, right now. "It's called a 'motorcycle.'"

[breathingsounds]

"A motorcycle...." Vader was very still for a long moment as he seemed to hold the word on his tongue, tasting it. He didn't seem to find it to his liking. His weighted cape folded itself around his form and legs, and was the only visible movement. "Is what is visible from here a true cross-section of the technology available in this place? I have seen no vehicles except these... groundcars, and an occasional... device, which in some ways resembles this motorcycle, but slimmer, and apparently powered by foot. The buildings are all stunted, for a city of this magnitude, and if there are any droids they have thus far been extremely well camouflaged."

[almostprimal]

"Yes." A pause- his eyes flickered down the street and then back, but never quite up at Vader. He wasn't sure what a bike was called so he didn't comment on it, because he'd never bothered to ask any of the locals: if anything, the thing was even less appealing than the motorcycle he'd been driving around lately. "It's worse outside the City's limits."

He'd spent so long in space, in the bowls of a starship, that being trapped planet-side for a month was starting to get to him. It was too much freedom, without a specific goal to strive for, and he barely knew what to do with it. It was maddening, after spending so much time in near isolation growing up that he'd learned to almost like it, he could nearly appreciate the familiarity of Vader's crushing presence and horrible mechanic breathing, and the way it drowned almost everything else in the City out