jakeh0wl

[jakeh0wl]

That massive, ugly thing...

It was a massive, ugly thing.

Scarred and weathered and cracked, the ancient stone was older than the forest that held it. Or so they said.

Thrice the height of a man it stood, held upright by some primeval machination of those who had built it. If any had.

For eons, the trees and chittering beasts of the forest and marshes before had watched as men and women and children had made the gruelling pilgrimage to the great tablet, brushing trembling fingers against its sun-baked surface, asking, begging, praying for guidance. For an answer.

They heard nothing. No one ever had. Those that claimed as such were liars, and oh, how the masses flocked to their fabrication, only to be swept from memory like all the others, the last echoes of their false proclamations lost to uncaring time.

But the tablet - that massive, ugly thing…

It remains.

[jakeh0wl]

Waiting for the End of All Things

Who'd have thought that waiting for the End of All Things would become a dull affair?

Certainly not me. I thought it might have gotten repetitive at some point, and more than once I considered it may have grown slightly predictable. But never dull.

And that's just sad.

After all those years of meddling in godly affairs and twisting godly nipples and generally pissing everyone off and having a great old time doing it, who'd have thought things would get dull?

Dull. Me?

ME!

Dull and me just don't get on. Go and linger around someone else. And if not, would the End of All Things just hurry up and get here already. I'm bored. Besides I slipped an inch down the boulder around a century ago and now there's a piece digging into my back. I managed to ignore it for a while but now it's really giving me grief.

Worst part is I can't even shout about it.

At least the snake buggered off. Got bored, I imagine. Slithered off somewhere a while ago.

Along with my wife.

Typical.

At this point I'd welcome the big white bastard and his fancy horn. Just clack me over the head with it and that'll be that. Anything to get out of this waiting. This… dullness.

Where is the big white bastard anyway? Probably in his big white tower playing with his not-so-big white bits. Never understood why the rest of them like him so much.

Well, when the End of All Things gets here, I'll rid the world of him.

Course he'll do the same to me. Win some, lose some.

I just hope I last long enough to see that one-eyed old cretin get bitten in half by teeth the size of trees. Can't wait for that.

You'll do your dad proud, junior.

So hurry up, End of All Things, or someone come along and break these bastard chains. Or this bastard boulder. Or this bastard head of mine.

Could use that drunk idiot's hammer right about now.

Never thought I'd miss him.

Come on Ragnarök.

I'm waiting.

[jakeh0wl]

Star Wars Short Fiction - Week VIII - The Last Jedi

Luke Skywalker was dead.

Snoke was dead.

The past was dead.

He’d killed it.

Kylo Ren closed his shaking fist as the pair of chained, golden dice in his fingers vanished with a flicker of faint blue light. His father’s dice.

Something within him faltered. He should have felt exhilarated, euphoric… complete. He’d done it. He’d killed Snoke, all but destroyed the Resistance. He’d killed the past. Luke Skywalker was dead. He felt it. Projecting himself across the Galaxy through the Force had finally killed the Jedi Master.

And yet, for all his anger and rage and hatred, Kylo Ren still felt broken.

He should have been the one to kill Luke. His lightsaber should have carved through Luke Skywalker’s torso, and the Jedi Master should have dropped dead then and there, severed in two.

Like Snoke.

Instead, Skywalker had vanished, mocking Kylo with his last words and becoming one with the Force far from where he could reach him. Peacefully. With purpose.

Kylo clenched his fist tight until it hurt.

Then he felt it. The Force pulling on him, darkening the world around him, drawing him towards…

Rey.

He looked up.

She appeared before his eyes, gesturing as other figures flooded past her onto that piece of junk the Millennium Falcon, figures he realised were the last remnants of the Resistance, including his mother.

Then she noticed him, and for what seemed an eternity, their eyes locked.

Rey pushed control panel at her side, raising the Falcon’s ramp. The door sealed shut and suddenly she was gone, the connection severed.

Kylo Ren rose to his feet, scanning the dust-covered control room of the old Rebel Alliance hold-out. “The last of the Resistance have escaped on the Millennium Falcon. Can we track them?” he said.

The First Order’s General Hux, that grovelling, eel-faced man, appeared at Kylo’s side. “Unfortunately, Supreme Leader,” he said, “we have no way of tracking a ship that small without an on-board… tracker.”

Kylo turned to the pale man, glaring down at him.

Hux swallowed, attempting to straighten beneath Kylo’s gaze. “Supreme Leader, if we had… breached the Resistance base sooner than –”

Kylo’s fist snapped out, wrapping his gloved fingers around Hux’s white throat and tightening, lifting the general from the floor. “Then send out every fighter we have left and bring them down before they jump to lightspeed!”

Hux’s eyes bulged, the man clutching at Kylo’s grip on him and gasping for air.

Kylo released him and Hux dropped to his knees, sucking in lungfulls of air. “Supreme Leader,” he gasped, “all our fighters were lost in the last pursuit of that… ship.”

Kylo’s rage once again consumed him.

He drew his lightsaber, igniting the blade and turning to blindly swipe the sizzling scarlet laser sword through the Rebel monitors, tearing into metal computers and tables, sparks flashing. He made his way through the room destroying everything within reach, hacking and hacking. After several moments he stood breathing heavily in the smoking wreckage of what had once been a Rebel Alliance control room, glowing slashes riven through the metal like fiery claw-marks.

Kylo closed his eyes, letting the hate flow through him, feeling it surge through his limbs, anger and pain. The Dark Side of the Force in him and… he still… felt…

Broken.

“Sir.”

Kylo turned, lightsaber crackling at his side, to face the First Order officer standing in the doorway. The man’s eyes glanced once at the lightsaber, then once at the prostrate form of General Hux, then at last at Kylo Ren.

“Supreme Leader,” he said, straightening.

“What is it?” Kylo hissed.

The officer shifted uncomfortably. “We searched the cave system, sir, however it appears there is no sign of any remaining Resistance fighters. Nor do we have any inkling of their destination.”

All so… useless!

Kylo strode forward, throwing the man from the doorway with a mere gesture. He yelped as he hit the floor, tumbling over backwards. “General Hux, with me,” Kylo said as he stalked out the doorway.

The stormtroopers filling the cavern entrance stood to attention as Kylo Ren walked past them. He paid them no heed as he strode past them, lightsaber still thrumming at his side. He strode through the still smouldering wound the base’s shield door, the ragged blast-hole torn by the Battering Ram Cannon. He walked through that smoking gate, emulating the very steps of Luke Skywalker’s Force projection, Kylo Ren saw Craite’s sun sink below the distant horizon, framed by the towering silhouettes of the AT-M6s arrayed before the base.

Hux stumbled up alongside him.

“Order every soldier we have out of the vehicles and onto the ground,” Kylo said, halting on the salt flat and turning to Hux.

Hux bowed. “Of course, Supreme Leader.”

“I want them in ranks. Here. Before me.”

“Of course, Supreme –”

“And I want a message transmitted.”

Hux paused, a slight frown creasing his milky forehead.

“Send word to the Knights. I want them here.”

Hux’s eyes widened, and, impossibly, he grew even paler. “The… Knights? The Knights of Ren?”

“Yes. Do it.”

Hux dipped his head, then gestured to one of the officers now trailing from the Crait base.

Kylo kept his lightsaber ignited as his troops descended onto the salt flats, filing from the AT-M6s in regimented lines, blasters held close. In minutes, the giant, mechanical Walkers were empty, and Kylo Ren had his entire force of troopers arrayed in rank before him. Cape rippling in the wind, light by the twilight sky, Kylo Ren turned to the hundreds of First Order soldiers.

Hux made to stand at Kylo’s side, but was glared down.

Kylo straightened, back to the Crait base. Then he addressed his armies. “The Resistance has escaped!” he said, shouting over the patient, faceless lines of stormtroopers. “Though there is little left of them. Barely enough to squeeze into a single Corellian Freighter! This is all that remains of our enemy. Luke Skywalker is gone! The Galaxy has lost its last spark of hope. I, now your Supreme Leader, will at last bring order to this disillusioned, weakened Galaxy. Very soon, any system that dares oppose me will face the full, crushing might of our fury! We will hunt down what remains of the Resistance and turn them to dust! And the banners of the First Order will reign over every star in the sky! Snoke is dead! No more Sith. No more Jedi. No more Republic. No more Resistance. The days of the old world are ash. Here, today, my new world is born! And should any dare resist our new order – our First Order – we will find them, and we will wipe their rebel scum from the face of the Galaxy!”

Kylo finished in a scream, twisting his crackling lightsaber and raising high above his head.

He saw Hux drop shakily to one knee. Then each of the officers, one by one, followed suit. And before him, the ranks upon ranks of First Order stormtroopers raised their fists in a rippling salute, and roared as one voice: “LONG LIVE THE SUPREME LEADER!”

[jakeh0wl]

Star Wars Short Fiction - Week VII - The Force Awakens

Ben Solo warred within Kylo Ren as he stared into the eyes of the man before him.

Han Solo, war hero, smuggler, legendary captain of the Millennium Falcon.

Father.

“I am being torn apart,” Ben said, heart pounding. “I want to be free of this pain… I know what I have to do but I don’t know if I have the strength to do it.” He hesitated. “Will you help me?” It came as a plead.

Han Solo took a step forward. Close enough for an embrace. “Yes, anything,” he said.

The helmet of Kylo Ren hit the metal surface of the bridge beneath them with a clang as Ben let go. He reached down to his belt, unlatched the unique cross-guard saber hilt. Hands trembling, Ben held out the hilt to Han Solo.

Han Solo studied the hilt for a moment, then tentatively wrapped his hand around it, as if to take it.

Silence filled the vast expanse of the interior of Starkiller Base’s thermal oscillator, thick between Ben Solo and his father as they both held tight to the lightsaber’s hilt.

In the grey, snow-filled skies beyond, the Starkiller superweapon finally drained the last of the light from the neighbouring star, darkness flooding the chamber completely.

In that jet-black silence, pain gave way to hatred within Ben Solo.

And Kylo Ren ignited the lightsaber, impaling Han Solo through the chest.

Somewhere above, a girl screamed, and a Wookie roared.

Kylo barely heard it, his pulse thundering through his ears. The scarlet light of his sizzling lightsaber was a blood-red beacon in the black, running Han Solo through.

Finally.

“Thank you,” Kylo said, ripping the saber free.

Han Solo’s eyes, wide with disbelief, seemed to search his son’s eyes, looking for… something.

Regret?

No. Your son is dead, Han Solo.

And now, so are you.

Gasping a series of last, ragged breaths, Han Solo slowly reached up with a shaking hand, and touched his Kylo Ren’s face.

Kylo struggled not to flinch at the contact.

Han Solo’s hand fell away, and he tumbled from the bridge, his body careening down into the bowels of Starkiller Base.

Kylo Ren straightened, the echo of Han Solo’s touch still on his face.

I did it… I killed him.

He would now at last be free from that voice… that call to the Light.

Grandfather, I will finish your great work. Finally.

Kylo was torn from his thoughts by the sound of the Wookie Chewbacca roaring on the balcony above the bridge.

He sneered. That damn Wookie.

You’re next you hairy –

A flash of red slashed through the air, and the Bowcaster shot took Kylo in the left side.

Kylo grunted as pain seared through his torso, burning through his flesh. He was driven to his knees, drawing on the Force to keep consciousness. Gritting his teeth, Kylo looked up as blaster shots began arcing out at the bridge’s end, stormtroopers sent flying in smoking ruin by the Wookie’s Bowcaster.

He looked higher as blasters fired from the overlook balcony before the entrance, where two figures: a boy and girl, fired down towards the troopers.

The traitor and the scavenger.

A series of rippling explosions tore through the inner wall of the vast chamber, fireballs billowing outwards and flooding the darkness with angry orange light.

Detonated explosives, Kylo thought, climbing to his knees and wincing as pain lanced through his side. That damned Wookie.

His eyes rose to where the traitor and the scavenger were staring down at him. They saw him and fled from the thermal oscillator. Kylo straightened, striding over the bridge with a slight limp as the interior began to collapse, entire fiery sections of the wall tumbling down into the abyss.

Snarling, rage, pain and hate driving him, Kylo Ren made his way across the bridge, Starkiller Base’s thermal oscillator burning above him, a gaping whole torn through its hull, where the snow-filtered darkness of night poured in.

Staggering to the end of the bridge, blood soaking his left side, Kylo Ren drew on the Dark Side of the Force, using all that Snoke had taught him.

His Master’s words came back to him: “Anger, pain, hatred… these are the weapons of the Dark Side, my young Apprentice… use them well. The Dark Side flows strong in you. It lives in your blood, in the blood of Skywalker. Your grandfather knew it. You need only awaken it.”

Then another voice: “You may very well be tempted by the Dark Side… it will offer you power and strength. You must resist.”

The voice of Luke Skywalker, his uncle. The Jedi.

Then Snoke again: “If I had your uncle by my side instead of you, the Galaxy would have been mine a long time ago.”

Kylo recalled with rage that time on Dagobah, and the countless other times Snoke had mocked him during his training, professing his uncle as the true heir to Darth Vader, rather than Kylo.

No. I am Vader’s heir.

Kylo knew that now. Han Solo was dead by his hand, and so soon would be the scavenger. The scavenger that had resisted him.

The Master of the Knights of Ren!

Kylo remembered the early days of his training under Snoke, sparring with the Knights of Ren on Mustafar, beneath the shadow of Vader’s ruined castle there.

Smoke and ash and the ebbing light of rivulets of molten rock had hung in the air, Vader’s castle like a broken spear above them. Snoke, golden-robed and sneering, watching from atop a spar of volcanic rock as Kylo danced between the weapons of the Ren Knights, his flickering scarlet lightsaber, newly constructed, lancing out with expert precision.

“Good, my Apprentice, good,” Snoke had drawled from atop the rock. “Soon we will rid you of Skywalker’s influence.”

At the sound of Skywalker’s name, Kylo had stumbled, a blow catching him on the shoulder.

Before he could recover, a barrage of crackling blue lightning had struck him, sending him sprawling across the black basalt, the lightsaber falling from his grasp.

“Fool!” Snoke shouted. “Skywalker still has you, it would seem. Weakness still pervades you.” He had turned away then, descending from the rock with a shimmer of gold, the Knights of Ren bowing their heads.

Hatred had burst to life within Kylo Ren at that moment, hatred and rage. Hatred of Snoke and his relentless mocking, hatred of Skywalker and his failure. Rage, rage at everything within him that carried Skywalker’s taint. His parents had believed Ben Solo the next Chosen One, a golden child who would carry the Skywalker legacy with honour. Pure, special, chosen.

A silent roar peeling back his lips, Kylo Ren’s lightsaber had soared to his hand, the bloody, sizzling blade igniting beneath the ashen skies of Mustafar, and for the briefest moment, Kylo had willed himself to move forward, to strike down Snoke.

At this, Snoke had turned, a horrific smile on his tortured lips. “Ah… thoughts of betrayal, my Apprentice? Yes… use that hatred, that anger, it will make you strong. And perhaps… I will have my Vader yet. As for betrayal, Kylo Ren, I cannot be beaten, I cannot be betrayed. Remember that.”

The howling of TIE Fighters overhead brought Kylo back to the present. He stumbled from the thermal oscillator, glancing up as a squadron of Resistance X-Wings soared above, TIEs in close pursuit, green and red blasters flashing through the sunless sky.

Kylo Ren swept his lightsaber through a fallen tree that blocked his path up the snow-sheeted cliffs, sparks pluming into the air as the two halves fell either side of him. Clambering up the cliffside, he deactivated his lightsaber and made for the forest beyond the thermal oscillator, white-capped trees coating the hills.

A surge of hot air swept over him from behind, billowing his cloak and hair. He craned his neck back to see an X-wing soar out of the gaping wound in the thermal oscillator, trailing fire and smoke, an explosive burst of sweeping after the ship.

The thermal oscillator had been mortally wounded. In the distance, great caverns and cracks were opening over the surface of the planet-turned-superweapon, orange light leaping skyward. Starkiller Base was entering into its death throes.

But we’re not done yet.

Kylo clambered over the clifftop, stumbling into the dark, tree-shadowed expanse of the forest above. He sensed the scavenger and the traitor had come this way. The stormtrooper defect, FN-2187, and the scavenger from Jakku, the girl called Rey.

Strong with the Force that one… surprisingly strong.

Kylo Ren sensed the two of them. They were close. He limped through the trees, igniting his lightsaber, painting the white world around him a vivid scarlet.

The traitor and the scavenger appeared, stumbling to a halt as they saw him. “We’re not done yet,” Kylo Ren snarled.

The girl – Rey – sneered in response, eyes ragged with tears. “You’re a monster,” she hissed.

Ah yes… she feels she’s lost a parent all over again. Such weakness. “It’s just us, now,” he replied. “Han Solo can’t save you.”

Pain seared Kylo’s side and he stiffened, pounding a fist into the wound.

Use the pain…

Blood splashed over the snow.

Rey’s eyes fell to the blood, then she snatched for her blaster.

Kylo’s hand thrust forward, the Force thrumming through him.

The scavenger was thrown backward with a shriek, flailing as she was lifted ten feet into the air. There was an audible crack as she struck a tree, then fell to the snow-covered ground, slumping unconscious.

“Rey!” the traitor stormtrooper shouted, stumbling to his knees beside the girl’s motionless form.

Kylo followed him, anger and hate and rage surging through him, pain lancing from his side. He span his lightsaber at his side, the crackling blade thrumming through the snow-filled air. “TRAITOR!”

The stormtrooper turned, climbing to his feet. He held something at his side. A second later, a vertical blade of pure, humming blue ignited in his hands, illuminating him and the forest around him in azure light.

Kylo snarled. Anakin Skywalker’s lightsaber.

Rightfully mine!

“That lightsaber,” he spat, levelling his blade towards the stormtrooper, “it belongs to me!”

“Come get it,” the traitor said, charging towards Kylo.

Gladly, Kylo thought, and he raised his roaring scarlet lightsaber to meet the blue of Skywalker’s.

[jakeh0wl]

Star Wars Short Fiction - Week VI - Return of the Jedi

Sidious remembered killing his Master.

The Dark Lord of the Sith, Darth Plagueis – Plagueis the Wise, as he preferred to be called – had been a cunning Master. And wise he had been. Prone to cryptic foretellings and premonitions, Plagueis had strung his teaching of Sidious with ruminations on the nature of the Force, the Jedi, the Sith, and how they would eventually rise to dominance again, taking their rightful place as the masters of the Galaxy.

“You will be a tool of this resurgence, my Apprentice,” Plagueis had drawled. “From the darkness we shall emerge, and into our hands shall be delivered a new Sith Empire. One of peace, prosperity, and absolution.”

“Yes, my Master,” Sidious had replied, as always.

So long ago, now. When Plagueis had brought the man known as Sheev Palpatine into the folds of the Order of the Sith, Palpatine had taken for himself the name of Sidious, as was only befitting a Lord of the Sith. Plagueis, a man most devout of the Rule of Two, had foreseen a personal rise to lordship over the Galaxy, meticulously plotting his revenge on the Jedi. The revenge of the Sith. Plagueis, powerful and wise, had developed the ability to influence the Force to such an extent that he could create life. A power that Sidious himself had utilised, forging a most powerful creation…

Of course, despite Palgueis’s wisdom and power, he had not foreseen Sidious’s ambition. The Sith would indeed rule again, but not by Plagueis’s hand. In the end, the great Darth Plagueis the Wise had proven as mortal as any man.

Forks of azure lightning webbing from his fingertips, Sidious had cackled as he struck down his master, desiccating his form until Plagueis was little more than a smoking ruin of blackened bone. The flood of passion that had channelled the Force through Sidious then had been… extraordinary. Rage, hate, passion. These were the ways of the Sith. A shift in the Balance had certainly occurred, Sidious had felt it.

Such power… Unlimited power.

Plagueis, despite all his powers, had failed to anticipate Sidious’s murder of his Master. The Rule of Two was absolute, after all, and Sidious had become the Master. He had found his own Apprentice.

Maul had been adequate for a time, though his repeated failings had eventually made him a rival. He was now long dead.

Then had come Dooku, the ex-Jedi. Master of Qui Gon Jinn. An ambitious man, certainly, and he had quickly come to a surprising mastery of Sith Lightning. Dooku had proven too weak, unfortunately.

Sidious remembered that day on Grievous’s ship. The hate and the rage that smouldered within Anakin Skywalker had shown itself then. Before it, Dooku hadn’t stood a chance. Sidious relished the memory. Dooku kneeling before Skywalker, stumped wrists smoking, Skywalker, Jedi and Sith lightsabers in his hands, ready to strike. The conflict within him was a churning storm. It needed only to break. It needed only the slightest of nudges.

“Good, Anakin, good… Kill him. Kill him, now.”

Anakin wrestled with himself. “I shouldn’t,” he said.

“Do it!”

The lightsabers crossed, severing Dooku’s head from his shoulders. The sound echoing into a silence that fell over the chamber.

It had been in that moment, that Sidious had known Anakin Skywalker was his.

Darth Vader. How quickly he had turned. The darkness had always burned inside the young Skywalker, Sidious had simply brought it to the surface. Curiously, Anakin Skywalker’s turn to the Dark Side had given Sidious himself a greater understanding of the Force. Anger, rage, hatred, pain, these were the weapons of the Sith, the fuel of the Dark Side of the Force. However, it had not been for these that Anakin had turned. Anakin Skywalker had been turned to the Dark Side by love.

How powerful he could have been… Were it not for Mustafar.

Yet Sidious had been preoccupied.

Yoda. A true battle that had been, a clash in the heart of the Senate. These days, Sidious found himself thinking often of that clash, that duel of the fates that so very nearly saw his destruction. There were times when Sidious believed he may have lost that duel. But Yoda, so cemented as he was in the Jedi dogma, used not passion nor fury against Sidious, and so the Jedi Grand Master’s failure had been inevitable.

Does he live still? Yes, I suspect. Somewhere in the Outer Rim, trembling in the mud. Hiding from the failures of his past. The last of the Jedi.

No, not the last. Not yet.

Skywalker.

That the son of Anakin Skywalker would one day emerge from the shadows was something Sidious had anticipated. The destruction of the Death Star at the hands of a Force-sensitive Rebel boy had allowed clarity to return to Sidious. After all, a young Anakin Skywalker had achieved something similar above the skies of Naboo some thirty years ago.

Luke Skywalker. He was certainly strong with the Force. His escape from Vader on Bespin had proven as much. The Skywalker bloodline was a powerful one, indeed, and Sidious would have every last drop of it. Vader was growing weak, and for the first time since Mustafar, Sidious sensed conflict in his Apprentice. It was buried deep, and Vader had attempted to conceal it as best he could.

Yet it was there, churning Vader’s soul.

Anakin Skywalker, long thought destroyed, was stirring.

Unexpected… yet perhaps profitable.

Vader’s conflicted soul, if weakened, would be no match for his young son’s heart. Luke Skywalker was a boy of courage, bravery. Recklessness. Anger. Passion.

He cared for his friends. He feared for them.

Fear.

A weapon of the Dark Side.

I shall stoke the flames of this young Skywalker’s heart, and the Jedi within him will burn.

Against the raw, unfettered power of a young Skywalker’s rage, the ageing Vader would fall.

And a new Sith will rise. The young Skywalker will take his father’s place at my side, and the Rebellion will be crushed.

Sidious watched from within the darkness of his hood as a young Imperial officer bowed before him, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. “My Lord,” he said. “We are approaching the new Death Star. I have been informed that Lord Vader is awaiting our arrival, as well as the full might of –”

Sidious raised a hand, and the officer choked slightly as his jaw was forced shut.

The officer straightened, glancing carefully at the Royal Guards flanking Sidious, then returned to the bridge of the Imperial Shuttle.

The familiar howling screech of TIE Fighters sounded beyond the hull of the ship, and Sidious watched from within the shuttle as the jagged, half-finished form of his new Death Star grew before them, suspended in the black of space above the green globe of Endor’s verdant moon.

Flying into the mouth of the Death Star’s hangar, Sidious saw that hundreds of Stormtroopers had gathered in regimented force to await his arrival. The scene reminded him of the mighty clone army he had raised those many years ago, when he was but the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, a democracy now swept from the Galaxy.

The shuttle slowed in its approach, descending as its white wings folded to form a triangle above the shuttle. It landed, the shuttle shaking slightly at the hangar floor’s touch.

Sidious stood, one hand on his cane. He turned, the shuttle’s ramp door hissing open like a mouth, its white tongue sloping down towards the floor. His Royal Guards filed out before him, and Sidious followed, taking slow, deliberate steps down the ramp.

At the base of the ramp, his six Royal Guardsmen, clad in brilliant crimson, stood to the sides, awaiting Sidious’s descent. Between them, Darth Vader, the black-clad monstrosity that Anakin Skywalker had become, waited prostate and patient.

As always.

“Rise, my friend,” Sidious said, reaching the base of the ramp, cane rapping on the reflective black of the hangar floor.

Vader did as his Master bid, standing to stride alongside him. For several moments, silence passed between them, the ranks upon ranks of Imperial Stormtroopers watching as their Emperor walked amongst them. Silent in reverence, no doubt.

“The Death Star will be completed on schedule,” Vader said, his low voice resonating.

“You’ve done well, Lord Vader,” Sidious drawled, searching his Apprentice’s thoughts. “And now I sense you wish to continue your search for young Skywalker.”

A pause. Then, “Yes, my Master.”

Good. Very good.

“Patience, my friend. In time, he will seek you out,” Sidious said. “And when he does, you must bring him before me. He has grown strong. Only together can we turn him to the Dark Side of the Force.”

And only through you, can I claim a new Apprentice…

“As you wish,” Vader replied.

“Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen,” Sidious said, smiling. His laughter echoed through the hangar, a sound that chilled all who heard it.

[jakeh0wl]

Star Wars Short Fiction - Week V - The Empire Strikes Back

A stream of light slashed across the black of space as the Millennium Falcon activated its hyperdrive and vanished into light-speed above the planet Bespin.

Standing on the windowed bridge of his Super Star Destroyer, Darth Vader watched from within the visor of his black mask as the small, YT model Corellian freighter, little more than a speck of speeding dust before the colossus of the Executor, evaded the howling TIE Fighters and made the jump to hyperspace.

Vader glared once more at the void beyond the ship, then turned away, striding from the bridge. He gave Admiral Piett a passing glance and nothing more, that alone being enough to drain the blood from the man’s face. Piett was right to fear Vader: there would indeed be retribution for his failure, but not yet. A pair of stormtroopers bowed as he exited the bridge, stepping aside to let him pass.

The Emperor would be awaiting his report, and Vader would be forced to deliver to his Master the news that Skywalker had escaped once again.

Skywalker. Luke Skywalker. Son of Anakin.

My son.

Despite Luke’s initial horror at the revelation, it seemed that he had quickly accepted the truth of his parentage, something Obi-wan had hidden from him.

He senses it. He senses the truth. He is strong with the Force.

Obi-wan was wise to hide him from me.

Obi-wan. Even now, his old Jedi Master haunted Vader. The old man must have kept Luke hidden from the Empire all these years, coveting him, preparing him to eventually face Vader. Obi-wan’s was admirable. Even in death, Obi-wan’s manipulations echoed through the Force.

That man, that old, grey man. He who had taken everything from Anakin Skywalker, and thus created Darth Vader. Obi-wan had even robbed Vader of his vengeance. In the moment when Vader had swung to strike that killing blow, Obi-wan had not sought to defend himself.

He had simply… given in.

Coward.

Luke had done the same, willingly falling from the antenna platform in Cloud City once Vader had told him the truth. It seemed Obi-wan’s hold on young Skywalker was a clawed one indeed. Luke had even been wielding Anakin Skywalker’s lightsaber during their duel. The boy had been enraptured by the ways of the Jedi. It would take no small effort to turn him.

Or destroy him.

The hate returned, a dark, cold burn within. Nothing of the searing, agonizing flames of Mustafar. No, they had long since cooled. What burned within Vader now was something far more powerful.

He made his way through the upper echelons of the Executor, mouse droids zipping out of his path, much in the same way the Imperial officers and stormtroopers did, ducking down alternate hallways or shuffling to one side as he passed.

Pathetic.

His duel with Skywalker had once again affirmed his craving for true combat. Training stormtroopers and slaughtering rebels paled into irrelevance when compared with the magnificence of a lightsaber duel. Crude blasters and laser cannons were mere annoyances to Vader; even the Death Star, the greatest superweapon ever constructed, was nothing compared with the raw power of the Force.

Vader reached the entrance to his meditation chamber, pausing before the door. Inside, he would have to make his report to the Emperor, acknowledging his failure.

Together, Vader and the Emperor represented all that remained of the Sith.

The Rule of Two. The most absolute rule of the Sith, as set down by the legendary Sith Lord Darth Bane a thousand years ago. There must only be two. A Master, and an Apprentice. These had been the ways of the Sith for a millennium.

Vader’s master, the Sith Lord Darth Sidious was a strict follower of Bane’s rule. His want for the young Luke Skywalker was not born out of need for allies, Vader suspected.

No, Sidious wanted Luke as Vader’s replacement. Should Luke defeat him, Vader knew that the Emperor would take him on as his new apprentice. And order Vader’s destruction.

Such was the Rule of Two. Such was the way of the Sith.

Vader would have to destroy the Emperor before that happened.

It will all be mine.

There was a great deceit here, Vader sensed. Sidious was wise. Very wise. His cunning had been enough to trick an entire galaxy into raising him up as their Emperor with thunderous applause.

Vader had a son.

Luke’s father had been Anakin Skywalker, and his mother…

Padme.

Somewhere, her voice carried from a distant memory. A memory he thought long gone.

She was trembling. And still so beautiful.

“Something wonderful has happened. Ani… I’m pregnant.”

Sidious had lied to him.

I did save her. Enough to —

“My Lord.”

Vader was torn from his thoughts. He turned to find Lieutenant Sork – the officer he had placed in command of the garrison on Cloud City – standing in the hallway, flanked by two of his stormtroopers.

“My Lord,” the lieutenant said, removing his officer’s cap, “we were unable to locate Administrator Lando Calrissian on Bespin. We scoured the city, but it appears he has fled the system. We —”

In a single, deadly motion, Vader spun, his lightsaber soaring to his hand and igniting into a vivid red. He swept the shimmering blade through Lieutenant Sork’s torso, a hissing sound filling the corridor.

Sork swayed for a moment, then collapsed into two smoking pieces, his upper body severed between the left hip and the right shoulder.

The two stormtroopers stepped back, staring down at Sork’s body, then at each other.

Vader sensed their feelings.

Fear.

He thrust out one black-gloved hand, reaching with the Force. He took hold of the left stormtrooper’s helmet, then closed his fist.

The trooper shrieked, dropping his blaster and clutching at his head as the polished white helmet fractured in multiple places, the visor shattering. Then it buckled, collapsing inward and crushing the stormtrooper’s skull within.

He fell, and Vader turned as the second stormtrooper fled, sprinting down the hallway, footsteps thumping on the polished floor. Vader snarled, spinning and throwing his lightsaber in pursuit of the trooper. The humming scarlet blade spun once, then impaled the stormtrooper in the centre of his back, erupting out of his chest.

The trooper stumbled, blaster clattering to the floor. He dropped to his knees.

Vader ripped the lightsaber back towards him, the blade carving upwards through the stormtrooper’s head and spinning back to his waiting hand. The stormtrooper’s half-cleaved body slumped forward, sizzling.

The hallway fell still, silent but for the resonating thrum of Vader’s lightsaber and the steady rhythm of his breathing. He stood there for what may have been minutes, the smouldering corpses of Sork and his troopers splayed around him.

“It seems in your anger, you killed her…”

I… I couldn’t have. She was alive, I felt it!

“I felt it,” Vader said.

“My Lord?”

Vader turned. Admiral Piett was standing behind him, his blood-shot eyes studying the bodies strewn over the floor.

Vader deactivated his lightsaber. “Skywalker, Admiral.”

Piett straightened. “Skywalker… My Lord?” he asked, voice trembling.

“I want him found.”

Piett saluted. “At once, My Lord.”

Vader strode past the Admiral, catching a glimpse of the man touching a hand to his throat.

The Emperor could wait.

[jakeh0wl]

Star Wars Short Fiction - Week IV - A New Hope

“…We will then crush the Rebellion with one swift stroke.”

The Imperial officers gathered at the table nodded their agreement, murmuring declarations of concurrence. Even the arrogant Admiral Motti, seated to Tarkin’s right and still recovering from Vader’s choking display of power, dipped his head towards the Grand Moff.

Tarkin stood, eyeing the officers. “You may leave us,” he said, sweeping his hand towards the seated men. “I would speak with Lord Vader alone.”

The officers rose from their seats, each giving Tarkin respectful half-bows before filing from the room, several of them shuffling nervously beneath Vader’s black, eyeless gaze. Once he and Vader were alone, Tarkin waved to the Death Star Troopers flanking the entrance to the conference room, who sealed closed the doors.

Tarkin straightened, hands clasped behind his back, then turned to Lord Vader. As always, the six-foot, black-clad cyborg regarded Tarkin with that unreadable jet mask of a face, the eyes shimmering a dark red when the light caught them. The identity of who hid behind that visage was something Tarkin had guessed at, and was now fairly certain of.

Still, the regard of the Emperor’s Force-wielding pet remained unsettling, even after all these years. “You have still had no luck with the princess, Lord Vader,” Tarkin said. It was a statement, not a question.

“No,” Vader replied in a deep, dread-inducing voice. As always, Vader said little when he could help it, preferring to unbalance those he was addressing with the mere power of his presence.

Tarkin, however, was not so easily shaken. Whilst Vader still left Tarkin with a sense of unease, the Grand Moff had built an impressive immunity to Vader’s influence. This, coupled with Tarkin’s favour with the Emperor, guaranteed a certain level of mutuality between them. “Despite your assurances that we will soon have the Death Star plans returned to us,” Tarkin continued, “I remain uncertain of the probable success of your interrogation methods.”

“The princess has a fierce will,” Vader replied. “She bears an unexpected degree of resilience.”

“She’s the daughter of a politician,” Tarkin said, pacing across the reflective black floor of the conference room. “Such things are understandable from one of her upbringing.”

“We will retrieve those plans,” Vader said, watching Tarkin from across the room.

“Can you be sure, Vader?” Tarkin said, meeting the man’s – the machine’s – masked gaze.

Vader didn’t respond.

“I thought not,” He shook his head, running a hand through his thinning hair. A thought occurred to him then. “Whilst I cannot say I approve of you choking my officers, Lord Vader, and despite my lack of knowledge in the details of your powers, there is no denying that you are in possession of certain unique… assets. Assets that, concerning our present situation, could prove very useful indeed.”

“Dispense with the ambiguity, Governor,” Vader demanded. “You would have me refer to methods of interrogation utilising the Force?”

Tarkin raised an eyebrow. Something in Vader’s tone suggested he had already considered – or perhaps even tried – using the Force to manipulate the princess. “Could such a thing be done?”

“The Force is not a torture machine, Governor,” Vader growled. “To perceive it as such is to lay bare a gross ignorance of its nature.”

Tarkin mentally scoffed. It seemed that the Emperor’s most feared and deadliest servant was not above the occasional thinly veiled insult. There was something about that revelation that Tarkin found surprisingly amusing. “Very well,” Tarkin replied. “I have outlined a proposal of how to deal with this rebel problem of ours which I intend to present to the Emperor momentarily. He is awaiting my transmission. Would you care to join me, Lord Vader? I believe this proposal will be of interest to you as much as it will be to the Emperor.”

Vader said nothing, simply gazing across the circular table at Tarkin with those eyeless, black visors. Then he nodded, striding across the room to stand at Tarkin’s side, cape rippling slightly as he moved. Despite their occasional differences, Tarkin’s respect for Vader was rivalled by no other. Everything that Vader was emulated power and authority, and there were oft times when Tarkin found himself envious of the pure fear Vader struck into those beneath him.

Tarkin leaned forward, sliding back the black panel of the activation key for the holographic projector. Pressing the key, Tarkin took a step back as a great, shimmering projection of Emperor Sheev Palpatine, supreme ruler of the Galactic Empire, took shape above the table.

Tarkin gave a sweeping bow. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he said.

Vader went one further, falling to a knee. “My Master.”

Not the first time, Vader’s unwavering loyalty and devotion to the Emperor reminded Tarkin of a muzzled akk hound. The most ferocious akk hound in the Galaxy, one who made entire systems tremble when the Emperor saw fit to let him off the leash.

The Emperor’s holographic eyes, shadowed beneath his ever-present hood, shifted between the forms of Tarkin and Vader. “Governor Tarkin, Lord Vader,” the Emperor addressed them. “You hinted at a proposal you had for me, Governor?”

“I did, my lord,” Tarkin replied, straightening in the Emperor’s presence. “It would appear that we are faced with a dilemma of a rather urgent nature. Despite Lord Vader’s best efforts, the troublesome Princess Leia has yet to inform us of either the location of the rebel’s hidden base or where the data tapes containing the plans for this space station are. Now, considering recent development concerning the Imperial Senate and the state of the Imperial Systems, I believe, my Lord, the time has come for more aggressive negotiations.”

“Speak on, Governor Tarkin,” the Emperor drawled.

Tarkin glanced at Vader, the black-clad cyborg expressionless as ever. “There exists a way to ensure the princess’s cooperation. Namely, her revelation of the rebel’s hidden base. We have yet to exercise the full destructive potential of this space station, and now we have been presented with the perfect opportunity, my Lord.” Tarkin reached down, activating a second hologram above the table. The form of the Emperor slid back to give way for the blue-green projection of a planet that now hovered before them, between Tarkin and the Emperor. “Alderaan, my Lord. The Princess’s home planet. It is a world of beauty and peace. The Alderaanians bear no love of weapons and claim passiveness. However, our intel holds that this traitorous planet was a core breeding ground for the Rebellion, offering the rebels both a hidden base of operations and support in the Imperial Senate. Now that the Imperial Senate is no longer an obstacle, I propose we test the true power of this space station’s superlaser. Jedha and Scarif were but… inklings of the Death Star’s capabilities, my Lord. Alderaan will provide the perfect test target to experience the obliteration that this station is prepared to unleash on the Galaxy. With Alderaan held as an example, no System would dare oppose you, my Lord, nor give the rebels any further support.”

The Emperor studied the holographic projection of Alderaan. “Wisely spoken, my friend,” the Emperor said. “I approve. As does, I sense, Lord Vader. However, what is to become of the princess and the rebels?”

Tarkin clasped his hands behind his back. “Herein lies the final stroke, my Lord. We will suspend the destruction of Alderaan before Princess Leia as a threat. With the Senate’s recent dissolution, the princess’s father, Bail Organa, will soon be returning to Alderaan. I believe it wise for us to wait until we have confirmation of his return before we initiate the test of the Death Star. Then, faced with not only the annihilation of her home planet, but the loss of her family, I believe the princess will be quite willing to give up her rebel friends. Alderaan will still be destroyed, of course. Then, once we have the location of the rebel base and Alderaan is but dust between the stars, the princess will be deposed of most adequately.”

“Excellent, Tarkin, excellent,” the Emperor said, cackling. “Have the princess brought to me on Coruscant once Alderaan and the rebels have been destroyed. We will make her execution most public.” The Emperor’s holographic shadow shifted towards Vader. “Lord Vader, I believe you may be of some use in that respect. I would have you execute the princess personally.”

Vader bowed. “As you wish, my Master.”

The Emperor turned back to Tarkin. “You’ve done well, Governor. I am most pleased.”

Tarkin felt a rare smile tugging at his lips. “I will have an order for the princess’s execution written up, my Lord.”

“Good. I will await news of Alderaan’s… eradication.” The Emperor’s figure blurred, then faded, the projection fuzzing out.

Tarkin subsequently disabled the hologram of Alderaan.

“You have garnered the Emperor’s approval,” Vader said.

“As I have yours, apparently,” Tarkin replied, turning to face him.

Vader pointedly ignored the statement. “Despite the advantageous effects its destruction offers, Alderaan will certainly be a loss to the Galaxy.”

Tarkin nodded. “A necessary one, however.”

Vader made for the doors of the conference room. “Perhaps if events in the last weeks had transpired differently, it would not be so.”

Tarkin sensed the implication. “It was not I who lost the data tapes to the rebels above Scarif, my friend,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “From your troopers’ reports, you practically had the plans within your grasp. Had you not been distracted by certain… unnecessary thrills, those plans would now be in our hands.”

Vader turned back to face him. “The rebels were far more prepared for our pursuit than anticipated,” he replied. “And perhaps if you had turned the Death Star’s weapon on the rebel fleet instead of firing on the planet, their escape would have been impossible.”

Tarkin smirked. “You saw what the Death Star did to Scarif,” he said. “There was no guarantee our own forces would not be decimated in the process. Including your own.”

Vader took a step forward, towering over Tarkin and raising one gloved hand towards him. “Galen Urso’s daughter was on Scarif, Governor, as was Director Krennic. Your frequent bouts of rivalry with the Director were well documented. So do not speak of unnecessary thrills to me, Tarkin.”

Tarkin swallowed, holding his composure. Likely only his imagination, but it had seemed for a moment that the softest touch of pressure had brushed his throat. He stepped back, carefully forcing an amiable smile across his lips. “Perhaps, my friend, it is best if we simply agree that the loss of the plans at Scarif was an unfortunate misstep on both our counts,” he said.

Vader studied him for several quiet seconds, then straightened. “Indeed,” he said eventually.

Tarkin moved made for the exit, the doors to the hallway beyond hissing open at his touch to the entrance panel. Vader strode past him, the Death Star Troopers standing outside the conference room wincing slightly at his shadow.

“I will set our coordinates for Alderaan. If you would be so kind as to retrieve the princess, Lord Vader,” Tarkin said, “I will have her execution order procured.”

Vader gave the slightest, towering nod, then turned away.

Tarkin watched, eyes narrowed to slits, as Vader walked down the hallway, black cape billowing with his stride. Tarkin would need to tread careful on this ice, fearsome things waited beneath.

Turning away from the conference room, Tarkin made for the command bridge.

[jakeh0wl]

Star Wars Short Fiction - Week III - Revenge of the Sith

Fear.

Anger.

Hate.

SUFFERING.

Anakin writhed in it. He screamed as the surgical blades and needles pierced his charred flesh, slashing deep into his nerves. He thrashed on the table, the stumps of his legs and left arm thumping against the reflective surface.

The glowing, unsympathetic eyes of surgery droids clustered him, metallic features merciless as they drilled into his body, changing him, preparing him.

Padme… where’s Padme?

The image of her face was seared into his mind. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, wide and full of terror. They pleaded. Pleaded as the pressure increased on her throat, Anakin choking her, squeezing the life from her with the raw power of the Force.

She betrayed ME!

“Anakin…!” she choked, hands at her neck.

Then Obi-Wan. “Let her go, Anakin!”

Obi-Wan. The source of all his pain, all his suffering. The man who turned Padme against him, the man who wouldn’t let him save him her.

The surgery droids sealed the metallic plates that would form the base of new limbs into his flesh, piercing metal spearing into the stumps of each of his legs and his arm. The room was black and white and grey, surgical spotlights flooding him with light, laying bare his terrible injuries.

In the shadows, Galactic Emperor Palpatine watched with grim fascination as the surgical droids worked tirelessly to remake his apprentice.

Anakin’s new prosthetic limbs were fused into place, the young Jedi-turned-Sith shrieking in pain. He lashed out, knocking aside the surgical blades held by the droid nearest his right arm.

Pain.

Anakin fell into blackness.

“Ani…” A voice whispered.

Blackness.

“Ani,” the voice said again. Padme’s voice. “I love you, Anakin.”

He blinked open his eyes, and she was there. Beautiful as the day he’d first beheld her, the wind tugging at her black hair and white dress softly. They stood in the green fields of Naboo, the sky was blue and had no clouds and the single sun was bright. On the distant hills, herds of Shaak lumbered through the grass, their calls a gentle thrum on the wind.

Anakin smiled and pulled Padme close. “I love you too,” he whispered.

She smiled back, and the light of all the stars in the Galaxy did not compare. She kissed him then, holding it for longer than was necessary.

Anakin felt something tug at his leg. He looked down and there was a small girl, perhaps eight or nine, with Padme’s eyes and Padme’s hair.

And down by the glittering river a boy of the same age danced in the shallows, a stick swishing in his hand, blond hair bright in the sun.

Twins, Anakin realised.

A son… and a daughter. Twins. My children.

And at last the pain was gone, and Anakin Skywalker felt only peace.

“He looks like you.”

He turned to find a woman standing beside him, dark hair and familiar Tatooine features. Shmi Skywalker stood in the grass in a lavish green dress, eyes glistening with tears as she stared at Anakin’s son by the river. “He looks so much like you, Ani,” she said.

Mom…

Shmi gasped, back arching, clutching at her abdomen. She fell to her knees in the grass.

Anakin cried out, and then Padme turned to dust in his arms.

“No, no, NO!”

Black clouds swept over the sun, and the earth lurched beneath him. Anakin stumbled towards his mother, watching in despair as his children screamed, fading into ashes.

Shmi Skywalker writhed on the ground, the grass vanishing away to become dark sand. Anakin sprinted towards his shrieking mother.

I won’t lose you again!

The fear came crashing back.

Shmi rolled onto her back, her green dress thinning into a slave’s ragged attire. Her stomach swelled, the sand beneath her legs soaking red. Somewhere in the black sky, above his mother’s screams, Anakin heard a voice. A hacking, cackling voice that thundered through the clouds.

He reached his mother, falling to the sand and holding her.

Fear.

Then she stopped screaming, and instead she stared up at his eyes, scars lacing her face and body. She was thin, so very thin, and her lips were split and broken. The blackness above was replaced by the bantha hide roof of a Tusken urtya, firelight glimmering in the shadows.

Anakin held his dying mother in his arms.

“Now I am complete,” she whispered, voice ragged. “I love…”

Anakin swallowed. “Stay with me, Mom,” he said, quietly. Pleading. “Everything…”

She tried to speak again; breath strained, her fingers against his cheek. “I… I love…”

Her breath caught, she sighed. Her hand fell away from his face, and her body slumped in his arms.

No… please, Mom… no…

Not again…

Fear bled to anger.

Anakin began to tremble, clutching his mother’s corpse. He gently closed her eyes and stood, stepping free of the urtya and into the Tatooine night. Anakin ignited his lightsaber, a spear of brilliant blue in the dark. The Tusken Raiders began to cry.

The world shifted, the Tusken men, women and children fading, their tents collapsing to dust.

No! NO! They must PAY!

Anger.

Darkness consumed him.

“Don’t listen to him, Anakin!” A violet lightsaber, a Jedi Master.

“Don’t let him kill me!” A weak, dying man, desperate to live.

I need him!

Anakin’s lightsaber was in his hand, cutting through Windu’s wrist.

Crackling blue forks of light rent through the black, sizzling tendrils of lightning.

“POWER!” Palpatine cried. “UNLIMITED POWER!”

The black burned away, glowing orange light meandering across Anakin’s vision. The river of molten rock churned beneath him, the hovering droid’s surface protecting him from the melting heat. Beyond the pulsing lava, a scarp of volcanic rock rose beneath the ash filled Mustafarian night.

Atop the rock, clad in scorched Jedi attire, clutching a blue lightsaber, Obi-Wan Kenobi stood.

Hate surged through Anakin.

“You underestimate my power,” he said.

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t try it.”

Hate.

Anakin leapt, his Force-enhanced jump sending him soaring over Obi-Wan’s head.

Pain.

Impossibly, Obi-Wan followed his leap, his lightsaber cutting through Anakin’s legs and one of his arms. Anakin screamed, tumbling into the ash, rolling towards the lava.

NO!

So. Much. PAIN.

“You were the Chosen One!” Obi-Wan cried. “It was said that you would destroy the Sith not join them! Bring balance to the Force! Not leave it in darkness!”

Anakin writhed. “I HATE YOU!”

“You were my brother, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said. “I loved you.”

Love.

It was gone.

No! You turned her against me!

Anakin stood, limbs returned, black cape billowing in the ash laden winds. He held out his arm, clad in black, and raised his hand towards Obi-Wan. The Jedi Master began to choke, eyes wide. He was lifted from the ground, desperately clutching at his throat.

Yes! You took her from me!

Anakin smiled within his black mask.

Now I am the Master!

He blinked. And Obi-Wan was now Padme, tears running ragged down her cheeks, choking within Anakin’s Force grip. Her eyes glistened, begging him. “Ani… I love…”

No… please. Not Padme.

Anakin looked down to where he now held a blood-red lightsaber in his gloved hand.

He wrenched Padme towards him, just to hold her. To touch her, if only for a moment.

To tell her…

He drove the red lightsaber through her chest, the shimmering blade erupting from her back.

NO!

Anakin jolted back to consciousness on the surgery table. Pain and feeling flooded through him. The surgical droids were almost finished with him. A robotic arm revolved around the table, suspending something over Anakin’s face.

A black mask, red eyes flaring alight. The mask descended, its interior closing in on Anakin’s charred features.

Fear crawled through his mind.

The mask closed over his face, the black, domed helm sliding down to seal Anakin within the suit.

Darth Vader breathed.

The droids scuttled back from the surgery table, the spotlight above beaming as the table rotated, leaning forward. The metal surface Vader was held to tilted into a vertical position, holding him upright, steam swirling. The spotlight reflected off Vader’s black armour as if it were shining on oil.

Slowly, almost hesitant, Galactic Emperor Palpatine edged out of the shadows. “Lord Vader,” he addressed the suited abomination, which was now more machine than man. “Can you hear me?”

Vader replied, “Yes, Master.” The voice was a deep, thrumming thing, no trace of Anakin Skywalker’s remained. “Where is Padme?” Vader asked. “Is she safe? Is she alright?”

The Emperor paused before his reply. “It seems, in your anger, you… killed her.”

“I… I couldn’t have… she was alive, I felt it!”

The room began to tremble, the metal panels of the walls crunching, folding inward. The glass containers and beakers in the arms of the droids shattered. The black-clad Vader ripped himself free of the surgery table, stumbling forward. The very walls began to collapse, metal rippling and bending beneath the Force. The droids themselves began to crumple, their spindly bodies crunching inward. Vader’s power surged through the room.

A smile peeled across the Emperor’s scarred lips.

Darth Vader roared, and his anger, his hate, his suffering echoed across the Galaxy.

[jakeh0wl]

Star Wars Short Fiction - Week II - Attack of the Clones

“I will never join you, Dooku,” Kenobi said.

Dooku raised his eyebrows, studying the young Jedi Master. To his credit, Obi-Wan Kenobi had a fierce will and a stubbornness to him that rivalled Qui Gon’s. Dooku admired that, and it was easy to see why Qui Gon had taken the young Kenobi as his apprentice. There was a discipline to this man, a resilience. Despite their differences, Dooku found himself liking Kenobi.

Such a pity, Dooku thought, that he has chosen the wrong side.

Qui Gon would never have been so foolish.

Dooku sighed, turning away from the imprisoned Jedi. At the door, he turned, meeting Kenobi’s stoic gaze as the young Jedi slowly rotated in the suspension field. Kenobi glared at him.

So like Qui Gon.

“It may be difficult to secure your release,” Dooku said.

Kenobi’s gaze remained unwavering.

Dooku pressed the entrance panel, the cell door sliding open. Not giving Kenobi another glance, he left the Jedi’s cell, stepping out into the Geonosian sunlight. The sky was a dusty yellow, the ground a dusty red. Everything else was brown. Two of the planet’s fifteen moons were visible through the arid haze, far beyond the upper atmosphere.

Dooku turned his eyes from the rusty glare of the sun, glancing at the pair of Geonosian soldiers nearby. The insectoids blinked bright eyes towards him, averting their gaze once he focused on them. They shifted uncomfortably on thin, multi-jointed legs.

Dooku strode past them, cape billowing in a hot gale that swept down off the stone spires rising beyond the compound. He hated this planet of dust and bugs. He craved a riddance of its barren, rocky surface and dust-smothered skies.

Alas, his duty was clear, and the will of his master absolute.

He was Count Dooku no longer. He was something greater. He was lord of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, supreme commander of an unmatched army of battle droids, all of them armed and ready to march against the Republic.

The Republic. What a pitiful, dated excuse for a government.

The Separatists were worse. A squabbling, cowering shamble of dissenter miscreants and sycophants, all so very adept at the art of the grovel.

He was a Master of the Force. Trained by Grand Master Yoda himself.

He was a Lord of the Sith.

Darth Tyranus. Lord Tyranus.

I will be feared.

The name of the Sith Lord Tyranus would echo across the stars for millennia.

But not yet. First, the board must be set, the pieces arranged. The Galaxy would soon be afire with war, and Dooku would be the spark. There was much to be done.

Again, he found himself wishing Qui Gon were with him now.

“I am always with you, Dooku,” Qui Gon’s voice echoed through his mind.

Dooku snarled. He was hallucinating again. How long would the haunting voice of his beloved apprentice torture him?

Was it not enough that he was dead?

He hurried through the streets of Geonosis, cape flapping in the dusty breeze. Even at his advanced age, Dooku was aware of the striking presence he cast upon his lessers. One did not rise to the rank of lord of the Confederacy without a certain level of self-awareness.

And arrogance. But that was needed with these people. An assertion of dominance was necessary to maintain control, otherwise disorder became lord.

A pair of polished, newly constructed B2 super battle droids awaited Dooku at the exit gates of the prison compound, the tall, imposing brutes of metal standing silent, ready for command. Dooku paused at the exit, studying the droids. Their glinting silver forms would soon be marred by the endless, dust-streaked winds of Geonosis. Dooku took the opportunity to admire his reflection.

I need a shave, he realised.

It wouldn’t do well to allow himself – the public figurehead of the Separatist Confederacy – to appear unkempt. Though he was far more than a figurehead, of course.

“A puppet of the Sith,” Qui Gon whispered.

“I am a puppet of nothing,” Dooku hissed.

His reflection in the metallic surface of the battle droid stared back.

Dooku straightened, regaining his composure. He glanced around him, scanning for witnesses. Nothing but mindless Geonosians, too far to have heard anything.

He turned back to the droid, its singular, glowing red sensor glared back at him, unblinking. Dooku cleared his throat. He would have to have its memory wiped.

Later, he thought.

“Follow me,” he commanded the droids. “But keep your distance. I don’t need you treading on my heels.” He swept past the two droids, a few moments passing before he heard the mechanical whirring of the battle droids as they turned to follow him.

Circular, glassless windows filtered dusty sunlight into the hallway, the openings pockmarking many of the structures across Geonosis like a giant honeycomb. A low, droning sound echoed through the building. It was the whir of the Geonosians’ wings as they swarmed through the rusty skies. The sound was inescapable on this planet. It was everywhere. Just like the bugs.

He hated them. But they served their purpose.

Dooku passed a pair of Genosian dukes, the elderly insectoids bowing respectfully. Dooku returned their respect with a curt nod. It was imperative to ensure who was dominant here, who was lord. The dukes did not come out of their bows until Dooku was past them, their incessant clicking tongues prattling behind him, mingling with the regimented footfalls of the twin battle droids.

Finally, Dooku reached his private chambers. Despite the fact it was the best Geonosians had to offer, he despised being confined to such a small space, deep within this hive of dissidence. Yet only here was he truly allowed any solitude.

Pausing before the door, Dooku turned to the droids tailing him. “Remain outside my chambers,” he said. “Ensure I remain undisturbed.”

The droids said nothing but positioned themselves either side of the door to his chamber, dual wrists blasters raised and armed.

Satisfied, Dooku scanned the entrance panel, striding into his chambers as the door slid open. He waited until it sealed closed again before making his way to the back of the chamber. The Geonosians had done much to keep their lord pleased, draping his chambers in fineries and trivialities of little purpose. They dared not displease a Master of the Force such as he.

Dooku slid open the panel cover of the hologram projector positioned in an alcove at the back of his chamber. He activated the initiation screen, sending a brief message.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The projector fuzzed into life, shimmering, pixelated blue light dancing before him. The hologram materialised, manifesting into the shadow-swathed form of Darth Sidious, Lord of the Sith. The hologram projected the Sith Lord to scale, Dooku meeting his master’s shadowed gaze.

“Master Sidious,” Dooku said, bowing.

“Lord Tyranus,” the hologram replied. As always, Dooku’s master hid the upper half of his face in a deep hood, his eyes bare specks of light.

“I bring good news, my Lord,” Dooku said. “We have captured a Jedi Master. You were right. They came crawling to us, as you suspected.”

Sidious’s holographic lips twisted into a slight smile. “Good,” he drawled. “You have done well, Lord Tyranus. What is the name of this Jedi Master?”

“He is Obi-Wan Kenobi, my Lord.”

“Ah, yes. Once apprentice to your own Qui Gon Jinn, was he not, Lord Tyranus?”

Dooku dipped his head. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Tell him,” Qui Gon whispered. “Tell him how much of me you see in Kenobi.”

Dooku flinched.

“Something troubles you, Lord Tyranus,” Sidious said, the hologram rippling as Sidious shifted in his thick robes.

“No, my Lord,” Dooku said, clearing his throat. “I am simply… eager to set things in motion.”

“In time, my apprentice, in time. My last apprentice was lacking in patience. Do not make the same mistake, Lord Tyranus.”

“I am patient, my Lord,” Dooku said.

I will be feared, he thought.

“This pleases me, Lord Tyranus,” his master said. “You are a true Lord of the Sith, Tyranus, and the time of the Sith will soon be upon us. With every passing day, the Dark Side grows more powerful, and the Jedi grow more diminished in their ability to wield the Force. The Balance is returning, my apprentice.”

I will be the spark.

“Do what you will with young Master Kenobi,” Sidious said. “I leave the decision to you, Lord Tyranus. You have done well. Our time approaches.”

The image fuzzed, then vanished, the hologram collapsing.

Dooku was motionless for a time, staring at the empty space above the projector.

Such a shame Kenobi had chosen to stand against him. A powerful ally he could have been.

Qui Gon, Dooku thought, you would have been my greatest ally in this.

“You’re lying to yourself, Dooku,” Qui Gon’s phantom said.

Dooku sneered, his lightsaber hilt unlatching from his belt and soaring to his hand. He ignited the weapon as he caught it, spinning and sweeping the blood-red blade through the air behind him, spittle flying from his lips.

“You cannot harm me, Dooku,” Qui Gon said. “I am always with you.”

Dooku licked his lips, straightening. The hum of his lightsaber was silenced as he deactivated the blade, returning the curved hilt to his belt. Dooku rolled his shoulders, repositioning the clasp on his cape.

Eyes narrowed, Dooku strode from the chamber.

There was much to be done.

[jakeh0wl]

Star Wars Short Fiction - Week I - The Phantom Menace

Maul waited.

The darkness behind his eyelids was absolute, yet it did nothing to darken the fire that burned within him. It was a maelstrom, a burning, searing tempest that gave him no rest, no respite. It was a roaring, unending furnace of hate.

It had been fear, once.

That was how it had begun. Fear. He remembered the first years of his training, bowed before his master, prostrate and obeying. Fearful. He remembered his years as a child, watching with wary eyes as Mother conversed in hushed tones with the figure in black, a man hooded and swathed in shadow. Power they had spoken of. Dark power. And wisdom, from and age and a people long vanished, long diminished. Maul remembered the fear.

He feared no longer. He had banished it, as he had banished the memories of his time before his training, before his master. Those times didn’t matter. They were irrelevant. Still, some memories seeped back, resilient, crawling their way into darkness at edge of his mind. Yet they did not quench the blaze, they only fuelled it.

He remembered kneeling down, his master’s hand on his shoulder, speaking the words he had so longed to hear. The words had been an acceptance. Maul’s acceptance into that ancient, holy order that had remained hidden for so long, crawling through the shadows. An order silent so long it was almost forgotten, a fleeting memory in a distant time.

They would hide no longer. His master had given him a sacred task. At last they would strike from the darkness. And Maul was their fearsome blade.

At last we will have revenge.

His words to his master. His promise.

Hate burned within him. Hatred of those he was about to face. Hatred of those he had already faced. Hatred of his own failures. He had been foolish on Tatooine. He had allowed his enemy to escape, so intent was he on the battle, on the ecstasy of combat. He had not believed his enemy would flee, leaping free of Maul’s fury.

Coward.

Jedi.

He would not let them flee again. He could not.

Maul exhaled slowly, sensing their approach. And what would follow. The Balance had been broken for too long. His master had taught him as much. The Balance required restoration. The tempest churned within him, a vacuous fire that writhed with searing anticipation.

Maul opened his eyes, irises like blood-tinged flames dancing in the light. He uncrossed his legs, standing. He faced the doors, heart pounding.

So close. So very close.

Come to me, Jedi.

The hanger doors hissed open, dual panels sliding into the walls, revealing those who lay beyond, those he had waited for. A clustered, disorganised mess of Naboo soldiers crowded the space before the Maul, eyes wide and faces paled. Behind them, the broken, smouldering forms of downed droids scattered over the hangar floor, the blue Naboo skies bright and clear through the hangar mouth. Maul watched with satisfaction as fear danced on their features.

At the head of the group stood the Queen of Naboo, a crude blaster in her hand.

Such a pathetic weapon.

And past her, amidst the invalids, they stood.

Old and Young.

Master and Padawan.

Jedi.

“We’ll handle this,” the Jedi Master said, recognition of Maul in his eyes. It was the Jedi Maul had duelled in the desert, on Tatooine. Oh, how brief that clash had been.

No true battle.

The Naboo queen – Amidala – turned, blaster held close. “We’ll take the long way,” she said, her and her retinue of frantic little soldiers marching free of Maul’s gaze to the edges of the hangar.

Yes… run, little weaklings, run to your deaths. You are blind to the Balance.

And the Balance must be restored.

Maul’s pulse pounded, a symphony in his veins that thrummed with the roar of the tempest inside him, a harmony of rage that thundered through his limbs, begging to be unleashed. He had to keep himself from smiling as he drew back his hood, exhilaration at what awaited him, at what he would soon show these laughable Jedi who dared name themselves Force-wielders.

They may feel the Force, they may use it, but they did not understand it. The Jedi used the Force like using a Lightsabre to cut food. They were so very blind to its try, awesome potential. Fury, anger, hatred. These were the true facets of the Force.

The true facets of power.

Maul let his billowing black robes fall to the floor.

The two Jedi did the same, their brown robes tumbling away as they set their feet apart.

Maul glanced between them, the furnace within him was a roar. He looked at the Master, a stern man of a stern face, eyes meeting Maul’s own. He would be the greater enemy, the greater challenge. Maul would relish every second of facing this man.

Maul looked to the apprentice, the Jedi Padawan. So young, his eyes burning with the avid eagerness of youth. This one had yet to tame his inner fire – the Jedi had yet to quench it from this boy. Smothered it, they may have, reducing it to a tiny flame, but dead it was not. Maul could see it in the Padawan’s eyes. The embers still glowed.

Maul knew that fire well.

It roared inside him.

He drew his weapon, the double-length handle twisting in his palm as he shifted into a duelling stance. Holding the hilt laterally before him, Maul ignited the lightsaber.

Twin blades of shimmering crimson cleaved the air, humming in anticipation.

The sound was drowned by the furnace in Maul’s veins.

The Jedi ignited their own weapons.

A blade of green, and a blade of blue.

Master and Padawan.

Which to kill first?

Let the tempest decide.

It could wait no longer.

A silent snarl on his tattooed lips, Maul span his double lightsaber in his hands, stepping forward, the glowing red blades a blur.

As he had expected, the Padawan struck first, leaping high over Maul with a force-enhanced jump, lightsaber a flash of blue as it struck down.

So very eager, Jedi. So very keen to please your master.

See how the Sith answer!

Maul caught the blow with ease, the Padawan’s saber glancing off Maul’s own as he landed behind him. The Padawan moved to strike again, Maul blocking the swing from behind without ever removing his gaze from the Jedi Master.

The sound of the lightsabers clashing was a fuel to the furnace that thundered inside him.

The Master swung his green saber.

Yes… YES!

Anger.

Hatred.

Rage.

The Force alive in his veins, Darth Maul unleashed the tempest.

[jakeh0wl]

Star Wars Short Fiction

Hello there.

To those reading this, I’m a big Star Wars fan, and since Episode IX is coming out in eight weeks, and there are already eight episodic films in the Star Wars franchise, I have set myself a little challenge in the lead up to the new release in celebration of the final film in the Skywalker Saga. Starting this week, I will write and post a weekly piece of short fiction (1000-2000 words) based in the Star Wars universe exploring the minds of its characters. Each piece will be a scene set during or around each of the eight films. These may be scenes you know, or scenes I have invented. Keep in mind this is purely fan fiction and just something I wanted to do to celebrate the release of the Rise of Skywalker, combining my love of writing and Star Wars. Enjoy.

This first week will be based on Episode I - The Phantom Menace, and for this piece’s character focus, I have chosen everyone’s favourite tattooed Sith acrobat: Darth Maul.