The Master's Vendetta
An AU fanfic
Disclaimer: Star Wars is not mine, however, this idea is.
A.N: Well, I believe I said I'd try this sometime... so... here goes. I probably won't update until the new year though, due to the Christmas rush, and all that. Enjoy the prologue, and I'll update when I can, to whoever reads this!
In a dark room, all I can hear is the harsh mechanical sound of my own breathing. And I hate it. I hate everything I've become. I hate the hissing rasp that comes from my throat with every breath I draw in, I hate the thud of booted feet against a polished floor that my feet make as they cross the room. I hate the face that haunts my memory every time I close my eyes, whether to sleep, to dream, to merely blink, now.
It haunts my waking hours, though it's merely a dream's figure.
In this darkness, there is nothing but that-- darkness. Darkness, and emotions that empower the soul, and draw on the powers I've so long learned to depend on. Without them, I'd be dead. Without them, my Master would be dead.
I close my eyes for merely a moment-- though I hate the face, it's an escape from the breathing...
That's my breath, I have to remind myself. Every breath you draw is that harsh, hated noise.
I'll never get used to it.
I hate the image I see in my mind-- I hate this altered appearance that I see. But it's an escape, as I said before. It's an escape from the avatar of this being I now see. Because it's a kind face, a face that shows love rather than hate-- though berating at times, it's kindly eyes within that face. It's someone I could trust. I still trust the person I see there, in my mind's eye.
Do you know why I hate this person? Because of what that person let himself become.
Because of what I let myself become.
And it tumbles down, always downwards, downhill. I can't escape what I've become. I can no longer look in a mirror at my reflection. It's a broken reflection at best, and I hate it. Just like I hate everything else. It's a love/hate relationship-- I'm uncertain of whether I truly hate it, or whether it's merely just that I can no longer be what I used to be.
In this dark room, there is still no other sound than my harsh breathing-- mechanical, and artificial sounding at best. Until I stand up, and pace across the room to one other sound-- the heavy footsteps pounding across a polished, and clean floor. It's too clean, too perfect seeming. Too fair for what it represents. But it does its job-- forces you to keep your eyes ahead, and not look down at the reflective surface.
At times I wonder whether they don't eat their meals off of that floor. It's certainly clean enough, and it would reflect them for the dogs they are.
Indeed, that's all I'll see them as. I hold no faith to those who betray me, and use me as a puppet, though there's no way I can resist. There's no way that I can do anything but pace here and there, and look foreboding.
At least you cannot see me in this dark. No, you merely hear a heavy breathing that takes control of the area, and scares you out of your wits. You'll merely hear a mechanical gasp, and the heavy sound of footsteps as I cross to see who you are. And you'll panic, and run, just like so many others. When you've been destroyed, twisted... no one ever trusts you again.
Do I want trust again? It destroyed me once before.
But... I admit that if I could be taken again, into that close trust, I would be. I would accept that, and let it do as it would. I would stop fighting it, and let it go as it would.
I'm not so certain anymore.
I come to the end of the room, place a black gloved hand on the wall. I can see in the dark well enough-- but I don't need sight to show me what I already know. I contrast completely with the white walls of this cell. I wonder how hard it would be to smash through, to pick up a weapon, and destroy this place they hold me in.
The door is unlatched-- they've made no effort to hide the key code to unlock it either. That's what they want me to do, I know. They want me to take up my powers, my weapons, and unleash them.
And then they'll have won.
But if I don't do that, then they win anyway.
My lightsaber still sits on the ground across the room. It's dark, my human eyes cannot see it, but I know it's still there.
I wonder if I could take it up again-- take it, use it to escape. Use it to stop the Empire... use my powers for good...
That's what they want. They want me to think that if I do this, it'll be for the good of the Republic. Depending on the point of view you look at it, it would be good. Look at it from another's perspective-- if I were to take it and allow myself into that dark power again, they would be as doomed as if they were under the Empire. It's a paradox either way... I don't want them to win, nor do I want to turn myself-- because they'll win anyway.
Certainly some would argue that, since the occurrence-- was it only a week ago? Was it that short a time?-- that since I turned once before, again it cannot harm me. But it would, I know from experience. I know that if I take this, and use it, I'll be thrust right back into that unending evil cycle.
I can still hear my breath, and I can still see a face in my mind's eye. It's still clear to me, a firm set face, with blue eyes-- kindly eyes, to me.
Even clearer is the same face, drawn lightsaber-- no longer with kind eyes-- and facing me. And me facing him.
Moving of a mindless accord, I reach out with the Force, and pull my lightsaber over to me. Unconsciously flick the switch to bring the blue blade to life. It wasn't that long ago, then, I realize. They would've changed my crystal to the one I found on Dantooine. I reach into my pocket, and bring the scarlet stone out of that deep chasm. Being dark, I rely on my memory to fill in its nicks and chips-- I can't feel it through the glove I wear. I'm not certain that even without the glove on that I'd be able to feel it.
I stare at it for a moment, and silence fills the room, beyond the harsh breathing. Beyond my own. Then I hurl it across with all the strength I can muster in this weakened state-- it causes a fair sized dent in the once perfectly white wall. That hated, perfect wall. They only wish they were as clean at heart as the avatars they reflect. Yet, I'm certain that if I were to pick that ferrocrete wall apart it would be black at heart.
Exactly like its makers.
Throwing the stone took some of the tension out of me, and I sit back down on the cot in that cell. It was probably a more Dark method of letting go of my frustrations, but it worked. I will have to work on curbing that temper-- if only for the sake of irritating my new Master. I will not let them succeed on pulling me from the Light again.
It's dark in this room, but not in my heart. I glow with a fierce light within-- if one were to probe with the Force, I am certain they would be blinded. Maybe that is my intention.
When they come for me again, I still sit there on the bed, listening to my own breathing, and staring at the face in my memories. And wondering what I did to tear it away from me in all but a thought.
My lightsaber is on the floor again, rolled across, and unnoticed to all. Even when they lead me away, I make no thoughts of attacking. Not now.
I only remember my Master.
And wish I knew what tore us apart.
I can still hear my breathing, if I listen hard enough I can hear the beating of my heart. At least I have that much to return back onto. The breathing is still harsh and mechanical... but it is not afraid. I walk along side of my escorts calmly-- and wonder, is this how a Jedi would look at things?
Is this how my Master looked at things?
And I don't know if I'll ever know.