❝You. Everyone here. This planet. This ship. This sector. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐭...❞ The Chosen One The Demon The Dark Lord ❝...𝘽𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙀𝙈𝙋𝙀𝙍𝙊𝙍.❞ DARTH VADER

There are so many things a Sith can do with the powers granted to them. If these officers had known half of them, merely getting strangled or cut down wouldn't seem so bad after all. They are terrified of his wrath, yet too blissfully ignorant to be grateful for his mercy.

The silence is punctuated by the breathing apparatus. One, two, three heartbeats pass in that unbearable silence. Then the angry hiss of lightsaber ignition. "What. Is. This?" Even through the eternal frown of the helmet, one could hear Lord Vader speak through his teeth.

Turning his gaze away from the deep blue swirling of hyperspace to march out of the bridge of the star destroyer. He almost walks into— . . .

There is an alarm. Mustafarian raiders are attacking the fortress, rappelling up from the cliff face to breach the walls. His healing was forced to an abrupt end. Vader braces to feel the searing pain of air contact again. The Dark Lord is awake... And he is most displeased.

With nothing else to do but wait, he allows sleep to take him. The bacta will keep the pain of the body away for now. But he knows that his dreams will bring their own fresh torments. They always do.

Through it all, Vader keeps his gaze focused on the window, watching as the lavafalls churn and roll across Mustafar's hellish landscape. It is only when he feels the merciful respite of the bacta as he is lowered into the tank that he lets himself shut his eyes.

Used to the routine by now, the Dark Lord opens his mouth, and relaxes as a breathing tube is inserted down his throat, connected to the mask that in turn is hooked up to an oxygen tank full of healing gas. Below him, a large glass cylinder full of clear, gentle bacta.

Even with synthskin, Vader feels his body start to burn once contact is made with the outside world. The mist only exacerbates the familiar pain. Servants, both organic and droid, hurry to place their lord into the apparatus that loudly whirrs as he is raised into the air.

In a chamber within the heights of Fortress Vader, the air hisses as a special compound of purified oxygen and antiseptic mist is sprayed through vents and sprinklers. Ever so slowly, black armor heavy with equipment is removed, followed by masterfully built augmented limbs.

𝕵𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖔 𝕷𝖊𝖊 ᴼʳⁱᵍⁱⁿᵃˡ ᶜʰᵃʳᵃᶜᵗᵉʳ Bi | 38 y/o | Multiship | Force sensitive | any era Sfw/nsfw ( ⟲ + ♡ ) #swrp

https://t.co/Oc2nnSvrTl

Forgiveness is not the way of... . . . ... Just don't do it again.

It is ill manners and provokes a diminished image of oneself. A swear or two is of no consequence, but from a child, or even an adult, it only betrays an immature mental apparatus. There is a reason he uses more refined speech.

There are a great many things he says and does, but very few of which should be imitated. Especially by someone so young. If he were to slip out of an airlock or crash a speeder, would she be so quick to do the same?

If she knows what's good for her, She 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 watch her mouth from this moment onward.

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸.ᐟ” ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ

One day, the Sith Lord will be able to repair his lungs. One day, he'll bring cruel revenge on the man who destroyed them. One day... Vader straightens his posture and gets back to work in the hopes that his tinkering will occupy his mind again.

Darth Vader gives himself a moment to recover, and outstretches an open, black-gloved metal hand towards the tool. And like an obedient pet, it places itself in his palm. He turns it in his grasp, gazing at his warped reflection. The pain will be with him all day. Yet again. +

But the blacklung also makes every cough its own exquisite agony. It comes through the helmet's speaker as bursts of loud static. It's pathetic. Miserable. Like an old man who spent long decades in a dark mine and now withers away, decrepit and sick. How far he has fallen. +