Star Wars: Starkiller

From the moment Vader left, his shadow ceased to cast over this prison. He had not reappeared, and with each passing day, the certainty of his abandonment became more tangible. His intention seemed clear: to leave me here to die, forgotten, an expendable link in his endless machinery of control. Or perhaps he hoped that despair, that silent enemy, would consume me completely, leading me to blurt out information in a final act of weakness.

The time spent in this place made me realize that something was profoundly wrong. The sensation was diffuse, elusive, like an echo resonating without form or direction. I had always perceived the Force as an inner flame, a spark that connected me to the universe, making me feel alive in every fiber of my being. When I used it, the world took on a vibrant, almost electrifying hue. I felt powerful, invincible, as if I could face armies with a simple glance and bend wills with a gesture. But now... that flame had weakened. I felt extinguished, like a candle exposed to the wind, unable to resist. The prison, with its bare walls and perpetual monotony, seemed to absorb every spark of vitality, leaving me immersed in a darkness that was not on the side I knew.

The nights were endless torment. Sleep, when I managed to catch it, became a window into the same nightmare: the moment my father was killed by Vader. I would relive that scene over and over again, his face distorted by pain, the echo of his scream echoing in my mind. It was unbearable. I preferred wakefulness, as tedious as it was, to facing the rawness of that memory. I would spend hours staring at the cell walls, trying to keep the weight of the past from crushing me completely.

Yet there was something else, something deeper and more terrifying than the lack of rest or the oppression of these walls. The passion, the fire that once fueled my connection to the dark side, seemed to have been extinguished. In its place, only a cold, infinite void remained, like the abyss that opens beneath the feet of a condemned man. I no longer felt the anger that once drove me, nor the hatred that strengthened me, nor even the suffering that was my driving force. Everything that once defined my being was gone, leaving an empty shell.

As the days went by, that disconnection became more evident. It was as if the Force itself was abandoning me, slowly and inexorably withdrawing, leaving me trapped in my own insignificance. Was this prison stripping me of my power, or had I begun to lose it without realizing it long before I arrived here? The answer was slipping out of my grasp, mocking my helplessness.

I had tried to meditate, to search the depths of my being for a trace of what I once was. But even in meditation, I felt the dark side, that force that had always been my ally, fading away. It was like a river slowly drying up, leaving only cracks in the earth. What would be left of me when that connection was completely gone?

It was those questions that led me to recall one of Vader's lessons, his words as sharp as the edge of his lightsaber.

"The dark side is emotion, my apprentice. It is your passion, your hatred and our desire that fuels the Force. That is what makes us strong. Remember, my apprentice: peace is a lie, there is only passion."

At the time, I simply nodded, taking his words as unwavering dogma. But now, lost in the emptiness of this cell, those same words resonated with a different weight, as if in their simplicity they hid a deeper meaning.

I had come to understand: I no longer felt any of those emotions within myself. My time with the crew, brief as it was, had taken its toll on me. Despite our differences, they had passed on to me something I never thought possible: their compassion, their altruism and, above all, their love. Emotions that, for someone like me, an instrument of the dark side, were little short of poison. They were a weakness I could not afford, not if I wished to survive... not if I wished to escape.

If I wanted to find a way out, I would have to search deep within myself for those emotions that once made me strong, those that defined who I really was. But how?

The answer came, not by conscious reflection, but by instinct. I had to remember the root of my hatred. What drove me? What fueled the flame that once burned so brightly? I closed my eyes, ready to dig into the darkest corners of my mind, and then I felt it: a whisper. Barely a whisper, faint as the brush of the wind, but unmistakable. The dark side was calling me.

I let myself be carried away by that seductive voice, allowing my consciousness to spiral down into its depths. And there, in that abyss, visions began to appear, sharp and cruel as blades: my father's face in his last moments, Vader's blade piercing his body, every duel I fought with him, every defeat that cost me punishment. I remembered the scars that marked my skin, the blows, the scoldings, the humiliations. But above all, I remembered his betrayal.

Vader. I hated him with every fiber of my being. I hated what he had done to me, what he had taken from me. I hated his weakness in not destroying me with his own hands, relegating me to starve to death in this prison. But what I hated most of all was that he who had treated me like a slave was nothing but a slave himself, subject to the machinations of the Emperor. And at the thought of the Emperor, fury spread like an uncontrollable flame. I hated his existence, his absolute dominion over the galaxy, his constant manipulation of everything and everyone. I hated being just another piece on his damned board.

"I HATE HIM!"

The scream escaped my throat with a force I had never known before, echoing through the cell like a primal roar. Then, something interrupted my fury: a thud on the wall in front of me. I turned my head and saw what had happened. The reinforced metal of the cell, designed to contain even a Force user, showed a significant dent. It could only mean one thing.

"A Force scream..." I muttered, without even realizing it.

Vader had told me about this technique, a phenomenon that emerged from an involuntary burst of the Force, a raw manifestation of the dark side. It was a shock wave, a tangible echo of the repressed power of its practitioners.

But that was not the most important thing. I felt it: a spark. Passion and hatred, faint but undeniable, had been rekindled within me. It was an awakening that made, without realizing it, my lips curl into a smile. That smile soon turned into a low chuckle, almost a murmur, that grew with each second until it turned into uncontrollable guffaws.

"Ha... ha, ha, ha... HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Be still, 'Sith Lord!' When I come out of this confinement, you will pay for all your transgressions with your blood! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

My voice had changed, deepened by the dark side, resonating with a tone I barely recognized as my own. My laughter amplified, echoing through the cell, and then I noticed it: a small crack had formed in the handcuffs that shackled me.

The dark side had returned to me, and with it, a promise of revenge.

---

Without even intending to, Galen had generated a reverberation in the Force, a wave charged with hatred and despair that swept across the vast reaches of the galaxy.

This disturbance, faint but unmistakable, could only be perceived by those with a deep connection to the dark side, a power reserved for the most fearsome masters of its darkness.

Even so, Darth Vader, immersed in a mission in a remote corner of the galaxy, remained oblivious to this echo. Whether it was because of the immense distance that separated him or because his senses were dulled by his own whirlwind of emotions, a mixture of searing hatred and an unfathomable sadness he would never admit to, made the disturbance go unnoticed by him.

Someone else, however, did feel it.

A being whose connection to the dark side eclipsed even that of Vader, a master of darkness whose power and cunning were unmatched and stood at the center of the Galaxy.

---

(Meanwhile on Coruscant...)

At the top of a tower that dominated the landscape of the capital city, a hooded old man sat on a throne that radiated authority. The Emperor's office was cold and austere, illuminated only by the glow of the countless buildings that made up the endless urban skyline of Coruscant. There, in the silence of his chambers, Darth Sidious, the Dark Lord of the Sith, slowly raised his head, pausing his concentration on the reports in front of him.

He had sensed something.

The disturbance in the Force came as a subtle but unmistakable ripple, a distant echo charged with anger, despair... and hatred. It was but an aftershock, a reverberation of something far more intense, but still enough to capture his attention. The Emperor's yellowish eyes narrowed, and a smile snaked across his wrinkled lips.

Mas Amedda, the faithful Chagrian attendant who stood nearby, noticed the change in his master's countenance.

"Are you feeling well, my Emperor?" he asked in a tone of genuine concern.

Sidious did not respond at first. His smile widened, and his mind plunged into the tide of possibilities that echo suggested. Finally, he broke the silence, his hissing voice laden with dark satisfaction.

"Easy, my old friend. I'm feeling perfectly fine. In fact, you might say I feel... exceptional."

Mas Amedda cocked his head slightly, puzzled, but did not interrupt the Emperor, who continued to speak, this time in a lower, more thoughtful tone, as if conversing with himself.

"The Force, ever capricious, seems to have given me a gift. A spark, distant but promising... Yes, I believe the time has come to seek a replacement for Lord Vader."

A throaty laugh began to erupt from Sidious' throat, growing with each word.

"Hahahahaha... Yes! A new heir to the legacy of the Sith.... One worthy to bear the true power of the dark side."

The laughter echoed through the room, chilling the atmosphere. But Amedda, though accustomed to the Emperor's commanding presence, could not help but feel a shiver run through her body. Confusion was still painted on his face, but he knew better than to ask.