[ The castle on Mustafar is coming along all too slowly. Possibly, he could wait out learning a different way to raise it - to take advantage of the dormant powers festering here - but Darth Vader has no need for patience and living next to his Master on Imperial Center is honestly becoming unsustainable for the both of them.
For Sidious, especially.
He's watching the construction process from his throne room, hands clasped behind his back. The building site is a treacherous place and they've lost many workers already, underestimating the lava and its gasses, the instability of the terrain, the darkness within it. He'd exchange them for droids if he cared - but in this Empire of Sidious' construction, all beings remain disposable and a weak, organic work force is just another way to maintain the balance of power.
His comm pings. The first prisoner of the complex, it seems, is ready to be interrogated. It's a political enemy, his Master has told him by the name of Cyne Billet, one important enough to become Vader's assignment despite the fact that nearly no one ever is; one that may lead them to Padmé Amidala who's gone into hiding, pulling invisible but efficient strings to counteract him, in the Senate and beyond. She's a bug, says Sidious, but even the tiniest, most insignificant bugs can cause contamination in any delicate systems.
It's not his place to doubt his Master's words.
So he leaves it there.
He could bring up an image of the prisoner, data files, logs, if he wanted to. His eye lenses can play back the information easily. But this assignment matters about as much to him as anything else these days and thus, he simply heads for the cell and pulls the door aside, stepping in and freezing in the doorway, his artificial breath cycling through several rounds while he stares, utterly confounded.
[ Claude has said goodbye to everything a handful of times already while waiting for what's coming. He's gone through the small gallery of people who've helped him so far, before his ship was boarded by the Empire and he was taken to this place, for reasons he doesn't know and doesn't care about either, he's said goodbye Bail, goodbye Padmé, goodbye Akiva's mausims, goodbye Paris' old rebellious spirit... Well, it's a pretty short list. Most importantly, he said goodbye to Anakin what feels like a lifetime ago. So long ago that it feels like he was someone else before it happened, like he became another person afterwards. Which, for all intents and purposes, he did, right? He's Cyne Billet now. No one knows Cyne Billet. No one cares about Cyne Billet. No one loves Cyne Billet.
He touches the kyber pendant beneath his shirt, just a soft touch of fingertips, almost a caress, if he thought touching the heart of Anakin's lightsaber in any way compared to touching him. But sometimes what you get isn't what you wanted and you got the choice between either loving it as is or being half a person without.
Claude isn't ready to be half a person. If he's gonna die tonight, he wants to die whole.
Hearing heavy footfalls come down the hallway outside, he remains seated on the narrow bunk, dropping his hands into his lap so as not to give away the kyber too easily. Yeah, if he's gonna die tonight, he's dying with the crystal on his body. It's the only way he can imagine going, not stripped, not bare, not alone.
The door slides aside and he has to look up, and up, and up, the person entering tall and looming over him like a tower, a whisper of cape and the shine of metal - everywhere. Metal. Unwittingly, Claude remembers Anakin's mechno arm. He remembers the touch of him. He remembers.
Swallowing hard, he runs his gaze over the outline of the figure in front of him, waiting for him to do something, act, react. Except, nothing happens. Claude raises his chin, lips a thin line, his jaw set. Padmé and Bail have known there were whispers of some background lackey, but no one knew who they were, what they did.
But that's impossible. He was told - it's impossible. Once Sidious had failed to ensure Claude's safety following the end of the Clone Wars, after he'd died because he was sent to Paris in the midst of a conflict he should have never been near - naturally, Vader had attempted to recover what was left of him. He'd known, of course, that an explosion leaves little left of people when they're caught in the midst of it but even so, he'd wanted to go there. To see, for himself. Unfortunately, his... health had not permitted it (his Master had seen to that, Vader knows very well, because grief is not as powerful as anger and his Master wants a powerful apprentice, not a man crippled by anything, least of all grief). And once he'd been strong enough to decide for himself, he'd lost the motivation to do anything about it.
Claude, after all, was dead.
There was nothing left of Claude.
And yet, here, in this very cell... He stares. Wishes, not for the first time, that he could take his mask off and actually look at him, just to ascertain that his eyes aren't tricking him. But he can sense it, of course, not just him, with his familiar energy, his familiar everything - and also, the singing kyber underneath his shirt, calling out to him with faint, distant recognition. The past is such a long way behind them; it should not have been possible for anything, any remains, any echoes, to catch up at all.
And yet.
They're watching each other now, Claude with a wary expression on his face, chin raised, jaw set. Waiting, no doubt, for what the Empire promises all its enemies.
Deciding that if he can't make any choices, any decisions, at least he can move, Vader turns his back on the other man, the remains of his heart screeching in his chest to turn right back, pick him up and run away. Instead, mechanically, he opens the door and says: ]
[ There's nothing to read on the helmet. There's nothing to read on the body language either, weighed down as it is by seemingly endless amounts of metal, so when the other person finally moves, turning away, Claude frowns, feels himself tense up in expectation of something that can't be predicted, although sure - everyone knows what the Empire does to traitors and public menaces. Societal enemies. Everyone knows.
Claude knows, too.
Come, says the other man, voice dark and deep and heavily distorted by what must be a modulator, carrying the word from his lips behind the mask into the room between them. Standing up slowly, Claude glances around the cell, not sure what to do with himself. Isn't he supposed to be cuffed for a transfer? In case he'd managed to smuggle in a fork or something and wanted to try it against the thick layers of cape protecting the man's back as he opens the door.
Doesn't the Empire have protocols?
No, Claude knows for sure, they do. Knows better than most.
A bit stupidly, he looks down at his hands, wrists unbound and his range of movement unrestricted. Naturally, he isn't gonna ask his captor whether they can put some handcuffs on him, please, Claude is many things, certainly more jaded and more uncaring than two years ago, but he still isn't stupid. He lets his hands drop to his sides, straightens up, on perfect eye-level with the man's shoulder and little else as he steps forward, following behind him. Kriff, he's tall. Dwarfs everything around them, Claude included.
Scaring tactics.
Don't work on him. ]
Guess there's no point to asking where we're going.
[ He says, deliberately not phrasing it like a question, since the meaning is more because I'm gonna die either way and I don't care than because you're not gonna tell me and I do. ]
[ He turns away without answering and it's not just because he isn't actually certain himself - he wasn't supposed to move the prisoner at all - but first and foremost... that's such a typically Claude thing to do, to straighten up and demand a little space for himself, as much as he dares. That small act of defiance - even if a laughably bad strategic choice on the other man's part if he actually wants to live and maybe he doesn't, really - goes straight past all the implants in his body, the burns, the festering wounds and hits him harder than any of it. It makes Anakin Skywalker resonate.
After all, if anyone believes in facing the darkness as opposed to letting it conquer you, it's Claude.
Anakin used to believe in him.
Though he's behind his back as they walk out and beyond his field of vision, Claude takes up all available space within his mind now - behind the mental shields he's erected to keep Sidious challenged, if not to keep him out, there's just the residual image of the other man in that cell, looking older (two years, it's been only two years) and resigned to his faith. Claude. Claude.
Claude who is dead.
Claude, who is alive.
He walks onwards, past security personnel, his breathing seemingly louder than ever in the stillness between them. He doesn't know what to say. He wants them both off this forsaken planet, off and away, he wants to pick him up and hold him with the hands he's got left. He doesn't want them to be here. That's all he knows. This place, this planet, gives nothing to anyone, it takes and inevitably, you lose. They've had enough of that, the two of them.
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no subject
For Sidious, especially.
He's watching the construction process from his throne room, hands clasped behind his back. The building site is a treacherous place and they've lost many workers already, underestimating the lava and its gasses, the instability of the terrain, the darkness within it. He'd exchange them for droids if he cared - but in this Empire of Sidious' construction, all beings remain disposable and a weak, organic work force is just another way to maintain the balance of power.
His comm pings. The first prisoner of the complex, it seems, is ready to be interrogated. It's a political enemy, his Master has told him by the name of Cyne Billet, one important enough to become Vader's assignment despite the fact that nearly no one ever is; one that may lead them to Padmé Amidala who's gone into hiding, pulling invisible but efficient strings to counteract him, in the Senate and beyond. She's a bug, says Sidious, but even the tiniest, most insignificant bugs can cause contamination in any delicate systems.
It's not his place to doubt his Master's words.
So he leaves it there.
He could bring up an image of the prisoner, data files, logs, if he wanted to. His eye lenses can play back the information easily. But this assignment matters about as much to him as anything else these days and thus, he simply heads for the cell and pulls the door aside, stepping in and freezing in the doorway, his artificial breath cycling through several rounds while he stares, utterly confounded.
There's a dead man in the cell. ]
no subject
He touches the kyber pendant beneath his shirt, just a soft touch of fingertips, almost a caress, if he thought touching the heart of Anakin's lightsaber in any way compared to touching him. But sometimes what you get isn't what you wanted and you got the choice between either loving it as is or being half a person without.
Claude isn't ready to be half a person. If he's gonna die tonight, he wants to die whole.
Hearing heavy footfalls come down the hallway outside, he remains seated on the narrow bunk, dropping his hands into his lap so as not to give away the kyber too easily. Yeah, if he's gonna die tonight, he's dying with the crystal on his body. It's the only way he can imagine going, not stripped, not bare, not alone.
The door slides aside and he has to look up, and up, and up, the person entering tall and looming over him like a tower, a whisper of cape and the shine of metal - everywhere. Metal. Unwittingly, Claude remembers Anakin's mechno arm. He remembers the touch of him. He remembers.
Swallowing hard, he runs his gaze over the outline of the figure in front of him, waiting for him to do something, act, react. Except, nothing happens. Claude raises his chin, lips a thin line, his jaw set. Padmé and Bail have known there were whispers of some background lackey, but no one knew who they were, what they did.
If this is them? The answer is: not much. ]
no subject
But that's impossible. He was told - it's impossible. Once Sidious had failed to ensure Claude's safety following the end of the Clone Wars, after he'd died because he was sent to Paris in the midst of a conflict he should have never been near - naturally, Vader had attempted to recover what was left of him. He'd known, of course, that an explosion leaves little left of people when they're caught in the midst of it but even so, he'd wanted to go there. To see, for himself. Unfortunately, his... health had not permitted it (his Master had seen to that, Vader knows very well, because grief is not as powerful as anger and his Master wants a powerful apprentice, not a man crippled by anything, least of all grief). And once he'd been strong enough to decide for himself, he'd lost the motivation to do anything about it.
Claude, after all, was dead.
There was nothing left of Claude.
And yet, here, in this very cell... He stares. Wishes, not for the first time, that he could take his mask off and actually look at him, just to ascertain that his eyes aren't tricking him. But he can sense it, of course, not just him, with his familiar energy, his familiar everything - and also, the singing kyber underneath his shirt, calling out to him with faint, distant recognition. The past is such a long way behind them; it should not have been possible for anything, any remains, any echoes, to catch up at all.
And yet.
They're watching each other now, Claude with a wary expression on his face, chin raised, jaw set. Waiting, no doubt, for what the Empire promises all its enemies.
Deciding that if he can't make any choices, any decisions, at least he can move, Vader turns his back on the other man, the remains of his heart screeching in his chest to turn right back, pick him up and run away. Instead, mechanically, he opens the door and says: ]
Come.
no subject
Claude knows, too.
Come, says the other man, voice dark and deep and heavily distorted by what must be a modulator, carrying the word from his lips behind the mask into the room between them. Standing up slowly, Claude glances around the cell, not sure what to do with himself. Isn't he supposed to be cuffed for a transfer? In case he'd managed to smuggle in a fork or something and wanted to try it against the thick layers of cape protecting the man's back as he opens the door.
Doesn't the Empire have protocols?
No, Claude knows for sure, they do. Knows better than most.
A bit stupidly, he looks down at his hands, wrists unbound and his range of movement unrestricted. Naturally, he isn't gonna ask his captor whether they can put some handcuffs on him, please, Claude is many things, certainly more jaded and more uncaring than two years ago, but he still isn't stupid. He lets his hands drop to his sides, straightens up, on perfect eye-level with the man's shoulder and little else as he steps forward, following behind him. Kriff, he's tall. Dwarfs everything around them, Claude included.
Scaring tactics.
Don't work on him. ]
Guess there's no point to asking where we're going.
[ He says, deliberately not phrasing it like a question, since the meaning is more because I'm gonna die either way and I don't care than because you're not gonna tell me and I do. ]
no subject
After all, if anyone believes in facing the darkness as opposed to letting it conquer you, it's Claude.
Anakin used to believe in him.
Though he's behind his back as they walk out and beyond his field of vision, Claude takes up all available space within his mind now - behind the mental shields he's erected to keep Sidious challenged, if not to keep him out, there's just the residual image of the other man in that cell, looking older (two years, it's been only two years) and resigned to his faith. Claude. Claude.
Claude who is dead.
Claude, who is alive.
He walks onwards, past security personnel, his breathing seemingly louder than ever in the stillness between them. He doesn't know what to say. He wants them both off this forsaken planet, off and away, he wants to pick him up and hold him with the hands he's got left. He doesn't want them to be here. That's all he knows. This place, this planet, gives nothing to anyone, it takes and inevitably, you lose. They've had enough of that, the two of them.
No, he will tolerate no further losses. ]