Star Wars Dark Angel Scarlet Dragon

Date: 21 ABY

21 Years After the Battle of Yavin)

Imperial City, Coruscant

The red-clad Imperial guard blinked his watering eyes behind his mask. The stench of the place was disgusting, with drops of stagnant water from the slimy ceiling splashing on his boot. These cells hadn't been used in centuries, having only been recently discovered and reinstated by the Imperial Regent's command. This place wasn't fit for the worst vermin of Coruscant's underbelly, much less for a prisoner of such infamy. The guard wondered why he was there at all, since there was absolutely no way the prisoner could escape. Then again, the Regent wasn't known for subtlety. Whatever point the Regent was making, the guard thought, it had to be working. Or the prisoner was a better fool than a criminal.

The grinding of the stone doors from the far end of the corridor snapped the guard to attention, as it did his comrade on the other side of the cell door. They snapped straight, leveling their ceremonial spears across their chests as the Regent's party stepped through. Their resplendency was a sharp contrast to the murk of the place, and he could smell the scent of priceless perfume through the slits of his helmet. After hours of breathing in muck, he was thankful for it.

His heart thumped beneath his armor. The Regent's volatility and ruthlessness were legend. Whatever was planned for the prisoner inside, it was undoubtedly going to be terrible. He almost felt pity for him.

Almost.

* * *

Searing light woke him through his closed eyes. It blazed outside his lids, intensely, making him wince. Blinking, he tried to open them slowly, to protect them from the onslaught. He only managed to open one. The other was crusted shut.

Gradually, his other senses stirred. There was no floor under his feet or pallet under his back, and he realized he was floating. But the sensation was hardly pleasant: It felt more like millions of microscopic barbs were hooked into every pore of his skin. It hurt worse than any high-noon burn he had ever endured. He did feel movement, however, like he was being turned in a slow, measured circle. Like a carcass over a spit.

The pain of his flesh was quickly overcome by the pounding agony in his skull. It was then when fractured memories of how he came to this place made themselves available; the unrelenting fight, the stark lines of his assailant's mask, and finally, the blow to his head from the butt of a blaster rifle. He now understood why he couldn't open his other eye. It was glued shut with dried blood. He tried to raise his hand to pull it open. He couldn't. He couldn't move at all. He couldn't smell anything.

He couldn't feel anything.

"No," he whispered. He tried to reach out, straining his mind, tried, tried to touch it...

Nothing. The vibration of life, of everything, of existence itself was shut off from him. He was, for the first time in over twenty years, completely and utterly alone.

But panic was stifled by the screech of stone against stone. He squinted through the light that enveloped him. The noise was coming from behind him, and he guessed it was a heavy door, the kind that used hinges and had to be opened manually. Wherever he was, it was ancient. He heard voices behind him, even through the electronic hum of the force-field that enveloped him and blocked him from the Force.

One voice in particular was familiar, agonizingly so. He had heard it hundreds of times over the last two decades, either through public holonet channels or through secret recordings given to him by various spies in the past. But he had heard it in person too: It had been that awful day, when providence had turned her back on him and everyone that he had ever loved. The voice was quiet yet severe, silken yet cold. And female.

"Has he been given medical attention?"

"No, your Grace."

"Any food or water?"

"No, your Grace."

"Good. Surround him."

Judging from the way the sounds and voices echoed, he surmised the room he was in was large, circular in shape, and many kilometers below ground. He heard the stomp of hard boots all around him and the clink of plasteel armor and, if he wasn't mistaken, the hiss and hum of lightsabers igniting.

More steps, just one person, came toward him. He heard a rub of leather, the clicks of needle-thin heels against stone, the clink of heavy jewelry. "If you promise to behave yourself, that you will not use the Force or try any attempt to escape or harm me or my personal guard, I will release you. Do you promise?" He attempted a nod in his immobile state, but it obviously failed. He heard a sigh of exasperation. "Out loud, please."

"Yes." It scraped his throat.

"Yes what?"

He swallowed. It felt like sand going down. "Yes, I promise." But he dared a moment of defiance when he growled, "Your Grace."

"Very well. Release him."

The force-field evaporated, and he dropped, hard, onto his shoulder. He screamed through clenched teeth. He lay panting, choking in air and trying to send it to his shoulder, as if it could take away some of the pain. It didn't. Even breathing proved excruciating. He obviously had ribs broken as well.

But it was there, trickling into his conscience. He reached for it, for its healing touch...and was kicked in the back by one of the guards.

She waited for his screams to stop before asking, "What did I say about using the Force, Luke?"

The blinding light was now replaced by complete darkness, but he lifted his head and waited for his vision to adjust. Soon, he could make out shapes; dark figures, human figures, illuminated by their lightsabers. Details emerged, pale faces set with black eyes and framed by black hair, with red light glinting off black armor fluidly designed to accommodate the statuesque women who wore it. So, he thought, the rumors were true. The Regent used genetically altered Force- strong Dathomir witches as her personal guard. And if the rumors were further true, then their fiery natures had been tempered and their loyalty gained through partial lobotomy. He finally rested his eyes on his captor. Still steeped back in the shadows, he couldn't make out her face. He didn't have to. He knew all too well who she was.

"Give me more light. I want a good look at him." Her command was obeyed. One of the guards pulled a small illuminator from her belt and stuck it to her breastplate. A yellowish hue filled the dim murk until he found himself staring at the Imperial Regent, the Baroness Lylla Sa'thraxxx and the Lady Vader, the Scarlet Dragon herself. Her eyes blazed as white and remorseless as Hoth at high noon.

"Hello, Luke," she murmured. "It's been a long time, my son."

"Don't you DARE call me that," Luke Skywalker spat. The effort caused him to hack bloody spittle. "I am... not your son."

Lylla clucked her tongue against her teeth. "Well, if you're going to be preoccupied with technicalities...." As she stepped closer, Lylla got her good look at the naked, beaten, half-starved man lying before her. She remembered his hair from all those years ago to be blonde and neatly trimmed, but now it was a soiled brown and silver tangle that stuck to his sweat-slimed shoulders. He was scarred, filthy, and, finally, broken.

Luke examined his captor as well. Although she was not Empress in title, she was nothing less than the opulent dictator in appearance. Dressed in her dual colors of scarlet and black and, judging from the light scent of rose that wafted from her, he guessed the skin of the coat was that of the endangered Unniriariin, a creature native to decades-dead Alderaan. Cinched at the waist and high collared, it was a style that she had created, and very few women could successfully imitate: Its cost alone would feed his meager band of Jedi for a whole year. She peeled it off and deftly handed it to one of her guards, exposing the matching leather bodysuit underneath. Her sinuous figure was that of a woman half her age, and her ivory skin showed absolutely no sign of wrinkle or wear. The only indication of her actual years was her hair, or what little he could see of the one long braid that snaked out of her black skullcap: The black streaks that had coursed through her scarlet locks had blanched as white as her eyes. She was a monster, yes, but a beautiful monster. He now understood how she could have snared his father's eye.

You traded your soul for eternal beauty, Luke thought sullenly.

"Amongst other things," she replied. "I rather think of it as a long term investment."

Luke shot her a stunned look. His various agents over the years had all but confirmed that the Baroness was Force-blind. Then he realized that she was using one of her Dathomir guards to read his mind and path his thoughts back to her. He wasn't allowed to use the Force, so he couldn't block them. Clever.

She came a step closer, and folded her hands in front of her. "I am sorry for your mistreatment, Luke. I gave order that you be handled with care...but it seems you put up more of a fight than expected, even when surrounded by three ysalamiri."

He shuddered at the mention of those abominable creatures. Native to the planet Mykyr, they were hard-shelled rodents that had a type of anti-midicholrians in their blood that blocked the Force from any user. He had to fight with nothing more than skill, and he almost succeeded. But his opponent was better armed and armored, and far more brutal. And healthy. "Seems Boba Fett hasn't lost his touch."

"He is the best, even after all these years," Lylla concurred. "And he only seems to get better with age. Of course, his loyalty doesn't come cheap...but he has served the Empire well over the years. He is well worth the price." She began to walk around the contraption he lay in. Running a hand along the control panel, she said, "Remarkable, isn't it? A lost technology which was found in the Imperial Technical archives, dating back to the Clone Wars. A man named... Dooku, I believe...developed it precisely for the purpose of rendering a Jedi completely impotent. Far more efficient than an ysalamiri and far less offensive." She crinkled her nose. "I could never abide the smell of those things."

"Spare me the technical lecture, Lylla," Luke growled. Another boot to the back reminded him of her proper title. He struggled to get back onto his knees. "If you're going to kill me, then kill me. Unless you enjoy drawing out a man's execution."

He dared to look into her eyes, but was surprised by what he saw there—or what he didn't see there, to be more precise. He expected that frigid glare, the sadistic amusement, but instead he saw what could only be construed as a touch of sadness. "I'm not going to kill you, Luke," she stated softly. "I wouldn't dream of murdering my beloved husband's son."

"No. That privilege was for his daughter."

The guard raised her boot again, but Lylla threw up her hand, commanding her back. She looked down on him. "That was...an unfortunate accident," she said. "I had no intention of harming her. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You LURED her to that place and time!" Luke snarled. "You tricked us with the promise of a truce you had NO intention of offering—"

"We extended our hand in peace!" she shot back. "We offered her the Birithi serum, medicine, technology, ships, food. We offered her EVERYTHING!"

"And all you wanted in return were her CHILDREN!"

That's when Lylla's stare grew frigid. "I didn't get them, did I?"

Luke's rage began to stir. "You shot her in the back."

"I didn't shoot anyone. A soldier killed your sister—"

"While she was running away, while she was holding her infant son, you shot her in the back. You killed them both."

Lylla paused. "The trooper who killed Leia and Jacen was immediately put to death," she finally said. "We gave the strictest orders that she come to no harm whatsoever. That trooper was careless, and didn't switch his weapon from to stun. He died for his stupidity."

"So sorry you lost a stormtrooper," Luke muttered. "That certainly makes up for the murder of Leia Organa."

Lylla slapped her hands onto the device's rim and leaned into him. "You think I didn't grieve? You think I felt NOTHING? I wanted to bring all of you here, with us, so we could be a family. A REAL family." She met his eyes. "Your family, Luke."

Luke punched every word. "You are NOT my family. You are a despot and a liar and a murderer—"

"Luke!" Lylla exclaimed, throwing up her hands like an annoyed mother. "Why must you always focus on the means? Why can you not see all the good we have done for you?"

"For ME?" he shouted.

"And for the whole galaxy, of course. Didn't we cure the Birithi plague?"

"The plague YOU unleashed!"

"Even if you could prove that, Luke, who would listen? The thousands of races we saved from extinction? No, see, you burned your bridge to the hearts and imagination of the galaxy when you and your Jedi destroyed the main serum manufacturing plant on Ingramam."

"You know damn well that plant wasn't making serum, Lylla."

"Does it really matter what they were making in there? The only thing that mattered to the people was that you destroyed something that was saving their lives and those of their children." She sighed. "You were their hero, Luke, the New Jedi, the great crusader. Palpatine was dead, Xizor, Thrawnn, the Hutt, all dead. And the galaxy rallied around your cause, proclaiming Leia Chancellor of the New Republic. And you began to rebuild the Jedi Order." She laughed a little. "You almost believed it, didn't you? You thought, for a while, there truly could be a 'Happily Ever After'." Her eyes narrowed. "But then the Birithi plague hit. It started at the Outer Rim, and spread rapidly until it was threatening the Core Worlds in just a matter of months. All resources were poured into finding a cure. And you couldn't."

Despite his awful pain, Luke chuckled. "And that's when you miraculously appeared, Lylla. You and the entire Imperial Remnant. Just jumped out of hyperspace right into Coruscant's atmosphere from wherever the hell you were hiding for three years. Your timing was flawless. As in every scheme you hatch."

She clucked her tongue. "You're still angry that we found the cure first."

"No, I'm angry because you always had it."

"Believe what you want, my son. But we won the war that day. And we ended it peacefully."

"PEACEFULLY??" Luke roared. He doubled over and strangled a scream. "You killed seven trillion people!"

"We saved thirty trillion!" she snapped. "That's all anyone cared about. We became the saviors of the galaxy that day. We retook Coruscant and marched into Imperial City without firing one shot." She came upon him and set her hands on the rim. "The Old Empire was dead, and the Sith Galactic Nation was born. And the people implored you and your sister to surrender the Republic and join in a new era. And you betrayed them."

"I was trying to save them!" he shouted.

"We beat you to it." She let him dwell in his emptiness before changing the subject. "What about slavery, Luke? We have abolished slavery. Isn't that a noble thing?"

He coughed out a sullen laugh. "That won't go into effect for another twenty years."

"Well, what should we have done? Emancipate every slave at once and watch the galactic economy collapse? Even you can't be that naïve." She folded her arms. "One standard generation should be enough time for star systems to accommodate the change from a slave-based economy to a free economy. But the trade of sentient cargo has been strictly regulated and will decrease by twenty percent every year, and all offspring, as of this standard year, born to current slaves are born free citizens. It's not exactly utopian but," her voice became softer, "It is more than your father or I ever had."

Luke looked at her through the tangle of his hair. "You were a slave?"

"A pleasure slave."

He winced. Slavery itself was evil enough, but to be forced into acts of sexual depravity... "I didn't know. I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Are you now?" It was her turn to chuckle. "Does it change your opinion of me?"

"It gives me an insight to your rage and your hatred and why you're making the entire galaxy pay for it—"

"Don't!" she bit out, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Don't you dare play the sensitive Jedi Master with me. You have no idea why I do the things I do. You can't know because you can't see past your own silly pride and your obsolete morals. You know nothing, and your vision of a fair and civilized galactic paradise is myopic and unrealistic." With a bitter huff, she added, "Just like your mother's."

To hell with this! Luke pulled the Force into his broken body and let it surge through his limbs. He lunged at Lylla—but was caught in mid-air and hurled against the wall by one of her Force-strong guards. The other guards were upon him like raptors. One kicked his leg out from under him as he tried to stand. Another kicked him high in the gut.

"Enough," Lylla snapped. She adjusted her gloves. "He can't take anymore." They jerked him up, dragged him over to her and held him on his knees. "Is it really so easy to bait a Jedi Master? Just say nasty things about his mother?" She blew a sigh. "How you eluded us for thirteen years is beyond my comprehension."

"You have no place saying anything about my mother," he hissed at her. "My mother was a queen, a warrior, and an angel. You are a sadist. You are a fiend. A demon from hell!"

Lylla threw him a strange look, a look he couldn't place. And when she spoke, her voice sounded miles away. "Oh Luke, if you only truly knew what you were saying."

"What do you mean by that?"

A small, odd smile. "In time."

"Where are all the Force-sensitives, Lylla?"

The smile melted a bit at the abruptness of the question, and her eyes dimmed. "What are you talking about? The Imperial military is crawling with Force-sensitives—"

"With SITH," he growled. "The military is crawling with Sith." He shook his head. "You even broke The Law of Two. One master, one apprentice. The code goes for Sith too."

"Your father was going to break it anyway," she said. "After all, he had a family to train." She watched Luke visibly shudder at the word "family". She waited for him.

"I want," he finally said, "to know what's happened to all the Force-sensitives. Not Sith or Jedi. Raw untrained Force-sensitives. Where are they?"

She glanced back at him. "We haven't found all them yet."

"You're lying. You're killing them."

Lylla sighed impatiently. "What possible good would it be for us to kill what has become the Empire's greatest asset? We lifted the death sentence on Force-sensitives years ago, which is another thing you should be thanking me for."

The woman's narcissism knew no limits. "Then what happens to them?" he asked.

She regarded him for a moment before walking to the trapping device and sitting on the edge and crossing her long legs. "At first they are offered a very generous position in the Imperial armed forces. Force-sensitives graduate as officers, some even being given their first commission right out of the Academy. And, of course, if they wish to continue their training and pledge themselves fully to the Dark Side of the Force and the Sith, they may train for the title of Darth."

"Sith Lords, dozens of them," Luke muttered.

"All admirals, generals, governors. There isn't a ship in the fleet or a battalion on the ground that is not commanded by a Sith. Trust me, they are hardly mistreated."

"No, just damned." The pride in her voice made him sick. "And what about those who aren't interested? Like some of my Jedi you kidnapped?"

"Those who fit our needs but are unwilling to pledge fealty to the Sith Galactic Empire are put through reprogramming."

"What do you mean, 'reprogramming'?" Lylla led his eyes to her personal guard with her own, and then saw his disgust. "You mean lobotomy."