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?"
