The last thing Marcus Chen remembered was typing a fourteen-paragraph essay on Reddit about why Mara Jade was the single greatest character in the Expanded Universe and why her erasure from canon was proof positive that Disney had no understanding of what made Star Wars great. He had been particularly passionate about this topic, having consumed his seventh energy drink of the evening and approximately two thousand calories worth of cheese puffs, when his heart—apparently fed up with thirty-two years of this exact lifestyle—decided to simply stop.
No warning. No dramatic clutching of his chest. Just a sudden, absolute cessation of biological function, his body slumping forward into his keyboard and mashing out a final, incomprehensible string of characters that probably looked like a stroke to anyone who found his corpse.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The rhythmic sound pierced through oblivion like a thermal detonator through a Hutt's palace. Marcus's consciousness swam upward through layers of darkness, struggling toward awareness with all the grace of a drunk bantha navigating a minefield. Something was wrong. Something was fundamentally, catastrophically wrong with his body in ways that his sluggish brain couldn't quite process.
And then he heard the breathing.
KHHHHH-PURRRRR.
KHHHHH-PURRRRR.
It was coming from him. That iconic, terrifying, absolutely unmistakable mechanical respiration was emanating from his own chest, his own lungs, his own—
Marcus's eyes snapped open.
Red. Everything was red, filtered through a heads-up display that looked like it had been designed by an engineer who actively hated the person who would be wearing it. Data scrolled across his vision in a language that should have been incomprehensible but somehow made perfect sense: oxygen saturation levels, suit pressure, internal temperature, life support status, all of it rendered in angular Aurebesh script that his brain translated automatically.
He was lying on a medical bed. His body—what remained of it—was encased in black durasteel armor, heavy and oppressive and absolutely agonizing in ways he hadn't known agony could exist. His limbs were wrong, mechanical, responding to his mental commands with a slight delay that spoke of recent installation. His chest was a ruin of scar tissue and cybernetic implants, visible in his mind's eye through the suit's internal sensors.
And his face...
He couldn't feel his face. Couldn't feel anything above the neck except pain and the cold press of a helmet that had been fused to his skull by methods he didn't want to contemplate.
I'm Darth Vader, he thought, and the realization hit him like a Star Destroyer emerging from hyperspace. I died arguing about Star Wars on the internet, and now I'm actually, literally, genuinely Darth Vader.
For exactly three seconds, Marcus Chen experienced total existential paralysis.
Then, slowly, impossibly, a smile spread across his scarred lips—a smile that no one would ever see beneath the mask, a smile that contained thirty-two years of frustrated fandom, dead-end jobs, and the quiet desperation of a man who had never felt truly powerful in his entire pathetic existence.
I'm Darth Vader.
I have the Force.
I have a lightsaber.
I am the most terrifying being in the galaxy, second only to the Emperor himself, and unlike Anakin Skywalker, I actually know EXACTLY what I'm doing.
A sound escaped his vocoder—a deep, rumbling noise that made the medical droids attending to him physically recoil in alarm. It took Marcus a moment to realize he was laughing. The laugh of Darth Vader was not a pleasant sound. It was mechanical and cold and utterly devoid of human warmth, a noise that suggested terrible things being contemplated by a mind unconstrained by mercy.
It was perfect.
"Lord Vader." The voice came from the foot of his bed, and Marcus—no, he was Vader now, he needed to think of himself as Vader if he was going to survive this—slowly turned his helmet toward the speaker. "You have awakened at last. I confess, I was beginning to fear your injuries had claimed more than just your limbs."
Emperor Sheev Palpatine stood before him in the flesh—wrinkled, yellow-eyed, radiating Dark Side energy like a reactor on the verge of meltdown. He was exactly as Marcus had always imagined him, exactly as Ian McDiarmid had portrayed him across three decades of Star Wars media: ancient, malevolent, and absolutely swimming in barely-concealed satisfaction at the broken weapon laid out before him.
You think you've won, old man, Vader thought, careful to keep his mental shields locked tight. You think you've created the perfect servant—broken, dependent, utterly in your power. But you have no idea what you're actually dealing with.
"Master," Vader intoned, and even he was impressed by how much subservience he managed to inject into the word while simultaneously imagining Palpatine being thrown down a reactor shaft. "I live."
Palpatine's thin lips curled into what might have been a smile on a less horrifying face. "Indeed you do, my apprentice. The medical droids were uncertain you would survive the reconstruction. Your former Master was quite... thorough... in his attempt to destroy you."
The mention of Obi-Wan Kenobi sent a spike of genuine rage through Vader's newly-installed neural pathways—Anakin's rage, bleeding through from whatever remnant of the original consciousness still lurked in the recesses of this broken body. For a moment, the emotion was overwhelming, a red tide of fury and betrayal that threatened to consume his carefully maintained control.
And then Vader realized something beautiful.
He didn't have to fight it.
The Dark Side wanted him to be angry. It wanted him to rage and hate and destroy. And for the first time in either of his lives, there was no reason to resist those impulses. No social constraints, no fear of consequences, no pathetic moral qualms to hold him back.
He was a Sith Lord. Anger was his birthright.
"Kenobi," Vader growled, savoring the venom in his voice, the way the word seemed to echo with murderous promise. "Will suffer for what he has done. When I find him—and I will find him—his death will be legendary. I will make him beg for the mercy I will never grant."
Palpatine's eyes glittered with approval. "Excellent. Let your hatred fuel you, Lord Vader. It is the source of your power."
Yeah, thanks for the tip, you withered prune, Vader thought. I've literally read every single Dark Side philosophy book in the Expanded Universe. I probably know more about Sith doctrine than you do.
Outwardly, he simply inclined his helmet in acknowledgment.
The Emperor swept toward the exit, his black robes billowing behind him in a way that Marcus had always assumed was CGI-enhanced but now realized was probably just Force-powered dramatic effect. At the threshold, Palpatine paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Rest and recover, my apprentice. The Empire requires its enforcer, and there is much work to be done. Your new flagship, the Devastator, awaits your command when you are ready."
The door hissed closed behind him, and Vader was alone with his thoughts, his medical droids, and the dawning realization that he had been handed the ultimate power fantasy on a silver platter.
Okay, he thought, allowing his scarred face to stretch into another hidden grin. Let's assess the situation.
According to his suit's internal chronometer, it was currently three weeks after the events of Revenge of the Sith. The Empire was freshly established, the Jedi Order was being systematically exterminated, and Padmé Amidala was dead—taking with her any possibility of redemption through love that the original Anakin might have clung to.
In the Original Timeline, this was when Vader began his slow descent into bitter servitude, trapped in an agonizing suit that Palpatine had deliberately designed to be crippling, tormented by memories of everything he had lost, nursing a hatred for his Master that he was too broken to act upon.
But Marcus Chen was not Anakin Skywalker.
He didn't love Padmé. He didn't feel crushing guilt over the younglings. He didn't harbor any secret hope for redemption or reunion with his lost family. He was a Star Wars fan who had been given the incredible, impossible, fantastic opportunity to actually be Darth Vader—and he intended to enjoy every single second of it.
Step one, he decided, staring at the gray ceiling of his medical suite. Embrace the role. I'm Vader now. Not Marcus pretending to be Vader, not some conflicted anti-hero trying to secretly undermine the Empire. I am the Dark Lord of the Sith, and I'm going to be the most TERRIFYING version of Vader this galaxy has ever seen.
Step two: Power. Palpatine designed this suit to be limiting, to keep me weak and dependent. I need to find ways to enhance it—or work around its limitations—without drawing his suspicion.
Step three: Don't be an idiot. I know how this story ends. I know about Luke, about the Rebellion, about the second Death Star. That knowledge is an incredible advantage, but only if I play my cards right.
Step four: Have fun. I spent thirty-two years being a nobody. Now I'm a god. Time to act like it.
The Dark Side hummed around him, vast and seductive and absolutely delighted by his intentions. It didn't care about his past life, didn't question the source of his consciousness, didn't demand explanations for why Darth Vader had suddenly developed such clarity of purpose. It only cared that he was willing to embrace his anger, his hatred, his desire for power.
And embrace them he would.
With enthusiasm.
Three days later, Vader emerged from the medical suite a changed being—or rather, a being who had finally achieved his true potential. The medical droids had completed their work, calibrating his prosthetics, fine-tuning his life support, adjusting his suit's internal mechanisms until he could move with something approaching fluid grace.
He still hurt. The pain was constant, grinding, absolutely inescapable—every breath a reminder of the fire that had consumed his original body, every step a lesson in the cost of failure. But Vader had discovered something interesting about pain during his recovery.
It made him stronger.
The Dark Side fed on suffering, and Vader had suffering in abundance. When he reached for the Force, it responded with an eagerness that shocked even him, surging through his broken body like electricity through a conduit. He could feel the cosmic energy field in ways that made all his years of imagining seem pathetically inadequate.
Every living being on the Star Destroyer was a candle flame in his awareness, their emotions readable as easily as holotext. Fear, ambition, boredom, lust—the crew's feelings washed over him in constant waves, data points that he could use to predict and manipulate their behavior. When he walked the corridors, officers scrambled to get out of his way, pressing themselves against walls as if hoping to phase through them and escape his attention.
It was intoxicating.
"Lord Vader." Captain Terrinald Screed—a man who Marcus recognized from his extensive knowledge of Imperial naval command—approached with the kind of nervous deference that was rapidly becoming Vader's favorite seasoning for social interactions. "The Devastator is fully prepared for your command. All systems are operational, and the crew is at your disposal."
Vader turned slowly, savoring the way Screed's composure cracked under the weight of his attention. The captain was a veteran of the Clone Wars, a competent officer who had served with distinction in dozens of battles, and he was currently sweating through his uniform under the gaze of a being who could kill him with a thought.
This, Vader reflected, is exactly what being a Sith Lord should feel like.
"Very good, Captain," he rumbled, his vocoder transforming the words into something appropriately threatening. "Set course for the Outer Rim. I have received intelligence regarding Jedi survivors that requires... personal attention."
Screed saluted with almost comical speed. "At once, Lord Vader."
As the captain scurried away to relay orders, Vader strode toward the viewport and allowed himself a moment of genuine appreciation. The Devastator was an Imperial I-class Star Destroyer, 1.6 kilometers of pure military power containing enough firepower to subjugate a planet. Its crew of 46,000 personnel existed solely to serve his will. Its TIE fighter complement of 72 fighters stood ready to launch at his command.
And it was his.
Not Palpatine's, not the Empire's—his. Oh, technically it belonged to the Imperial Navy, and yes, he answered to the Emperor, but in practical terms? Vader was the absolute master of everything he surveyed. If he wanted someone killed, they died. If he wanted a planet bombarded, it burned. If he wanted to spend the next three hours practicing lightsaber forms in the main hangar while junior officers watched in terrified awe, nobody was going to stop him.
Thirty-two years of taking orders from middle managers who couldn't find their own backsides with a map and a guide droid, he thought. And now I give the orders. The universe has a sense of humor after all.
The stars stretched into lines as the Devastator entered hyperspace, and Vader allowed himself to sink into meditation. There was much to learn about his new body's capabilities, and only one way to truly test them.
He needed to kill something.
The intelligence report had identified a small group of Jedi survivors operating on the agri-world of Cerea, hiding among the native population while attempting to coordinate with other scattered remnants of the Order. Three confirmed Force-sensitives: a Cerean Master who had escaped the initial Purge, and two human Knights who had been on a diplomatic mission during Order 66.
Standard Imperial doctrine would have called for a prolonged ground campaign, possibly supported by Inquisitors, with the goal of capturing the Jedi for interrogation before execution. It was a process that could take weeks and would almost certainly result in civilian casualties that might stir up local resentment.
Vader had a different plan.
"I will deploy alone," he announced to the assembled officers, watching their faces cycle through confusion, concern, and ultimately terrified acceptance. "No ground forces. No air support. The Devastator will maintain orbital position and await my signal."
Commander Jhared, a graying man who had apparently been assigned as Vader's tactical advisor, stepped forward with obvious reluctance. "My Lord, with respect, three Jedi—including a Master—represent a significant threat. Perhaps a more... cautious approach..."
He trailed off as Vader turned to face him, the mask's optical sensors focusing on the commander with an intensity that could almost be felt as physical pressure.
"Are you suggesting," Vader said, his vocoder dropping to a register that promised imminent violence, "that I am incapable of eliminating three Jedi?"
Jhared's face went the color of curdled blue milk. "N-no, my Lord, I merely—"
"Good." Vader returned his attention to the viewport. "Prepare my shuttle. I will return with confirmation of their deaths."
Twenty minutes later, his personal Lambda-class shuttle descended through Cerea's atmosphere, cutting through wispy clouds toward the coordinates that Imperial Intelligence had provided. The planet was beautiful in the way that all life-bearing worlds were beautiful—green and blue and absolutely irrelevant to his purposes. He wasn't here to appreciate the scenery.
He was here to hunt.
The shuttle touched down at the edge of a vast agricultural complex, kilometers of carefully cultivated fields stretching toward the horizon beneath a pale yellow sun. Vader disembarked alone, leaving the shuttle's pilot with instructions to maintain position and minimal sensor activity. He wanted the Jedi to feel him coming.
He wanted them to be afraid.
The Force guided his steps as he strode through the tall grain, his black armor standing out against the golden stalks like a void in reality. He could sense the Jedi now—three bright points of Light Side energy, approximately two kilometers distant, their Force signatures spiking with alarm as they detected his approach.
Run, Vader projected toward them, not really expecting the message to be received but enjoying the gesture nonetheless. Run if you want. It won't help.
They didn't run.
Instead, as Vader crested a small rise and came within visual range of the complex's main buildings, he found them waiting for him. The Cerean Master stood in the center—tall and long-skulled, his binary brain pulsing with Force energy, his lightsaber already ignited in a column of brilliant green. The two human Knights flanked him on either side, a man and a woman, their own blades humming blue in the afternoon light.
"Darth Vader." The Cerean's voice was calm, meditative, utterly lacking in the fear that Vader had expected. "We sensed your coming. The darkness that surrounds you is... overwhelming."
"Master Ki-Adi-Mundi's nephew," Vader observed, recognizing the family resemblance. "Or was it cousin? The Cerean familial structure was always somewhat confusing."
The Jedi Master's eyes narrowed. "You know of my family?"
I know everything about you, Vader thought. I've read the Wookieepedia article at least a dozen times. Outwardly, he simply ignited his lightsaber, the crimson blade casting bloody shadows across the golden grain.
"I know that you are Jedi," he said. "And that is all I need to know."
The female Knight—young, maybe late twenties, with dark hair pulled back in a practical tail and the kind of facial features that would have been attractive in any universe but were spectacularly so in this one—stepped forward with her blade raised.
And Marcus had to pause for a moment, because what the hell was going on with this universe's anatomy?
The Knight was wearing practical Jedi robes, the kind of loose-fitting garments that were designed for maximum freedom of movement in combat. But somehow, impossibly, those robes were doing absolutely nothing to conceal a figure that belonged in a Renaissance painting's fever dream. Her chest was straining against the fabric in ways that should have been physically impossible, her hips curved out from her waist in a ratio that defied geometric logic, and her thighs—visible through the movement-friendly slits in her robes—were thick and sculpted in ways that had no business existing on a real human being.
Is this what women look like in this universe? Vader wondered. All women? Because if so, I have severely underestimated the advantages of being reincarnated here.
But the momentary distraction cost him nothing, because the Knight's attack was telegraphed from a parsec away. She lunged forward in a classic Form V opening strike, her blade descending in an arc meant to test his defenses, and Vader simply... wasn't there.
He moved without conscious thought, his body responding to the Force's warnings with a fluidity that surprised even him. One step to the left, a casual deflection of her blade, and then his mechanical hand was closing around her throat, lifting her off the ground as easily as he might lift a empty datapad.
The male Knight shouted in alarm and charged, his own blade singing through the air in a complex series of strikes that would have been impressive against any lesser opponent. Vader caught each blow with his crimson saber, never releasing his grip on the woman, using her struggling body as a distraction while he casually dismantled the man's offense.
Strike. Parry. Redirect. Counter.
The male Knight was good—well-trained, disciplined, fighting with the desperate fury of a man trying to save his friend. But Vader had access to decades of muscle memory from the former Chosen One, the best duelist the Jedi Order had ever produced, combined with a complete lack of the emotional baggage that had always held Anakin back.
On the seventh exchange, Vader found his opening.
His crimson blade sliced through the Knight's guard like a hot knife through Alderaanian butter, taking the man's sword-arm off at the elbow. The Jedi screamed—a high, piercing sound that was music to Vader's ears—and collapsed backward into the grain, clutching at the cauterized stump where his forearm had been.
The female Knight was still struggling in Vader's grip, her fingers clawing uselessly at his mechanical hand, her face turning purple as her oxygen ran out. He could feel her terror through the Force, a delicious spike of pure animal fear that fed his power even as he squeezed tighter.
"Release her!" The Cerean Master charged forward, his green blade weaving patterns of light that spoke of decades of training and meditation. "Face me, Sith! Let this be a battle between Masters!"
Vader considered the offer for approximately half a second.
Then he threw the female Knight directly at the charging Master, using the Force to accelerate her body to lethal velocity. She struck Ki-Adi's relative with the impact of a speeder bike, both of them going down in a tangle of limbs and robes, their lightsabers deactivating as they lost concentration.
This is too easy, Vader thought, striding toward the pile of fallen Jedi with his blade humming at his side. These are supposed to be the elite warriors of the Republic, the guardians of peace and justice, and I'm dismantling them like a krayt dragon among womp rats.
The Cerean Master was struggling to rise, blood streaming from a cut on his elongated forehead, his Force presence flickering with pain and confusion. The female Knight lay motionless beneath him, either unconscious or dead—Vader honestly didn't care which. And the male Knight was still screaming in the grain, his severed arm forgotten as shock set in.
"You were warned," Vader said, standing over the fallen Master. "The Jedi Order is finished. Your pathetic resistance only prolongs the inevitable."
The Cerean looked up at him with eyes that still burned with defiance. "The Force will find a way. It always does. You cannot destroy the Light, Vader—you can only delay its return."
Actually, Vader thought, according to the established timeline, the Light returns in approximately nineteen years when Luke Skywalker blows up the first Death Star. But you won't be around to see it.
"Perhaps," he said aloud. "But you will not live to witness it."
His blade descended.
The executions took less than a minute. The Cerean Master, despite his brave words, died like any other organic being—a single stroke separating his elongated head from his shoulders, his Force presence snuffing out like a candle in a hurricane. The female Knight never regained consciousness, which was probably a mercy; Vader's blade found her heart while she still slept, ending her existence without additional suffering. And the male Knight...
The male Knight begged.
He begged for his life, for mercy, for the chance to renounce the Jedi Order and serve the Empire. He promised information about other survivors, about hidden temples, about caches of Jedi artifacts that the Emperor might find useful. He wept and pleaded and debased himself in every way imaginable, all while clutching the cauterized stump of his arm and staring up at Vader with eyes that held nothing but animal terror.
It was pathetic. It was disgusting. It was exactly what Vader had always imagined a coward would look like in their final moments.
He killed the man anyway.
Not because he particularly enjoyed it—though he did, in a cold and distant way that he suspected was Anakin's lingering darkness rather than Marcus's own preferences—but because leaving survivors was sloppy. The Empire demanded results, and results meant confirmed kills. Bodies that could be holographed, deaths that could be verified, examples that could be broadcast to the galaxy as warnings.
When Vader's shuttle lifted off from Cerea, he left behind three corpses and a burning agricultural complex that would serve as a monument to Imperial justice. The local population, who had been sheltering the Jedi without the Empire's knowledge, would receive a lesson in the cost of harboring fugitives.
It wasn't kind. It wasn't merciful. But it was efficient, and efficiency was the cornerstone of Vader's new operational philosophy.
I am the monster, he thought, watching the smoke rise through his shuttle's viewport. I am the darkness that hunts the Light. And I am going to be absolutely magnificent at it.
The weeks that followed established a pattern that Vader came to think of as his new normal: hyperspace jumps and planetary assaults, interrogations and executions, the systematic dismantling of everything the Jedi Order had once represented.
He was good at it. Terrifyingly, naturally good at it.
The Force guided his blade with precision that bordered on precognition, letting him anticipate attacks before they were launched and counter with devastating efficiency. His mechanical body, once a source of frustration, became a weapon in its own right—stronger than organic limbs, immune to pain in ways that flesh could never be, capable of feats that would have been impossible for unaugmented humans. And his mind, enhanced by thirty-two years of Star Wars lore and a complete understanding of how Jedi fought and thought and died, gave him advantages that no opponent could anticipate.
In his first month as the Empire's premiere enforcer, Vader personally eliminated seventeen confirmed Jedi, ranging from frightened Padawans to battle-hardened Masters who had survived the Clone Wars. Each kill was clean, professional, and absolutely without mercy. Each death added to his legend, building a reputation that spread through the galaxy like a virus of fear.
The Jedi were learning to be afraid of him. Good.
He also made time to terrorize his own subordinates, because maintaining internal discipline was almost as important as external enforcement. Officers who questioned his orders were choked—not quite to death, but close enough to make the lesson stick. Technicians who failed to meet his standards were transferred to positions on the Outer Rim, where "tragic accidents" had a way of occurring with suspicious frequency. And anyone who looked at him with anything less than absolute terror was marked for future... attention.
It was exhausting, in a way. Maintaining the persona of ultimate evil required constant effort, constant vigilance, constant suppression of any impulse that might be interpreted as weakness. But Vader found that he didn't mind the effort.
He was having the time of his life.
Former existence: IT technician at a mid-sized insurance company, spending every day fixing printer jams and resetting passwords for people who couldn't remember that their password was literally "Password123."
Current existence: Dark Lord of the Sith, commanding a Star Destroyer, wielding the power to kill people with my mind, answering to literally no one except the Emperor himself.
Yeah, I can work with this.
The only complication—and it was a complication that Vader was increasingly unable to ignore—was the women.
He had noticed, during his first encounter with the female Jedi Knight, that something was distinctly unusual about female anatomy in this universe. At first, he had assumed it was an isolated case, a quirk of that particular individual's genetics. But as days turned to weeks and he encountered more and more women, a pattern emerged that could not be ignored.
Every single female in the galaxy, regardless of species or profession or social status, possessed curves that would have been considered physically impossible in his original universe.
Stormtrooper officers who should have been hidden beneath identical white armor somehow conveyed impossible hourglass figures through their supposedly standardized uniforms. Naval technicians whose jobs involved crawling through maintenance tubes had waists that a man could span with his hands and hips that barely fit through regulation doorways. Even the cleaning droids—which weren't technically female, but were programmed with feminine personality matrices—seemed to have been designed with aesthetic considerations that went far beyond functional necessity.
And no one seemed to find any of this unusual.
"Lord Vader," Lieutenant Commander Alecia Ren reported, snapping to attention as he entered the bridge. "Intelligence reports that a group of Jedi survivors has been detected on Dathomir. Shall I prepare a strike force?"
Vader studied the Lieutenant Commander with the clinical detachment of a scientist observing a particularly confusing specimen. She was human, mid-thirties, with auburn hair pulled back in regulation style and features that were objectively attractive by any standard. She was also wearing an Imperial uniform that should have been loose and professional but was instead straining to contain a chest that defied architectural logic and hips that could have served as shelving units.
Is this just... how women are here? he wondered. Did the Force decide that the entire female population of the galaxy should look like they stepped out of a particularly imaginative artist's portfolio?
"Prepare my shuttle," Vader commanded, pushing the questions aside for later contemplation. "I will handle this matter personally."
"At once, Lord Vader." Lieutenant Commander Ren saluted and turned to relay orders, her movement causing certain... aspects of her anatomy to shift in ways that were frankly hypnotic.
Focus, Vader told himself firmly. You are a Dark Lord of the Sith. You do not get distracted by absurdly proportioned subordinates. You have Jedi to kill.
But even as he strode toward the hangar bay, he couldn't help but notice the way every female crew member he passed seemed to have been sculpted by the same cosmic artist with the same very specific preferences. Ensigns and admirals, pilots and mechanics, humans and Twi'leks and Zabraks—all of them shared that same impossible hourglass aesthetic, those same curves that belonged in fantasy rather than reality.
I have been reincarnated into some kind of wish-fulfillment dimension, Vader realized. The Force has a sense of humor, and apparently that humor involves making every woman in the galaxy look like a pinup model.
It was going to make concentration very difficult.
The Dathomir mission proved to be significantly more challenging than his previous engagements—not because the Jedi were particularly skilled, but because the planet itself seemed determined to kill him.
Dathomir was a nightmare world, all crimson forests and toxic swamps and wildlife that had evolved specifically to murder anything foolish enough to enter their territory. The atmosphere was thick with Dark Side energy, remnants of the Nightsisters' ancient sorcery bleeding into the very air, and the native fauna responded to Force presence with immediate and overwhelming aggression.
Vader loved it.
He cut his way through a pack of rancors that had apparently decided his shuttle looked like a tasty snack, using the Force to enhance his strength and speed until his blade was a crimson blur of death. Chitin and scale split beneath his strikes, massive bodies collapsed into the crimson undergrowth, and the jungle fell silent as predators learned that a new apex hunter had arrived on their world.
The Jedi—three Knights who had been seeking refuge among the remnants of the Nightsister clans—made their stand in the ruins of a temple that had been ancient when the Republic was young. They had prepared defenses, laying traps and establishing kill zones, clearly expecting a full Imperial assault force rather than a single enforcer.
They were not prepared for Darth Vader.
He triggered their traps deliberately, walking through explosions that would have killed any normal being, using the Force to deflect shrapnel and flame while never breaking stride. Pit traps meant to impale armored stormtroopers became stepping stones as he leaped across them with contemptuous ease. Automated turrets tracked and fired, their bolts caught and redirected by a blade that moved faster than the eye could follow.
By the time he reached the temple's inner sanctum, the Jedi had abandoned all pretense of strategy and were simply waiting to die on their feet.
"Impressive defenses," Vader acknowledged, his vocoder making the words sound almost like a compliment. "They would have been effective against a lesser opponent."
The senior Knight—a Zabrak woman with facial tattoos that marked her as a former Temple Guardian—raised her blue blade in a salute that was almost formal. "We knew this day would come. The Force revealed your arrival to us weeks ago."
"And yet you remained."
"Where else would we go?" The Zabrak smiled, and despite everything, Vader found himself respecting her composure. "The galaxy offers no refuge from the Empire's reach. Better to die fighting than to spend our final days in hiding."
She's brave, Vader thought. Misguided and ultimately futile, but brave.
He killed her first, as a mark of respect.
The battle that followed was brief but intense—three Jedi fighting with the desperation of cornered animals, knowing that they were outmatched, hoping against hope that they might land a lucky blow. They were good, these Knights. Better than most of his previous targets. Their blades wove patterns of light that would have been beautiful under other circumstances, their Force abilities probing for weaknesses in his defense that simply didn't exist.
But Vader was better.
He fought without thought, without hesitation, without the slightest hint of mercy. His crimson blade moved with a fluidity that transcended mere combat technique, becoming something closer to art—the art of destruction, the poetry of death. Each stroke was precisely calculated, each parry flowing seamlessly into a counter that left his opponents bleeding and off-balance.
The first Knight fell when his blade found the gap in her guard, slicing through her midsection in a strike that separated her top from her bottom. The second fell to a Force Push that sent him crashing into a stone pillar with spine-shattering force. And the third—
The third almost got him.
It was a suicide attack, a final desperate lunge that came from an angle his precognition hadn't predicted because the Knight had genuinely decided to die in the attempt. Her blade came within centimeters of his throat, close enough that his suit's external sensors registered the heat of the plasma, close enough that for one frozen moment Vader genuinely believed he might be about to die.
Then his mechanical hand closed around her wrist, and her blade went spinning away into the darkness, and his own blade punched through her chest with a sound like a kiss of fire.
"Good," Vader rasped, watching the light fade from her eyes. "You almost had me."
She died with something that might have been satisfaction on her face.
The return journey to the Devastator gave Vader time to reflect on his performance, and he found himself generally satisfied with the results. Six Jedi eliminated in a single day, three separate engagements, no significant injuries to himself beyond some scorching on his cape that the ship's fabricators could easily repair.
More importantly, he was learning.
Each battle taught him something new about his body's capabilities, about the ways the Force responded to his commands, about the subtle differences between fighting as Marcus Chen imagined Vader would fight and fighting as Vader actually could fight. His muscle memory—inherited from Anakin—was a powerful foundation, but it was a foundation built on emotional instability and deep-seated psychological trauma. By stripping away the emotional baggage and approaching combat with cold calculation, Vader was becoming something more dangerous than the original Chosen One had ever been.
He was becoming efficient.
"Lord Vader." Captain Screed greeted him as he strode onto the bridge, the man's fear carefully concealed beneath a veneer of professional competence. "The Emperor wishes to speak with you. Priority transmission, encrypted channel."
Vader nodded once and made his way to his private communications suite, where the holographic image of Sheev Palpatine was already waiting—a flickering blue specter that radiated malevolent satisfaction even through the limitations of the projection technology.
"Lord Vader," the Emperor purred. "Reports of your activities have reached me. I am... most pleased."
I bet you are, you manipulative old corpse, Vader thought. Every Jedi I kill makes your position more secure and my threat to your power more manageable.
"I live to serve, my Master," he said aloud.
"Indeed you do." Palpatine's holographic eyes glittered with something that might have been approval. "Your efficiency has exceeded my expectations. The Jedi are being eliminated faster than even my most optimistic projections suggested. Soon, the Order will be nothing but a memory."
"They are weak. The Force is no longer with them."
"Just so." The Emperor's smile widened. "I have a new assignment for you, Lord Vader. A matter that requires... personal attention."
Vader waited in silence, knowing that Palpatine would continue when he was ready.
"The planet Malachor V," the Emperor said, the name carrying weight that transcended mere geography. "You know of it?"
Malachor. The word sent a shiver through Vader's consciousness—not fear, exactly, but recognition. In the Expanded Universe, Malachor V had been the site of one of the most devastating battles in galactic history, a conflict that had ended with the activation of a superweapon called the Mass Shadow Generator. Thousands had died, the planet had been shattered, and the echoes of that trauma still resonated through the Force millennia later.
In the new canon—the Disney canon that Marcus had always despised—Malachor had become something different. A Sith temple, a repository of ancient knowledge, a place where secrets had been hidden for generations.
"I know of it," Vader confirmed.
"Then you know what it contains." Palpatine leaned forward, his holographic face filling the transmission field. "I want you to retrieve something for me, Lord Vader. A holocron, hidden in the depths of the temple. It contains... information... that I require."
A Sith holocron on Malachor, Vader mused. That's either incredibly dangerous or incredibly valuable. Probably both.
"It will be done, my Master."
"Excellent." The Emperor settled back, apparently satisfied. "But be warned—the temple's defenses remain active, even after all these centuries. You will face trials that would destroy lesser beings. I trust you are prepared?"
I'm Darth freaking Vader, Marcus thought behind his mask. I was BORN prepared for this.
"I will not fail you," he said.
The transmission ended, leaving Vader alone with his thoughts and the hum of his life support systems. Malachor. A Sith temple. Ancient trials and hidden holocrons.
It sounded absolutely magnificent.
He was going to enjoy this.
But before he could pursue the Emperor's mission, there was one more matter that required his attention—a matter that had been building for weeks and could no longer be ignored.
Admiral Natasi Daala arrived on the Devastator three days after the Malachor briefing, officially assigned as a strategic advisor but carrying orders that Vader suspected had more to do with Palpatine's desire to keep tabs on his apprentice than any legitimate military need. She was brilliant, he had to admit—her tactical analyses were consistently insightful, her recommendations sound, her understanding of naval warfare genuinely impressive.
She was also, he could not help but notice, built like a goddess of war.
Red hair cascaded over shoulders that were somehow both athletic and impossibly feminine. Her Imperial uniform had been tailored—presumably at significant expense—to accommodate a figure that made his previous observations about female anatomy in this universe seem understated by comparison. When she moved, it was with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly the effect she had on others and was utterly unashamed of it.
And she was looking at him with an expression that Vader recognized from approximately zero previous life experiences: interest.
"Lord Vader," Daala said, her voice a studied blend of professionalism and something warmer lurking beneath. "I've studied your tactical reports extensively. Your approach to Jedi elimination is... unconventional. But effective."
"The Jedi require unconventional solutions," Vader replied, uncertain why he was engaging in small talk with a subordinate. "They cannot be fought like traditional enemies."
"Precisely my assessment." Daala stepped closer, her proximity triggering warning signals in his Force awareness that had nothing to do with physical danger. "I believe we could accomplish great things together, Lord Vader. Our complementary skills could reshape the entire Imperial military doctrine."
Is she... flirting with me? Vader wondered incredulously. I'm a seven-foot-tall cyborg who looks like a walking nightmare and breathes like a malfunctioning ventilator. What part of that screams 'romantic interest' to anyone?
But even as he questioned it, he could sense her emotions through the Force—genuine attraction, mixed with ambition and calculation, underlaid by a fierce intelligence that found his power and competence genuinely appealing. She wasn't afraid of him. Not really. She was intrigued by him.
"Admiral," Vader said carefully, "your tactical contributions are valued. But I suggest you focus on strategic analysis rather than... personal collaboration."
Daala's lips curved into a smile that should not have been as attractive as it was. "Of course, Lord Vader. Purely professional. For now."
She turned and walked away, and Vader absolutely did not watch her go. He was a Dark Lord of the Sith. He did not watch subordinates' anatomical assets regardless of how spectacularly those assets were on display.
This universe is testing me, he thought. The Force has decided that my reward for becoming the most terrifying enforcer in the galaxy is being surrounded by impossibly attractive women who seem to find my horrifying appearance somehow appealing.
He wasn't entirely sure if that was a blessing or a curse.
Probably both.
The following week brought more of the same: Jedi hunts that ended in blood and fire, imperial politics that required careful navigation, and an increasingly concerning parade of attractive female officers who seemed to find excuses to interact with him personally.
The Seventh Sister—a Mirialan Inquisitor with green skin and curves that defied her combat-focused profession—began appearing on the Devastator with suspicious frequency, her official mission of "coordinating Jedi elimination efforts" seeming to involve an unusual amount of time spent in Vader's vicinity.
Doctor Elara Vance—the ship's chief medical officer, responsible for maintaining his life support systems—extended his mandatory checkups from fifteen minutes to two hours, using the additional time to engage him in conversations about topics ranging from cybernetic enhancement to Imperial politics to her personal views on the nature of power.
Lieutenant Commander Ren—the auburn-haired bridge officer whose uniforms had apparently been designed by someone with very specific aesthetic preferences—began routing all priority communications through his personal terminal, ensuring that he was the first to receive any intelligence that might require his attention.
And then there was Mara Jade.
She arrived without announcement, stepping off an unmarked shuttle that had bypassed all standard security protocols, moving through the Devastator like she owned it. Red hair, green eyes, a figure that was obviously still developing at fifteen but was already promising to achieve the same impossible proportions as every other woman in the galaxy.
"Darth Vader," she said, her voice carrying the cold precision of someone who had been trained from childhood to serve the Dark Side. "The Emperor has assigned me to observe your operations. You will find my presence... educational."
An Emperor's Hand, Vader recognized immediately. Palpatine's personal assassin and spy, trained in Force techniques and utterly loyal to her Master. And she's been sent to watch me.
"Observe as you will," he replied, keeping his voice neutral. "But stay out of my way. I do not tolerate interference in my missions."
Mara's lips curved into a smile that was entirely too knowing for someone her age. "I wouldn't dream of interfering, Lord Vader. I'm here to learn from the best."
This is going to be a problem, Vader thought. A beautiful, Force-sensitive, completely loyal to Palpatine problem that I cannot eliminate without drawing the Emperor's immediate and fatal attention.
He was going to have to be very careful around Mara Jade. For multiple reasons.
The Malachor mission launched two weeks later, with Vader departing the Devastator alone in his personal shuttle—a modified Lambda-class craft that had been enhanced with experimental hyperdrive systems and enough weapons to challenge a small fleet.
Malachor V was everything the legends had promised and worse.
The planet hung in space like a wound, its surface scarred and cracked, vast chasms splitting the crust to reveal the molten core beneath. The atmosphere was thick with ash and debris, remnants of the ancient cataclysm that had destroyed the world, and the Force here was wrong in ways that Vader had never experienced before.
Pain. That was what he sensed, more than anything else. The pain of thousands dying in an instant, the pain of the survivors witnessing the destruction, the pain of the Force itself being torn and twisted by the sheer magnitude of the tragedy. Millennia had passed, but the echoes remained, screaming silently into the void.
This is what the Dark Side creates, Vader thought, guiding his shuttle toward the temple coordinates that Palpatine had provided. Not power, not freedom—just suffering, extending forever.
For a moment—just a moment—he felt something that might have been doubt.
Then he crushed it, using the pain around him to fuel his determination. He was not here to question. He was here to retrieve a holocron and prove his worth to the Emperor. Everything else was irrelevant.
The temple itself was a pyramid of black stone, jutting up from the planetary crust like a knife blade aimed at the stars. Its architecture was alien, predating the modern Sith by countless generations, covered in inscriptions that Vader's mask translated automatically into warnings and promises and threats.
ONLY THE WORTHY MAY ENTER, read the inscription above the main entrance. ALL OTHERS WILL FIND ONLY DEATH.
"Charming," Vader muttered, and strode inside.
The trials began immediately.
The first chamber was a maze of reflecting surfaces, mirrors that showed not his current appearance but memories—Anakin as a child, Anakin as a Padawan, Anakin burning on the shores of Mustafar. The images were designed to evoke emotional responses, to trigger guilt and regret that could be exploited by the temple's ancient defenses.
Vader walked through without slowing, ignoring the reflections entirely. He was not Anakin. Anakin's memories were tools to be used, not wounds to be reopened. The mirrors shattered in his wake, unable to find purchase on a consciousness that had no connection to the trauma they displayed.
The second chamber was a test of combat, guardian droids emerging from hidden alcoves with blades of pure energy. They were ancient, their mechanisms degraded by time, but their programming remained deadly—attack patterns designed to counter Jedi techniques, tactics that had been refined over centuries of defending this place.
Vader destroyed them in minutes.
His blade sang through the darkness, cutting through durasteel and energy alike with the precision of a master surgeon. The droids fell in pieces around him, their optical sensors flickering with what almost looked like confusion as they failed to process how quickly they had been dismantled. By the time he reached the chamber's exit, the floor was littered with mechanical corpses and the walls were scored with the marks of his passing.
The third chamber was a test of the mind—illusions that tried to convince him he was back on the Devastator, back in his quarters, back in a position of comfort and safety. The Force whispered that he could stay here, that the holocron wasn't important, that his Master's orders were suggestions rather than commands.
Vader broke through the illusion with a surge of pure will, shattering the mental construct like glass beneath a hammer. He had spent decades in his previous life wishing he could escape into fantasy. He was not about to be trapped in one now that reality had finally become interesting.
The final chamber held the holocron—a perfect cube of crystallized Dark Side energy, pulsing with malevolent intelligence that reached out to touch his mind the moment he entered.
WHO DARES APPROACH THE REPOSITORY OF ANCIENT KNOWLEDGE? The voice was not audible but mental, a pressure against his consciousness that would have driven lesser beings to madness. WHO SEEKS THE SECRETS OF THE SITH?
"I am Darth Vader," he replied, his vocoder translating his words into sounds that the holocron could process. "Apprentice to Darth Sidious. I have come to claim what my Master requires."
APPRENTICE. The holocron's presence shifted, evaluating him with senses that transcended the physical. YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU APPEAR TO BE. THERE IS SOMETHING... DIFFERENT... ABOUT YOU.
For a heart-stopping moment, Vader feared that his secret had been discovered—that this ancient artifact could somehow sense that he was not the original Anakin Skywalker, that his consciousness had come from beyond this galaxy entirely.
Then the holocron laughed, a sound like breaking stars.
NO MATTER. YOU ARE STRONG IN THE DARK SIDE. THAT IS WHAT MATTERS. TAKE ME, APPRENTICE. USE THE KNOWLEDGE I CONTAIN TO ACHIEVE YOUR AMBITIONS.
Vader reached out and grasped the holocron, feeling its power surge through his mechanical fingers. The artifact recognized him as a worthy bearer, attuning itself to his Force signature, opening its secrets to his accessing.
He had passed the trials. He had proven himself to an ancient Sith repository. He had accomplished a mission that would cement his position in Palpatine's hierarchy.
And somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, Marcus Chen was grinning like a child who had just received the ultimate birthday present.
This, he thought, is what being a Sith Lord is all about.
The return journey to Imperial space was uneventful, giving Vader time to examine the holocron's contents in detail. What he found exceeded his expectations—records of ancient Force techniques, star charts pointing to other hidden repositories, and most importantly, schematics for technological enhancements that could dramatically improve his suit's capabilities.
Palpatine doesn't know about these, he realized, studying the enhancement designs with growing excitement. The old bastard sent me to retrieve the holocron's primary contents—political information, ancient rituals, that kind of thing. But these technical specifications are hidden in secondary storage, encrypted in ways that would require months to crack without the proper access codes.
Months that Vader intended to spend very productively indeed.
When he presented the holocron to the Emperor—keeping his discoveries about the enhancement schematics carefully concealed behind mental shields that Palpatine would have no reason to probe—his Master's satisfaction was palpable.
"Well done, Lord Vader," Palpatine purred, cradling the artifact with almost sensual appreciation. "You have exceeded my expectations. Again."
"I live to serve, my Master."
"Indeed." The Emperor's yellow eyes glittered with dark amusement. "You have proven yourself a worthy apprentice, Vader. Perhaps... more worthy than I initially anticipated."
He's suspicious, Vader noted. Not specifically—he doesn't know what I'm hiding. But my competence is making him nervous. I'm exceeding expectations, and that's dangerous.
He would need to fail soon. A small failure, carefully controlled, just enough to reassure Palpatine that his apprentice was still flawed and manageable. It was a delicate balance—appearing strong enough to be useful, weak enough to be controllable, and never revealing the true extent of his capabilities.
But that was a problem for another day.
For now, Vader was content to bask in his accomplishments: Jedi eliminated, temples conquered, ancient artifacts claimed, and a growing collection of resources that would eventually allow him to challenge the Emperor himself.
He was Darth Vader. He was the most terrifying being in the galaxy. And he was just getting started.
The Force hummed around him, vast and dark and absolutely thrilled with the direction his new life was taking.
Marcus Chen had died arguing about Star Wars on the internet.
Darth Vader was going to live it.
[END OF CHAPTER ONE]