Chapter Text
Life is not cheap. Only a fool would suggest otherwise. Never kill without a good reason.
Unfortunately, the cost of sustaining my life has continued to rise and rise and rise. Indeed, I daresay, no life has ever been more expensive than mine. My daily needs have no bottom. Dozens of lesser lives are required to sustain every pump of my heart, every indrawn breath.
There is no other option.
<You are wrong, my Master.>
“Your infusions, Lord Sidious.”
Infusions, plural. An entire unholy collar of syringes, in fact, with brutal diamond-tipped needles designed to pierce flesh and punch straight through solid bone. The agony of injection directly into the bone marrow never seems to lessen, no matter how often I’m subjected to it, but I hold myself still through sheer force of will. I make no noise of complaint; I absolutely refuse. These infusions are too precious to be wasted.
<It doesn’t have to be like this.>
We must be careful, here on Exegol. Whilst I have many devout followers, their numbers, though vast, are finite, and each and every one of them lives in order to serve a higher purpose: the restoration of my Galactic Empire.
None of my servants are to be sacrificed lightly. Not the soldiers, not the scientists, and certainly not the Force-sensitives of the Sith Eternal. Those who are chosen by lottery to give of their vital essences, to be distilled and titrated into the weekly infusions my servants provide me, their undying Lord and Emperor, are remembered in our prayers…especially the small proportion who are, despite our best efforts, unable to survive the necessary but regrettable trauma of the process.
Soon…soon…
<Soon…>
Once my Final Order Fleet is launched, their sacrifices should no longer be necessary. Instead, those who would resist my natural right to rule will be the ones to sustain it, and those who support and serve my will with unswerving loyalty shall be spared. It is a poetic kind of justice.
Never say that I cannot be merciful.
The infusions are beginning to take effect. Although they do not reverse the putrefaction or the associated pain, they do make my powers temporarily stronger.
I touch your grandson’s mind and instruct him to kill the girl, knowing in advance that he will not obey. He has…feelings for her. His feelings will serve to bring her here, to me.
My granddaughter. Rey.
I have a female heir—me! Imagine that!
When I smile, I feel my facial muscles threatening to tear. When I exhale a huff of laughter, the stench from within my mouth is cloying, toxic. And as for the sorry state of my teeth…well. At least I still have teeth. Fingers and toes, on the other hand…
Perhaps it is best not to dwell on that at present.
I would rather indulge in memory. Yes, my dear, sweet apprentice, I would still rather dream of you.
***
The light of the Sanctuary Moon shines upon us, verdant emerald amidst starry black, reflected silvery white by the pale surface of this, the second Death Star battle station.
This will be our final battle against the pesky Rebel Alliance. Of this, I am absolutely certain.
The Goddess bears witness to the occasion; I can feel her unblinking eye.
You have served me faithfully for twenty-three years, yet you continue to impress me even now. However deeply the boy’s secrets may be buried in his mind, you, Lord Vader, are able to excavate them:
Skywalker, it seems, has a twin sister. I know you remember her. You tried to break her once, didn’t you? But she was too independent, too strong for you or your torture droid…or so Tarkin let slip to me, thinking to redirect my displeasure at his shortcomings in your direction. Ah well, he paid a steep price for his failure.
Yes, I remember her too. She is a most impassioned, most fiery spirit, indeed, your daughter! Politician and Princess Leia Organa, born into both unearned privilege and the unasked-for burdens of public service. More lately numbered amongst the Rebel Alliance Leadership Council. She bears some coincidental similarity to her cunt of a mother in this, doesn’t she? Padmé would be proud.
Kenobi was wise to attempt to hide your children from us. A shame he did not succeed. I almost wish you’d allowed that traitor Jedi to live—imagine if he’d lived to bear witness to our ultimate victory! Imagine his utter despair!
<As long as there is hope in the galaxy, I will never succumb to despair. You did not win over Endor, Palpatine, and you will not win over Exegol.>
A malign influence, Kenobi was. And he always has been, if I’m honest. Perhaps it is already too late for your son, Lord Vader. But your daughter, scion of Breha and Bail Organa and poor, lost Alderaan…
Perhaps it is she who ought to be cultivated.
***
Perhaps…
<There is another, better path. Master, it doesn’t have to be this way. Let me show you how we could be together again.>
Here, now, should I consider the possibilities and potentialities of the future?
Perhaps, indeed.
***
I promised you your son. He, like you, would be mine.
Regrettably, I can see that I am unable to make good on that promise. Kenobi’s influence upon Skywalker is too pervasive, yet too elusive to properly excise. When he throws his lightsaber aside after disarming you, I know only one real option remains.
<You are blinded by the dark side. You have always had many choices, Palpatine.>
Your breathing is labored; you are slow to rise to your feet. I can feel your churning anxiety. No, Master…I don’t want to…I cannot… I allow my thoughts to intertwine with yours and extinguish your concerns, like cold, clear water poured atop a smoky, smoldering flame. I embrace you with the humid, scented warmth of the Nubian bathhouse—relax, sweet boy, and I will handle this myself. It will be my decision, my choice.
“If you will not be turned,” I inform Skywalker, “you will be destroyed.”
I intend death to be quick; I see no point to prolonging the boy’s suffering. But he proves mysteriously, remarkably resilient. It will take longer, and a greater proportion of my power, than I anticipated to kill him.
Eventually, you stand and rejoin me at my side. All is as it should be. We already possess samples of your son’s genetic material, and the Death Star’s destructive power will be more than sufficient to provide for our immortal needs. After this is over, we will focus on bringing your daughter over to the dark side. She will be an heir to make you proud. We’ll have plenty of time, you’ll see. Forever.
Our thoughts intertwine, winding tighter and tighter together. I hold you close in the sheltering darkness, and you hold me—you reach out, and you take me into your cybernetic arms—
I chose, and so did you.
Sometimes, my apprentice, we cannot see beyond the choices we have made.
***
My granddaughter is coming; I can feel it. Ah, she is full of such anger, such unwavering resolve! Rey’s arrival on Exegol is imminent, and once she arrives, she will attempt to destroy me.
I can’t quite catch my breath; my pulse flutters. Is this excitement, fear? Or is this—
“Life signs are fluctuating. Values are abnormal and exceed reasonable tolerances.” I hear the ominous creak and chirp of my servant’s handheld scan-monitor. “Shall we prepare another infusion, Lord Sidious?”
The sudden, unexpected onset of pain would be blinding, were I not already blind. My muscles seize, my mouth, a twisted rictus. For a moment, my thoughts evaporate in agony. I do not have sufficient breath to scream.
Eventually, the surge of pain recedes. Only rot remains. The stench of this vessel’s corruption fills my nostrils anew.
“No…” I say. The sound of my own voice is scraping, dry as the corpse dust of the sepulcher.
I was tempted to say yes, it is true, but in the end, I decide against it. The boost the infusion provides is all too temporary, and the requisite ritual rites would require a not inconsiderable sacrifice of human life on Exegol—life which would otherwise be contributing to the might of the Final Order. The mass planetary destruction wrought upon the Resistance rabble by my Sith Destroyers will provide me enough energy to sustain this vessel in suspended half-life indefinitely.
“No, I—”
“Forgive us for being so bold, but surely one more infusion would not be uncalled for, to keep you going until the deployment of the fleet.”
“With all due respect, my Lord, I must agree with this recommendation,” the second of my scientists says. “You need another infusion. If not—or, I mean…” The voice hesitates, stops, clears its throat, begins again. “Once we have access to the girl, my Lord, we should be able to work on cultivating new cell lines. With any luck, they will provide viable genetic bases for new strandcast host vessels.”
Ah, such loyal, obedient servants. And so faithful, to believe in stupid luck!
There is no such thing as luck. Not then, not now. There is only the painstaking creation of opportunity and the wit and brute strength to exploit opportunities which arise to their fullest, to seize them with both hands…and even then, success is never guaranteed.
What if my servants’ noble scientific endeavors do not bear fruit? What if they fail?
Even if I am reinstated in Coruscant, my fundamental circumstances may not change. I may still be sightless; I may still require the Ommin harness. Countless others may need to be sacrificed on the regular so that I might live another day in constant pain.
Pain without beginning, pain without end. Eternal. Forever and always, predictable as the heat death of the universe.
Your failure to change course and exploit new potential opportunities, Lord Vader, was your ultimate downfall. I know you understand.
My reascendance to galactic rule is a foregone conclusion; if that be my will, the throne is assured. Others may fail and fail again, but I alone will not fail. If only my body were not this—if only—
Hmm.
Dare I reflect briefly upon another possibility? My granddaughter is young, pretty, in perfect health, and strong in the Force. Her spirit overflows with unlimited potential; she could grow to become greater than either of us. Yes, if she succeeds in destroying me, as the learner eventually exceeds the master, she is destined to inherit everything she desires. She will have power, purpose, belonging. She will even conquer the heart of your grandson, earn his love and loyalty. He will kill for her; he will die himself if it means saving her. I have foreseen this.
They will make quite the potent pair, your grandchild and mine. Just as we once did, my apprentice, you and I. Our heirs. They could be our legacy.
Would her womb quicken with his seed?
<Please, Master. Not this way. Not like this.>
Hmm.
Empress Palpatine has a rather pleasant ring to it too, don’t you think? And women are natural leaders, after all.
She would not hesitate. She would strike to kill.
“I…I…”
“What is your bidding, Master? How may we serve you?”
They have served me long, these two, and they have served me well. They succeeded in cloning this vessel and those vessels which came before. Brilliant scientific breakthroughs—but flawed ones. And now, my servants’ usefulness seems to have come to an end. There is but one final service to me which they shall provide.
In the end, the choice is mine alone and mine completely.
<Please, no.>
“How may you serve me? You may die,” I tell them. Simple. Easy.
I raise what remains of my hands, palms out, reach out with the Force, and lift my two servants up into the air by the invisible crimson strings of their fast-beating hearts. Then, I begin to pull.
Their heads are thrown back in silent screams; their bellies jerk; and their limbs dangle helplessly in the air. Their bladders and bowels let go and betray them as their vital energies pour out of their bodies and into me.
This torrential flow hurts, and it hurts in both directions. It feels like dying. For them, the pain of the draining is necessary. But for me…
Yes, the pain is the sort of pain which empowers, which lends unnatural strength. The worse it is, the stronger I will be. So yes, in this instance, alas, cruelty serves a practical purpose, and the agony of death’s torturous approach must needs be drawn out for as long as possible. My servants are sliced bare and open upon the razor-sharp edge of unimaginable suffering, frozen upon that excruciating pinnacle, just short of the welcome plummet into permanent oblivion. Flesh withers as flesh is restored, slowly but surely. Their energies, merged with mine, slowly but surely. Their pain, merged with mine, slowly but surely.
Two into one. Until I am alone and alone completely.
I start to laugh. I laugh and laugh and laugh.
This respite is only temporary. How much…or how little…have my servants’ deaths bought me? Another day of this accursed existence? Another hour of this tormented half-life?
No, I shan’t care. Whatever it is, it will be enough. I’ve already decided. We will be together again very soon, my beloved apprentice.
<No. Please. Not this way.>
One last time, the darkness rises against the light. My final order. My final struggle. My final victory.
“Summon the faithful to the amphitheater!” I say.
No one answers.
***
In the end, there is pain.
Only pain, forever and always.
Pain is how everything ends. Pain is how we will end.
END