Admiral Piett

Admiral Piett couldn't tell which was more concerning: that he found himself summoned at Darth Vader's official residence as Darth Vader's son's unofficial tutor, or that, barring persistent worries about the future, he was beginning to enjoy it. His routine had settled into spending the mornings with Skywalker — closing gaps in the boy's formal education, as prescribed. Piett reserved part of their assigned time block for instruction in Imperial command structure, Navy (and Army, in a more limited scope) attack and defense formations, tactical resource allocations, planetary engagement patterns, communication protocols, and even a dash of court etiquette (which he had been forced to brush up on himself).

The youth's lack of enthusiasm during this part of the lessons was palpable. He never failed to ask Piett prodding questions about the "tools" in what he called the Empire's "war machine": corruption, power grabbing, use of excessive force, misinformation, intimidation, brutality… and plenty more. Piett rattled off the standard propaganda answers one of his rank would issue to a member of the public, and carried on. And if Skywalker's questions were beginning to cast a variegated shade on some if his own beliefs about the glory of the Empire - well, he wasn't about to let that on. And if the boy was bright enough to see straight through his canned responses — that was just fine by him as well. So yes, overall, he would say that he found the time spent with Skywalker most illuminating.

After their morning sessions, Piett released the youth to the next item on his schedule, which he strongly suspected was some kind of Force training with Lord Vader. And rigorous training it appeared to be, for as the newly arrived castle residents had settled into the custom of taking their evening meals together, Luke Skywalker arrived late, spoke little, and often seemed seconds away from dropping asleep over his plate.

Piett had to admit that he enjoyed these dinners as well. Skywalker came too tired to exert himself in conversation, but Soujanen had proven an engaging dinner companion. And last but not least, the castle employed a most excellent chef.

The thought of dinner, thus scratched, slowly bubbled up front and center in his mind. He lifted his head from the latest Fleet movement facsimiles and Death Squadron status reports scattered (in a most organized way) on his desk, and took in the Mustafarian hellscape outside, which by now had considerably darkened. Piett checked his chrono, cursed, and rushed out of his assigned quarters towards the dining hall.

The castle was a lava rock monolith of dark foreboding — a true feat of engineering, erected as it was in this hellscape, and in style quite fit for its owner. It was built more akin to a temple than a personal residence. Its overreaching arches, supported by dark obsidian-hewn columns, loomed stately over the admiral as if paying homage to the ominous deity to which the whole complex seemed to be dedicated. Piett picked up his pace, while wondering whether his rushed foot steps might appear disrespectful to said hypothetical deity.

High above his head, arcane carvings and inlaid runes glowed red in the twilight like a thousand eyes, all set intently upon Piett's movement, as if waiting for him to take one wrong step before lurching down to devour him. He shivered and hurried through the last archway, reaching the familiarity of the dining hall at last. Said hall was yet another cavernous room with expansive views of the lava fields below. It had clearly not been designed with dining in mind. The light globes floating on suspensors a bit too high, the long ironwood table flanked by just six chairs, and a single high-back chair on its end - all these appeared brand new and recent additions to the otherwise spartan space. When Piett had first laid eyes upon that lonely tall chair at the end of the table, he had thought (with no small degree of anxiety) that Lord Vader would be joining them for meals. However, the caretaker Vaneé had tried to usher Skywalker into taking that seat. Twice. Evidently, to Piett's relief, it was placed there for the boy. (Both times, the youth had smiled politely, and refused).

Piett spotted Soujanen already at work on today's main course. She lifted her head and nodded in greeting.

"Admiral. I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

"Good evening, Doctor."

Piett sat across from her. Occasionally, Vaneé would join them as well, but tonight his chair remained empty.

"It seems I lost track of time. No Skywalker yet?"

"No. And I am already halfway through to dessert."

"Ah, well… the menu is excellent tonight, then?"

"As usual."

Soujanen held up her fork, starting appreciatively at a glistening white morsel. Piett got a waft of the mouth-watering aroma. Fish, of all things. Without a doubt the most ludicrous proposition for a meal on this planet. The admiral wouldn't be surprised if the head chef had a fleet of freight ships at his disposal, to source such extravagant ingredients fresh daily.

The two dinner companions talked about their day for a few more minutes, then Skywalker slogged into the room. He was still wearing the same type of outfit as yesterday, and the day before: a loose black tunic with elbow-length sleeves, over a simple grey undershirt. Still no trace of any kind of rank or insignia. Yet something was different today… Piett's eyes widened - was this Lord Vader's lightsaber hanging on the boy's belt?…

The former Rebel uttered a wane greeting, then slouched down in the chair closest to his point of entry — the one next to Soujanen. Skywalker's Noghri detail silently filed into the room after him, and took their positions with backs to each wall, keeping both entrances in clear view.

Piett reigned in his surprise at the sight of the lightsaber, and nodded in greeting.

"Ah, Commander. How are you this evening?" inquired the doctor.

"Fine," sighed the boy. The admiral, however, observed that he appeared less "fine" with each passing day. His face was drawn, and there were now dark shadows under his eyes. Skywalker motioned to the Noghri.

"Varukh, Nakharag, will you please come and finally sit down."

The Noghri did not move, but one of them, presumably Varukh, uttered a polite refusal. The doctor cast a knowing look to Piett — the boy had been trying to get his personal guards to sit with them at table since day one, with no success. Skywalker sighed again, and rubbed his temples.

"I think I may just head to my quarters."

"You do need to eat something, Commander. Try the picotta — I am sure you will enjoy it," Soujanen offered deftly. Skywalker's look cast heavy doubts upon his picotta enjoyment prospects, but after a moment's hesitation, he relented, and motioned to the server droid. The droid took the order, then rolled off to wherever the kitchen was located.

Soujanen looked at Piett expectantly, as if trying to say, "Now is your turn to try and talk to him." Piett racked his brain, but ended up shrugging helplessly, while Skywalker stared at the artwork on his fine, empty porcelain plate. Soujanen pursed her lips. Then, she seemed to make up her mind about something, and asked no-one in particular:

"Hmm… Do you know what I just discovered?"

Piett understood that he was expected to play this game.

"What would that be, Doctor?"

"That my requests for research data are dealt with, and approved, at astonishing speeds when they originate from Mustafar," she snickered. "I may actually finish my articles on time. Oh, and the Castle has an absolute state of the art holo projector, which I was told is at our disposal."

She cast a meaningful look to Piett. He cleared his throat.

"Ah, well… Perhaps we can…" he couldn't believe what he was going to suggest next. "Perhaps we can go and see if we can find something to watch?…"

He sure hoped that this was what Soujanen was alluding to, or he had just made a fool of himself. To his relief, her expression brightened.

"What a capital idea! Commander, you must join us. We can grab some drinks, and kettle corn too. Have you had kettle corn before?"

The boy looked at both of them, startled.

"Uh… no?… "

Piett was unclear if the "no" was meant as an answer to the HoloNet suggestion as a whole, or the kettle corn addendum in particular, but he decided to play his cards assuming the latter.

"Let's fix that. We could all use some time to unwind. And I am sure we can find something on the HoloNet that will interest you, Commander. "

Skywalker seemed to go along with this plan, even if only because he lacked the energy to argue. But Piett would take it, and judging by Soujanen's expression, she was similarly pleased. So, after dinner, Soujanen asked the server droid to bring some kettle corn and refreshments to the holo projector hall, and three chairs as well.

Once they reached the aforementioned hall, Piett looked up, and couldn't help but feel dwarfed. Besides the massive projector embedded artfully in the ceiling, the vast room was dark, silent, and completely empty. Whatever purpose this projector served in Lord Vader's residence, one thing was certain: it was not for watching the HoloNet. Piett was beginning to worry whether their presence here was authorized, when the requested chairs and some additional low tables materialized on an anti-grav platform, pushed by an escort of droids, followed by Vaneé. With great reverence, the Caretaker handed a remote control to the "young master". Well, that cleared things up.

"You are more than welcome to join us, Caretaker," Piett offered.

"Ah, you will excuse me, Admiral, but I have other duties to attend to."

With that, Vaneé and the droids took their leave, and the trio was left alone in the great hall, settled in their chairs, surrounded by treats. Skywalker picked up his now customary cup of hot chocolate, raised it to Piett in salute, then handed the remote to Soujanen.

"Any preferences?" inquired the doctor.

"Ah…well…"

"Not really…"

Soujanen raised an eyebrow, then the remote, and began shifting through channels on random. Piett absorbed the projection quality in silent awe. The doctor inevitably stumbled upon that endless Huttese soap opera, which, in Piett's estimation, had been on the HoloNet in various reincarnations of re-runs, prequels and sequels for at least 170 standard years. The show was produced by that Huttese clan which had publicly renounced their stake in the traditionally unsavory Huttese "businesses", and nowadays made their fortune exclusively in showbusiness. Piett watched, mesmerized, as the famous Huttese actors, adorned with dazzling glowing tattoos, unwound their dramatic performance — on a grand scale, in ultra vivid photonic glory, with high fidelity sound, under Darth Vader's own roof. The Admiral tried, but couldn't hold back a silent smile. Soujanen settled on a simple "wow", and Skywalker, while refusing to comment, didn't shy from giving the show his full attention, even if the very skeptical look never left his face.

No-one wanted to admit they wanted to continue watching, but no-one reached for the remote to change the channel either. Piett focused on his kettle corn — crunchy, and salty, and slightly sweet, in just the right proportions.

The episode was about a family calamity befalling the titular Huttese clan: their young Huttlet Grotta was kidnapped by scoundrels unknown, and his father, Rambala the Hutt, fumed, raged, and vowed to do everything in his power to get him back. He hired Bounty hunters to track down the kidnappers, and, since the story took place during the Clone Wars, Rambala was apt to make bargains for Grotto's return with both the Republic Senate, and the Separatists, for good measure. After all, both warring parties desperately wanted access to the Huttese hyperspace lanes in the Outer Rim. Eventually, the Senate dispatched two of their own agents to get the job done - a tall human male precariously named Sunchaser, and his teenage Togruta menteé Rasokka. Piett had a strong suspicions that these two were meant to be a Jedi master and Padawan, but that part of the story had been of course scrubbed.

Challenge after setback, the duo fought bravely to retrieve Grotta and return him home. At the end, they narrowly escaped death wrought by the scheming of the Separatist leader, and managed to return Grotta to his father in one piece — all thanks to the clever intervention of yet another human. This one, an esteemed Senator by the name of Aventala (who was apparently in love with Sunchaser), had taken quite the risk to uncover the true culprit behind the kidnapping: Rambala's own brother, who she had personally confronted on then-Coruscant.

The episode ended with Rambala the Hutt sentencing his treacherous brother to be devoured by a thousand of Corellian black smoker pirahnas, which said brother had conveniently kept as pets. Aventala and Sunchaser - both young, beautiful, and suddenly rich beyond anyone's dreams by claiming Rambala's reward, got married in a Huttese ceremony, adopted the teenager Rasokka, and retired to live happily ever after on their private planetoid. The credits rolled as Aventala revealed to a misty-eyed Sunchaser that she was pregnant, and both expressing hopes that their offspring would join the Rambala kajidic in some profitable capacity in the future.

Soujanen clasped hands in front of her chest, giggling.

"Indeed," joined Piett.

Skywalker rolled his eyes and stretched. Finally, there was a smile on his face. He drank one last sip from his hot chocolate, and stood up to take his leave, when the Imperial cog flashed high above them, and two well-groomed human announcers came in focus under the HNN* logo.

"Greetings, sentients and gentlebeings. I am Brey Mar,"

"And I am Korlea Charrni,"

"…here with Imperial Center Update."

Skywalker stopped mid-movement for a few seconds, then slowly re-settled himself back in his chair. Piett hadn't watched the official news in quite some time. He sensed danger.

"No doubt everyone expects some update on the most explosive news article in our Empire." Charrni's flawless Coruscanti accent clashed with her coy smile.

"And we have it! We can confirm that Luke Skywalker's first public appearance will occur on no other day, but Empire Day itself! Quite fitting, Brey, don't you agree?"

"Absolutely, Korlea, and so very exciting! In the meantime, the young heir has been whisked away to Lord Vader's private residence on Mustafar, no doubt receiving some much needed care after his ordeal."

Brey's chin trembled, and he cast his gaze downward as if in a moment of silence.

"It is no secret that the Rebellion recruits and brainwashes very, very young beings into joining their fanatic folly, but to kidnap and hide Lord Vader's son from birth… To use him for years as a child soldier against the Empire — it is sick, and desperate, and beyond condemnation."

Piett darted a glance at Skywalker. The boy sat frozen in place, eyes wide. The broadcast continued on and on, extolling the excitement of all Imperial citizens to greet the new addition to the Imperial family, the great benevolence of Emperor Palpatine, who had welcomed the former Rebel with a full pardon, and the high honors that were to be bestowed upon the youth on Empire day — all before the eyes of three hundred and twelve trillion citizens expected to tune in for the live broadcast.

"Indeed, Brey, we, just like everyone else, want to express our full support and loyalty to Luke Skywalker — the Empire's most beloved son!"

Skywalker's face had turned deathly pale in the dim light afforded by the Holo projector. Piett turned, helpless, and caught Soujanen's look - she certainly understood, but they couldn't simply turn off the broadcast. It was like watching a favorite Star Destroyer get mangled by a planetoid face-on, in slow motion. Piett sucked in a breath, and began a mental countdown to the end of the news segment.

"Speaking of a show of loyalty," continued Brey, "the recent Royal Imperial Academy star echelon graduates have formed a new squadron: Skywalker Strike Force. Their Tie-Advanced fighters were just anointed by a spectacular victory against the Rebels near Gatalenta. The Rebels were completely obliterated."

Here, Skywalker bolted up, hands balled into fists. He cast a wild look around the room without registering Piett's concerned expression, and rushed towards the exit.

"Commander!" The Admiral called out after him, not knowing what he planned to achieve by it. Skywalker stormed out without looking back, his two Noghri guards silently falling in behind.

Luke

Luke reached Vader's quarters, short-winded, and slammed his fist on the side panel. The doors had barely split open wide enough before he burst in. His father was sitting cross-legged on a round anti-grav platform with his back to the door, facing the view of the lava river below. The dark figure slowly spun around to face him.

"They really did not teach you how to knock in the Rebellion?"

Luke's eyes flashed.

"Did you know about this?…"

Vader slowly put down the data pad he was perusing, and jumped from the platform. He appeared to examine Luke carefully, then placed hands on his hips.

"Once again, you will have to be more specific."

"What they are saying about me on HNN! How the whole thing has been… completely spun out of control!…"

"You can't be suggesting that I concern myself with drivel on the Holo Net."

"But you should have known, how the Imperial Propaganda has twisted my image!"

"Twisted your image?…"

"Yes!" Luke registered off-handedly just how raised his voice was, and threw hands in the air. "Brainwashed child soldier!?… Recovering kidnapping victim?… The Empire's long lost, most beloved son?"

Vader scoffed, but what he said next knocked the air out of Luke's lungs.

"It appears that for once, someone at the Imperial Propaganda Bureau has done their job right."

Luke stared at him as if struck.

"You can't be serious…" the youth marched forward, his anger palpable in the Force. "Your Tie-squadrons are using myname as a battle cry when attacking my friends! You need to stop this!"

"I need do nothing of the sort. The way I see it, this so-called propaganda is doing your Rebel friends a favor. The sooner they abandon any notions of you ever rejoining their ranks, the better." Vader took a few steps towards Luke, then continued:

"Your fate within the Empire is now sealed. With time, what is left of their misguided band will learn to accept it."

Luke's eyes widened in disbelief. He raised his hand, still balled into a fist.

"No. I don't accept it! Any of it!"

His father stilled, his silence stirring the air around Luke with an unspoken threat. Luke went on, undeterred, brusquely pointing a finger at Vader.

"I joined you, not the Empire!"

Vader slowly placed hands on his hips.

"And you seem to believe that there is a difference?"

His father's words were calm as a glacial lake, his smug mirth flooding their bond, as if he had just formally issued Luke a challenge, but one he knew he had already won.

"Please, Father!…"

A twisted lump lodged itself in Luke's throat. His hands swept around the chamber in a wide gesture.

"None of this is right, and you know it!"

He paused, trying to keep his voice steady.

"I can sense the darkness eating at you in this place… "

Vader remained silent.

"You can let go of this life… You can change, we can make things better! You were a hero of the Republic once! Keeper of peace and justice! "

The chill in the air gathered thick, and stiffened. Luke heard the leather on Vader's gloves creak. His father's hands rolled into fists, which he slowly placed behind his back. He loomed over Luke, black mask framed by a red glow from the lava fields outside.

"Idealism," he spat out. "Typical for one so young. You will soon come to realize the crucial truth: it is not enough."

Vader turned his back to Luke, and stared out the windows.

"The Galaxy's only hope for order and justice is someone dispensing both with an iron fist."

The words rained like liquid shards of beskar around Luke. A tall cage.

"I can't believe this… I thought…" Luke's voice trailed off. "And you… you envision yourself as this overqualified someone."

"I have built this Empire, and you can rest assured that I have no plans of surrendering it to a hapless gaggle of politicians."

Vader turned around to face him, his tone grave.

"The man you idolized as your father was once an idealistic boy, too. It cost him everything."

Luke sensed the familiar anger and despair pouring from his father, uncontrolled, just for a split moment. He knew that asking any questions about it would be pointless.

"What is done cannot be undone, Luke. This is the only way forward. I will be Emperor, and my son, by then cured of his idealism, will rule after me."

Luke's disbelief turned into disdain.

"Oh yeah?… What are you going to do, chain me to your throne?…"

Vader took a swift step towards him, sticky warning flooding their bond. His voice cut deep and low.

"I have been very tolerant thus far. But it is unwise, even for you, to take such an insolent tone with me."

Luke's own anger rushed his mind like a living thing, wounded and righteous and begging to be set loose. To push Vader until he snapped, just to get that final proof that his father was the monster everyone believed him to be. Luke ground his teeth, trying to slow his breathing, until the dangerous moment passed. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He slowly looked up at the black mask.

"What happened to you, Father?…"

He was met with icy silence. Luke's eyes suddenly stung. Shaking his head, the youth cautiously stepped back, and, desperate to remove himself from his father's presence, turned to leave. Vader did not stir himself to stop him.

The Shadow

He stood in the alcove, waiting patiently, enveloped in darkness. It had been almost half hour now, and his nerves tingled with anticipation. At last, the heavy doors swept open, and Vader's son rushed out of his father's quarters, his hurried steps echoing through the vast corridor, his face pale as a ghost. The Shadow smiled. It was time.

Tonight, he knew. Very soon now. The usual two Noghri guards followed the youngling at a close distance. Fools. He stepped back in the alcove and slid his shoulders flush against the wall, waiting for the party to pass him by. Then, as the sound of their foot steps died out in the distance, he drew his cloak close, bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, and headed for the kitchens. The metallic taste of blood sang to him of the importance of his mission, all the way back.

Luke

Luke needed some space. Space between him, and everything else in the Force-forsaken Universe. He ran out of the Citadel, grasping for a fleeting sense of freedom. The stormtroopers posted at the gate did not stop him, and did not ask any questions. After all, Varukh and Nakhara were following him like shadows. Luke ran mindlessly on the paved path around the looming obsidian walls, as fast as his legs could carry him. Soon, the smoky haze left his throat dry and raw, his eyes burning. He was forced to slow down, and stop, gasping for air.

Luke cursed in Huttese, then switched to Corellian. A few random rocks on the path caught his attention. He kicked them off, one by one, will all his might, down the slope of the jagged landscape. He remembered he had a lightsaber too, and used it to destroy a basalt outcropping just off the path, then thought about flinging the weapon into the lava field below. See what his father would do about that. He swung back his arm, aimed at the blood-red horizon, and took a deep breath — whatever little good that did him in the Mustafarian outdoors. Varukh and Nakharag were observing him with unease from a short distance.

The youth looked up to the hazy skies, then, feeling more and more defeated, turned around, and glared at the castle as if it were an old enemy. He clipped the saber grudgingly back to his belt. His lungs burned. He tasted ash in his mouth. No matter - he forced himself to sprint back towards the gate, and stomped through the castle corridors. By his quarters' doors, he turned and made a clear sign to the Noghri that he wished to be alone. He entered his rooms, and R-2 rushed to greet him. Luke sighed, muttered an apology, then shut the little droid down. He cast off his dusty tunic, threw the lightsaber on a nearby table, kicked off his boots and flung them across the room. Then, he buried hands in his hair, and sank down on the floor, the smothering despair from Bespin creeping to overtake him once more.

He had believed he was making progress with Vader. That it was possible they would build a future together — one Luke could look forward to. Evidently, he was wrong. For Han and Leia's sake, Luke had to keep up his end of the bargain. He had to swallow his feelings, and continue to train, then act as an Imperial puppet on Coruscant. But after that… Luke sighed deeply, and covered his face with his hands. And if there were tears streaming down - well, they were surely caused by the smoke, and the ash, and the scorching dry heat outside. He should have known better. He shouldn't have hoped for anything else. Allowing this sorrow to rule him now was just plain stupid.

To his utter surprise, the door to his quarters chose this very moment to swing open. A stocky man donning a long white apron intruded in his space, carrying a tray laden with treats and a steaming mug.

Luke's hands dropped from his face. He sprang up from the floor, flustered.

"What's all this?…"

"Forgive me, young master…" answered the man with a bow, and his exaggerated deference gnawed on Luke's patience. "I am the Head Chef here, at the castle… I was sent to bring this to you."

Luke took a deep breath, fighting to regain his composure. His current predicament was none of this man's fault. He ought to treat him amiably, and send him on his way politely.

"Oh, so you must be Chef Wredlo."

The man nodded. In truth, Luke, Piett and Soujanen had very much appreciated the Chef's efforts — he had obviously cared enough to inquire after each of their home worlds, and prepare some traditional dishes. Luke had meant to seek out the man and thank him properly. He was certainly not in the mood for it now. Yet, he forced himself to relax his stiff posture, and do it anyways.

"Well, I've been meaning to thank you, personally… Your cuisine has truly been a highlight here."

"No need, no need at all, master Skywalker. Knowing you've enjoyed something I prepared is all the praise I need."

"Still, you have gone above and beyond. I appreciate everything you have done so far."

Luke's senses keenly locked onto the cup of hot chocolate, its spicy aroma wafting in languid swirls through the room. His abrupt exit must have really startled Piett and Soujanen, to have them send the Chef here at this hour with a pick-me-up. For who else could it have been? Certainly not his father.

Wredlo looked at him with hopeful eyes, extending the tray. Luke sighed, and picked up the warm mug. Perhaps the man, kind as he was, would leave sooner if Luke drank and took a bite of something. A warning flashed in the Force around him. He was too tired to care. Perhaps his father was coming over to further drill into him the inevitability of his ascension to the Imperial throne.

Luke inhaled the cocoa and cinnamon, tilted his hands, and let the rich dark liquid pleasantly wash down his throat. As he put the mug down, he caught, from the corner of his eye, the smile on Wredlo's face changing into something predatory.

Luke's mind sprang to alert, but it was too late. The world went dark in front of his eyes, then returned blurry, overspilled with bright halos. His head spun.

"What…" he managed to rasp out, but couldn't continue.

Something sharp and painfully bright pierced his field of vision, and edged itself behind his forehead with blunt force. Luke doubled over and cried out, gasping for air. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and through the pain, he tried reaching out for his father. Trough the haze, his head appeared to split in two, and his intent splintered along with it. He desperately fought to remember something — something very important about Luke Skywalker, this person that he was, but then another Luke emerged — uncertain and dazed like a sleepwalker… a notLuke…

"…who sent you?…" Luke strained to lift his gaze at Wredlo, his voice hoarse.

"Oh, I am going to show you…" heard notLuke, while Luke's stomach twisted in ugly knots.

With the last of his strength, the youth tried to reach for his father's lightsaber, his hand shaking so badly that he barely managed… Wredlo swiftly clamped his own hand on Luke's wrist like a vice, while catching the weapon in mid-air with his other hand. Then, he twisted Luke's wrist. The youth screamed, following the movement with his entire body, trying to alleviate the pain. Wredlo forced him to his knees. What was happening, what was happening…

"Ah… none of that, young master."

Wredlo let go of Luke's wrist, took a step back, then Luke heard a familiar click… The cook had pulled the lightsaber apart, and taken out the kyber crystal, which Luke only saw as a red blur. His stinging eyes were able to bring his attacker's face briefly into focus. The Chef's crooked smile spread further and further, impossibly wide on his face. He swayed the crystal in front of Luke's eyes, back and forth…and the world went blurry again.

"Now… if you would follow me… "

Through the fog smothering his senses, Luke tried to call out for his father once more, but that place in his mind where Vader's presence usually lay dormant was gone, splintered off into notLuke's half of…their consciousness?… Luke scattered himself further into the fog, until only notLuke remained, utterly lost.

notLuke looked around in confusion. Luckily, his sight cleared up, and he soon became aware of his purpose: he had to follow Wredlo. Stepping out of his quarters, he saw Varukh and Nakharag asleep on the floor, their bodies splayed in odd angles. Why were they sleeping, weren't they supposed to guard something?… notLuke knew their names, but couldn't recall much else about them. He couldn't recall how to form words to call out to them, either. He turned his head to stare back at the limp bodies as he kept walking after Wredlo, his bare feet tapping softly on the hard stone underneath. Tap, tap… the rhythm centered him… he was doing just what he was supposed to… following through the long corridors, down the cold stairs, into the dark void beneath.