Horror and grief and burning anger coming to him through the Force, Vader stared at the boy in something like disbelief, a single piece of a hazy puzzle falling into place.

Home, he realized. This was his home...

Burning skies, this boy--he was the Lars' child?

What were the odds that the son of a pair of farmers from the fringe of the Outer Rim--his stepfamily, no less!--would end up becoming a Rebel? And the probability that such a child would emerge so strong in the Force...perhaps there was more to why Shmi Skywalker had ended up here...

As Vader's mind turned this new information over, the boy was stumbling ahead on stiff legs, his presence in the Force roiling with sorrow and fury. He stopped before the entrance to the small courtyard pit, his head bowed and his spine straight. The evening wind was hot and sharp, pushing dust-devils of sand across the homestead; the potential for a night sandstorm seemed strong, but the boy didn't appear to heed it at all.

Wary, Vader followed him slowly, ready for a possible attack if the Jedi impostor awaited them here--but he sensed no one else nearby, and that infuriated him; another delay. Unconsciously, his eyes flicked to the where he knew the row of shadowed graves lay at the edge of the home compound; the marker belonging to Shmi Skywalker was missing, but he knew by heart where she lay--beside it was an old grave, probably Cliegg Lars, and nearby were two newer mounds with plain desert rocks as headstones.

That's right--the boy had said they were dead; all of them, Owen Lars and that fiancee/wife of his.

I didn't kill them, he remembered, vaguely confused through his annoyance. When last I left them, they were alive and well. I had no quarrel with these people.

But he did have a quarrel with whatever impostor might lurk nearby, hiding himself. Thus far, he sensed nothing--only a low-grade danger from perhaps the possibility of the storm. No one--Jedi or otherwise--stood out near him, but for the bright presence of the angry boy.

Vader stopped his stride about two meters back from the youth, watching him carefully. He could sense the grief in the boy, as well as growing fury--directed at him, he realized; the boy's anger was becoming unhinged here in this place of death, especially with the Sith Lord standing right behind him.

"Where is that blasted impostor?" Vader demanded, impatient with the dead end. "And what happened here?"

"It's your fault," the boy hissed, his voice rougher than Vader had yet heard it. "You killed them!"

"What nonsense are you babbling now?" the Sith Lord snorted, nonplussed. "You seem to enjoy blaming me for every ill that's befallen you--"

"It's all your fault!" the youth cried, whirling on him. The force of his anger made Vader's hand twitch unconsciously toward his saber, but he held still as the little Rebel shouted at him. "They were just farmers! They didn't do anything wrong! And your damned stormtroopers came and killed them just because Uncle Owen bought a couple of droids from some Jawas! They didn't know anything about your stupid Death Star! And they're all dead because of you! You and your stupid, sithspawned Empire!"

"Shut your mouth, brat!" Vader roared, his anger reacting automatically even as he was struck by realization. He would not feel guilt--he would not allow it!--but there was the stinging truth there; he had given his troops free rein back then, in the desperate search to recover the plans before they fell into the wrong hands. He had not cared what they did beyond his initial orders--track down the droids, and recover the plans at any cost.

Any cost...was apparently very high for some...

The boy was backing away from him, his haunting eyes full of tears and rage. Vader did not pursue him; he himself was rooted in place with anger and old, hidden regrets.

"I'm glad I blew up your stupid battle station! I wish you'd blown up with it!" The boy was railing now, too feverishly emotional to care about the consequences, heedless of the dangers of screaming at a Sith Lord. His Force presence boiled and crackled like a sun gone supernova, almost blinding in its intensity, equal parts light and dark, positive and negative. "I hate you! You killed everyone!"

Vader was angry enough to reach out and strangle the boy to silence, but he was too stunned to respond; no one had ever had the guts to shout at him to his face...not in years. And the boy's tirade ran too close to his own buried conscience.

...I killed them I killed everyone who was ever anything to me...

"Shut up..." he rasped, his voice somehow thin even through the vocoder.

"You killed my family and I hope you die for it!" the boy screamed on. "I hope my father comes and kills you right now! He'll come, you'll see! He'll finish you!"

Father...coming...?

"You won't beat him again! He's a Jedi Knight--he won't lose!"

Owen...Jedi? Impossible...and he's dead...

"Silence! He was no Jedi, fool," Vader barked. "You said it yourself--Lars was nothing but a farmer!"

The boy didn't even stop to wonder how the Sith Lord knew that name. "Not Uncle Owen," he rasped, hoarse from his shouting, strangely pale and flushed. "My father, the Jedi you're chasing. He'll kill you this time!"

Uncle...Owen...? Chasing--father...?

"What?" Vader's voice cracked out over the sand, sharp as a turbolaser blast.

"That's right! Anakin Skywalker--my father!" There was something triumphant through the anger in the youth's hoarse shout--something he was proud of, despite his rage and despair. "The Jedi Knight you betrayed and tried to kill! He's coming back to stop you for good!"

Skywalker...father--!

All the respirators in the galaxy couldn't have made him draw a breath in that moment. It was like someone had punched him in the gut--he couldn't breathe, couldn't think; his legs had become two stone pillars that refused to budge from their place in the sand. His hands were limp at his sides, anger and outrage forgotten in the face of pure white shock.

...son...?

An utter impossibility was staring him in the face with tear-filled eyes and--her face, he could see the traces of her there; it crashed in on him why the boy looked so familiar--her features and his own, blended like two rivers into something, someone new--

--a new life, a life he'd taken--he was sure he'd destroyed it, along with her; she had betrayed him for Obi-wan, hadn't she? Was the child truly even his? He'd destroyed them both--destroyed the child--the little innocent one he'd broken before he'd ever even seen--it was his?--and the child was as dead as she was, his master had said so--he killed them both together, and he didn't care--his child was dead--his child was--

--was right in front of him--right there, looking like him and her and both together--a tiny candle of hope--

--no, no, it could not be true--if it was true, and he'd--

--if she was true--and she hadn't betrayed--

"...stop. You'll hurt us..."

"...Father...help me...!"

"...it seems in your anger you killed her..."

"...I do nothing to betray you..."

"...Ani...I'm pregnant..."

"...my motherly intuition..."

"...in your anger you killed her..."

"...all three of us..."

"...you're breaking my heart..."

"...you killed her..."

"...come back! I love you..."

"I hate you!"

"...you killed her."

"NO!"

Rage and grief and agony as powerful as the boy's own burst out through the Force in a tidal wave, crashing outward; sand gusted up as though thrown by the wind, outbuildings rattled, bricks toppled, sparks flew. As in the moments after he'd learned of her death, Vader's wrath and pain splintered his surroundings, a cry of anguish that manifested itself as a tangible thing.

The angry and frightened boy cried out as the maelstrom whirled around him, bowling him off his feet. He was tumbled to the ground, but unhurt--nothing but winded, as stone crumbled and metal shrieked all about him. Terror overtaking him at this sudden, inexplicable storm, he rolled to his feet and ran.

Vader hardly saw him go. The Sith Lord was rooted to the sand, his mind screaming at him--all of his demons cut loose, his pains howling through his soul. This was far worse than any dream--no vision he could banish, no old thoughts he could brush off. It was real, inescapable, right in front of him, brought to screaming life by one boy, one word.

"...father..."

Could it be?

...I killed her I killed her...

Through all the lies and pain and betrayal and death...had this one, single good thing survived?

...she said she loved me and I killed her...

Had he been wrong about her? About Obi-Wan?

...I was jealous and angry and I only saw myself and I killed her I killed them both oh burning skies what am I doing?

Had Palpatine...intentionally misled him about the rumors between the two?

What am I doing?

Focused anger began to return--sourceless, nebulous; at the moment, he wasn't certain who or what to be angry with, just that he was angry, and he had to be angry to have any kind of purpose or strength at all. He found his security blanket of tattered old sorrow and woven hate--a safe, black shelter of comforting, whispering dark.

Snarling at himself, Vader forced back his confusion. There was no reason to doubt things he'd known for nearly two decades--his master had given him power, order, and truth; his master had freed him from the limits of the Jedi, shown him the real face of the Council that feared him for his power and tried to destroy him. Shown him the true intentions of the woman who claimed to love him.

But...if he'd been wrong about the child...about her...what else...?

He shook his head--there was no "if." He would get to the bottom of this...this insanity. It was all wrapped up in this crazy little game of chase-the-bantha the impostor had going on. Whoever it was...they aimed to unbalance him, to lead him in circles until he fell into their trap. And this boy...

Perhaps even the boy was a part of it. Rather than a hapless Rebel captive--if he was in league with the agent of this scheme...Vader would soon find his answers. Padme's child or not, he would not allow himself to be led about by the nose, or deceived by some petty impostor Jedi.

"Anakin Skywalker--my father!"

If the boy was his son...

His mind tripped and stumbled over that--somehow unable to grasp it even as it was presented to him. The young pilot had practically screamed it at him--raw emotion, pride and longing, and there had been no hint of deception in the Force. There were no lies in the boy.

That boy. Rebel pilot. Young farmer. Raised by his stepbrother, on the very planet he hated--the one place he would never go. Strong in the Force--stronger than any raw youngling he had ever seen. Kept here by Obi-Wan himself--kept ignorant of the Force, untrained, so that his powers would cause no ripple through the galaxy.

Looking out through the darkness toward the lost horizon, Vader set his stare in the direction the boy had run. He could not have gone far, but the wind was picking up and night on Tatooine was filled with dangers. Krayt dragons sometimes hunted close to settlements, and there were always Tusken Raiders about.

He would not see the youth injured or killed before he got to the bottom of this. If the boy was his son...

He couldn't think beyond it; the thought itself, the feelings--it was just too big. Too much. Too bright.

So he did as he always had; he pushed it aside, separated himself from it--retreating to that cold empty place within himself. For now, he would concentrate on recapturing his prisoner, and finding out if the young escapee really was who he claimed to be. He would not allow himself flights of fancy or empty hopes.

Afterward...if it was true...

Then...he would just have to decide his path from there.

Luke kept running until his body gave out on him, weakened and drained from stress, hunger, and fear. He didn't know how far away from Vader he was, but at least he'd been given a miraculous chance to escape--if he could manage to get far enough away before the dark lord came down on him.

Vader's horrific display of power had hit him like a physical blow, sending him head over heels. It had rocketed through his mind like a thunderbolt, taking the breath from his lungs--he'd never felt anything like that hit his mind before, not ever. Never so much dark rage and deep sorrow and blank shock--incomprehensible regret and grief and agony that he couldn't explain. Luke had no idea how sensitive he truly was--or how much Ben had shielded him for most of his life--but Vader's outburst had been like standing next to ground zero of a proton torpedo blast.

It had been so overwhelming and terrifying that all he could think to do was run--get as far away as he could. So he did--he turned tail and scuttled like a womp-rat, never thinking to be ashamed of his cowardice until he fell to the sand minutes or hours or days later, when his burning lungs and aching legs gave out. Then he had time to berate himself for his terror, to kick himself for not standing his ground.

But he was afraid. Scared to death.

His shoulder throbbed still, and his bound wrists stung from being chafed. He was starving, and so thirsty--he'd wanted to refuse Vader's water, but a life lived in the desert would not allow him to ignore it, so he'd taken a few swallows. But that was far from enough, with all the stress and exertions and the hot dry air; he was so tired, his emotions so ragged, that he just wanted to flop down on his bed and cry himself to sleep--

--but his bed was back with Vader, back there with his murdered family and burnt-out home...and he had to keep running, or he'd be caught again.

Now, more than ever, he wished he was a Jedi--like his father or Ben. Then he could've stood up to Vader--could've destroyed him like the Sith deserved. Instead, he was nothing; helpless, broken, fleeing. Vader could swat him like a stingfly without breaking a sweat--and would, too, now that he'd made the dark lord so angry.

The insides of his lungs felt like sandpaper, and it was hard to breathe with the cutting hot wind and biting sand. With a groan, he forced his way back to his feet, shielding his face. He thought he'd run off in the direction of the Grigs' farm; if they were still there, maybe they could at least get him transport to Anchorhead...and from there...

Then he realized if he involved the Grig family, Vader might kill them too if he found out they helped him. But he had nowhere else to go--no other way to get out of the desert. He wasn't even sure if this was the right way--he'd thought it was, when he left, but he'd been so afraid...and now, out here in the middle of nowhere, in the black nothing of a Tatooine night, he couldn't see any lights. The nearest human presences were all kilometers from the Lars home--all the farms were widespread. He could be hours from help.

At least the night was cooler, Luke reasoned, trying to cheer himself up as he dragged one foot after the other, trying to keep his pace a jog. If it was daylight, with the twin suns beating down on him, he wouldn't have lasted even this long. The driving sand was bothersome, though--but a sandstorm would end his troubles and bury what remained. At least then Vader wouldn't catch him.

Then he wondered if he was getting delerious, because he was never usually this morbid. Maybe the hunger was getting to him, or maybe the blaster burn was worse than he'd thought. He couldn't see it--who could look at their own back?

He fell again, and came up spitting sand. His wrists throbbed; it was so hard to balance with his hands bound, and he'd fallen on them too. But he was far more afraid of the huge black nightmare that would be coming after him than of what could happen to him in the middle of the desert at night. He huddled on his knees for a few moments, shivering despite the warmth of the evening, trying to figure out what he was doing.

Father...are you out there? he moaned within. Are you even alive? Are you waiting for me here somewhere? Was Ben right...did Vader really kill you? Please...answer me...

No one would answer--he knew that. He was not a Jedi--he didn't know how Ben talked to him even when he was dead. He didn't know how to do any of that. He was just a farmer boy who didn't want to be a farmer--a bush pilot, Rebel pilot, hero...but just Luke, son of a murdered Jedi, who would now have no chance to become a Jedi himself. No one to teach him, no one to help him. No more Jedi. And soon, maybe, no more Luke.

He dragged himself up, walked on--he had no more energy to hurry. He couldn't run any more. Just one step after another across the shifting sand, stumbling. His eyes were blurred, but it was not just the wind that brought the tears.

He had always complained so much, so bitterly, about being stuck on the farm. He loved piloting, but Uncle Owen never let him take his T-16 past Anchorhead, never let him fly further than Beggar's Canyon. It felt like a fence in the sky. And he loved to fly--that fence was a grating, hateful barrier. The farm was like a hole he was stuck in, and in his youthful idealism he'd wanted nothing more than to escape into heroism and high adventure.

But...he missed it, too; he missed Uncle Owen's gruff wisdom, the security of that home--he missed Aunt Beru's kindness, and her warm tenderness...he wished she was here now, wrapping her gentle arms around him and soothing the pain away like she'd done when he was small.

He didn't want to be trapped on the farm...didn't want to be fenced in...but he didn't want them to be gone.

And he was sorry for all the rotten things he'd ever done...sorry for the last things he'd said to them...things he could never apologize for now...

Vader's fault--all Vader's fault. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, innocent victims in a war they'd never fought...friends like Biggs and Tay and Jimi and Cal and everyone else shot down, gunned down, blown up by the Empire...his father, betrayed and murdered Jedi Knight...Ben, friend and teacher he'd barely begun to truly know...Vader took them all away, destroyed everything in his path.

Vader was going to kill him now...

He realized he was down on the sand again. When had he fallen? How far had he gone? How long had it been?

He couldn't get up again; his head spun and the world tilted even where he lay. He couldn't go any further--he was lost, somewhere in the dark desert. No strength left, no help, no hope.

Ben...where are you? Help me... Lost, he tried to reach for someone--anyone. Like a grasping infant's hand seeking a parent's fingers, he desperately sought solace. Father? Are you here? Are you alive? Father, please...

No words passed through the Force; he was too untrained, too new. But he was strong, and it was that raw strength coupled with pure instinct that caused eddies in the Force. No words--just emotion, pleading.

[Father...help...I'm lost...I hurt...help me!]

He did not know how, but the faintest echo of answer bounced back--a mere whisper compared to Ben's wise voice, but a reply that spoke directly into his heart; a voice he'd never heard, but he recognized--from somewhere, like a dream somehow, it was a voice he knew.

I'm coming.

A burst of weary joy whirled through him, and he tried to pull himself up--but he had no strength left; so tired, so dizzy...should have had more water...

Then, he heard the sound of engines--a ship. Help had arrived. The wash of the ship's arrival kicked up even more sand, and he struggled to breathe--struggled to push himself up, to see. Someone was coming to save him--was it his father? All he could hear was the shrieking of the desert wind.

There was someone--a presence in the night. He could feel it...maybe it was through the Force. He could smell leather and steel and electronics, traces of ozone. There was a large hand on his shoulder, then strong arms lifting him.

He was safe--he knew that somehow. Nothing could get him, and he could go to sleep; no bad men could reach him now. His voice was nothing but a rasp, a whisper, almost lost in the wind.

"...Father..."

He slipped into the gray blur of nothing; unconscious, he never felt Darth Vader lift him up as though he were a little child and carry him back into the sheltered confines of the waiting shuttle.

Han Solo had hoped to sneak by without getting flagged down, but luck was not with him; Her Worship was not letting anybody come or go without drilling them on the necessity of keeping an ear out for Luke. It wasn't that Han didn't care about the kid; but really, the girl was near to obsessed.

"Han!" Leia greeted, zipping out the command room door to waylay him in the hall. "Where are you off to?"

"You haven't heard?" the sometime smuggler inquired, a little surprised she wasn't in the loop on this one. "Ol' Ironsides has me off on some refugee pickup mission. Says one of his contacts in the North Mid-Rim got a request from a family of...I dunno, royals or somebody that needs asylum. I've got a hellova job to do--but that's my area of expertise."

Leia smiled in spite of herself. "General Madine only sends the best, you know. I'm sure you're up to it. You keep doing more and more for us, Han--I can't thank you enough."

"Yeah, well..." Han shrugged, noncommittal. "I'm just puttin' it on your tab, Princess."

"So where exactly are you going?" Leia asked, deciding to ignore the comment. She followed along as Han continued down the hall, heading for the hangar bays. The Alliance was still in space, making their way cautiously to their next safe point.

"Little place called Naboo," Han replied easily. "Small world, big politics--seems they had their day back before the Clone Wars, to hear Madine tell it."

Leia frowned. "Naboo...that's the Emperor's homeworld, I think. Pretty much an Imperial resort nowadays--what are you doing going into a place like that?"

"Why, I'm just makin' a supply shipment, Your Worship," Han informed her with a wink. "And if I happen to pick up a few passengers on my way out...well, what the Imps don't know won't hurt 'em."

"Han..." Leia sighed, stopping him with a gentle hand on his arm. "I know you're capable, but...be careful. Okay? I don't...I don't want to lose you too."

"Hey, Highness-ness," Han cajoled, his tone gentling, "it's me. I don't go lookin' for trouble like the kid. I'll be in and out and back before you know it. It's just a quick job, that's all. All the Imperials on Naboo are fat rich slugs anyway."

This last was spoken in a tone of humor that brought a smile back to her face. "I hope you're right about that one, Captain," she retorted, trying to lighten up. "You come back in one piece--and that's an order."

"Aye aye, your Worship." Chuckling, he strode beyond her toward the Falcon, where Chewie waited, warming her up. "That's the plan."