Chapter Text
Sidious has had quite a lot of practice asserting absolute control over his outward presentation. He has spent the vast majority of his life perfecting his ability to show the people around him only and exactly what he wants them to see. One might even argue it is his superlative skillset.
But this situation has tried even his significant well of patience.
It was another meeting with his future apprentice. He played his part perfectly, as always, the kindly grandfather, dispenser of wisdom, a supportive ear, a shoulder to lean on. Pleasant, attentive, curious. While inside he seethed.
After all that work, months of planning, dropping a hint here, nudging a piece there, Sidious had finally managed to lead Kenobi, the bane of his plans for over a decade, into committing this ultimate betrayal. Made him deceive his former student into believing Kenobi had died in his arms, made the boy grieve him, and finally, finally tearing their troublesome relationship asunder.
Except it was all for naught.
Just weeks later, here the idiotic boy was, again gushing over one of his and Kenobi’s exploits, as if nothing had happened. He had practically skipped through the door and spent the subsequent hour rambling about just how much better he and Kenobi were doing now, and oh, how the trial of that mission had truly strengthened their trust in one another in the end. Disgusting.
And Sidious could only smile and congratulate him.
It was galling. But, he forced himself to endure.
Now, hours after the conversation, Sidious stalks into one of his many clandestine properties on the midlevels and finally permits his rage to seep onto his face. After a moment of consideration, he loosens some of the Darkness under his command from its tight leash, and allows it to grasp some nearby inconsequential piece of plastoid furniture and hurl it against the nearest wall. The chair or whatever shatters upon impact, and Sidious lets the sensation of destruction wash over and sooth him.
It has long been clear that the boy will not Fall while Kenobi is there to muck things up, but his attempts to get the Jedi out of the way, to introduce doubt and wear down their trust, have been met with failure at every turn.
It is maddening, the influence that cretin has over Sidious’ apprentice.
He would just kill the man—even if it would be less satisfying than destroying their relationship—except Kenobi is bafflingly durable, as Sidious’ many (many) attempts to put him out of Sidious’ own misery would attest to.
It is looking more and more likely that his work to turn the imbecilic boy will not bear fruit.
No. Such an outcome is unacceptable. Sidious will have the boy’s power, will make the Jedi’s precious Chosen One the blade upon which they fall. He will have Vader.
(If nothing else, he will not allow all those hundreds of hours spent listening to the irritating youth prattle on about whatever asinine thoughts enter his thick head go to waste.)
He makes this vow to himself as he dons his cloak to meet with his temporary apprentice. Tyrannus had indicated he had come across something of particular interest to Sidious recently.
*
“Aahh…that certainly is interesting. Well done, Apprentice.”
*
Yes, Tyrannus has quite outdone himself, this time.
Surveying the package the Count had smuggled to Coruscant via some hapless mook, for the first time in a very long while, Sidious has to put effort into keeping the glee from his face. Tyrannus, the placeholder, has just gifted Sidious the solution to his most pressing hurdle, simultaneously rendering himself obsolete. The irony is delightful.
While it would have been nice to make the boy pledge himself of his own ‘free’ will, the culmination of all of Sidious’ careful machinations on his psyche, simply forcing him to obey has a certain catharsis to it, as well.
All these years of putting up with the nuisance would well be worth it to witness his reaction to Tyrannus’ gift, the full realization that he is nothing more that a tool for the Sith, that, regardless of his opinion on the matter, his power belongs to Sidious.
It would be like cutting out the middleman, as it were. In fact, this way Sidious would never have to deal with the insipid child’s emotions ever again.
Oh, yes. He likes the sound of that.
Sidious sends a quick message to Tyrannus, praising his discovery again and giving him the go ahead to initiate the Separatist invasion of Coruscant. It’s about time to dispose of the dull man.
He cannot wait to finally break Skywalker.
—
Anakin registers that his tea tastes a little odd, but he’s not really paying attention to that, far too focused on his story.
He’s actually been sleeping a little better recently, despite his worry for Obi-Wan engaging Grievous without him. Anakin hasn’t had a single vision about Padmé since they defeated Count Dooku on the Invisible Hand. He assumes their success on that mission averted the horrible future he had seen.
So, Anakin was in high spirits when he arrived at the Chancellor’s office, today. And luckily, it seems his friend is in a good mood, as well! He had noticed recently that Palpatine had been a bit distant, in some of their talks. Anakin feels a little twist of guilt at that. At first, he had been the one pulling away, after the man had made an odd remark about Obi-Wan that had struck Anakin as a little off-color.
“So then I said—” as he continues his tale, Anakin leans forward to set down his teacup on the low table in front of him. But as he does, he is hit with a sudden, intense bought of vertigo.
He misses his mark, the cup slamming down too hard to the side of the saucer, some of his dink sloshing over the rim.
“Oh,” Anakin says, “S—sorry…” He finds himself struggling to sit back up fully.
He realizes he’s swaying, listing heavily to the side. “Are you alright, dear boy?” Anakin hears the Chancellor say, but he can’t see him, his gaze caught on the way the floor seems to tilt under him. He plants both his hands on the couch and tries to stand, but his legs almost immediately give out, and he falls back against the cushions with a grunt, head spinning.
Anakin tries to sit up again, but can’t. His legs jerk and twitch, his hands flexing, but they feel all disconnected from each other. He can’t figure out how to make the individual muscles work together. His mind feels full of fog, like he can’t quite follow what’s happening, a muffled undercurrent of anxiety threading along beneath the confusion. He…he thinks something might be wrong.
A little adrenaline shocks through him when hands suddenly grasp his legs, just under his knees, but his instinctive jolt is still weak. The grip tightens almost painfully at his sign of struggle. He gets his eyes open (when had he closed them?) to discover Palpatine is the one touching him. The older man, with surprising strength, lifts his legs and turns him, tugging until he’s laying flat on his back, sideways on the couch. It’s the same couch he always sits on when he comes to visit.
“Ch’ncell’r?” the word slurs on its way out, his tongue feeling bulky and unwieldy in his mouth. He goes to sit up, pushing an elbow underneath him, but Palpatine plants a hand on his chest and shoves him back down. He struggles feebly, but is too weak to break out of the man’s grip.
“Just relax, my boy,” his mentor says, sounding amused, with an edge of condescension. “Don’t fight.”
Something’s wrong, something’s really wrong.
(He knows what this is, deep down, has learned from his mother and later from safety talks in the Temple what his symptoms are a sign of, and why people might use those sorts of drugs. But, it can’t be, it can’t. Palpatine is his friend, has been his friend for more than half his life. Why would he do something like that? He’s spent more than ten years being Anakin’s closest confidant, the only person he felt he could always rely on to be on his side. Why would he suddenly decide to drug him and—and—
It doesn’t make any sense!)
Palpatine’s eyes rove up and down his body, assessing. Anakin feels cold horror twist his gut. He tries to say something, prompt some response that isn’t that smug, satisfied smirk. “Ch…ch’n…sl’r…” Chancellor! But the man only smiles wider, a cold, thin hand reaching over to pat his cheek. He tries to move away and manages to tilt his head to the side, but then bony fingers snatch at his jaw, forcibly turning his head back.
Palpatine’s nails dig painfully into the skin around his jawbone. Anakin can only look up helplessly at the man looming over him. He chuckles, and it doesn't sound any different from any of the other times he’s heard his mentor laugh, and that might just be even worse. “Now, now, none of that.” He moves his hand back and forth, making Anakin’s head loll from side to side roughly, before letting go and walking away with another low, foreboding laugh.
Anakin tries reaching for his bonds, desperate for help, but the Force is like molasses, like wet cement. He feels like he’s caught in a sticky flytrap; It isn’t muted like when he’s been bound in suppressant devices, but he can’t grasp It, can’t affect It in any way. It’s almost worse than Force inhibitors, the brittle helplessness tearing at his chest.
His vision has gone fuzzy, unfocused, the room spinning blurs of brown and red. He tries to move, to do anything, but his muscles are barely responding at this point, and he can only twitch weakly. He hears loud panting, and it takes a moment to realize it’s coming from himself.
This can’t be happening. Why is this happening? He thought—he’d thought Palpatine was his friend. Why is he doing this?
The man returns now, his steps near silent on the thick carpets. Anakin tries to shy away from him, but he can’t, he can’t get away!
Palpatine steps into his view. Adrenaline sharpens his focus, and he sees—
Oh, Force. Oh, fuck.
The man has donned thick, waterproof gloves that go all the way up past his elbows. In his protected hands he holds a small, circular, clear petri dish, and in the dish is a thing.
It’s the color of blood-stained sand, a few inches long, but very narrow, less than half a centimeter thick, maybe. It takes several seconds for Anakin’s mind to connect to the proper word, because while it looks like just a worm, it’s—
There’s something wrong with it. It elicits a soul-deep disgust, something in his hindbrain flashing a warning signal. Danger! Don’t touch, don’t look away!
Anakin’s chest heaves with his panicked, shallow breaths. He sees a smile spread across Palpatine’s face. It’s cruel.
“This,” his oldest friend says cheerfully, “Is called a ‘lyssamal.’ I’ve brought it here, just for you, my boy! As a special gift.”
What? What?
“Now, lyssamali are quite rare. The species was developed on Zigoola millennia ago by Darth Helmintha of the Crawling Rot.” The hideous thing twitches in its dish. It doesn’t have eyes, but Anakin can feel it looking at him all the same. “Their eggs can only be cultivated on Zigoola’s third moon.”
Oh, stars, Zigoola. That—that’s a Sith planet. A Sith planet, fuck. It’s—a Sith creature? Why does Palpatine know about Sith creatures?
The thought evaporates, though, when the man steps closer. He holds the petri dish directly above Anakin’s face, and he feels nauseous with terror. He watches the worm writhe around. He feels it’s hunger.
The rising hopelessness and panic threaten to drown him. He silently prays for someone to open the door, for a comm call to come through, for something, anything, to interrupt this, to stop it. He—he wants Obi-Wan. Oh, Force, he wishes Obi-Wan were here, wishes for his Master to come rescue him like he always has. Obi-Wan! he thinks, petrified, desperate, Obi-Wan, I need you, help me, please!
But Obi-Wan can’t hear him. It’s like Anakin is trapped behind a clear wall with the bond on the other side. He can see their connection, can feel Obi-Wan behind the wall, but he can’t get to him, can’t send or hear anything through the link.
He’s so scared. He thinks he might be crying, but the skin on his face has gone numb. “Hhh…hhuhh…” Help, help!
“I’ve only ever read descriptions of the lyssamal’s effects before, unfortunately. It is said that after nesting in a host, a Sith Master can commune with the lyssamal, and it will compel in the host complete obedience to the master.”
…What? Oh, no. No, no no! Weak sobs escape him even through the effects of the drug, completely overcome by hysterical fear. Stop, stop! He doesn’t want this!
Palpatine leans down, the worm lowering a few inches closer to Anakin, and croons, “I’m so excited to share this with you, my dear boy. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
He tries to yell, to scream, to thrash, but all he can do is twitch and moan. “Hhuhh…hhuuuhh!” He’s powerless, he can’t stop it, he can’t make it stop!
Then he clamps his mouth shut because Palpatine cracks open the lid of the petri dish. A moist, organic smell rolls out of it, like a kitchen sink that hasn’t been cleaned in too long. And then part of the lyssamal pokes out from the dish, and there’s nothing between it and him but a few inches of empty air.
Please, please, someone, help!
But nobody does.
“Nn…! Nnnn…!” he whines in protest, keeping his mouth clamped shut.
The front end of the worm-thing squirms across his face, leaving a trail of slick, viscous fluid in it’s wake. It’s cold body brushes his lips, bumps into his nose, and then before he can try to pull away, one blunted end of the thing shoves itself inside one of his nostrils.
It hurts.
It pushes into him, burrowing into the back of his nose, and Anakin feels such revulsion and horror that he gags. But it doesn't help. Agony stabs through his sinuses as the horrible thing moves inexorably deeper and deeper into his body. He can feel it squirming through his nasal cavity, icy cold. Anakin feels sick, he feels dirty, violated. Please, please, make it stop! Get it out! Get it out!
A sickening pressure builds behind his eyes, like layers of his skull are being pried apart. He isn’t sobbing anymore, just trying to hold as still as possible, to breathe at all without aggravating the terrible pain. It hurts so much.
Please!
And then slowly, so slowly, the pain begins to ebb. His face feels sticky, throbbing with heat, but the blinding, all-encompassing agony has abated. The thing, the lyssamal, occasionally twitches and jerks in–inside of him (no, no) but it seems to have mostly settled.
(It’s settled in his head, it’s inside his head!)
Other sensations begin to return. His prosthetic is twisted at an awkward angle, putting slantwise pressure on the connection port. He feels his undertunics sticking to his skin, damp with sweat. His mouth hangs open, a trickle of saliva drying on his cheek.
He can’t move at all, now.
Palpatine enters his line of vision again, but he’s blurry. Anakin cannot focus his field of view, cannot move his eyes. What…what happened? Why can’t he move. His breathing is slow and even, but it shouldn’t be, he’s terrified, why…why is his body not responding to him?
It’s quiet in the room, enough that he can hear the ticking of an antique analog chronometer, the only other sound the steady breathing of the two beings.
But on the inside, it’s the opposite. Anakin’s mind is buzzing with terror, drowning out his thoughts, like how a swarm of viscous insects might smother an unwary interloper. He can still feel it, the lyssamal, even if it’s not moving anymore, the horrible weight of it pressing against his skull.
Palpatine reaches down and touches Anakin’s face. He strains with all his might to scramble away, to yell, to do anything. But nothing happens. Anakin’s breathing remains perfectly level and even.
The Chancellor says, “Fascinating.”
He lifts Anakin’s arm and lets it drop back down limply. Anakin tries to punch him, and nothing happens. Palpatine pats him on the stomach and he feels like throwing up, but nothing happens.
“Well, now. This worked better than I had even hoped.” The man Anakin had once thought of like a father sounds pleased. There’s another sickening lurch of movement from the creature that’s crawled inside his head.
Palpatine brushes some hair away from his face and leans over him again. He takes Anakin’s face in both of his hands, gently pressing the pads of his thumbs to Anakin’s upper eyelids. He wails into the Force for Obi-Wan, “Help! Help! Please, Master, help me, I’m scared!”
Nothing happens.
The old man begins to chant in some language Anakin has never heard before. An agonizing vibration begins to ring through his skull, echoing from the top of his nasal cavity, where he can feel that disgusting thing.
He hears, “I christen thee Darth Vader, my apprentice in the ways of the Sith. Serve me, your master, Darth Sidious!” No, no, no—
There is a flash of nauseating heat behind Anakin’s eyes, and a horrific stiffening, swelling sensation. He wonders for a hysterical moment if the fucking thing is going to burst out of his face, like a monster in a holofilm.
Palpatine (his—his master? No, no!) lets go of him and stands up straight. The pressure is still there, the awful, violating feeling of fullness and weight where there isn’t supposed to be anything.
“Stand, Lord Vader,” orders his master (No, Force, please no!)
And then Anakin’s body moves.
It’s wrong.
Every part of it is wrong, the movements stiff and flat and uncanny. It’s like something else entirely is pulling at the cords of his muscles, like the Force has tied puppet strings around his limbs. He has no control, no control at all.
He feels like a thing to be used.
Once he is standing, Palpatine (the Sith Lord, he must be, oh, Force) grips his chin again. His skin crawls at the touch, but he can’t do anything, he can’t pull away. He tries to scream, ‘Don’t touch me!’ but his breathing doesn’t even stutter.
The old man tilts Anakin’s head this way and that, eyeing him appraisingly. (In his mind he shudders, but his body just stands there.) “Wash your face.” He gestures to a side door that Anakin has never been through. The lyssamal turns his body and begins walking him to it even as Palpatine continues to speak. “We can’t have you looking so pathetic, my boy, you have a reputation to maintain, after all.”
He returns with damp sleeves and hair, his face reddened from how the rough leather of his glove had scrubbed over it, uncaringly. Anakin is in a state of shock. He’s not sure how this is happening to him. Every movement his body makes without his permission sends jolts of revulsion though him.
Palpatine is speaking into a communicator on his desk, the holoform of a clone commander Anakin doesn’t know on the other end.
The Chancellor says, “Commence Order Sixty-Six.”
And then then Force starts screaming.