I hope this lives up to Vader expectations. MORE OF HIS POV NEXT.

If you haven't already please vote or comment it would be the BEST BIRTHDAY gift for my 32nd!🥹

【Ｌｏｃａｔｉｏｎ：ＤＳ－１　Ｏｒｂｉｔａｌ　Ｂａｔｔｌｅ　

Ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ

Ｓｏｕｔｈｅｒｎ　ｗｉｎｇ

Ｉｎｔｅｒｒｏｇａｔｉｏｎ　

ＣｈａｍｂｅｒＡ】

V   A  D  E  R
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  COLD FIRE.

  IT COURSED THROUGH HIS VEINS, blazed in his eyes; an all-consuming inferno bearing down upon the pitiful excuse of a man cowering before him. A brackish undertone percolated the air and curled his lip in revulsion. The once proud Admiral that walked with a brazenness and grated on the Sith Lords nerves, had just soiled his uniform. This wretched degenerate fueled by a chauvinistic ego and fervor, had condemned himself to marinate in his own excrement.

  It was quite a pathetic sight to behold.

  The shadowed lighting highlighted the abrasions that scissored his face, trickling down a waxed complexion like beaded rubies. The stiff fabric had long been stained deep scarlet and his once meticulous hair, matted against a forehead crusted in sweat. "M-my Lord," his words were barely whispered through bruised lips marred in lacerations, "p-please have mercy."

  Cold fire was lethal. It seared the deepest recesses of his mind and preforated limbs forged of power and purpose, slowing his pace while his senses remained numbed to the screams.

  The Admiral's agonized cries continuously rebounded off the soundproof chambers, invoking a smile built on the backs of savagery.

  Minutes had stretched to hours. Several days had elapsed before their next session commenced.

  Today, the fool had begged for the extended hand of mercy. If Tarkin, the insufferable oaf, hadn't ordered of his return, he would've jettisoned this cretin into the abysmal void of space. He had no interest in leaving the man's putrid remains devoured by the Diagona inhabiting the garbage compactors. Tarkin, the autocratic man, had vented his grievances from tallied bodies Vader had recently disposed. He'd flexed his status as head overseer of the Death Star, recently praised by the Emperor for the final drafts of his Tarkin Doctrine—leaving Vader unable to undermine his authority.

  Yet the more that was revealed in this man before him, the fouler his mood.

  Deep shadows ensconced the room. A durasteel table was positioned at the center, its design stark and utilitarian, staged to break the willpower of even the most resistant under intense pressure. Equipped were restraints used to bear the repercussions under meticulous forms of torture, which he or his torture droids enacted with their set of silver instruments.

  His nerves prickled with annoyance

  He unclipped his personal datapad from his utility belt with one swift arm, Motti's expression becoming ever grim as he listed off a series of names from different departments. "Each of these reports are women that you have repeatedly harassed aboard this station," he finally concluded, "including Lieutenant Ayen."

  He dismissed the IT-O interrogation droid that hovered beside him, the spherical binary reservoirs emptied of the BAVO SIX injection administered hours ago.

  It had been a recent addition of the Empire's mechanisms, with Motti—decidedly—serving as the guinea pig for the first experiment. Although the lethal substance had long left the man's system, the searing aftereffects lingered in the violent quivering of his limbs.

  Vader made a note to inform ISB of the injections successful effects that could be passed on to other imperial branches, for future use.

  Preferably for treasonous ilk like the Rebellion.

  Motti's dilated pupils followed the menacing coal-black droid until its glowing red eye disappeared behind a door.

  Vader, already tiring of the man, leaned down so that Motti was in direct eyeline of his blistering gaze. "If it were up to my jurisdiction, Motti, they would need specialists to identify your remains." A bone cracked in his jaw as the man whimpered. "Now... get the fuck out of my sight."

  Vader leaned back on his heels, motioning for the two clone troopers standing guard to retrieve the man. "Rex, Fives," he addressed, "take this imbecile to get cleaned up in med bay and make sure he goes to a solitary cell after. Leave Tarkin's objections to me."

  "Yes sir!"

  Vader looked down at the man being released from his constraints, falling like a sack of meat against the chests of his troopers. He sneered, Pitiful.

  He bided his time, waiting until they reached the chamber doors before he parted to Motti the last of his words.  "And Motti, if I hear even a hint of sexual misconduct, consider yourself fortunate if castration by my own scalpel is the least of your worries."

.... ....

  Blood swirled down the drain, taking the remnants of his previous activities. He stepped out of the steamed shower, droplets of water from the bronzed skin evaporating into the heated floors. The mirror adjacent reflected the man often hidden under a heavy-set cowl. An angular, contoured face, paired with sensuous lips that had driven many women wild for those few who had glimpsed the striking man beneath the layers of cloth or armor. Meaningless affairs he later erased from their minds.

  In the face of solitude, being shedded of the layers was a reprieve.

In his relaxed state, a towel was slung on the lower-cut V of his hips. He reached for the iron bar positioned in the frame of the fresher's door, tucking one foot in as he pulled himself up. Muscle honed from years of combat and intense training contracted with a gratifying burn and made the blood surge. He needed more than just meditation to combat his frustrations after the holomessage received from his Master.

  The Emperor was pleased that Vader had re-obtained the original, albeit rough, outline of Project Stardust—the plans for the Death Star—from the rebels, "Everything is going as I have foreseen..."

  He could still picture the hooded projection of the man standing before him, bruised eyes barely veiled while the Emperor steepled papery veined hands together. Those hands possessed a deceitful fragility, wielding a violent crackle of destruction in reality. "However, that does not excuse your conduct with Grand Moff Tarkin, Lord Vader. For this I am displeased..."

  Vader had been fortunate a reprimanding was all he'd received, unlike the previous demonstrations he was well versed in and bore the physical repercussions of. He did not care to dwell on his Masters favored punishments which in its most raw form was pain.

Specifically, his.

  He headed to his office after donning a pair of loose-fitting pants, for a much-needed respite. He flexed the nerve receptors in his cybernetic hand while his glove was sanitized, procuring a glass of Coruscants finest bourbon in the very room that showcased all his "trophies".

  Before he consciously realized why.

  Her signature was tangible, unlike the mundane elements of fear or pessimism that permeated the station's sterile environment. A blend of technical precision highlighted her essence, underscored by the fiery spirit of the desert. It was akin to a funnel flower native to Tatooine, burning under the unforgiving suns, yet resilient against the harshest wind and rooted between the thickest of rock. The sweetened spice it released was cultivated in the finest perfumes.

  "That woman has a kriffing death wish." His irritation grew palpable while his hand rested on the pair of soot-covered goggles left on his couch; the holographic lens covered in grime.

  Kriffing hells, woman.

  His lungs expelled a considerable exhale, settling back into the cushions, his head tilted towards the scarlet throw of lights refracting off the ceiling. Her track record continuously piled up, yet he couldn't afford to dispose of her. He'd certaintly been tempted the day she'd boarded.

Very tempted.

The damned woman had nearly been the cause of a massacre on her first day, remembering many of the station's officers' audible and quite explicit thoughts he could easily blockade from his mind. At least he was disciplined enough to refrain from such vociferous musings. Had he not immediately departed for his next mission, it might've led to a homicidal spree.

Few women remained employed on station for a reason.

  When he'd recruited the technician from Tatooine, it had—admittedly—been disconcerting coming from the same culture. Yet he'd had to see for himself after numerous troopers on the ground reported of a skilled technician being harbored. He'd read the Toydarian's thoughts and dispatched one of his newer, trusted officers, to barter with the sentient for a handsome sum. The sleemo had been in a severe mood, debating whether to sell her off to the Hutts for a hefty price.

Vader's disgust had been profound enough that words about a familiar matron unceremoniously slipped from his lips during his short reunion with Watto.

How dare that Toydarian attempt to usher the name of a man long dead. He could still recall those earlier years as a lowly slave at Watto's disposal. Nearly breaking himself as a young boy with a pipe dream upon each podrace, with a nurturing figure left to tend to his wounds—

  No.

  He cut off that train of thought quickly as it had come, shooting back the last of the bitter liquor that seared in his chest. He would not go there.

  He closed his eyes and pulled on the darkness like a shroud around him.

  Screams.

  The acrid stench of cauterized flesh singed his senses as his crimson blade sliced through the air. He didn't care for the pleads of mercy. They'd let her die and they'd suffer.

  All of them.

  He could feel the rage burn through his veins, scourging the adomed walls while granules of sand rained down around him. One after the other the bodies fell at his feet in a dusted plume, leaving a tomb of silence in his wake.

  The signature of death...

  Delving into the inner depths, strengthening his connection to the dark side, he buried the past while the very fabric of the Force writhed and twisted to the Sith's dark will.

  Yet there was a shift in the atmosphere that rippled across his senses and drew him back.

His eyes flashed open.

  No, not a shift, a presence.

  He could feel it growing closer and closer, chaotic and cold tendrils exuding from the dark aura of a force-sensitive.

The gold in his eyes scorched before his commlink chimed.

  Pushing back locks of burnished gold and sienna from a smooth forehead, he raised the device to his lips. "Vader," he responded readily.

  "Lord Vader, Colonel Yularen. There appears to be an Inquisitor ship in docking bay 327."

Ah, the Emperors Dark Side Adepts. The shadowy agents were considered a classified part of Imperial Intelligence. Usually, they answered to the Emperor alone. So he was rather interested why one would dock here. Unless, they were here specifically for the Supreme Commander on station.

  "I'm aware, Colonel. Send them to me."