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His eyes were open.
Possibly.
There was not much to see, at least nothing of importance and nothing he wanted to see. What was there to look at when he was undergoing maintenance? He did not want to see this.
He did not want to feel this. There was no version of this in which he wanted to be here on the operating table with droids swarming around him, probing at him.
Maybe.
It gave him strength, did it not? The Dark Side made him powerful, more so than he had ever been before, it burst through his limits and made him unstoppable. Yet if all that was true, why was he here?
"Ngh," he whispered as the droid's appendage skewered itself in his chest, brushing against a rib.
There was no apology. If it had been a sentient instead of a droid, there would be none to come, not even a remorseful remark or a moment of respite. A droid was preferable, their mistakes did not come from their own cruelty or their opinions of him, all they were here to do was their job, whatever it may be. Vader had no idea what their code told them to do, as they stayed silent if he tried to ask through gritted teeth and turned inert at the slightest of prodding to their innards.
He did not know what they were doing. After years, there were procedures he knew well, what parts would be excruciating and where he could try and lull himself into a semi-conscious state, imagining that he was in any other place, that the metal pressing into him were soft and welcoming hands. Despite his attempts, it was never quite right, the warmth fading, turning stiff and limp like a corpse, then decayed bones, and finally cold durasteel.
This was new, however, which was impressive on its own; he would have thought that Sidious would run out of things to play with when it came to his body. It wasn't as if it was a renewable resource - once an organ was pulled out, it would be hard to stick a new one in. It wasn't merely biological incompatibility, that it would be his cells or midichlorians refusing it, but that he always knew when it was different.
Always.
It was emptier than metal and synthetics, foreign and disgusting, enough for him to scratch at his skin and tear the intricate stitching and joinery with the Force even unconsciously. It would not take, the surrounding flesh would only see it as something to be devoured and so it went, with him wrenched over in agony and still expected to carry a lightsaber. Not only carry but fight and survive, no, not survive but prevail, destroy and eradicate.
He shouldn't think too hard about what was ensuing in his ribcage, but his curiosity was exactly as demanding as it had been for Sk- that boy. Yes, a boy, not a man as he was now. Yes, he was still somewhat of a man, up to a point, at least he believed himself to be so.
The droid arm wasn't prodding at his heart, that much was clear, the position slightly off, not to mention that he would have sensed the change in vibrations. Must have been his lungs again, perhaps a tear in a new area, some cellular deterioration, or another ailment. He had not sensed a difference in his breathing, however, but what did he know? All he knew was field medicine, how to weld a piece back and keep it operational for a whole, not how to change entire parts, much less realize that the ventilators were shot as it was all running.
A gurgle escaped his throat and if he had control over his breathing, there would have been a wet gasp to follow, but all he could do was close his eyes, his lips parting as he tried to gulp air on instinct. His lower lip wavered and was quickly caught between his teeth as a stabbing pain radiated out from the hole the droids had dug into him. A metallic taste distracted him for a moment, but it was not enough, the shriveled and scarred piece of meat would not be enough to silence his mind.
"Mmh," escaped from him as the droid skewered him, digging ever deeper and paying no mind to the way its appendage barely fit between his ribs, grinding against them every time it moved. This was worse than normal, but everything would be fine if he could distract himself or fall into meditation, something at the very least. Painkillers, maybe, would be prudent, but these things would not spare him any of them, not as pills, injections, or topicals, no, he was left to bear it.
A whirring sounded and something screeched, wet and coarse. He should have been...something...he should...have thought...something.
He was not sure about anything at that moment. Vader tried to strike at the assailant, but only his stump moved, pulling on the muscles of his chest as he struggled, agony only compounding from it before that, too, was made immobile, along with the rest of his limbs. They were moving as well, possibly, though there was no way to tell.
"Do cease your whining, Lord Vader."
At the command, the screech died out. Had he been the one screaming? Enough to bother his Master, no less. It would do him well to have his tongue cut out for that or his vocal cords severed, after all, he had been disobeying, screaming like a child at something so minor.
"Better."
He pried his eyes open to see a patch of darkness marring the steely gray of the operating theatre, a dull white smear emerging from the folds of the dark fabric and then another, coming closer and closer, too close for his comfort. Then, impossibly, improbably, it connected with his skin, its roughness catching on the uneven, scarred surface before his brain processed the sensory information. He was set aflame, his face burning and chest aching from how he was skewered, two points of feeling that turned the rest of him into nothingness in comparison.
"Make it stop," he whispered in the Force, not daring to make a sound after his Master had forbidden it.
"When will you learn, Lord Vader? This pain, all of it could become power, but you squander it," the hand that burned as hot a star shifted slightly, gliding over the deep chasm wrapping itself over his head, a pat that should have been gentle, "I try to make you a worthy Sith and you scream in my face, boy."
The hand left.
The galaxy was empty. Vader alone with a stake through him was all there was. If before he had been touching the tempest of the star's corona, now he was caught in the event horizon of a black hole, the infinite gravity crushing him with its eternal chill. He needed it back.
"Please."
Sidious scoffed, "A Sith does not beg, nor does he grovel."
Vader's eyes weren't focusing all that well, but he swore that the ghastly white was looking rosier than before, the clothing lighter.
"Come now, Padawan, it's alright. There's a village not far."
"Obi-" he could not make himself say that name.
A soft, feminine hum.
"Ani, whatever have you gotten yourself into now?"
"Pa-"
"I will never join you."
"Son."
The blonde head shook in disbelief and blurred even further until he could no longer discern it from the walls, leaving him grasping at him in the Force, trying his hardest to stretch imaginary fingers as far as they would go, only to reach nothing.
Now that his Master had left, he could disobey, if only for a moment. His scorched throat tensed and as much as he could, he wailed. Luke would never join him, he'd never join him, not while he extended a hand and not when he took it with force, definitely not when he was here having his innards toyed with.
This would not a father make.
If he had hands, they would be clenched, perhaps digging into the metal plate under him. If he could stand up from the table, he would...do something, at the very least. It was hard to think.
The sting was nearly rhythmic now, the droid working on him in smooth motions. Good enough. This he could manage.
His throat tensed once more after its brief respite as the movement changed.
No.
He could not.