She had to get away; this was becoming too confusing, too hard to control. She would ask Palpatine to give her another assignment.
But even as she thought it, Mara knew he wouldn't. If she'd had these thoughts, then her master knew; he always knew. Hadn't he asked her before if she had heard Luke; sensed him in her limited Force-perceptions? Hadn't her answer been a half-truth? She didn't hear him in the moment that her master had asked the question, so her denial had been true...in the moment. But she had heard him before, and many times after. Sensed him at the fringes of her perception; warmth, like stepping into sunlight--a tingle of affinity, both mental and physical. It drew her in, much as she tried to hold back.
Had this become a test, she wondered? Of her loyalty, her allegiance. Her master loved to test those around him.
But he had no reason to doubt her; her fealty was absolute, contact or not. She had always served him, as far back as she could remember. Resolute, she turned Skywalker's arm over, injecting instead into the vein on the back of his hand, sternly denying the urge to keep hold of it as he woke, to offer him this small comfort.
It would be unfair to give him false hope. Better he fall quickly; submit to Palpatine's will and have done. He was so close now, anyway. The man she had...what, felt empathy toward perhaps; some kind of recognition as a peer, respect for, no matter who they served.
More than that, perhaps--
It didn't matter. That man was gone now, grated away day on day by her master, twisted and distorted into what he desired.
This--all of this--was so unnecessary; Mara could have taken him directly to the Emperor's long-denied 'Behavioral Modification Center' and they could have delivered Palpatine his completely subjugated Jedi, his mind wiped clear, a blank slate. Clean, surgical, risk-free.
But that wasn't what Palpatine wanted.
He wanted to break his Jedi, mind and body. He wanted to do this himself--to achieve absolute control over him. Nothing less would do; it had become an obsession. She had never seen him quite like this before--so vindictive, so obsessed, so driven, so...
Afraid.
Mara's eyes widened at the realization; he was afraid. He was terrified of this Jedi.
Was Vader right? Was Skywalker a genuine threat to the Emperor? Were his powers equal to Palpatine's; was that why he couldn't control or predict him? Was this what terrified and fascinated her master? It would be so like him, to be unable to resist the pull of this much power. Unable to bring himself to destroy it, even knowing that it could turn on him.
This was why he had to control Skywalker so completely. More than that, even. The threat which had been held over his head for so long was now under his control, and it was everything that they had predicted. Everything that he had feared. It wasn't enough for Palpatine to control it; he had to grind it under his heel, tear it apart. Dominate it.
Skywalker made a low noise as he came round, but didn't yet move or open his eyes.
New understanding made Mara blanche as abruptly she felt such pity for him; Palpatine would stop at nothing to conquer his fear, she realized that now. He would break him...and if he couldn't break him, he would rip him to pieces trying.
Did Skywalker know this, too? Did Vader?
Had he been deserted a second time by his father?
.
She watched him struggle to consciousness, rolling over onto his back and drawing his knees up before halting as his breath stilled...then slowly lowering his broken ankle, a worsening injury which they hadn't been allowed to treat. He stared straight ahead as he always did, and she knew it was in an effort to stop the room in its lazy spin; knew that it was getting a little harder every time as his reserves were being ground away.
Remaining still for a long while on the hard floor, he watched his breath mist in the cold--it was always so cold here. Carefully calculated to sap at his reserves, slow him, drag him down.
Again he made the noise, half breath, half-groan, from the back of his throat as he lay still, eyes closed again, wanting to hold the ordeal of reality at bay just a few moments longer.
Mara nudged him gently, knowing that her master would be on his way by now. "Sit up. It'll clear your head."
Slowly he uncurled, the cold floor and his injuries making his movements stiff and awkward as he sat in an awkward hunch, freshly-scarred arms wrapping about long-broken ribs. Mara backed up, avoiding his eyes, aware once again of that strange resonance, and for the first time not rejecting it. "There's water here. Wash your face."
The blood from his latest string of confrontations had dried around his wounds and Mara had assumed that her master would want him cleaned up--or perhaps it was simply because it bothered her; she was no longer sure.
She watched him turn stiffly to look at the jewel-bright, delicately enameled bowl before him, a work of art as everything in the Emperor's Palace was, an incongruous bolt of color in the faceless white of this cold, hard, empty cell. Saw him run bruised, broken fingers along its gilded edge, and knew that he was thinking the same. A slight smile brushed his features momentarily. Then he reached out and cupped his good hand into the water.
Mara suddenly realized that, not having been given drinking water for days now, he was going to take the opportunity given. "Don't drink it!" she pre-empted.
He paused momentarily then cupped his hand again.
"Don't; it has antiseptics in it."
He paused again, seemed to weigh this up, then clearly decided he really didn't care. How did she know all this, Mara wondered? Now that she had finally allowed contact, could she hear him as completely as she could the Emperor?
"I'll get you some water to drink. Just wash with..."
He turned slightly. When?
Had he said that, or just thought it? His head was turned down, so she couldn't see his lips. She pulled her comlink from her belt. "Get some water for him." She hesitated, then added, "I'll take responsibility."
She crouched before him to take the immaculate white cloth and hand it to him. This was the closest she had been to him for some time; she'd purposely avoided it. Now, face to face, she couldn't understand why she had so dreaded this.
His expression remained so open, as completely without judgment as it had always had been; he knew this was not of her doing. Still, she looked away from those searching blue eyes, rimmed now with dark bruises, and pushed the cloth into his grip. It looked impossibly pristine in his bruised and bloody hand.
He watched her for a few seconds longer, then passed the cloth to his artificial right hand and dipped it into the water, lifting it to his face. He made contact with an open, angry wound below his eye and pulled away, flinching. Pausing, he glanced momentarily at the dirt and blood which sullied the cloth, before speaking without looking up. "Could I have a mirror?"
This close to him, Mara sensed...she looked away, trying to break contact.
He was strangely, morbidly curious, she knew--not about the injuries, but about himself. With the pointed absence of a mirror even in his apartment, he hadn't seen his reflection in so long he couldn't quite remember what Luke Skywalker looked like. Couldn't remember what he felt like. Had the unnerving feeling that if he looked in a mirror, he would see a stranger.
Again her heart went out to him, so completely alone, knowing that there was no end to this...
"No," she said quickly, guilty at the refusal but knowing that her master would never allow such a humanizing thing when he had worked so hard to objectify Luke; divorce him from his own sense of identity.
Leaning closer, she reached out and took the cloth from him, rinsing it again in the water before reaching out to wipe his face as gently as she could. He winced but didn't pull back. The feel of another human being reaching out to him, touching his face without intimidation or malice, was wonderful to him. She knew that absolutely.