Owen Lars is press-ganged into the Imperial Navy. He serves as a pretty low-level fella aboard a few vessels and he's basically held hostage and can't go home. All this while, Luke is growing up and he and Beru think he's been killed. (They know he wouldn't just leave them)
Luke and Beru run afoul of some traders and escape off-world with Obi-Wan who has no idea where Owen is but starts training Luke. Beru joins the rebellion as a pilot.
Owen gets transferred to Vader's ship and manages to survive despite the odds. His name is familiar to Vader and he has no idea what to with it. He doesn't get a long with Piett. Still, he goes along bitterly and grumpily (making friends with clone troopers) when Luke drops onto the scene.
Instead of doing his duty as an officer, Owen defects like a boss, steals a bunch of stuff, and in the middle of the defection drops the bomb on the bridge crew and Vader.
"Did you think I wouldn't recognize my family? My own brother?" Owen glares at the holo of Vader. "And wouldn't Mom be ashamed at what you've become?"
In an operatic irony turn of events, Vader doesn't know about Luke yet; so the Sith Lord is chasing his rebellious brother across the galaxy. No one is sure if he wants to kill him or not because the dramatic reveal kept scuttlebutt busy for weeks.
Vader catches up with Owen, learns about Luke, and defects too.
Palpatine is eventually turned into garden mulch, and Owen and Beru retire blissfully to a little cottage on Alderaan.
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Screaming because like a year ago I came on here and posted asking if anyone knew of a specific fic because I couldn't find it and I thought I had bookmarked it and people responded saying they'd look out and that it sounded good and they wanted to read it to. Only for a year later for me to be going through my own tabs on my own phone and finding the fic waiting right there for me on the last chapter I had read 🤦
Anyway it's called "Deciding Factor" by planningconquest on Archive of our Own
HIIIII. Love your Hogan's Heroes art! Especially the one where Hogan is playing yo-yo Klink! If you need inspiration from some interesting fanart tho, there's a crossover between Hogan's heroes and the Rat Patrol that you might enjoy. It's called the In Sheeps Clothing Raid, and it's a great mix between the shows.
HELLO! This ask absolutely made my day because the Sheep's Clothing Raid is actively open on my phone right now xD I had actually started rereading it again recently. The first time I read it I liked it so much that it made me go figure what the heck Rat Patrol is and watch some episodes
...And you are absolutely correct, I should do fanart for it... which means trying to figure out how the heck to draw Dietrich, so he looks like Dietrich, while wearing Troy's stupid hat......
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This was a fic I was trying to write which eventually became The Mirrored Shield for @prayforpiett, but it went through a few drafts and discarded ideas first before I got there. This was what I wrote for the same core storyline, but totally different setting and slightly different backstory, before I realised it wasn’t working and changed it to what was published:
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The woods that wrapped around Bestine were deep, dark, and hauntingly inviting. Luke clung to Artoo as he clip-clopped through them, the road clear and straight ahead. It wasn't a winding road, it wasn't twisted, and he'd come far enough by now that he could sort of see the light on the other end of the tunnel. The trees grew up, up, up, arching over like the path was a corridor, blooming with tiny white and blue flowers.
It had been Luke's grandmother, the great knight Shmi Skywalker, who had seen to it that the main road in and out of Bestine was well-cared for, loved, and built up. She'd organised for men and women and even the local Fae to forge it properly, cutting back the undergrowth and... gardening it to form a tailored promenade of trees marching along on either side. Those winding willows that knotted together to make the roof, of sorts, that topped the canopy that shielded from much of the rain, sprouted flowers in spring which rained down in the wind, like a small blizzard of petals.
Luke was riding through it now.
They settled in his hair, on his shoulders, on the great shield that he bore on his back, stamped with the Skywalker crest of a bird on one of those very willows. Artoo, his horse, paused for a moment; he took a breath, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the feeling of the wind and the petals.
Shmi Skywalker had been the saving grace of Bestine, and the Tatooine district in general—even Luke's scrappy village of Anchorhead had had a statue of her in it. He knew her face better than he knew his own.
Certainly better than he knew his father's.
His father's had been wiped from history.
He shook his head with a half-sigh, half-scoff, and they cantered onwards, a little faster. The light that was the end of the tunnel stretched out ahead, beams reaching inside to caress the leaves and vines that grew towards them. Luke didn't make for it, though.
He reached the rip in the latticework of trees. It was every bit as bad as Lord Palpatine had described.
The stench of rot and decay was unbearable; blood stained the wood, and the stems, and Luke thought he saw the distant, bony remains of what might've been a traveller once upon a time. One upon a week ago.
Luke gritted his teeth and dismounted, his father's sword heavy and clanking at his waist. Artoo whinnied unhappily.
"No, not now, buddy," Luke murmured. "I... you know what I have to do." For Bestine, for his grandmother's legacy, for his father's lack thereof. His family honour depended on it—not to mention his odds of ever becoming a knight. "If I'm not back by tomorrow's dawn, ride back home. Aunt—" He choked up, suddenly, and pressed his face to Artoo's neck. Artoo leaned forwards, as if to comfort him. "Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen will understand."
He let go of Artoo's reigns, and stroked his nose one last time. "They know I'm doing it for them."
Bestine and the rest of the district had been a thriving base of trade, prosperity and travel twenty years ago. But just before Luke was born, that had changed; someone had angered the Fae, and Shmi Skywalker's beautiful road had been abandoned by those who had sworn to help maintain it. And now the very person who had angered them—the very thing that had angered them, had slaughtered them in their bulk—was attacking.
Attacking farms, livelihoods, like Luke's.
Attacking travellers, especially any who Lord Palpatine tried to bring in to industrialise Bestine to the degree Coruscant had been, to give them all the same opportunities.
Attacking people.
If Luke wasn't mistaken... despite what Uncle Owen had said, this creature was the reason Uncle Ben had died.
Luke wasn't going to let that go unpunished.
"I'll come back for you," he promised Artoo, then he slung his shield off his back, drew his sword, and stalked off the road into the depths of the forest.
send me 👀 and I’ll post a snippet of a fic I never finished this year!
"I want you to join me for dinner." The scrape-scrape of a knife and butter on the bagel paused. Across the breakfast table, Atlas gestured with the buttery knife; first at the table and then the both of them.
"We're eating breakfast," Atlas explained.
"The society is hosting a dinner. We are invited."
"Which society? Wait, is it the Ring of White?"
"No."
"The High Table?" Now Atlas was speaking through a mouthful of crumbs, his grating lack of concern for his own comportment sticking a fork into every one of Gold's nerves and tangling them up.
"No."
"The Watchers?'
"No."
"Then?" Atlas paused, swallowed, and gulped down orange juice. "Who the hell could it be?"
"It is a society dinner," he managed. "We are invited because I am."
"A member of high society?' Atlas asked, picking up the other half of the bagel.
"Yes, your dinner skills are...acceptable when you try, and you are an excellent conversationalist. Doubtlessly from your occupation, so it will do." Atlas rolled his eyes. Gold ignored him. "A dossier of the guests will be in your room by this afternoon. Look over it."
Atlas paused, tilting his head to the side in an over-exaggerated motion that forewarned a headache-inducing conversation. "I want you to start saying 'please'."
Not for the first time, Gold was struck by just how bizarre the young man was. "Come again?"
"Please and thank you, and I want you to use them." Atlas scraped the knife over his plate, the edge digging into the delicate porcelain.
"Atlas." He started. "This is a business transaction."
"This is a business transaction where you have all of the civilian and legal authority over someone who can't fight back. I'm an orphaned teenager, no one is going to stand up for me if you decide to become a shit-tastic parent."
Gold felt his jaw clench. "I would not abuse my authority."
"You already have," he pointed out. "You can't even say please or thank you, how can I expect you to do better on other things?" It made sense, far too much sense; and Gold waited. Atlas wasn't exactly making a production in layering the lox, but it still meant something. "I'll stop you before you insult me by pointing out that I am young and you don't need to be polite because I'm young and I should expect it. I'll even stop you before you point out that you're...technically," he looked pained. "My father and that fathers get to do whatever they want because of society or some bullshit...but you don't."
Gold couldn't imagine his father tolerating any measure of back-talk, and he would have been up and across the room to box the younger man's ears if he'd ever made demands like this. It showed an impressive amount of courage...and that Atlas had a backup plan. The criminal hedged his bets, covered his tracks, and schemed with meticulous attention to detail.
"Please and thank you?"
"It's simple, it's easy, and goes a long way. Your para-military group might be used to orders and officers, but I'm not. I never will be."
Gold wondered what his father would think of that statement. How his mother might have reacted to the confrontation. It made sense for Atlas to make his home life more comfortable, but it was a strange place to start. Since the teenager had already knocked down his two points of defense against the idea, he didn't have many choices left. Not that he agreed with the teenager, he was more than a little confused, and extremely annoyed.
Still, he hadn't made general simply as a joke."Very well. I agreed to your terms." Atlas blinked in surprise, further insulting him. "Please read the dossier, and give me any information you have."
"I will read those files since you asked so nicely." Pushing from the table, Atlas stood carefully. His ankle was nearly healed now and he was gamely testing its strength. "When is the dinner?"
"Tonight."
"What the fuck!"
"Language," he corrected. "Atlas."
"Gold, I don't exist for your schedule!" Outrage, he reached for something to throw. "I have a conference call with people in a dozen different time zones. Do you have any fucking clue how hard that is to arrange! I can't cancel last minute! We've already postponed it three times. Last time it was because of a baby. A society dinner is not good enough."
"I've already accepted!" Gold told him firmly.
"And since neither of us is having a baby, I'm not going to cancel. Tell them that I fell again or something. Don't spring things on me last minute! Damn!"
"Language," Gold blustered for some measure of control in the conversation.
"I have a life too," Atlas explained tersely. "If you want this to work, you need to communicate with me...properly."
Gold swallowed down his anger, treading unfamiliar territory. Atlas was a criminal, but he was also his son. There were responsibilities and expectations, and if he caved now... "I will tell the organizers that you are not well enough to attend a dinner., and that I need advance notice if one is to take place."
Atlas' shoulders loosened. "Thank you." He retreated from the dining room, limping carefully. Only when he was gone, did Gold turn to his butler.
"Thoughts?" The man didn't like either of them, so his judgment was probably safe.
Looking well like a stuffed frog, the butler blinked. "He is a young, impetuous man."
"I am his father." The words tasted like molten lava in his mouth. "I am a general."
"Yes, sir." Gold turned, waiting to hear the rest. "He will not always be a young man. He may not always be...your son."
"May not." A clever choice of words, a caution against the furious pride thundering in his chest. Atlas was below the legal age and could do whatever he wished when he reached it. Gold's influence and authority wouldn't hold out forever, and it was already flimsy enough. The polite fiction of their familiar relationship would crumble.
Perhaps there was a man, far more soft-hearted and kinder than Gold, who would see this request as odd. A father with gentle hands and words, to whom such things were natural and he didn't wrestle the ghosts of a hundred generals in his ear while carrying the legacy they'd created.
He had taken Atlas to effect change on the world, so he could at least start with himself.
#$#$
for further context - https://www.tumblr.com/planningconquest/721668684089802752/writing-prompt-s-you-the-worlds-greatest-villain?source=share
and here-https://www.tumblr.com/planningconquest/722340798524522496/writing-prompt-s-the-local-superhero-is-also?source=share
