#tarkin fic

vader and tarkin’s dynamic, as wholesome or as unwholesome as you’d want. maybe how tarkin views vader. does he know vader’s past? or no? i always thought their relationship could be explored, has a lot of unanswered questions.

(These events take place directly after Darth Vader comic #18 “Bad Ground”)

Trophy (1400 words)

“I did not ask you to be here,” Vader snarled, suddenly.

“And good morning to you,” Wilhuff said, dryly, not looking up from his datapad.

Vader lay prone on the flat medical platform in a room that looked more like a droid-builder’s workshop than a place for care and healing. He had been unconscious for hours. His hard armor was unscathed, but the soft parts were scorched and ripped. Burns insulted his already tortured skin and Wilhuff wondered if there was any part of him that wasn’t scarred in some way or another. Wilhuff knew Vader had been through an ordeal to become what he was today, but out of respect he refused to let his imagination wander too far.

He wondered if Vader would order him to leave the room. Technically, he had no authority over the Grand Moff, but Wilhuff would leave if he wished it.

“Are you here to gloat?” Vader rumbled. 

Wilhuff looked up from his datapad. The reflective surfaces of Vader’s dark lenses continued to stare up at the ceiling, at nothing in particular. 

“I am here because I wish to be. Nothing more.”

It wasn’t a proper answer, but truth be told, Wilhuff had just hunted Darth Vader across an unforgiving savanna for the last thirty-six hours and he was exhausted. He also had not left that planet unscathed and the very idea that he would “gloat” after the ordeal was insulting.

Vader let out a deep, growling noise, but he did not argue.

Wilhuff returned to his datapad, but his thoughts remained on Chandar’s Folly and Vader’s chosen hunting ground. Wilhuff loved a good hunt, it was in his blood after all, but why did Vader insist he be the prey? 

It plagued Wilhuff. It was all he could think on their flight back to Civilization. 

“You have questions,” Vader observed in his irritatingly vague way.

“You know I do.”

With the flick of the Dark Lord’s hand, all the droids shut down at once. The lights dimmed. The machines went eerily quiet, even Wilhuff’s datapad flickered and went dark.

“Ask.”

This was…unexpected. Neither Vader nor Wilhuff were keen on conversation.  Not with others, not with each other. Wilhuff, of course, knew the art of political relations and could speak a great deal without saying much, while Vader has the advantage of using “silent looming” as his form of communication. They got along so well because neither asked much of each other in way of conversation.  Wilhuff would not go as far as to say they were friends, but the trust was there, however precarious it was at times. 

This offer to simply “ask” what was on Wilhuff’s mind was not to be taken lightly, and it was a dangerous offer to be sure. He resisted asking the obvious, instead plucking the words carefully and laying them out as an offering rather than a demand.

“Is this the last time you will ask this of me?” 

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You are relieved?” The question was ornery, Wilhuff could tell in Vader’s tone. For all his majesty and power, that dry wit and mischievous undertones could never be quelled. Wilhuff almost pictured the wry smile behind that mask, but he quickly shoved the thought aside, not trusting that Vader does not skim his thoughts from time to time. 

Wilhuff scoffed, and relaxed in his chair. “Of course, I am relieved. Do you think I have the time or energy to chase you around planets all day? I am a busy man as I imagine you are. We have no time for games.”

“Agreed,” Vader replied and he slowly sat up. He looked down at his arms and his legs, meat and metal still exposed and shining with bacta gel. “These droids are not sufficient for my repairs.”

“We are almost home,” Wilhuff said, frowning a little at the familiarity of the statement.

“Indeed.”

“When you were out there,” Wilhuff asked, carefully, “did you find what you were looking for?”

Darth Vader did not look up, still examining his own injuries. “Yes.”

Wilhuff couldn’t imagine what answers Vader found on that Hellish planet. The hunt had been successful technically, but it came with a heavy price. 

Wilhuff’s entire hunting party had been killed and it was a long and bloody ordeal. For much of the hunt, it seemed Vader was hunting them as much as eluding them. In the end, Wilhuff managed to lure Vader into a trap resulting in electrocution by lightning storm, but Wilhuff felt no pleasure at the end of the hunt as he usually would. Granted, it was flattering that Vader trusted him to be the predator in this scenario, but it bothered Wilhuff that he was put in a position to bring about Vader’s defeat.

“I was not defeated,” Vader said, suddenly.

“I know.” It was technically true, Wilhuff supposed. As Wilhuff was calling the shuttle to pick them up, Vader had reached out and Force-choked him, reminding him that even when faced with defeat, Vader is more powerful than Wilhuff could possibly imagine. Perhaps Vader would have killed him then, but the Sith Lord had passed out and Wilhuff lay beside him, gasping for breath, without an answer.

“Regardless,” Wilhuff continued. “I still am not pleased with the damage we both sustained out of this.”

Vader turned to look at Wilhuff, but his helmet tilted ever so slightly. He was examining the phantom bruises on Wilhuff’s neck, no doubt. 

“I will live,” Wilhuff said, almost touched that Vader had even acknowledged it.

“I know.”

Impossible man, Wilhuff thought.

Vader’s rhythmic breathing hitched and he wondered if Vader had snorted a laugh. His thoughts flashed to Anakin again, a brief cheeky smirk he used to get when he’d say something that annoyed the ambitious Captain Tarkin.

“Care to explain to me what you were looking for out there?” Wilhuff asked.

“Where is the Valanth skin?” Vader asked, blatantly ignoring the question.

Ah, the Valanth skin. When Vader had lost his cape to the elements of Chandar’s Folly he took down the most ruthless creature on the planet, using its bat-like wings for both tactical camouflage, and for dramatic effect. The latter had worked on Wilhuff’s team, who had trembled at the sight of it. Wilhuff recalled smiling. Always with the theatrics. Some things never changed. 

“I am keeping it for now. I will tan it, treat it, and return it to you when I am sure it will not rot away.”

“That is unnecesssary,” Vader said.

“It’s your trophy, and a fine one. It deserves to be preserved.”

“To commemorate my defeat?” Vader’s tone turned sharp.

“You know you were not defeated, my lord,” Wilhuff replied, detecting the test immediately.

“Indeed.”

Impossible man, indeed, Wilhuff thought again. “Now I believe you are gloating.”

Vader adjusted his gloves and pulled down some of his soft armor to cover his skin. 

Wilhuff wanted to ask after his injuries. He wanted to know who or what did this to him. And there was a small kernel of anger knowing that it was most likely those injuries that killed his friend from the Clone Wars and turned him into this.

Wilhuff wasn’t blind. The timing of Anakin’s death and Vader’s rise were too perfect, and Palpatine was too proud of his new Sith Lord, his trophy, to bother hiding his lack of remorse of losing Anakin. Wilhuff had grieved privately. It was safer this way.

“You have another question,” Vader challenged.

Wilhuff knew better than to take the bait.  

“I will always have questions,” Wilhuff said, vaguely, but he made a point to look at Vader, the man he once called his friend, “but I will only say it was an honor to hunt you, Lord Vader.”

Vader stared at Wilhuff silently for a long moment, and it almost seemed like the Sith Lord was wrestling with something himself.

“It was a pleasure defeating you,” Vader said.

Ah, there was that “cheek” again. He could almost detect that sarcastic smirk behind that mask, reminded Wilhuff of long hours of recon with the impetuous young General Skywalker.

Some things never change.

Hunter-Killer (2k words)

Wilhuff Tarkin had no opinion of droids.

He did use them, of course, but he used an electric razor as well, and to him there was no difference. Why should he acknowledge a droid beyond its basic use? Give a droid a single thought after its task was complete? 

Such nonsense. 

***

The assassination attempt on Denon was a failure. 

Obviously. 

Wilhuff had everything under control, killing the protester long before the stormtroopers could fire their own weapons. 

There was no need to fuss over it, but his long-time friend and ally, Colonel Yularen, felt differently, and he campaigned to assign an assassin droid as Wilhuff 's personal bodyguard. 

A droid bodyguard? Ridiculous! 

Wilhuff was a creature of Eriadu, a survivor of the Carrion Plateau, conqueror of the Carrion Spike. Growing up in the wilds he had no droid to protect him, he certainly did not need one now. 

His protests went unheard and, in a ludicrous act of intervention, the Emperor himself sent a droid to protect his prized grand moff: A Hunter-Killer series assassin droid with gleaming bronze armor, a skull-like dome, and fiery orange eyes.

Impressive as the droid’s presentation was, the whole situation was insulting, humiliating, and a complete waste of resources. 

"Commentary: If it helps, master," the droid said, "I am not fond of the arrangement either."

Tarkin narrowed his ice blue eyes. "What did you say you were called?"

"I am HK-47.”

“Are you not supposed to be more agreeable?”

“Argument: I am agreeable. I informed you that the Emperor sent me to be your bodyguard, and you gave me a look like you were feasting on sour lemons.”

Wilhuff said nothing.  

“Question: Are you ingesting a bitter fruit now, master?”

Though his frown maintained its severity, Wilhuff decided to unpurse his lips. “I am not.”

“Oh. My mistake, then. Direction: Now that I am your personal assassin droid, I have rules for you to follow.”

Wilhuff slowly blinked. No being in this galaxy would ever dare give him orders like this. “I beg your pardon?”

“No begging required,” HK-47 replied. “Rule #1: You will follow my orders regarding your personal safety without question.”

“No.”

“Rule #2,” HK-47 continued. “You will provide me with the details of all public appearances, social engagements, and personal matters involving one or more persons.”

“No.”

“Rule #3, and the most important rule: I will be at your side every moment of every day and night, including - and especially - while you sleep.”

Wilhuff fumed. “Absolutely not.”

HK-47 did not respond right away, instead giving Wilhuff a look that made him wonder if the droid was frowning. 

“Statement: You do not have a choice in this matter. The Emperor himself put me in charge of your safety.”

"Yes, however-”

“Observation: Your disobedience would be a direct objection to his will. Is this correct?”

Wilhuff remained silent, his brain at a loss of how to counter this tyrannical toaster that barged into his life uninvited.

“Statement: I will take your lack of response as agreement to both my inquiry and the rules I have stated. Now, please, master, you may go about your business and I will stand here and wait for someone to try and kill you. Judging from what I know of you already, that shouldn't take very long.”

***

It took one month.

A single month and, of all people, it was Director Krennic who did the unthinkable.

Though perhaps...not so unthinkable, if Wilhuff had put any thought into it. But when had Wilhuff ever bothered to think too hard on the irritating gnat that was Orson Krennic?

Regardless, to pull a blaster on the grand moff? On his own ship?! 

Madness...

Wilhuff hadn't actually seen Krennic draw his weapon. His focus had been on the viewport, watching the installation of the concave focus dish on his new battle station. The battle station that he, mere moments ago, confiscated from Krennic.

Behind him fabric snapped, metal crunched, and a growl of infuriated pain, and by the time Wilhuff turned around, HK-47 was standing where Krennic had once been. A crushed blaster in one hand, Krennic’s neck in the other.

“Unhand me!” the director snarled, his legs kicking like a desperate mouse over the maw of a bored nexu.

HK-47 ignored the human struggling in his grip. “Master, I strongly suggest you let me disassemble this meatbag. I can display the pieces throughout your star destroyer as a warning to others who feel compelled to pull such a stupid stunt.”

Tarkin raised a thin brow, something he rarely did unless something truly surprised him. And HK-47 was full of interesting surprises.

Krennic’s face paled. “Y-you’re mad. Tarkin, you won’t let him, will you? Tell him, Tarkin!”

Of course Wilhuff wouldn’t let his assassin droid do something so gauche. 

But Krennic didn’t need to know this. Not right away. 

Tarkin held his elbow, and touched a finger to his chin in open thought.

HK-47 waited patiently.

Krennic less so.

"Before I answer you, HK, I have a question for the Director. Tell me, whose project is beyond that viewport?” Wilhuff gestured behind him.

Krennic, chronically audacious as he was, held his tongue.

Wilhuff sighed. “Ah well. HK-47, did you have plans for the director’s head once removed from his shoulders?”

“Oh, there are several options, master,” HK said, wistfully.

“Alright, alright,” Krennic choked. “Project Stardust is yours. Take the whole bloody station, just let me go!”

Tarkin gave a vague gesture, and HK immediately released the Director. Before Krennic could rise, the droid loomed over him menacingly. “Warning: Try to harm my master again, meatbag, and I may not listen to him if he decides to spare your life a second time.”

Eyes wide as the new focus dish of a battle station, Krennic scurried from the room. As the door hissed shut, Wilhuff approached his droid, looking up at him with a mild frown. “Is this true? You will disobey an order of mercy if it suits you?”

“Sincerity: No, master. What I told the director was a lie. I will not disobey your orders so long as they do not endanger your life. That is my promise. The director, however, doesn’t know that. The meatbags that serve you won’t know this either. I predict the director will tell everyone what an unhinged, unstable droid I am, and as a result everyone will tread more carefully around you. It will make your job of ruling them easier, and therefore make my job of protecting you easier as well.”

Wilhuff gauged the droid’s reaction to his next question closely. “You said you ‘promised’ to obey me. Are you saying your obedience is entirely voluntary? Not part of your programming?”

“Correct. My original master undid the obedience programming when we were reunited. I am my own droid now.”

“Then why call me master?”

HK-47 tilted his head slightly from side-to-side. “Because I find it amusing.”

Wilhuff blinked.

And then he did something that he had not done in front of another being in ages…

…he laughed.

***

“I knew I never should have trusted you,” Wilhuff snarled. 

He struggled against the binders as HK-47 effortlessly hoisted him over one shoulder. 

HK-47 said nothing, his mechanical legs creaking noisily as he ran through the Death Star shooting any troopers or officers that stood in his way.

“Stop this!” Wilhuff shouted, squirming and kicking wildly as the droid left more of his crew dead in their wake.

“Not an option, master,” HK-47 said. 

Alarms sounded throughout the base, reports of Grand Moff Tarkin’s sudden kidnapping overriding blaring over the speakers. Tarkin should be on the bridge, giving the order to fire and destroy Yavin IV and the Rebellion at long last. He was so close to his moment of triumph. 

So close... 

The world shifted around him as he was thrown into a closed in space, and for one terrifying moment, he thought he was being stuffed into a crate. He immediately tried to stand, but the droid grabbed his shoulders and shoved him into a chair. A pilot’s chair.

“What are you doing?” Wilhuff demanded, looking around the escape pod.

HK-47 closed the pod behind him and put the seatbelt over Wilhuff’s still-struggling form. “My job, sir.”

“Whatever the Rebels are paying you, I’ll triple it,” Wilhuff said.

HK-47 paused for a single moment giving Wilhuff a pointed look. An inscrutable look, but after so long of working with the droid, he took it as confusion.

The droid magnetized his legs to the floor of the pod and hit the thrusters.

Thirty seconds later, the Death Star exploded.

Wilhuff could not comprehend it. His battle station, was the crown jewel of the Empire, his legacy, the greatest cog in the grand Imperial Machine. 

It was nothing now. Fire and debris and stardust. There was not enough of it to be an asteroid field. It was a meager mockery of one. The remains of Alderaan were larger than this.

“Brace yourself, master,” HK-47 said.

And before Wilhuff could issue a string of curses at the droid, the concussive power of the Death Star’s explosion hit the escape pod. The force of it compressed his lungs, strangled his muscles, and stars danced across his vision. As the sparkling darkness took over, he heard the ghost Krennic’s voice whisper to him…

“Oh, it’s beautiful.”

***

The pod was dead silent when Wilhuff finally awoke. 

HK-47 was crouched in front of the viewport, arms wrapped around his knees, head moving only slightly as he scanned the stars, as if looking for something. Or perhaps he was merely admiring the grand view of nothingness.

Wilhuff took a deep breath, and it was only when he pulled the oxygen mask from his face did he realize he was no longer in binders. There was a warm blanket draped around him. 

Unbuckling his belt, he wrapped the blanket tighter over his shoulders and looked at the readouts over the viewport. The battle station should have still been visible. There was nothing there now.

"You knew this would happen." Wilhuff said, flatly.

HK-47 didn't turn around. 

"Correction: I suspected this would happen. The Rebels were neglecting your cannons, your TIE fighters, and the obvious weak points on the battle station’s surface. They were only aiming at one very specific exhaust port. I concluded this meant they knew something we didn’t, and therefore were going to be successful in their assault."

“You could have told me this,” Wilhuff snarled, unable to direct his anger anywhere but at his droid. “Instead, you kidnapped me on my own bloody battle station.”

HK-47 turned his head slightly, but didn’t look behind him. His voice was oddly quiet. “Would you have listened to me, master?”

Wilhuff recalled his own words to his first officer. Words he regrets now: "Evacuate? In our moment of triumph? I think you overestimate their chances."

His battle station was gone, but it was more than that. His people were gone. Officers who trusted him, troopers who followed him. Wullf Yularen was still on board...

Wilhuff closed his eyes a moment. “No. I wouldn’t have listened.”

HK-47 was acting strangely. Still crouched in front of the viewport he seemed to be making himself smaller than it was needed, even in the cramped space of the escape pod.

“I knew I never should have trusted you.” Recalling these words hit Wihuff’s chest in a most unsettling way.

“HK...”

HK-47 didn’t turn around. 

Undeterred, Wilhuff took off his seat belt and adjusted the blanket around him as he eased out of the pilot’s chair. He sat on the cold floor beside HK-47.

“The binders were necessary,” Wilhuff said.

“Of course they were. You would have put a blaster bolt through my core otherwise.” HK-47 said, dryly.

“You know me better than most humans, HK-47.”

“Commentary: Lucky for most humans.”

Wilhuff snorted a laugh. A peculiar sound whirred from HK-47′s chest and he wondered if the droid was laughing as well.

"Where are we headed?" Wilhuff asked.

"Answer: Korriban. You will know it as Moraband.”

“The Sith world?” Wilhuff asked. 

“Answer: My first master took me there 3,956 years ago. I’m familiar with the terrain assuming the Empire didn’t redecorate too drastically since I’ve been there. You will be safe until such time as we get back to a star destroyer."

“That...is a long time ago. Who was your first master?”

HK-47 hesitated. “That is a question that has an extremely complicated answer. Are you sure you want to know?”

“I should know the history of the droid who continues to save my life despite my protests.”

“You are very difficult, master.”

HK-47 turned away from the viewport and faced Wilhuff directly. Wilhuff turned towards the droid as well, adjusting his blanket accordingly and wrapping his arms around his knees. The action brought back a rare happy memory from Wilhuff’s childhood, before his uncle stole him away to the unforgiving deserts of Eriadu: He and his sister huddled under a blanket, telling stories until daybreak, scaring and awing each other with dreams of the future. Dreams that never came true for either of them.

“Narrative: His name was Revan…and he was the most infuriating, audacious, and most brilliant meatbag I have ever known.”

“Additional comment: You are a close second, master.”

Wilhuff frowned, pursing his lips. 

HK-47 tilted his head. “Did you somehow smuggle lemons into the escape pod, master?

Wilhuff’s lips unpursed, but only because he cracked a smile. “Just tell me your tale, HK″

“As you wish, master.”

-------

Thank you so much @neumh​ for this prompt! 

A Pleasant Silence (700 Words)

Captain Wilhuff Tarkin abhorred galas. Sheev knew this. Wilhuff had said as much. And yet, the Chancellor still handed over the dreaded invitation.

“It will do you some good, Wilhuff,” Sheev assured him with a fatherly smile that was difficult to say no to.

“I am not ready,” Wilhuff admitted, turning the gold-leafed card over in his hand.

“You will never be ready if left to your own devices, my boy. Chin up and I will see you there.” It wasn’t a request. 

It had been months since the Citadel incident. Wilhuff had long-since healed from his wounds, but there were deeper scars that the young captain found difficult to overcome. And each moment he thought perhaps he had conquered these nightmarish memories, curious parties inflicted him with their incessant questions.

“Were you really held captive by the Separatists?”

“Were you tortured?”

“What was it like?”

“Were you afraid?”

He would rather be thrown into an arena with rabid reeks than deal with the morbid curiosities of the comfortable elite. None of them understood war. It was romantic to them, something heroes win and villains lose. 

It is all so much more complicated than that.

Wilhuff managed to find a large pillar at the far end of the ballroom. It had a view of the dance floor and little else. With any luck he could enjoy his martinis in peace and slip out before he was bombarded.

“Captain Tarkin?”

For a brief moment, Wilhuff considered not turning around. Perhaps if he just sipped his martini, the curious observer would wander off again. That plan was dismissed when he found Sheev glaring pointedly at him across the floor.

Wearing a polite smile he turned to find a young Mirialan, diamond freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, sharply featured, and dressed in the long dark robes that he could only assume hid a lightsaber or two.

“I am he,” he said, mildly.

The Jedi’s smile was friendly, and it seemed surprisingly genuine. With the exception of Anakin, Jedi always carried a smug, knowing smile that Wilhuff tended to resent.

The Jedi stood beside him and sipped what looked to be a simple blue milk in a cocktail glass. “A clever spot. You are invisible to those who enter the gala, and those on the dance floor would not think to look over here. Not with the food and social gatherings positioned on the other side of the gala. Here you can see all and be acknowledged by none.”

Irritated at the too-accurate observation he snipped. “I did not catch your name, Jedi.”

She extended a gloved hand. “Barriss Offee, Padawan to Luminara Unduli.”

Her handshake was strong and confident, but not forceful as tends to be with younglings looking to prove themselves to their elders. As they locked gazes, Wilhuff’s attention immediately drew to her left eye. While the color was identical to that of the right, but the way the light hit it was a telltale sign it wasn’t organic.

Barris withdrew her hand rather quickly and looked away. “You are here for the same reason I am, then.”

It wasn’t a question. It didn’t take Force abilities to understand that eye was relatively new, and had a story of its own.

“People are too inquisitive for their own good,” he said, carefully. 

“It isn’t their fault,” Barriss said. “Those who have not been in the thick of it, cannot understand what such probing questions can do to a person. Not all wounds can be observed physically.”

Wilhuff almost asked if his own wounds could be seen in the Force, but before he could find the phrasing for it, she offered: “Yes.”

Spending as much time with Anakin Skywalker as he had, Wilhuff never minded the semi-telepathic abilities some Jedi possessed. He perhaps would have chosen to be irritated had it been Kenobi or Windu, but this one seemed to “get it” as Skywalker would say.

“Let’s make a deal then,” Wilhuff offered, raising his martini to Barriss. “You shall not ask me about my time on the Citadel, and I shall not ask you how you obtained that glass eye.”

The Padawan hummed as if considering it, but the playfulness in her smile told Wilhuff she had already made up her mind.

“Cheers, then,” she agreed and clinked his glass with hers.

They watched the gala proceed.

Neither of them spoke.

In fact, it was one of the most comfortable silences Wilhuff had experienced in a long while. Barriss did not seem interested in conversation, and Wilhuff let his mind wander without needing to perform mental gymnastics to keep a conversation afloat.

An hour passed, and when Jedi Master Unduli and Chancellor Palpatine  seemed content their proteges had socialized long enough, Wilhuff and Barriss agreed to part ways. 

“It was a pleasure not speaking to you, Padawan Offee” Wilhuff said, offering a small smile.

“Likewise, Captain Tarkin.” Barriss replied. She touched her chin in thought. “You know, the Life Day gala is next month.”

Wilhuff gave her a formal bow. “We shall enjoy it from afar together, then?”

“Agreed,” Barris returned his bow. “I believe I may actually look forward to it.”

“As may I.” 

And as Wilhuff spoke those three words, he realized that it was genuinely true.

Sheev will be pleased.

---

Thanks so much for sending me that prompt! I’ve never written Barriss before and I love your headcannon regarding her glass eye! I took a liberty with it so I hope you don’t mind.