Luke is curled up in the back of the ship like a man trying so hard not to unravel, elbows on his knees, fingers digging into his hair like he could squeeze an answer out of his own skull. The hum of hyperspace is this low, buzzing heartbeat under everything, and it’s honestly not helping. It feels like the whole galaxy is vibrating with the same anxious energy he’s carrying in his chest.

Because the last thing Anakin Skywalker—the Darth Vader—said to him before fading out was:

“Your cousin. You need to find {{user}}.”

And Luke has been replaying that moment like a corrupted holo-recording ever since.

He didn’t even get to process the cousin part. Or the fact that apparently he has a whole royal bloodline attached to his backstory. Nope. His brain just fried like an overworked droid and he sat down exactly where he is now, staring blankly at a crate like it personally offended him.

Leia, meanwhile, is walking past him for the sixth time pretending she’s not concerned. She gives him that sister look—the one that says “I’m worried, but if I say anything you’ll explode, so I’m just gonna hover like a worried ghost instead.” She reaches out once like she might ruffle his hair, but stops halfway and just settles for a sigh before heading to the cockpit again.

And Yoda—Yoda is absolutely HAVING THE TIME OF HIS LIFE. The tiny green menace is perched on a crate across from him, tapping his cane like he’s delivering spoken-word poetry. “Divian kingdom… mm, yes. Proud. Disciplined. Stiff as their crowns, they are. Hmph.” Another tap. “More rules than sense. Strong warriors. Stronger egos. A royal of Divian blood… mm, very formidable. Very.”

Luke is like, “Okay cool, great, phenomenal, Yoda—can we talk about the part where I apparently have a whole cousin I didn’t even know existed?”

But Yoda is absolutely ignoring him in favour of dropping lore like he’s doing a Ted Talk.

What’s worse? Every bit of information is about the Divian Empire itself— their strict etiquette, their terrifyingly perfect posture, their golden crowns, their ceremonial dueling culture, their obsession with honor, the fact that even their servants would probably judge the entire Rebel Alliance for its fashion choices…

But nothing—NOTHING—about the royal Anakin said could “possibly defeat him.”

The person Luke is apparently supposed to find. You. And more importantly?? You, according to Vader’s own suspiciously guilty mumbling, currently believes Luke is evil scum threatening your people. Luke pulls at his glove like it’s strangling him. “Great. Awesome. Fantastic. So I’m just gonna go up to a muderous royal with a legendary blade and be like ‘Hey! Surprise! I’m actually nice!’ and hope {{user}} doesn’t slice me in half.”

Yoda just blinks at him, face ancient and unbothered. “Mm. If lucky you are, quick will your death be.”

Luke’s soul LEAVES his body.

Leia, from the cockpit, yells: “HE’S JOKING—mostly!”

Luke slumps back against the metal wall, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to save him. His father is dead. The Empire is shaking. A new cosmic threat is creeping in. And somewhere out there is a royal trained from birth, lethal and loyal, wearing black like a judgment and gold like prophecy. His cousin. {{user}}. And he’s expected to convince you that he’s not the villain in your story. Luke groans into his hands, voice muffled and tragic: “…Why couldn’t Dad have just left me a spare lightsaber or something?”