Star Wars: Rebellion
Copyright© 2025 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 1 Vaders Apprentice
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 Vaders Apprentice - Written over ten years ago, edited and maxed out and a somewhat complete story, based on Starkiller. Instead of Galen, its James, of course. Enjoy. This one is not edited, my editor is helping me edit New World.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mind Control Fan Fiction GameLit Science Fiction Aliens DoOver Extra Sensory Perception
A brilliant flash rent the endless black of space, announcing the reversion from hyperspace of a mighty Imperial-class Star Destroyer. These vessels were marvels of Imperial engineering: 1,600 meters of armored terror, crewed by over 37,000 officers and personnel. Add the embarked legion of 9,700 stormtroopers, plus TIE pilots and support crews, and the total complement neared 47,000 souls. Unlike colder warships, they offered recreation decks for weary crews and opulent guest quarters for visiting dignitaries of the highest rank.
She was a city adrift among the stars—imposing, lethal, a floating fortress capable of shattering worlds—yet she moved with the deliberate, predatory grace of some ancient sea beast. Dozens of TIE fighters, their twin ion engines screaming silently in vacuum, swarmed in precise patterns around her hull: scouting ahead, sweeping the flanks, docking and launching in endless vigilant cycles.
On the bridge, the captain gave a sharp nod to his midshipman. The officer acknowledged and transmitted the brief message downship. Lord Vader—their most feared passenger—must be informed. They had arrived.
The great destroyer eased into sublight cruising speed. Without sound or ceremony, the primary hangar bay yawned open. A sudden flare of maneuvering thrusters marked the departure of a Lambda-class shuttle as it slipped from the shadowed hold into open space, arrowing toward the distant, half-finished silhouette with cold purpose.
In the cockpit, captain and copilot ran their final approach checks—routines performed a thousand times before. Yet today a heavier tension gripped them, coiling like smoke in the confined space. The captain keyed the transmitter and spoke with forced calm.
“Command Station, this is ST321. Code Clearance Blue. We’re starting our approach. Deactivate the security shield.”
Static hissed across the channel before the controller’s voice returned, clipped and efficient: “The security deflector shield will be deactivated when we have confirmation of your code transmission. Stand by...”
Silence fell once more. The captain worried the inside of his cheek, offered his copilot a thin, nervous smile, and muttered low, “Quick as you can, please—this better not take long. He’s in no mood to wait.”
Neither man dared glance aft into the darkened passenger compartment. From those shadows issued the slow, relentless cadence of mechanical breathing—deep, rhythmic, inexorable. It filled the cabin like the approach of doom itself, promising swift and terrible consequence for any delay.
Aboard the incomplete command ship below, technicians monitored banks of consoles, tracking local traffic, clearing corridors, authorizing access. The vessel was enormous: a massive wedge of durasteel, broad and thick at the stern, tapering to a knife-edge prow—very much the larger cousin of the Star Destroyers that escorted it. Vast sections of hull plating remained open to vacuum, scaffolding and construction droids crawling across exposed superstructures under harsh work-lights. This was the Empire’s newest terror: a Super Star Destroyer still gestating in drydock, already dwarfing all but the mightiest battle stations.
Now the protective shield flickered and parted, carving a safe passage through which the tiny shuttle glided unimpeded toward the cavernous main hangar.
Clearance granted, the Lambda leveled, wings folding upward with hydraulic precision. It settled onto the deck with barely a tremor, dwarfed by the echoing immensity of the bay. Hundreds of Imperial personnel stood in perfect ranks along the ramp’s approach: gleaming columns of white-armored stormtroopers, gray-uniformed officers, and the silent crimson specters of the Emperor’s Royal Guard.
The station commander advanced to the foot of the ramp, spine rigid despite the sweat beading beneath his collar. From the shuttle’s interior echoed heavy, metallic footfalls—slow, deliberate, each impact reverberating through the deck plates like the tolling of a funeral bell. They grew louder, joined by the ominous, rhythmic hiss and roar of mechanized lungs.
At last, from the darkness emerged Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith.
He halted at the ramp’s edge, a towering figure in obsidian armor. The skull-like helmet gleamed under the hangar floods: angular cheek guards, short snout, goggle-eyed lenses black as the void, surmounted by the flaring dome of his life-sustaining helm. Those opaque eyes revealed nothing of what lay behind, yet their blank stare chilled the soul, evoking memories of ancient Sith war droids unearthed from forgotten tombs.
The commander swallowed once, then spoke the prescribed words.
“Lord Vader, this is an unexpected pleasure. We are honoured by your presence.”
“You may dispense with the pleasantries, Captain,” Lord Vader said, his deep voice cutting through the hangar’s sterile hum like a vibroblade. “I am here to see my special project.”
The commander flinched at the abrupt dismissal, the rehearsed warmth draining from his face. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him, my Lord,” he replied quickly, striving to keep his tone steady. “His training is progressing as planned.”
“Excellent.”
“I must say that he is quite adept in the TIE fighters, my Lord. It has been a pleasure teaching him.”
“Good,” Vader intoned, the single word laced with impatience. He inclined his helmeted head fractionally. “I will look in on him now and I will require your full report.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
No further exchange was necessary—or tolerated. Vader turned with mechanical precision, his cape sweeping the deck like the wings of some nocturnal predator. The assembled troops parted instinctively as he strode toward the turbolift, boots ringing against durasteel in a relentless cadence that matched the rhythmic surge of his respirator. Officers and stormtroopers alike kept their eyes forward, yet every soul in the vast bay felt the oppressive weight of his passage, as though the air itself grew heavier in his wake.
The turbolift doors hissed open at his approach, then sealed behind him with finality. The car plummeted through the Super Star Destroyer’s armored spine, descending past restricted decks where only the most trusted—or most feared—were permitted. Red emergency lighting bathed the small compartment, casting Vader’s black armor in blood-like hues. He stood motionless, gloved fingers curled at his sides, yet the Dark Side seethed around him: a storm barely contained, coiling with impatience. Delays, pleasantries, excuses—none would be suffered today. The boy’s progress was paramount, and Vader’s tolerance for obstruction had worn perilously thin.
The lift decelerated and stopped with a soft chime. The doors parted onto a dimly lit sub-hangar buried deep within the ship’s fortified core—a private domain accessible only to Vader and a handful of cleared personnel. Beyond lay a cavernous space repurposed for training: racks of practice weapons, holographic projectors, scorched blast plating, and a single TIE advanced prototype docked in the shadows. This was where the apprentice lived, trained, and—when necessary—hid.
Vader stepped out and paused on the threshold. He extended his senses into the Force, probing the chamber like invisible tendrils. Nothing. No flare of anger or hatred, no undercurrent of fear or sorrow, not even the bright spark of youthful joy he sometimes detected in the boy. Only silence—an unnatural void where presence should have been.
The boy was masking himself. Completely.
A flicker of dark satisfaction stirred within the Sith Lord. Such discipline was rare, especially in one so young. Yet satisfaction did not blunt impatience; it sharpened it. Vader advanced into the hangar, boots echoing in the vast emptiness. His helmet’s sensors swept the area: thermal, motion, life signs—all negative. The apprentice had learned well to become a ghost in the Force.
“Excellent,” Vader rumbled to the empty air, voice laced with grim approval.
He moved deeper, cape whispering against the deck, scanning crates and catwalks. Still nothing. Then—
“Blah!”
A lithe figure exploded from the shadows above a maintenance gantry, dropping like a striking raptor. A crimson lightsaber snapped to life mid-leap, humming with malevolent energy as it slashed toward Vader’s neck.
Vader’s own blade ignited in a scarlet flash, meeting the attack with effortless precision. The impact reverberated through both hilts; Vader twisted his wrist, deflecting the strike and hurling the boy backward with a surge of telekinetic force. The apprentice flew ten meters, hit the deck hard, and rolled fluidly to his feet, a reckless grin splitting his face.
James William Smith rose, dusting off his black flight suit. He deactivated the red blade with a theatrical flourish and offered a respectful bow, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“One of these days I’ll get the jump on you, Master.”
“I am impressed,” Vader replied, his blade extinguishing as he clipped it to his belt. “Your training has come far. This time I did not detect you.”
“Yeah.”
The word came not from in front, but from directly behind him.
Vader turned slowly, deliberately, to find himself staring down the ignited length of another crimson lightsaber—held steady inches from the seam of his neck armor. The boy stood there, identical grin intact, utterly unafraid.
“Most impressive.”
For a long moment the hangar held its breath. Vader’s respirator continued its mechanical rhythm, unperturbed, yet the Force around him crackled with dark approval—and the promise of far greater trials to come.
James grinned and turned it off, he clipped it on his belt.
“I think we fooled him, PROXY.”
“Indeed, Master,” the droid said and deactivated his holographic circuits. The air shimmered briefly as the projection collapsed, revealing PROXY’s sleek, black chassis once more. “Although I would point out that now Master Vader is aware of that particular tactic.”
“Indeed. PROXY is correct. You were foolish to use that against me.”
James shrugged, unrepentant. “I won’t be fighting you, Master. Not now, not ever. I’m not your apprentice.” He shrugged again, the gesture casual but deliberate. “Nor do I have any intention of being so.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be pitted against you,” James mused, his voice dropping into a quieter register that echoed faintly in the vast hangar. “Two reasons come to mind. The Emperor would never allow you to have an apprentice, which is why I made my presence known to him straight away—as soon as I was able to, that is. And the second ... I don’t really want to fight someone I consider a father figure.”
“Father figure?”
“Yes. Well, you’ve trained me, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve given me this badass weapon.” James patted his lightsaber, fingers lingering on the hilt with evident pride. “Fed, clothed, and given me entertainment in the form of PROXY.”
“Yes.”
“The way I see it, that’s something a dad should do,” James said, a faint edge of old bitterness threading his words. “More so than my father ever did. He was more concerned with his ‘rebellion’ than looking after me.”
“Indeed.”
“So you got something for me to do?”
“I do.”
“Good, because I thought we were going to get all sentimental here.”
The mechanical rhythm of Vader’s breathing deepened almost imperceptibly—a subtle shift that James had learned to recognise as mounting impatience. The Dark Lord’s gloved fists clenched at his sides, the servos in his armor emitting a low whine. In the oppressive silence of the private hangar, that sound carried the weight of impending violence. Vader did not tolerate idle sentiment; emotion was a tool to be wielded, not indulged. James felt the temperature seem to drop, the Force around the Sith Lord coiling like a serpent preparing to strike.
“Your first mission will be against a rogue Jedi warrior from the time of the Clone Wars called General Kota. He will be your first true test. He needs to be eliminated,” Vader said, each word precise, edged with cold finality.
“Understood.”
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