He existed in a haze of pain, suspended in the viscous embrace of bacta, its medicinal scent a biting assault on his ravaged senses. It had to be a bacta tank – the only plausible explanation for his survival, for the faint flicker of life that clung stubbornly to his shattered form. The memories, vivid and agonizing, played on a loop within his mind: the blinding flash of Anakin’s lightsaber as it cleaved through flesh and bone, the sickening sensation of his limbs being torn away, the all-consuming agony that threatened to drown him in its depths. He’d lost so much: an arm, severed just below the elbow; both legs, gone from the knee down; an eye, leaving a hollow socket in its wake. His skin, once smooth and unmarked, was now a patchwork of charred flesh and puckered scar tissue, a testament to the betrayal that had brought him to this agonizing precipice. It was a pain unlike anything he could have ever imagined, a relentless, searing torment that even the cauterizing effect of the lightsaber couldn’t entirely extinguish.

Through the throbbing pain and the disorienting fog of the bacta, a voice cut through, cold and sharp as a surgical blade. “The body is mostly intact,” the clinical droid stated, its vocabulator delivering the assessment with chilling detachment.

“Mostly?” another voice replied, laced with a hint of incredulousness, as if questioning the very definition of the word.

“Both legs are gone, amputated above the knee. One arm, severed just below the elbow. Sixty percent of the skin exhibits third-degree burns.” The droid continued its emotionless report, detailing the extensive damage with chilling precision.

“Mostly...” the first voice echoed, a whisper of disbelief clinging to the single word.

“But he is recoverable,” the droid stated, its tone unchanging, as if discussing a simple repair rather than the reconstruction of a shattered human being.

“At a cost,” the first voice countered, a thread of annoyance weaving its way into the cold, calculating tone. James could almost envision the speaker – a figure cloaked in darkness, their face obscured, their presence radiating an aura of power and menace.

“Correct,” the droid acknowledged, its programming incapable of disputing the truth. The cost of his survival would be steep, paid in pain, in sacrifice, in the very essence of his being.

“Do it,” the first voice commanded, a note of finality that brooked no argument. The decision had been made, his fate sealed.

“Yes, Master Sidious,” the unseen figure replied, deference and a hint of trepidation coloring the words.

Time lost all meaning, stretching and compressing in a disorienting dance. Each second felt like an eternity, a relentless onslaught of agony that threatened to shatter his sanity. But James refused to surrender. He clung to the pain, to the white-hot rage that coursed through his veins, twisting and burning, but also giving him strength. He would not let this break him. He would not give them the satisfaction. He poured his will into the Force, the ancient energy field that connected all living beings, guiding it to mend the smaller wounds, the ones his broken body couldn’t address on its own. He coaxed the bacta to work faster, to knit together torn flesh and soothe the searing pain. But for the larger tasks, the missing limbs, the gaping wounds that ran deep, he was at the mercy of the Kaminoan cloners, masters of genetic manipulation, and the whims of the dark lord who held his life in his hands.

Days bled into nights, the sterile white walls of the cloning facility his only view. The bacta, once a comforting embrace, now felt like a suffocating cocoon. Finally, the blessed moment arrived. The whirring of machinery ceased, the tank drained, and James was pulled from the murky depths, his body weak and trembling, his skin pruned and pale. He clung to consciousness as the medic droids, their movements precise and efficient, set about their work, replacing missing limbs with cloned appendages, grafting skin, repairing the damage that ran deep.

Finally, he was whole again. Or at least, as whole as he could be.

James opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh glare of the lights above. Standing before him was a figure that inspired both awe and trepidation: Darth Sidious, the Emperor himself. His face, a roadmap of power and cruelty, was a stark contrast to the smooth, youthful visage he presented to the galaxy. The Emperor’s skin was greying, crisscrossed with a network of burns and scars that spoke of countless battles fought and won. He wore a heavy, hooded cloak that shrouded him in an aura of menace, and leaned heavily on a gnarled, wooden walking stick. But James was under no illusions about the man’s supposed frailty. Beneath the façade of age and infirmity, he sensed a wellspring of dark power, a coiled serpent ready to strike.

“You live,” the Emperor rasped, a smile spreading across his face, revealing a set of yellowed teeth. “Impressive.”

James tried to speak, to voice the maelstrom of emotions that raged within him, but his throat was raw, his voice a dry croak. He managed a curt nod, acknowledging the Emperor’s words.

“Good. For now, you heal,” Sidious commanded, his voice soft yet laced with an undeniable authority.

‘Then what?’ James thought, his mind racing. He knew he couldn’t speak aloud, not yet, but the Emperor smiled, a slow, predatory grin that sent chills down James’ spine. It was as if Sidious had plucked the thought directly from his mind. James knew the Emperor couldn’t possibly read minds, yet the man had built his empire on such uncanny insights, on knowing his enemies – and his allies – better than they knew themselves.

“Then,” Sidious purred, leaning closer, his eyes boring into James’s, “the training begins, young Apprentice.”

The Emperor nodded once, a sharp, birdlike gesture, then turned and left James alone in the sterile confines of the medical bay. He had survived, but his ordeal was far from over. He was a tool, forged in the fires of pain and loss, and Darth Sidious, the master manipulator, had grand plans for his new apprentice.

The next week was a blur of painful procedures and grueling physical therapy. His new limbs, while flawlessly cloned, were slow to respond, the neural pathways still knitting themselves together. But his eyes, his new eyes, those were a revelation. Enhanced by Sith alchemy and advanced cybernetics, they granted him vision beyond the scope of normal beings. He could see with increased resolution, discerning minute details with crystal clarity. Colors were richer, more vibrant, their subtle nuances revealed. He could see in ultraviolet and infrared, piercing the veil of darkness, and even had limited low-light vision. His eyes could magnify distant objects, analyze heat signatures, and even provide him with rudimentary telemetry data. They were a gift, of sorts, a tool that would serve him well in the dark times to come. But every gift from Darth Sidious came with a price, a debt that could only be repaid in blood.

The Emperor returned several days later, his presence casting a long, cold shadow across the sterile white walls of the medical bay. James, his body still aching, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, sat up on the examination table, his gaze fixed on the floor. He could sense the Emperor’s approach, feel the dark side of the Force swirling around him like a storm cloud.

“How do you feel?” Sidious inquired, his voice a low rasp that seemed to echo in the silent room.

James lifted his head, meeting the Emperor’s gaze with a glare of pure, unadulterated hatred. “I want to kill you,” he spat, the words laced with venom.

A slow, chilling smile spread across Sidious’s face, revealing a set of yellowed teeth. “Good,” he rasped, his voice laced with amusement. “If you didn’t, I wouldn’t respect you.”

James surprised even himself with a mirthless chuckle. The raw honesty of his response, the sheer audacity of it, seemed to amuse the Emperor. It was a dangerous game they played, predator and prey circling each other, each gauging the other’s strength.