Darth Vader isn't just in a cybernetic body horror story, he's living out his years as a cursed mecha pilot. Endlessly separating from and enmeshing with the gears and pistons of his new limbs, making them his own again and again. The metal that surrounds him, protecting him from the very air of the outside world, and allowing him to stride into it and wreak his master's will upon it. The straining servos that unite with his own terrible will, a mind imprisoned within his dismembered flesh and roiling with the selfish, hungry shadow of the love that unites all children of the stars, to bring crashing down his crackling, crimson blade with hideous strength. The boy born into bondage who once designed and built his own wings from scrap to let him fly, not just fast, but faster than anyone else, trapped in another slavery by the chains of his wounds, his new wings drafted to another's specifications and forged by strange hands in dark laboratories, not just strong, but irresistible. Not just armor, but a vehicle. A war machine and a pilot, together, a single hateful fist of iron and agony.