Life on the Death Star was pretty routine. For this fanfic I obviously have to switch things up to make it interesting. I hope I deliver that while still keeping things within a realistic setting as Star Wars is a huge love of mine. I'm a huge mega nerd for it to an unhealthy degree as my friends say, ha. So grab a cup of caf ☕️ and get cozy...

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【Ｌｏｃａｔｉｏｎ：Ｏｕｔｅｒ

　Ｒｉｍ　

Ｔｅｒｒｉｔｏｒｉｅｓ

Ａｒｋａｎｉｓ　ｓｅｃｔｏｒ

ＤＳ－１　Ｏｒｂｉｔａｌ　

Ｂａｔｔｌｅ　Ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ】

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SIX MONTHS LATER

  "KRIFFING HELL CERU WHAT DID YOU DO?"

SHE PRIED THE PANEL OFF, wires that fed the solar collectors into the energy accumulator lines placed in the wrong depression. The reactor would implode, releasing emissions of high-pressured radio gas which would essentially, kill a tester pilot before they left the hangar.

  I'm going to kill him.

These TIE Strikers had just been shipped from the Sinear Fleet system: the Empire's primary manufacturer. They'd been tasked with repairing those damaged in the cargo and there was no room for grave errors, lest their lives end up in jeopardy. She muttered frustratingly in Huttese—her native language—about the numerous times she'd saved Ceru's hide. Zev and Mac, the usual jokesters, had issued not-so-subtle warnings about the number of mistakes he was costing their team. She's mentally calculated this would take another day to reconfigure as she started to correct the feed—

When a jolt of electricity suddenly zapped through a fingertip.

"Wermo! The number of times I have saved your arse just to have mine charred!" She grimaced as the stench singed her nostrils. He would so owe her. He was lucky the ship hadn't exploded in their private hangar.

The space was exclusively used to combat the Rebellion, reserved for their crew aboard the DS-1 Orbital Battle Station. Undercover rebels continuously infiltrated ranks to undermine the Empire's power, spreading like a virus. Despite their best efforts, just another was discovered in a sect of engineers.

With their tight knit team it was virtually impossible to disrupt such operations. However, one could never be too careful with the desperate lengths they'd go.

A cool breeze swept through the cotton shirt as she notched the zipper down on her standard grey jumpsuit, the fusion fuel pungent. It was a reprieve from the beads of sweat slicked against her skin from the last laborious hours.

She left the model she'd have to reconstruct (thank you, Ceru) before heading out. The security doors blared, granting her clearance. Her room was in the same wing as her colleagues which proved its convenience after spending excessive amounts of time in the hangar. The assigned sub-level right below their quarters, had become routine as the Empire continuously expanded.

Her boots echoed across the durasteel floors, the vented lights illuminating her path. She cricked her neck rounding the last hallway. Swiping the magnetic strip off her keycard over the control panel, the door hissed open to reveal her sleeper chambers.

While the barracks housed the stormtroopers and their communal facilities, her quarters were equipped with a private partition. It was a much-needed respite from the gritty demands of her job which entailed working on ships for hours. Strictly, access to a hygienic shower was granted to upper-rank officials only. Her particular line of work afforded her the luxury instead of a sonic lasering.

Accustomed to rationing water as a precious commodity in her homeland, she could vividly recall granules of sand shedding like second skin upon first usage. The remnants of her past life remained arranged on a utilitarian storage cabinet, designed to maximize the tight space while a reminder of the journey from her origins.

Pulling out the handheld C-1 commlink stashed in a loose pocket, she headed to the fresher. "Ceru you still owe me 10 credits now it's 40. One for saving your ass, and two for being a pain in mine. Meet me at Pikey's bar in 0010, stat."

Her lips pulled in a grimace, still adjusting to the militarized jargon used aboard. It was very unlike the dialects she'd been surrounded by her entire life.

She emerged refreshed under ten minutes later.

Permitted off duty, she was attired in a civilian's grey shirt and slacks, relieved to be out of a drab uniform aimed to prevent the fraternization of personnel, according to regulations. She'd found the dress code absurd, experienced in the seedy minds of humanoids and sentients alike on Tatooine from Mos Espa to Mos Eisley.

Half the station was made up of male humanoids, with few female officers belonging to the lower staff seeking release regardless. Those permissible to go off station indulged themselves on the surface—or planet—below.

This led to scandals that threaded through the factions, and failed to stop those who pridefully acclaimed themselves as a "barracks rat". On occasion, she attended the discrete shindigs thrown in the barracks, though limited desirous invitations to drunken snogs.

A grimace curled her lips upon recalling her last encounter. Securing her thick, wavy tresses in a clip, she checked the chrono once for the time, before heading off to the only operating bar on station.

•••• ••••

The non-descript room was dismissed by the higher officials as a "hole in the wall", half the size of a cantina, yet easily spotted on the lower sub-levels. It remained a favored spot for off-duty stormtroopers and overworked imperials from the nearby overbridge.

A musky odor tended to linger in the air from the strenuous sweat cloying to uniforms. What warmth was provided by the floor vents brushed forth the aroma of spiced tonics arranged behind the bar. Occasionally the sensory assault drew out an Admiral.

She spotted a crisp carbon-gray uniform, much to her dismay. Greeting was pug-face puce: Admiral Motti. "Ah, if it isn't one of our loveliest techs, Ayen."

Fair skin was flushed from the tonic braced in his hand, hairline receded in recent months with a sparse mustache. As Chief of the Imperial Navy he oversaw naval operations while ensuring security and functionality within the battle station. He was considered a high-ranking superior, second only to Grand Moff Tarkin, and his presence rare. Lately, however, he seemed to have taken a vested interest in her, his smug expression making it all too obvious.

Ugh.

"Admiral Motti," she addressed with a nod as protocol demanded. Hopefully, she could alleviate the glint in those pale eyes. It mattered not how many bars were on the man's plaque. She didn't wish to climb rank by accepting a loutish proposition.

His lip jutted out with an inviting tilt of his chin, "What brings you to Pikey's this evening?"

"Just here for a drink, sir," she replied calmly, steering away from any suggestive comments. She knew his type too well: sleazy and entitled. Believed their rank gave them free rein to those "beneath" them.

She'd just as rather kiss a rancor, a large carnivorous creature with a massive set of teeth, native to the planet of Dathomir. Long had it been rumored Jabba the Hutt himself harbored one as a pet used to dispose of his enemies.

It wasn't the first time she'd dealt with this behavior. But before Ayen could signal the bartender for her drink, the burly man was interrupted by his commlink. In a gruff tone, he answered the device, no doubt speaking to a higher-ranking officer checking in for fraternizing subordinates.

Pretty boy Clive—TK-423–a womanizing stormtrooper on his time off, was shamelessly flirting with the cafeteria personnel that had transferred in. Their entire naval squadron had been deployed to the planet of Scarif for several months and this was their homecoming. They appeared confident the victory party being held in the barracks wouldn't reach prune Willhuff Tarkin. There would be hell to pay, otherwise. The guys were proficient when it came to their branch but lacked a certain level of discretion.

Hastening three stools down from the Admiral, she caught Clive's gaze who flashed a crooked grin in greeting. Signature dimples surfaced above a chiseled jawline. The Hapan native, bred from Hapes and renowned specifically for physical attractiveness, turned his attention back to the giggling posse, no doubt from one of his coquettish pickups.

Boy, those were quite the icebreakers.

"You know, Ayen, you could go far in the Empire with a good word put in." The undeterred Admiral had followed, leaning against the bar top with ease. His eyes lazily swept over to the quietly laughing girls and back. He angled his head with a raised brow, an emerald bottle tilted in her direction, "With your skills and my guidance, perhaps captain in a short time."

I'd rather fight a clan of Tusken Raiders for all of Tatooine's 34 standard hours.

Puke the bar owner, emerged from his call just in time to rescue Ayen's souring mood. "The usual then, Lieutenant?" He racked two knuckles across the bar top.

Ayen couldn't help but smirk in a silent thank you, her fingers slowly unclenching.

The burly man was massive with a robust chest and thick stippled arms twice the size of her slender frame. His peppered hair was sleeked back into a short ponytail, sporting a rugged beard and a gold hoop slung through one ear. The rough exterior held a familiarization as the embodiment of disorder in a sterile environment. They became fast friends once she acclimated aboard.

"Pike, I'd like mine topped off as well."

"I think you've had your fill, Admiral."

It took effort not to snort into her folded arms, a habitual habit unchanged.

Few dared to oppose the man who provided sustenance to ease their taxing days. Perhaps that was why leniency was given to the bar slinger's attire. His disregard for the rigid dress code was blatantly shown by the stitched Corellian leather vest and rough-hewn garb.

"Just the lum though, I'm still declining your 'special batch'." She eyed the contents in the blender—an uncanny luminous sheen to the liquid—before shifting her weight away from the leering Admiral. Her hands folded atop the hewn surface. "I'd just as rather drink milk from a Bantha."

Pike laughed heartily revealing a row of teeth, several silver capped. Weathered laugh lines crinkled at the corner of his eyes. "Noted."

He slid over a tin cup with a wink.

Her superiors had access to the finest Corellian wine, whiskey, and juri juice.  It was no secret the societal balance was tipped significantly towards the elites. The Emperor himself and his rumored harem indulged in a Blossom wine imported from a renowned, opulent planet: Naboo. The lower levels were subjected to the usual scrounge: lum, booze, or grog. Only recently had their selection expanded to include Pike's questionable concoctions.

Which she wasn't too keen on.

She took a sip of the lum, the thick liquor instantly spreading through her bloodstream, the slow heat, revitalizing her senses. Its low alcohol content would keep drunkenness at bay, but it helped stave off the chill of space she was still acclimating to.

The Admiral, acting as if he were finishing his drink, encroached on her personal space, leaning in close.

Pike audibly cleared his throat as a firm warning.

He'd once run inimical cantinas in Corellia, offered refuge by the Weequay pirates after the fall of the Republic. Now part of the DS-1 staff, his zero harassment policy had earned him a reputable rapport with the female personnel.

"Admiral you're cut off." Before the Admiral could retort, Pike snatched the remnants of his drink and chucked it into the wide basin. His furrowed brows did nothing to overshadow the sparked flint in his stare. "Else I'll wipe the floor with yeh'."

Ayen's anxiety spiked as the Admiral's unsteady actions began to garner more attention. Even Clive's relaxed posture shifted into a more defensive stance. The female staff shot daggers at the inebriated man as they left, one of them having gripped a pitcher contemplatively.

I know which one Clive will be taking back to his dorm.

Ayen focused on her drink in a blatant display of uninterest.

"Mark my words," the Admiral slurred, leaning in dangerously close, reeking of sweat and booze. "I will exceed rank soon enough. Perhaps then you'll accept my offer, girl."

Ayen recoiled in disgust, Because you kiss the Moff's ass you creeping slug.

He'd come from a well-off family, quickly moving through the ranks of the Empire to aspire to a Moff. Unfortunately for him, stormtroopers gossiped. It was said he'd spent a heap of credits on his last trip to the Outlanders club on one of the Core Worlds.

Coruscant.

Pike whistled with a shake of his head, "And that's my queue to have your arse escorted out." He turned away, muttering something that sounded like "damned Imperials" before lifting the comm to his lips.

"Allow me, sir," Clive interjected with a steady hand fastened around Pike's arm, the sharp disdain in the curl of his lip aimed at the Admiral.

Ayen had enough.

She tilted her chin defiantly, confident this wouldn't come with repercussions. "There is no offer and never will be, Admiral. I suggest you take your leave before I report you to ISB (Imperial Security Bureau). You forget whom this could reach given my standing." She slid off the stool and kicked it towards him, causing a brief lapse in the tension from the unspoken threat of a certain Commander. "Remember, I didn't go through the Imperial Academy, I was hand selected."

That wasn't entirely the truth, but she could tell the bite in her words registered as Clive took ahold of his arm. "Let's go," he said, his voice brisk, the soldier in him surfacing. He gave her a single glance, silently acknowledging her thanks, before escorting the drunkard away.

"Kriffing blowfish," she muttered, annoyed.

The blatant unprofessionalism on display would never have been tolerated if the Emperor were aboard. Whenever his presence graced the station's hangar, the atmosphere thickened with tension. The air seemed to decay, and though she had only ever glimpsed his hooded form, it left her on edge and an unbearable chill in her bones. The higher-up officers resembled restless Wookies, barking orders for the duration of his stay.

She secretly hoped it was Admiral Yularen who chewed out Motti and he demoted, for abuse of power.

"Pain in my arse..." Pike clicked his tongue, his eyes contemptuous as both Clive and the Admiral disappeared. He shook his head as he cleared away the empty pitchers left by the cafeteria personnel.

They'd be prepping for their first night shift in the mess hall.

Slinging the rag back over his shoulder he detoured over to her spot. A small, genuine smile lifted her lips at the gesture, and the ice in her voice thawed, "Thanks, Pike. Sometimes I don't know what I'd do without ya."

He let out a gravelly laugh. "Ah, kid, you're like family to me. That entitled prick had it coming." Her smile turned teasing as she saluted the drink clutched in his gnarled fingers.

A hushed laugh followed with a shake of her head. "Don't they always. What time is it even?"

"Quarter past 11, why?"

"That nerfherder."

"Trouble in paradise?"

"Ha-ha."

Pike smirked, gathering the last tin cups. A fresh-faced lanky midshipman glanced over before he decidedly continued forward. She wasn't complaining. With the bar situated away from high-trafficked corridors, hardly were there passersby.

"You look worn, Ayen." Pike resorted to the lesser of formalities now that they were alone.

This, she preferred.

Being addressed as lieutenant still felt strange given she was hardly treated such. An ecru, freckled complexion, and casual demeanor while a draw to some, set her apart from the stoic, drawn faces of pallor. Most had haughty egos influenced by their prestigious backgrounds.

"I see you're quite observant today." She snorted, running a finger through a droplet along the ridge of her cup. "No, more like I'm strained. A certain someone is on his way to a death sentence."

"Ceru fail inspection again?"

"I get it, he's young. But each time I'm putting my neck on the line to cover the written reports."

"That bad huh?"

"He should've been here a half hour ago. Probably a good thing after all that druk with Motti. But if our new model took off, it would've imploded."

"Kark, if that report ever got back to Lord Vader-"

"Yes, I know..." Ayen fiddled with her hands upon interjecting.

It speared her nerves at the mention of the Supreme Commander of Imperial Forces. A graven mistake such as this wouldn't just reach the boss above her, but the Sith himself. He was the overseer of all shipments once the technician's inspection reports were submitted. Specifically, it was his office that oversaw day-to-day operations for blocs to run smoothly.

Witnessing the execution of her former Toydarian slave owner left a lasting impression, vivid upon recollection. Yet despite his notoriety as she'd learn aboard, she harbored a deep sense of gratitude as a former slave.

Even a rugged man like Pike bowed out when it came to the Commander. There remained an unspoken loyalty amongst the staff. Those few who did dare to oppose never lived long enough to breathe of it. Recent word spoke of another disposed of officer at the Sith's hands.

His hooded figure often stayed in the shadows yet remained prominent in the whispers exchanged amongst ranks. Numerous months had passed since she'd last looked upon that fiery gaze or sweep of his cloak.

"Word has it you're one of the best techs here, kid." Pike replied, gruffly. "Don't screw up your position. Quit sticking your neck where lessons gotta' be learned."

"And have their blood on my hands?" Ayen scraped a frustrated hand through her hair at the chiding. "I lived in the roughest hubs of Tatooine. I thought I'd seen it all, Pike." Watto's image flickered in her mind, and she grimaced. "... Ceru's windpipe would be crushed before he could utter a word."

"Don't inquire about the interrogators' tactics on rebels or those found to be traitors then. Such druk will make yeh' sick."

"I don't even want to know."

"No, kid, you don't."

"Your words bring such comfort Pike, truly."

Pike ushered a hoarse laugh, stroking his beard in thought. "On that note, I'm taking a quick break. Be back in three if you're still around."

He extracted a death stick from a cargo pocket and rolled it between his fingers. With a flick of his wrist, he disappeared behind a plastic flap that partitioned the room from the back storage.

"Let me know when you kick the habit!" she called back with a shake of her head. Never would she agree with his choice of poison. The Slythmongers were surely accumulating a small fortune from him while peddling the cheap narcotics.

"We're all dying every day kid!"

Of course, he'd say that.

Shooting back the last of the syrupy liquid, she slid the cup across with a thud, sure to otherwise catch a whiff of that spice. "I'm off, Pike. My apparent friend is choosing to ignore our commute."

"I'll let him know you came by."

"Do me a favor add your special batch the next time he orders a drink."

"It's already a deal!"

Ayen laughed with a mocking salute before retracing her steps down the walkway. Passing an MSE droid scurrying to upkeep the station's cleanliness, she'd only made it a few steps before being barreled into by a stoutly young man. His grey jumpsuit was soaked in sweat as trembling hands grasped her arms.

Ceru.

"Ayen!" He gasped as if he'd run down hundreds of levels. Feathery jet-black hair was slicked back from a broad forehead. Almond-shaped eyes expanded behind thick goggles, fearful.

Dread immediately gutted her stomach.

Ceru's usual easygoing demeanor was gone, his flaxen skin even paler than usual—a rare sight for the humanoid. "I-I got your comm, but I was intercepted by an officer. I have the credits; I was coming down to meet you and—"

"Ceru," Ayen interjected, her voice firm to slow his rambling—a habit he still hadn't shaken as thick beads of sweat formed on his forehead. "What. Is. Wrong?"

Her brow slanted further in question when Ceru bit his trembling lip.

The sloped folds in his forehead hinted at a maturity beyond his eighteen standard years—an accumulation of stress from a once-sheltered existence in his parents' shipyard. His naivety to the harsh realities of the galaxy was still evident, even after being personally recruited from his homeworld of Daiyu. She had taken him under her wing the moment he was placed with her. Though he often irked her, it was in a sibling-like manner. She considered him an integral part of the team, especially after he'd helped her in areas where she wasn't as adept.

"You've been summoned," Ceru's voice quivered slightly, "this is all my fault isn't it? I should've stuck to troubleshooting the ship's communication systems like Zev and Mac barb! DRUK!"

Ayen felt the blood drain from her face, his words a physical blow as her reality crystallized into focus. "Who have I been summoned to, Ceru?"

Though already did she know, the tone of her voice lowering imperceptibly.

"Lord Vader's quarters," His voice was a hoarse whisper that fused her nerves like ice as the words formed on his lips. "A-alone, Ayen."

Ayen felt her heart singe, the words a death knell. Summoned by the Sith Lord himself was not a common practice. Many levels were reached before the high command. The realization that she was to be alone in the Supreme Commanders'—likely soundproof chambers—added to her sense of dread.

Oh... kriff.

Index

Sonic: laser type shower with no water.

Hygienic shower: shower with water.

Barracks rat: A person who sleeps around jumping from solider to solider without discretion and is well known for it in the barracks.

Death stick: A narcotic laced with "spice" considered a drug. Refer to Attack of the Clones Episode II: "Want to buy a death stick?" Scene takes place in the Outlanders Club with Obi-Wan while Anakin searches for the assassin. It's kinda like a laced cigarette.

Star Wars expletives (profanity)
Kriff/ing: Fuck/ing
Kark
Druk/ Kirk:
Shit