Post by MikDaTv on Oct 16, 2011 2:20:55 GMT -5
ENTRY I:
...So today I was shown this new 'death star' thingy the Emperor's been contracting so many workers for. You'd think that with all the credits he's pumped into it, he could do something more constructive like maybe concentrate his efforts into abolishing the slave market so prominent in some of the Outer Rim territories. I mean, come on, this Empire's supposed to work for the people.
ENTRY II:
You know, while it's no moon, I'm seriously impressed by the size of this Super Star Destroyer. It took us ten minutes to get from the transport shuttle to the bridge, and that doesn't include the time it took to wait for the elevator. I mean, my god.
ENTRY II:
...I'm starting to dislike being around my Master. he smells like old people and medical droids.
ENTRY III:
...Something really embarrassing happened to me today. One of the junior officers asked about the color scheme for the recreational hall this morning, and though I felt tempted to strangle him for not taking up this matter with Development, I indulged him, and he showed me two different schematics. Everything I see is in varying shades of red and black, so I honestly had no clue which one looked better. I took a shot at it, and said the green one looked nice. He gave me a bizarre look, and said that there was no green one. After the awkward silence, I crushed his throat, and stuffed his body into a ventilation shaft. I could just as easily have reported his demise, but I don't want my troops to think I'd kill them as soon as look at them. That would affect morale.
ENTRY IV:
We tracked down one of the Jedi today! Her name was Ayla something. From what I've read in the logs, she was supposed to have been executed...but she was apparently so blasted popular that some of the fanb - I mean, Clone Troopers - saved her before she died. It didn't help her much in the end, because I finished her off. She was a great fighter, though. She tried spinning, which, while admittedly a good trick, did nothing to save her from my blade.
ENTRY V:
The construction crew found something really weird in one of the garbage disposal rooms today. It appears to be a dianoga. Considering this battle station has been constructed in the middle of space, I have no clue how it got there unless someone smuggled it in. I asked around, but no one's claiming responsibility. When I brought it up in conversation with my Master, he simply said "Good, good. Everything is going according to plan," around a mouthful of fries. I think he's losing it.
ENTRY VI:
...At the conference dinner earlier, Admiral Ozzel got up to leave. However, he had tucked the tablecloth into his belt rather than his napkin, and made a terrible mess everywhere upon moving away from the table. He absolutely ruined my gloves. I don't know why the Emperor keeps him around, he's as clumsy as he is...wait, someone's paging me. Gotta go.
ENTRY VIII:
Just realized I wrote 'Entry II' twice. So I'll just pretend that didn't happen. There's been entirely too much on my mind lately. I haven't been sleeping well, this damn respiratory system keeps me up at night. I wonder if requesting to clone me a set of new lungs would be too much to ask - I mean, even Grievous had lungs. We'll see. My birthday's coming up soon, I'll subtly hint at it in conversation.
ENTRY IX:
I didn't mention how I got my new lightsaber, did I? Right, right. Not much of a tale to tell, my Master gave it to me soon after I was...reconstructed. It was in a dusty old box. I had the feeling he had been keeping it for me for some time...perhaps years. As if he'd known all along I wouldn't use my old one anymore. I asked, and he mumbled something about artificial crystals and the Sith. But he didn't mention what color it was. That kind of made me depressed. I wouldn't even need a new one, if Obi-Wan hadn't stole mine like a common thief. He spends years being a horrible master, turns my wife against me, cuts off my legs and arm, and then, of all things, takes my lightsaber? What the hell was up with that, anyway? Jackass. He always told me to take such good care of it, too...
ENTRY X:
The Emperor invited some of his advisers over for a chat today, and I had to stifle a laugh. They wear these really stupid-looking hats that remind me of the Neimoidians, or Duros, or whatever the blazes they're calling themselves these days. I escorted them back to their ship, and kept quietly force-shoving their hats off along the way. The looks on their faces were priceless. It's little things like that that keep me going...that, and fixing things.
ENTRY XI:
It was Empire day today. We wanted to throw a surprise bash for the Emperor, but he's off dismantling the Senate or something. Sometimes, I don't think he cares.
ENTRY XII:
One of the clone troopers keeled over and died today in the middle of a training drill. Then another, and another and another. I think we need to consider getting a new host, or we could just start conscription. There's been something of a setback over at Kamino, so the second one is looking like more of an option.
ENTRY XIII:
The Emperor arrived to oversee continued production of the Death Star, and we threw him that surprise party. I kind of ruined it, though. When he opened the door, I'm pretty sure he heard me breathing before he turned the lights on. I feel like such a tool.
ENTRY XIV:
This suit is just bizarre at times. I started fiddling with one of the knobs on the chest panel today, and picked up the Max Rebo Band on my audio receptors. I think the station was Jazzwailing FM 3. While that kicks all kinds of ass, now I'm starting to interfere with scanning equipment whenever I walk past it. Should I get it fixed? What to do, what to do...
ENTRY XV:
Got something really neat today. It's called a hyperbolic chamber. While I'm not too clear on the specifics, it will enable me to rest, eat, breathe and sleep without the use of my suit. Good thing too, because A) My helmet grill is developing a nasty food crumb and dried liquid buildup, B) I haven't had a good night's sleep in months, and C) This whole thing needs to be washed something fierce. I should probably read the manual...once I find it underneath all of this packing foam.
ENTRY XVI:
We've started conscripting, and I took a look at some of the troops during combat simulations. Half of them can't hit the broadside of a moisture farm, and one of them smacked his head getting to the flight sim. Sometimes I'm so ashamed to be a part of this Empire.
ENTRY XVII:
Met with Admiral Thrawn today. We discussed combat stratagem over lunch, and played chess. He beat me in three turns. Damn, the man's good.
ENTRY XVIII:
I tossed a garbage bag down one of the interior thermal exhaust ports today, and seconds later, the whole station nearly shook itself apart. I'm not very impressed by this technological terror that's being constructed. Still, I'm not going to clean up their mistakes. I'll let them figure out the problem for themselves.
ENTRY XIX:
While looking out the viewscreen today, I could have sworn I saw...get this...giant yellow text...just floating through space. Apparently no one else noticed it. I even checked the scopes, and there was nothing there.
I'm worried that I'm starting to see things; maybe the chamber's affecting me. Still, I'm pretty sure I saw what I saw. I couldn't make most of it out, it was too far off, but I distinctly read 'New Hope'. New hope? What the hell? Did something happen to the old hope? What was wrong with it? Is hope new and improved? If I ever had an excuse to start staring vacantly out of windows, this is it.
ENTRY XX:
I think Grand Moff Tarkin has warts. Ew.
ENTRY XXI:
I've just received word that several of the new stormtroopers were actually rebel sympathizers out to acquire various datum on the workings of the Imperial training programs. They got what they wanted, and have since stolen a lambda-class shuttle (I've always said those things needed an alarm system) and escaped, apparently making off with several decicredits worth of valuables as loot. I was quite upset, and have informed Personnel of it. There had better not be anything of great importance missing, or there will be hell to pay.
ENTRY XXII:
Meeting with Prince Xizor today. I sense an unusual amount of hostility from him, seemingly of a personal nature. It's so depressingly typical. Count Dooku escapes, it's my fault. The Republic falls, it's my fault. My wife dies, and it...okay, bad example. But honestly now, I wonder what Xizor's problem is. Despite his pathetic attempts at civility, it was easy to read that he'd love to rip out my innards. By the force, who defecated in his cereal bowl and blasted his hometown into oblivion form orbit? Not me.
ENTRY XXIII:
I informed my Master of the matter of the yellow text this afternoon, and he gave me a look that suggested I was something he scraped off of his shoe. I'm not crazy, I know what I saw. Still, this, I fear, has left me in poor standing with his excellency. If only I could perform some service for him, and redeem myself in his eyes...
ENTRY XXIV:
Those rebel infiltrators stole the ice cream maker from the cafeteria. In addition to making a mockery of the imperial Personnel dept., petty theft, and the lives of the twenty or so men I jettisoned through the airlock as punishment, now they have to answer for the loss of my favorite late-night snack. I'm sorry, but now, it's personal.
ENTRY XXV:
Death Star was officially completed today, and I got to break the bottle of Corellian wine, thus christening it. Yay me!
ENTRY XXVI:
Paperwork today. It's a royal pain in the rectum, and I despise it. You try typing in these ridiculously cumbersome gloves through mechanical hands and forearms and tell me how it feels. To make it easier, I can use only my index fingers. It's not fair! The only reason I keep this diary going is because I have nothing to fix...wait...fix...yes, that's it...
ENTRY XXVII:
...poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo stupid poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo stupid stupid useless excuse for a Sith lord poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo can't do anything right stupid stupid STUPID...
ENTRY XXVIII:
Ahem. Allow me to explain yesterday's entry, and what precisely occurred to merit my self-recriminations. In my attempt to perform a favor for my emperor, I...shall we say...'adjusted'...the gears on his throne in order to make it creak slightly...just enough to cause him irritation. I had meant to repair it for him before his eyes, just to make him appreciate my being around, but...oh, I wince as a write this...I tightened the gears too tightly, and, well...
He sat down, leaned back, and the seat broke right off, his momentum sending him careening down the stairs.
He'll be all right, he just needs a day or two in the infirmary to recuperate. And it's all my fault. Oh, I feel so helpless.
ENTRY XXIX:
...in an attempt to occupy my mind from the disaster, I have taken to supervising the removal and retrofitting of new thrust engines on our new TIE fighters. It seems that several of them are producing ugly square blue blocks of energy around them. Bizarre.
ENTRY XXX:
I have sent a bounty hunter after the rebels who stole my ice-cream maker. His name is Boba Fett, and he is reputedly the best. I seem to remember his father from Geonosis. He was a good fighter, but I never understood why either he or his son are so popular or feared. It's got to be the armor. I'll admit, it looks so wizard, especially the helmet. I wish I had one like it. I'll bet he never has to wonder what color something is.
ENTRY XXXI:
Ever have one of those days? I'm having one now. Not only have Rebels apparently intercepted COMPLETE SCHEMATICS OF THE DEATH FREAKING STAR, including any possible weaknesses (COUGHthermalexhaustportsCOUGH), but I have recieved orders to break off from the fleet, disrupting my schedule for days, but the trace has lead us to the Tantive four, on a course intersecting with...can you guess it? TATOOINE, folks. TAT-FREAKING-TOO-INE. Sigh....the Emperor knows I have bad memories there. He could just as easily have sent Motti or Ozzel or some idiot, but NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO(!!!), I have to do all the cleanup work. When I get back, throats are going to constrict. And that's if I'm in a good mood.
Entry XXXII:
Okay, in my all-time weirdest things ever list, this is going up there, right under the yellow text:
We intercepted the Tantive IV, and boy, was it chock-full of known rebels. As a bonus, we found none other than Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan herself. And this is the odd thing, I just realized-
She looks like Padme.
Not identically, of course. But the eyes, the mouth, her expressions...she even had a variation on that funky bun hairdo she used to love so much. I think that's what really brought it out. Anyway, as you can imagine, all this got me quite upset, so we left none alive. We didn't find the plans, but some of the escape pods were jettisoned - I'm wagering they're in one of those. Why the pods weren't blasted instantly I'll never know - but on the upside, neither will the commanding officer in charge. Anyways, I've sent several battallions down to search the landing sites and near villages. I hope I've placed competent officials in charge, because I'm not going down there. Too much sand. I hate it, it just gets everywhere. Not to mention what it would do to my suit. OK, sleepy now, goodnight.
ENTRY XXXIII: (Think I'm gonna start using standard numerals now, this is getting redundant)
Boba Fett came back. He tracked down the rebel infiltrators, but most of them had split up. What irritated me was that he disintegrated those he found after questioning (Turns out they're heading for Bespin). And not only that, he disintegrated their spoils, he disintegrated their hideout, he even disintegrated the fragments of the bodies that he disintegrated. Think I'll have to warn him about that next time, boy's got some rage issues.
ENTRY 34:
You know what really irritates me? The size of Motti's Adam's apple. It's like this giant egg got stuck in his throat and he never bothered to try to hack it up. I hope he gives me an excuse to try to remove it.
ENTRY 35:
We escorted Leia Organa to her cell yesterday, shortly after which we deigned to discuss the location of the Rebel base. The stormtroopers outside her cell must have been disturbed by all the screaming. I would have avoided it if I could, but we tried everything - truth serum, sleep deprivation, scraping our fingernails across glass, randomly jumping into her cell and saying 'boo', shaking our fists at her, saying 'why we oughtta', hideous torture, yada, yada yada. Finally I had no choice but to seal her eyelids open and force her to watch a tape of that irritating children's show. You know, the one with the purple krayt dragon? I'm ashamed of myself, but it's very important we get results.
ENTRY 36:
Something's wrong with my vocabulator. I'm not sounding as low-pitched and threatening as I usually do. I sound kind of...force forbid...whiny.
ENTRY 37:
I'm getting really sick of this. I've just realized people can see my own eyes through this helmet in the right light. That's not menacing at all, and just won't do.
ENTRY 38:
Welp, we blew up Alderaan today. And the tremor in the force was so nasty that I honestly almost chucked in my helmet. Some might inquire as to how people like Tarkin and I can sleep with a clear conscience after murdering billions in one fell swoop. The answer is simple; of course we can. They started it.
ENTRY 39:
Ysanne Isard stopped by for a chat, and decided that we should play ping-pong in the rec room. Honestly, that girl creeps the hell out of me sometimes.
ENTRY 40:
Dum dum dum dum de-dum-dum dee-dum....dum dumm dumm-dum-de-dummm dumm te-dummm...I swear, I'd love to meet the composer who wrote our anthem. Genius, absolute wizardry at its best.
Entry 41:
I think my elbow needs tuning up. I was speaking to Tarkin, and my arm just started gesturing for no specific reason after I was done speaking. Anyhoo, no rebels on Dantooine, she lied to us, Tarkin whined about it, yada, yada, yada.
Entry 42:
I wonder, if you had a lightsaber big enough, would you be able to reflect the Death Star's beam? Don't ask, just food for thought.
Entry 43:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; that's what I could say about this afternoon's events. On the one hand, some Rebel punk kid, accompanied by a former Stormtrooper named Solo, as well as a large walking carpet infiltrated the battlestation, freed the princess, and escaped with her. So, bad vibes for sure, but at least we slipped a tracer onto their ship before they took off (makes me wonder how they did - that thing looks like a piece of junk).
But on the other hand, they were with my old master, and I TOTALLY CUT HIS LYING MANIPULATIVE ASS IN HALF!!
It was weird, though. He didn't actually get cut...he just sort of disappeared. It really freaked me out, and I had to poke his robe (which is all that was left, apart from his saber - that thing's going on my wall) with my foot a bit to make sure he was really dead. He also mumbled something about being more powerful than I could imagine if I killed him. I don't know what he was talking about - he seemd to be pretty darn weak - kind of
shuffling around more than actually fighting. And there was something wrong with his saber, too. Kept flashing on and off.
More powerful, indeed!
...
Maybe he turned into a giant lightsaber. That would be cool.
...nah.
Entry 44:
It's a very good thing that I stored this diary on my personal Interceptor. It will give me a ruminative focus as I make my way to the nearest planet with an Imperial presence (wish this thing's hyperdrive was working properly). I need to refuel, repair, and most importantly, sleep for about a week. It's been a hell of a day, folks.
Hell of a day.
Started out innocently enough. Infiltrators, princess, owning my master - I mentioned these already. Since then, a bit's happened.
I'd like to say, 'I told you so' to the contracted constuction crew of the Death Star. And I will, once I get back to civilization, and track them all down. Every last one of them.
Slowly.
I'd also like to say that to Tarkin, and Motti and all the rest - not in a hostile manner, except I can't. Their atoms are now floating freely about the space surrounding Yavin 4 (The rebels' hidden base, as it turns out - they're holed up in ancient Sith temples - how that for irony?).
I'd also like to meet that pilot who actually fired the shot heard (and felt) 'round the star - not to throttle him good and dead, no, not at all - but because I'm curious. The force was especially strong with this one, rare in and of itself, and also, he's a good pilot, whoever he is. The Empire needs more of those, not like that stupid wingman who bashed into me and sent me sailing out into space (although he did inadvertently save my life - I suppose I should be thanking him. Maybe I'll erect a memorial, and then kick it over. I dunno. Perhaps I'll-------
Entry 45:
That'll teach me to not put on the autopilot while I'm writing. That could have gotten me killed. Maybe I've been wrong about those programs all these years.
Anyway, I'm lucky I survived this crash. My Interceptor's going to need some work. My mapper's still working, though - I'm on a forest moon orbiting the gas giant Endor. Don't think it's inhabited, but I know for sure there are Imperial reconnaisance troops here, somewhere. Atmosphere's breathable...think I'll scout around and see what's out there. Hello, big green world, here I come...
Entry 46:
No sign of amy imperial settlements yet, and it's been six days. I've been surviving off of various roots and berries, as well as a parakeet that I managed to capture three days ago. It's times like this I wish my lightsaber actually gave off heat.
Entry 47:
I encountered a native today. I demanded that he tell me all he knew about the area, but I got nowhere. It reminds me of that time I 'interviewed' that Sullustan rebel spy. Despite learning nothing - mainly in part due to the fact I couldn't understand a word he was saying - it was still an entertaining exercise. I'm taking its remains with me, to ward off other possibly hostile natives. Also, just in case I get hungry again.
Entry 48:
I'm traveling at night now. A close call with a hungry beast has made me realize that however well my black armor camouflages me against the night, against audio-sensitive predators, I'm a sitting womp rat. Why me?
Entry 49:
Hmm. Tastes like Bantha.
Entry 50:
Something is wrong. The homing beacon I left aboard my Interceptor has ceased transmitting. I'm returning at once to investigate. It may seem a bit of a cliche, but I have a bad feeling about this.
Entry 51:
I'm grateful that I decided to keep the native's garments at hand - they're proving to be quite useful as a sack for his (dwindling) remains. I was getting sick of dragging him, anyway.
Entry 52:
...and there they were. Crawling all over my Interceptor, ripping its innards out, poking and prodding and tossing and turning (some of them spinning) with all of its sensitive equipment. I was not pleased, and told them so. I'm pretty sure the tossing the head of their kin at their feet got that message across, but I felt a bit of personal discipline was in order. I've since decided to remain here and activate a high-frequency homing beacon, as I repair the ship. My men will come to me, which is as it should be, and I will have something to occupy my time. Now, where did I put that hydrospanner...
Entry 53:
I have successfully made contact with a Moff currently supervising the fitting of an imperial installment, one Jerjerrod. He promises that scout troops will arrive within a week to transport me to the base. He also advises that the local race, called Ewoks, are harmless, easily frightened, yet curious creatures, as I am already aware. A shame, I was looking forward to further confrontation. Oh well, at least I won't go hungry.
Entry 54:
It was just before dawn when they attacked. They came out of nowhere. I am fortunate for two things: one, that I am light sleeper, and two, that the one who threw the first spear at me was a lousy marksman. At least thirty of them, coming at me with spears and bolas and rocks. While I was alarmed at first, It was quite the laughable attempt. Hopefully, this new slaughter will be enough to dissuade them from further attack.
Entry 55:
I can't sleep anymore. I awoke in searing pain to find a large boulder had smashed through the hatch, nearly crushing my left shoulder. I can still move my arm, though it hurts tremendously to do so. These Ewoks are masters of camouflage and stealth - I never even sense them approaching. I must remain awake, lest they cause further damage to my ship, or worse, to me.
Entry 56:
Three days without sleep. I am beginning to feel groggy, and the Ewok meat is beginning to go rancid. I feel quite ill. I shall endeavor to heat a piece of scrap metal using my saber, and cook upon that. Hope it works.
Entry 57:
A week now...yes, it's been a week. They'll be here soon. They haven't forgotten me. That's right. They'll be here soon. Only a matter of time.
Entry 58:
I thought I saw Obi-wan. Effects from sleep deprivation. I'll just keep telling myself that. Keep telling myself that. There's no such thing as ghosts. No such thing as ghosts.
Entry 59:
It was because I ate an arm, wasn't it? All the time i sat there and cooked it and devoured it they were watching OH YES THEY WERE WATCHING I KNOW I JUST KNOW that's why...that's why they stormed the ship they stormed the ship and they attacked me with blades and hacked into my shoulder and I couldn't get them off I'm so tired and they TOOK MY BLASTED ARM. I'll kill them I'll kill them all I'll slaughter every last one of them and feast with the Emperor on their BONES....
Entry 60:
ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOYALLWORKANDNOPLAYMAKESDA----
[The following is an excerpt from audio recording 3896-B, recorded by Squadron 58, under the command of one Moff Jerjerrod, stationed at time on the fourth moon of Endor]
"How much farther is it?"
"Just down this valley and...oh, my..."
**Sound of footsteps**
"That's disgusting."
**Retching**
"Ugh, someone get him a towel....I've never seen that much blood in one place...."
"Look, sir! Ewok heads!"
"In a pile? What was lord V-"
**What appears to be a sound of a lightsaber igniting**
"An admirable ploy. I commend you for your efforts, although they will prove futile."
"Lord Vader! What in Bespin happened to your arm?"
"Do you truly believe dressing in the skins of my soldiers will fool me? Your distractions grow tiresome!"
"Sir?"
"Prepare yourselves!"
"Sir, please. We need to get you to a bacta ta-ARGH!!!!"
**Scuffling, sounds of lightsaber movement**
"Sir, please, we..lk...hurgh..."
"He's gone berserk!"
**What appears to be a tree falling, blaster fire**
"Set to STUN! To ST-"
*More blaster fire, bodies falling**
**Vader, muffled, sounds like 'Yub yub this, 'commander'**
"ARRGH!"
**Stun blasts**
"Mommy....where's my podracer?"
**Loud crash**
"We...we've got him. Inform Moff Jerjerrod...tell him to send a pickup unit."
Entry 61:
Okay. I'm feeling better now.
Honestly.
In retrospect, I'm a bit surprised that I lost control of myself as easily as I did. Perhaps I must still learn control. But then again, you try lying awake for days on end, listening for twigs cracking, hearing calls of 'yub yub' from the blackness...(shudder)
Now if only the nightmares would stop.
At any rate, the new arm is healing quite nicely. Purrs like a nexu, no grinding, and the joints are self-lubricating - a good thing too, those oil baths were rather unpleasant. I'll get more replacement parts when I have the time.
Entry 62:
I tell you, if for some reason we create another Death Star, I know exactly where I'll suggest it be built.
Entry 63:
I had assumed that with my convalescence here aboard the Executor's medical bay, I would see an end to the hallucinations and visions that were so prominent during my...illlness during my stay on that forest moon.
It would appear I was mistaken.
I'm seeing Obi-Wan's phantom now. He won't appear to anyone else, just me. I even tried to inform one of the med-droids that there was a man standing at the foot of my bed, and it gave me a sedative. Between the massacre, the yellow text, and now this, it will be a wonder if the entire Empire doesn't consider me a lunatic before the year is through.
Entry 64:
He's absolutely everywhere now. Floating outside the bridge's window in deep space, inside my hyperbaric chamber, at the ship's market going for seven wupiwupi a pound - no matter where I go, he's just standing there, watching me. Disapproving. It's enough to make a man want to tear out his optic sensors.
Entry 65:
It would appear I've missed a bit of action while I was away. The rebels have been chased off of Yavin 4, and are flesing through the galaxy. But they must undoubtedly have a secondary base. We'll find it. And when we do, we'll strike back at them so hard....
And also, I am intrigued by the young pilot who destroyed the Death Star. I have recieved visions of him, in dreams....I should not care, and yet, the Force is very strong in him.
There's something about this boy...
Entry 66:
I really like the number 66. Reminds me of old times. Ah, those were the days. Simpler times, perhaps. Less pain wracking my body with every step. Sound sleep. Drinking liquid was a lot easier, too.
Oh, sorry. Yeah. Forgot to mention, I haven't picked this thing up in quite some time. There's just been so much to do. Report to my Master (who's really spending way too much time isolated in his palace on Corusca- sorry, Imperial Center now, on what has officially been renamed Palpatine Square - self-importance, anyone?), hunt down rebels like the scum they are, strangle the odd commander, infest healthy planets with vegetation-killing seeds, public speeches...you know, the usual. So it came as no surprise that I'd eventually lose track of this diary. Found it today underneath a stack of 'Bothan Boobies' which I confiscated from Ozzel last week. Oh, I haven't dared look at them, knowing how my master is with non-humans and all that. Imagine if he read my thoughts? Now that would be embarrassing. Anyways, I'm gonna start updating now that things have settled down. Heck, even Obi-Wan isn't appearing to me anymore.
Oh, and there's another Death Star in construction around Endor. Sometimes it's good to be alive.
Entry 67:
I wonder if Obi-Wan stopped appearing because he's...found someone else?
...
NO, no, it's not like that. Sorry, that just came out bad. I just wonder sometimes...do I have possession issues? I'm going to go talk to the ship's psycho-analysis droid about this.
Entry 68:
Speaking of which, I wonder sometimes just whatever happened to Threepio. I hope he's okay. Is he being powered-up? Is he getting enough shut-down time? Is he getting oil-baths when he needs them? I really hope he wasn't sold for scrap, or anything. Maybe I'm getting soft with my age, but...I can't help but worry.
Entry 69 (LOL):
The scouts have absolutely no clue how the analysis droid wound up half-crushed, floating outside the airlock. And that's how it will stay. Can't have anyone running about knowing all my filthy little secrets, can we?
Entry 70:
If I see one more rolled-up issue of 'Bothan Boobies' sticking out of Ozzel's belt buckle, I swear to the force I'll kill him. If not, I'll find another excuse.
Entry 71:
Xizor was in my master's audience chamber today, in person, as I made my report. That alone is enough to seriously enrage me (MY Master! MINE! Grrr...), but something happened which made me feel a lot better. I'm not sure, as the holocam angel was terrible, but you see my Master was having his toenails cut (something he should really do more often, by the look of things) as we all spoke, and I think Xizor took one to the eye. Burnt and charred as it was, I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. That'll teach him to grovel.
Entry 72:
That text again, that FORCE-CURSED YELLOW TEXT. I made out something about 'Episode V'. V? Violet? Vengeance? Vroom-Vroom? I'm so confused. I don't care if he thinks I'm mad, I'm reporting this next time I'm back home.
Entry 73:
If these rebels think they can just walk in and completely subvert a fledgling Empire's stranglehold... I mean, firm grip, for the sake of security, of course - on the galaxy, they're going to be on the recieving end of a rather nasty spanking. Followed by hideous torture, of course. It's the only we we learn and grow.
Entry 74:
So we've just set course for the Hoth system. You know, I've always wondered who named that. I mean, what does 'Hoth' make you think of? Some guy with a lisp saying 'hot'. And it's not. It's quite frigid.
I wonder about planet names sometimes. Whoever named Tatooine 'Tatooine', anyhow? Makes me think of some spacer with body art. They should have called it something else. Something like...Sandymus Prime, or whatever.
Hey, I never said that naming things was my forte. Come to think of it, I wonder what I would have named my son, if I'd had one. Something classy. Something like Lando, or something. I've always liked that name.
Ah, I'm rambling again. Point is, we're on our way there. Ozzel's leading the fleet, he'd better not screw up. I'm in a forcey-chokey kind of mood right now.
Entry 75:
Oh, I choked him, alright. I just choked him but GOOD. Just wanted to say that, feeling a lot better now. I'm going to go down and supervise the occupation myself, as it should be. After I flush these magazines out the airlock. I would have given them back if he'd done well here. That'll teach me to be generous. Next Admiral that screws up gets his oxygen taken away. No excuses.
Entry 76:
What a waste of a trip. I get out of my chamber, dust my cape off, shine up my helmet, take the turbolift down, get into the shuttle, head down to the planet, JUST in time to see the Milennium Falcon leaving. This idiotic pilot INSISTED on double-checking the thrusters before we took off. "Oh, better safe than sorry, Lord Vader." Jackass.
Despite the fact he's only got one arm now, he's piloting back surprisingly quickly. Think I'll recommend him for a promotio...oh, wait, no. Keeling over, hitting the floor. Guess I'm driving us back.
Entry 77:
First Ozzel comes out of lightspeed right next to the damned planet, setting them all alert to us, THEN they manage to slip transports past us, we almost CRASH two fnarling STAR DESTROYERS (Honestly, are there any GOOD pilots left in the galaxy? Are ours blind?) , and now we send a squadron of TIE fighters after them, and they lose them in an asteroid field. I'm getting really sick of all these stupid people. Even Solo. He should have just gone to hyperdrive if he'd had any sense. Doesn't he know what the odds of navigating an asteroid field are? Idiot. Next time I see him, I'll torture him. Just for being stupid. I'm not even going to ask him any questions.
Entry 78:
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Oh, there goes another one.
Pop.
It's a tradition for starfighter pilots to paint emblems on their hulls representing the amount of kills they acquire in battle. I believe I shall don a Zero-G suit, head out into the storm, and paint a couple dozen TIEs on that big asteroid shaped like a shoe - it's really cleaning up. I don't know how they keep missing that one.
Pop.
Entry 79:
Ok. Boots, chest armor, knobs and buttons all shined up? Check....and then some (I truly do appear to be shinier today than usual...most impressive).
Helmet on straight? Check.
Cape brushed off? Check.
Fleet moving away from asteroid field? Check.
Tension-relieving, personal-assistant-strangling exercise complete? Check.
Okay. Time for a meeting with my Master.
Entry 80:
Three things:
Firstly, for some reason I think that conversation could have gone much better. But for what it's worth, I think I hid my thoughts nicely.
Secondly:
Wow.
Through my time in this galaxy, I have seen a great many things. I have partaken in wars too terrible to recount, and witnessed miracles that most sentients would not believe possible. I have experienced the mysteries of the force, on both sides. I have spoken with wise men and fools. I have seen unique and plain forms of life, sentient and dumb (a certain old friend comes to mind). There is very little these days that surprises me. But nothing could prepare me for what my Master told me today.
That child who destroyed the Death Star? Who was strong in the force? Whose act became legend to the Rebel Alliance, encouraged all kinds of Imperial defections, caused the populace to doubt in the strength of the new Empire? Who I nearly killed?
My son.
Oh, yeah.
Not kidding.
Yeah.
I gotta sit down, I'm pacing a hole in the floor here.
Just, wow. If I had a death-stick...but I don't, and that's silly. My lungs are burnt enough as is. Besides, what kind of example would I be setting to my oh my god it's already happening to me.
Okay, so I fed my Master a line about having to destroy him if he didn't join us. I know that won't even be necessary. If he won't listen to me, then I'll give him a bloody good thrashing. Or...ground him. I don't know, this isn't the kind of thing I'm good at. I fly ships. And fix things. And strangle people. And sometimes, I fix things by strangling people. But, a parent? A....father?
Me?
...
I'm going to do the only sane thing possible upon finding out a thing like this: get some sleep. I can't think right now. I need to adjust. Good night.
Oh, and thirdly....just how in the hell did it take us this long to get the kid's name? We're the Empire, for the Force's sake. We know these things! We're watching you! The skies have ears! Makes no sense, I tell you.
Entry 81:
Which brings to mind the question...how exactly am I going to tell the kid? I'm no good at these face-to-grotesque breathmask things...
Wait, I know. I'll put out the word I want to contact the rebels. To give them a message.
"Rebels, a part of Lord Vader is with you."
No. That sounds dumb.
I've got it. "Vader has a message for the Rebels."
That's all that needs to be said.
I'll have it broadcast over the holonet. I'll talk to a representative personally. And when they get word I want to contact the pilot who destroyed the Death Star, they will offer him up to me out of fear. This is perfect.
Yes.
There is no possible way that this can go wrong. I am so amazing, sometimes.
Entry 82:
Not only was she the most beautiful woman who ever lived, not only could she wield a mean blaster, not only was she a skilled Queen and diplomat, not only was she a goddess in the repulsorbed, not only was she a kind and understanding, eternally giving soul...but she could give birth to a baby while dead.
That's just incredible. That's just how great she was.
Wait.
That makes no sense.
And wait. She was like, six months into it before I...well, did that bad thing.
That makes no sense either.
What the hell?
Entry 83:
Seeing as how an asteroid field is laying waste to three quarters of my Executor's TIE squadron, I've done the reasonable thing and brought in the only folks who can go in and get the dirty work done.
No, I'm not talking about the Latrine Space Duck or any other household cleaning mascot. I'm talking about Bounty Hunters.
I had Boba Fett in (who I warned about the disintegrating), of course, and to make it look like anyone else could actually get the job done, a few others as well. There was a lizard that walked like a man (and wore clothes too small for him), a guy with his head wrapped in toilet paper, a robot man-fly, a flasher, and a living combination lamp post-don't walk sign. I swear there's something wrong with everyone in the trade. If they can't get the job done, no one can, because quite frankly I'll be upset enough to choke everyone in the galaxy.
Entry 84:
A matter has come to my attention which I believe is cause for great concern. It could very well mean the end of my Empire, if it turns out to be true.
I was re-examining holocam recordings taken from one of the Death Star's myriad black boxes - examining my son's flight techniques. He's rather impressive, I'll give him that (I remember when I destroyed my very first spherical satellite...good times), but I have noticed he just may have had an unfair advantage. An advantage I once had.
An advantage that represents a great peril to the order of the galaxy.
He may have R2-D2 with him.
More to come on further examination.
Entry 85:
My fears have been realized. That is the droid, there is no question about it.
Now, you may believe that I am grossly overreacting over such an insignificant thing as a droid. I cannot blame you for this, but you would be wrong, for you have not experienced any amount of time with this particular droid by your side.
Let me tell you a few things about him.
That droid understands humans. Knows the way they think. It can form plans. It can improvise. It can repair hyperdrive engines faster than you can blink. Not just those - find any problem on any ship, and it can fix it. It can weld, it can fuse, it can separate. It can reprogram your ship's OS to fly right into the nearest star, if you let it.
It can fly.
It can electrocute. It can spit out oil, set people on fire, and douse the flames if it feels like it. And it can slice.
Oh, can it ever slice.
It can get into your onboard operating system and make it dance. It can slice past any code, any firewall, any protective measures you can think to put up against it. It can steal any bit of data it feels like. It can shut down battle station defenses. It can serve a mean flapjack.
It shouldn't even be able to do half of these things, but it does.
I'm fairly certain that it could control this Super Star Destroyer if one were to give it half the chance.
I know what that droid can do. And trust me, it isn't something you want working against you. My motives are clear...I must turn my son to the dark side...and reprogram that droid, so that it can make it that much easier for us to rule the galaxy as father and son.
Or maybe I should just have its memory erased. Cut off any problems before they can occur. We'll see how things pan out.
Entry 86:
You know, it's funny how different each and every larynx feels through the force, and how, when you crush them just so, they can make all sorts of interesting sounds. Needa's sounded like a drowning Noghri, which was amusing, so I have decided to accept his apology.
Entry 87:
I have reported the matter of the yellow text to my Master, and he cut of the transmission in mid-broadcast. There are times when I feel like the galaxy's biggest, blackest, raspiest ass.
Entry 88:
A speech to the peoples of the Empire I'd like to make some day:
We know you don't like the Gungans. We don't like the Gungans. I don't like the Gungans. Nobody likes the Gungans. There's a reason they're rarely seen off-world.
But that's not enough reason to blow them up.
Besides, less sensible people would inevitably scream 'prejudice' if we did. We'd prefer to avoid that.
We had to destroy Alderaan because it was harboring an insurrectionist movement. Not out of personal preference.
When the Gungans get out of line, we'll smack them down. But until then, they've committed no crime other than being their usual irritating selves. Okay?
Besides, the Emperor has a penthouse on Naboo.
Entry 89:
Fett tells me Solo hid on the side of this very ship to make his escape, and they're headed for Bespin.
Perhaps I've underestimated him. I'll invite him to dinner by way of apology.
Entry 90:
I neglected to mention. His name is Luke.
'Luke'?
I distinctly remember telling her I hated that name. But then, she hated all my choices, too. She was overly critical, and never listened when I told her I wanted a name that sounded tough.
'Luke'? What kind of pansy name is that?
Good thing we Sith have that renaming thing going on. In his case, it won't be just a rechristening, it'll be a favor.
Entry 91:
Which begs the question...what will it be? Something flashy. I always liked the name Lando. 'Darth Lando' perhaps? Hey...that's a smooth name. I like it.
Entry 92:
Speak of the devil. Cloud City, the prime Tibanna gas mine on Bespin, is run by one Baron Administrator Lando Calrissian. The good ones are always taken.
Interesting. It seems that according to our records, this gas mining operation of his doesn't fall within our jurisdiction, and isn't subject to taxation, despite the fact that it's in a registered sector. How...unusual.
Well. Good to know we have blackmail...or, rather...bargaining material.
Yes, my path is clear now. Surely, Luke will be able to sense the peril of his allies. I will use this Calrissian to lure him into a trap by endangering his friends. When all is complete, I will have taken the life from Solo, the droid from my son, my son from his own delusions, and the first name from Calrissian.
Okay, I'm pushing it. Calrissian can keep his name. I can live with 'Luke' for now. Until Darth "something else" comes along.
Entry 93:
The transmission of today's Imperial Center Holonet broadcast just came through. The gist of it is this:
"Vader: I Have A Message For The Rebels"
"This cryptic yet reassuring phrase was received by Holonet Communications early this morning. Unfortunately, the details of this warning or announcement are still unknown. Due to signal interference caused by an asteroid field in the area, the transmission was cut off shortly after it began. Sources say that the Imperial fleet is under no imminent danger, and should return to Imperial Center shortly, upon which time we may look forward to hearing the remainder of Vader's message to the Rebel insurrectionists who threaten our galaxy's peace. Judging by the one sentence that came through, and knowing Lord Vader's reputation for confidence and certainty in dealing with such threats, it would be no large assumption to assume that he has the Rebel threat well in hand, and feels the need to reassure the public by notifying these terrorists that their days are numbered."
I have today learned a valuable lesson. When you own the media, when every single broadcast is pre-arranged to sway events in the favor of both you and your fledgling government, when you spread propaganda and misinformation about the opposition as a matter of course...even your own intentions can become misread.
So, to sum;
Stupid asteroid field, stupid me for not verifying the message had gone through, stupid idea, stupid media, stupid rebels, stupid everything, stupid stupid.
Entry 94:
It is as much a joyous epiphany as it is a tragic realization.
I have to overthrow my master.
Really, there's no other choice. As a matter of fact, I can't see any reason NOT to.
First off, it's a Sith thing. I've been researching our history for a long time now, and I notice that the overthrowing and succession of the Master by the Apprentice is a rather common and apparently accepted trend. High amongst our values is power, and the will to achieve that power.
It's time for a new Master and Apprentice. I have a candidate.
I'm the number two man in the galaxy. I have a shot at being number one.
What kind of Sith would I be if I didn't take it?
Secondly, my mastery of the Dark Side is nowhere near as complete as my master's. This is both a good and bad thing - I cannot hope to ever be his equal, considering my limitations (lightning and mechanical suits don't mix after all). His mastery of it has also given him extended life - but at a cost. Despite how much longer he may live, he is withered and decayed, foul and physically weak.
Were I to strike quickly, he would not stand a chance at stopping me.
Thirdly, I'm not too wild about how easily he swallowed my line about converting Luke. Call me paranoid, but perhaps he wishes for an apprentice who isn't limited by a life-support system (and isn't crazy enough, in his opinion, to see bright yellow text where there is none - I know what I saw, but I digress). And given that long-life thing he's got going, he just might have enough time to train someone new. Time I might not have.
So, the time, as it were, is ripe.
I regret having to do this. He has taught me a great deal...but that's the nature of things. For what it is worth, I will make it as painless as possible. I owe my old friend that much.
Yes...I shall rule the galaxy with my son at my side.
Unless my Master has some secret cache of clones of himself stashed somewhere. Then I'm screwed.
Entry 95:
On Bespin now. There is a certain degree of anticipation that comes with situations such as this, and I confess to enjoying it. So much of my life has now become routine that I welcome little plays at intrigue.
We have Calrissian in talks at the moment, and are persuading him to see our point of view. My brief exchange of words with him went a good way into helping that along - I'm fairly certain he soiled his cape.
Soon, very soon, all that I desire shall come to pass. My son shall be at my side, and the galaxy ours alone to rule.
Furthermore, this is the last known location of the Rebel infiltrator who stole my ice-cream maker, and should he still be here, I'll be damned if he's getting away again. True, I could simply order another - I have - but it was a very well put-together little ice-cream maker. I want my Rocky Rancor Road.
Entry 96:
The problem with bringing a battalion of Stormtroopers with you is where to hide them when you're trapping someone. We've currently got them stashed in locked rooms throughout the city, but we've got about five or so left over, and the Falcon is due to arrive within the hour. Worse comes to worse, we'll stick them in an engine room somewhere and hope for the best.
Entry 97:
He is in pieces now, next to me in this temporary personal quarters. In a pathetic state. His parts are showing.
The Stormtroopers in the engine room reported a droid stumbling upon them. They blew him apart, and requested further instruction. I investigated, and nothing could prepare me for what I found.
C-3P0. One of my oldest creations. One of my oldest friends.
I sat there, holding his head, for a full hour, just remembering.
My childhood. Tatooine. Shmi. Watto. Kitster. Podracing. That jerk Sebulba. Sand.
Fond memories, bittersweet. Tinged with happiness and pain.
It makes me wonder if I'm truly cut out to be a Sith sometimes.
I haven't felt like this in a very, very long time.
I cannot afford sentimentality, it's interfering with my thoughts and could compromise my judgement. We'll take them in tomorrow.
Looking over at his remains now, it is a difficult decision to make, but I suppose I should have him destroyed. There's no telling how much he could reveal if he were to make the connection between me and the man I once was, if he still remembers me.
Good-bye, Threepio.
Entry 98:
Han Solo is the worst dinner guest of all time.
Honestly.
Repeated instances in which he has made my forces look incompetent aside, assisting in destroying the Death Star, and being stupid enough to actually fly into an asteroid field, I've got no personal grudge against the guy. I actually admire him for his tenacity.
(it seems he was a Stormtrooper for a brief period of time. A shame. If he had remained with us, I'm certain he would have become a decent commander. But, he washed out, which was his loss.)
He has a surprising amount of courage for a mere smuggler, and a death mark isn't an easy thing to live with - I know, having handed out a few dozen of those myself. He is a notable pilot, and under different circumstances I would love to test my own abilities against his.
But none of that can excuse bad table manners.
I consider myself a fairiy generous person. A good amount of people have betrayed or hurt me in my lifetime (still thinking of you, Master), and I've been good enough to let the past be the past. True, most of those individuals are now dead, but that's neither here nor there.
But I was willing to let everything Solo had done slide, and have a friendly chat with him over some supper.
But oh, no. He wouldn't have anything of it. First he pulls a blaster on me and shoots - understandable, given the surprise situation. I relieved him of it, and politely asked him and the party to join us for dinner.
At which time he proceeded to lay out the insults. Starting with Calrissian. Then Calrissian's attendant. Then Cloud City's security staff. Then the Stormtroopers present. Then Fett. Fett's ship. Then me. Then my mask (this, I recall, is when I began to become rather upset - I work hard at keeping this thing shiny). Then the Emperor. Then the Imperial flag, the Imperial anthem (again, a no-no - you don't mess with that anthem), and every Grand Moff from here to Imperial center.
And then he insulted my mother.
Oh, goodness heavens gracious me.
No.
The next thing I remember was that I was breathing louder than usual, and making Solo turn all sorts of funny colors from across the room. But a bargain is a bargain, and table manners are table manners, so for decency's sake, and Fett's, I allowed him to live. For the time being.
That did not, however, prevent me from knocking him unconscious and having him escorted out.
And of course, the walking pile of hair got all riled up after that, and Fett had to put him down with a stun blast. Cannot say that I blame the wookiee, really. Yoda once told me how ferocious they are about life debts. I only wish they were as ferocious about washing.
Fett didn't say much throughout the whole ordeal, moving only now and then to sip from his drink with a straw underneath that helmet of his. He's always quiet, and I think that's why I like him. He's got some serious bottled rage issues inside he needs to work out, but I like him nevertheless. Knows his place.
Calrissian was very pleasant and accommodating, although he seemed rather ill, and excused himself after the main course. Treachery and self-service have that effect on people. True, I maneuvered him into that corner...but here's me playing the galaxy's smallest viola. He'll recover.
Leia Organa, however, was fairly decent about the whole thing, which surprised me. I'd be very upset if someone had interrogated and tortured me for hours on end. Yet, she remained stoic about the whole thing, keeping her obvious anger in check, and we even discussed old Republican politics for a while. She's a born negotiator. Reminds m...ah, never mind.
...
He didn't even TOUCH his steak.
Honestly!
Entry 99:
It comes to me as something of a shock, realizing that I have absolutely no clue as to how I'm actually going to GET my son back to the Emperor. I know these rebels...many of them would take death before dishonor. And while I have no way of knowing that Luke is one of those, I'm not one to take chances (but you knew that already). So, I have to assume he won't come willingly. What are my options?
Okay, there's shoving him in the brig aboard the Executor. No, bad idea, he's strong in the force, can probably levitate things, like keys. Rules that out.
There's knocking him unconscious, and hitting him really hard each time he wakes up.
Nah, it's a long way back to Imperial Center. Don't want to damage his brain.
I could bury him neck up in a room full of sand.
Ehhh...wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, really. I hate sand.
So much.
But I think I'm onto something here. I just need to restrict his ability to move.
Maybe I could cut off his arms and legs?
No, that would prevent him from realizing his full Sith potential. And it also really sucks. Trust me, I know.
Think, Darth, THINK!
...
Ahh, it's hopeless. Right now I feel as dumb as that carbonite-frozen box of foodstuffs over there.
Hey...
...So today I was shown this new 'death star' thingy the Emperor's been contracting so many workers for. You'd think that with all the credits he's pumped into it, he could do something more constructive like maybe concentrate his efforts into abolishing the slave market so prominent in some of the Outer Rim territories. I mean, come on, this Empire's supposed to work for the people.
ENTRY II:
You know, while it's no moon, I'm seriously impressed by the size of this Super Star Destroyer. It took us ten minutes to get from the transport shuttle to the bridge, and that doesn't include the time it took to wait for the elevator. I mean, my god.
ENTRY II:
...I'm starting to dislike being around my Master. he smells like old people and medical droids.
ENTRY III:
...Something really embarrassing happened to me today. One of the junior officers asked about the color scheme for the recreational hall this morning, and though I felt tempted to strangle him for not taking up this matter with Development, I indulged him, and he showed me two different schematics. Everything I see is in varying shades of red and black, so I honestly had no clue which one looked better. I took a shot at it, and said the green one looked nice. He gave me a bizarre look, and said that there was no green one. After the awkward silence, I crushed his throat, and stuffed his body into a ventilation shaft. I could just as easily have reported his demise, but I don't want my troops to think I'd kill them as soon as look at them. That would affect morale.
ENTRY IV:
We tracked down one of the Jedi today! Her name was Ayla something. From what I've read in the logs, she was supposed to have been executed...but she was apparently so blasted popular that some of the fanb - I mean, Clone Troopers - saved her before she died. It didn't help her much in the end, because I finished her off. She was a great fighter, though. She tried spinning, which, while admittedly a good trick, did nothing to save her from my blade.
ENTRY V:
The construction crew found something really weird in one of the garbage disposal rooms today. It appears to be a dianoga. Considering this battle station has been constructed in the middle of space, I have no clue how it got there unless someone smuggled it in. I asked around, but no one's claiming responsibility. When I brought it up in conversation with my Master, he simply said "Good, good. Everything is going according to plan," around a mouthful of fries. I think he's losing it.
ENTRY VI:
...At the conference dinner earlier, Admiral Ozzel got up to leave. However, he had tucked the tablecloth into his belt rather than his napkin, and made a terrible mess everywhere upon moving away from the table. He absolutely ruined my gloves. I don't know why the Emperor keeps him around, he's as clumsy as he is...wait, someone's paging me. Gotta go.
ENTRY VIII:
Just realized I wrote 'Entry II' twice. So I'll just pretend that didn't happen. There's been entirely too much on my mind lately. I haven't been sleeping well, this damn respiratory system keeps me up at night. I wonder if requesting to clone me a set of new lungs would be too much to ask - I mean, even Grievous had lungs. We'll see. My birthday's coming up soon, I'll subtly hint at it in conversation.
ENTRY IX:
I didn't mention how I got my new lightsaber, did I? Right, right. Not much of a tale to tell, my Master gave it to me soon after I was...reconstructed. It was in a dusty old box. I had the feeling he had been keeping it for me for some time...perhaps years. As if he'd known all along I wouldn't use my old one anymore. I asked, and he mumbled something about artificial crystals and the Sith. But he didn't mention what color it was. That kind of made me depressed. I wouldn't even need a new one, if Obi-Wan hadn't stole mine like a common thief. He spends years being a horrible master, turns my wife against me, cuts off my legs and arm, and then, of all things, takes my lightsaber? What the hell was up with that, anyway? Jackass. He always told me to take such good care of it, too...
ENTRY X:
The Emperor invited some of his advisers over for a chat today, and I had to stifle a laugh. They wear these really stupid-looking hats that remind me of the Neimoidians, or Duros, or whatever the blazes they're calling themselves these days. I escorted them back to their ship, and kept quietly force-shoving their hats off along the way. The looks on their faces were priceless. It's little things like that that keep me going...that, and fixing things.
ENTRY XI:
It was Empire day today. We wanted to throw a surprise bash for the Emperor, but he's off dismantling the Senate or something. Sometimes, I don't think he cares.
ENTRY XII:
One of the clone troopers keeled over and died today in the middle of a training drill. Then another, and another and another. I think we need to consider getting a new host, or we could just start conscription. There's been something of a setback over at Kamino, so the second one is looking like more of an option.
ENTRY XIII:
The Emperor arrived to oversee continued production of the Death Star, and we threw him that surprise party. I kind of ruined it, though. When he opened the door, I'm pretty sure he heard me breathing before he turned the lights on. I feel like such a tool.
ENTRY XIV:
This suit is just bizarre at times. I started fiddling with one of the knobs on the chest panel today, and picked up the Max Rebo Band on my audio receptors. I think the station was Jazzwailing FM 3. While that kicks all kinds of ass, now I'm starting to interfere with scanning equipment whenever I walk past it. Should I get it fixed? What to do, what to do...
ENTRY XV:
Got something really neat today. It's called a hyperbolic chamber. While I'm not too clear on the specifics, it will enable me to rest, eat, breathe and sleep without the use of my suit. Good thing too, because A) My helmet grill is developing a nasty food crumb and dried liquid buildup, B) I haven't had a good night's sleep in months, and C) This whole thing needs to be washed something fierce. I should probably read the manual...once I find it underneath all of this packing foam.
ENTRY XVI:
We've started conscripting, and I took a look at some of the troops during combat simulations. Half of them can't hit the broadside of a moisture farm, and one of them smacked his head getting to the flight sim. Sometimes I'm so ashamed to be a part of this Empire.
ENTRY XVII:
Met with Admiral Thrawn today. We discussed combat stratagem over lunch, and played chess. He beat me in three turns. Damn, the man's good.
ENTRY XVIII:
I tossed a garbage bag down one of the interior thermal exhaust ports today, and seconds later, the whole station nearly shook itself apart. I'm not very impressed by this technological terror that's being constructed. Still, I'm not going to clean up their mistakes. I'll let them figure out the problem for themselves.
ENTRY XIX:
While looking out the viewscreen today, I could have sworn I saw...get this...giant yellow text...just floating through space. Apparently no one else noticed it. I even checked the scopes, and there was nothing there.
I'm worried that I'm starting to see things; maybe the chamber's affecting me. Still, I'm pretty sure I saw what I saw. I couldn't make most of it out, it was too far off, but I distinctly read 'New Hope'. New hope? What the hell? Did something happen to the old hope? What was wrong with it? Is hope new and improved? If I ever had an excuse to start staring vacantly out of windows, this is it.
ENTRY XX:
I think Grand Moff Tarkin has warts. Ew.
ENTRY XXI:
I've just received word that several of the new stormtroopers were actually rebel sympathizers out to acquire various datum on the workings of the Imperial training programs. They got what they wanted, and have since stolen a lambda-class shuttle (I've always said those things needed an alarm system) and escaped, apparently making off with several decicredits worth of valuables as loot. I was quite upset, and have informed Personnel of it. There had better not be anything of great importance missing, or there will be hell to pay.
ENTRY XXII:
Meeting with Prince Xizor today. I sense an unusual amount of hostility from him, seemingly of a personal nature. It's so depressingly typical. Count Dooku escapes, it's my fault. The Republic falls, it's my fault. My wife dies, and it...okay, bad example. But honestly now, I wonder what Xizor's problem is. Despite his pathetic attempts at civility, it was easy to read that he'd love to rip out my innards. By the force, who defecated in his cereal bowl and blasted his hometown into oblivion form orbit? Not me.
ENTRY XXIII:
I informed my Master of the matter of the yellow text this afternoon, and he gave me a look that suggested I was something he scraped off of his shoe. I'm not crazy, I know what I saw. Still, this, I fear, has left me in poor standing with his excellency. If only I could perform some service for him, and redeem myself in his eyes...
ENTRY XXIV:
Those rebel infiltrators stole the ice cream maker from the cafeteria. In addition to making a mockery of the imperial Personnel dept., petty theft, and the lives of the twenty or so men I jettisoned through the airlock as punishment, now they have to answer for the loss of my favorite late-night snack. I'm sorry, but now, it's personal.
ENTRY XXV:
Death Star was officially completed today, and I got to break the bottle of Corellian wine, thus christening it. Yay me!
ENTRY XXVI:
Paperwork today. It's a royal pain in the rectum, and I despise it. You try typing in these ridiculously cumbersome gloves through mechanical hands and forearms and tell me how it feels. To make it easier, I can use only my index fingers. It's not fair! The only reason I keep this diary going is because I have nothing to fix...wait...fix...yes, that's it...
ENTRY XXVII:
...poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo stupid poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo stupid stupid useless excuse for a Sith lord poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo poodoo can't do anything right stupid stupid STUPID...
ENTRY XXVIII:
Ahem. Allow me to explain yesterday's entry, and what precisely occurred to merit my self-recriminations. In my attempt to perform a favor for my emperor, I...shall we say...'adjusted'...the gears on his throne in order to make it creak slightly...just enough to cause him irritation. I had meant to repair it for him before his eyes, just to make him appreciate my being around, but...oh, I wince as a write this...I tightened the gears too tightly, and, well...
He sat down, leaned back, and the seat broke right off, his momentum sending him careening down the stairs.
He'll be all right, he just needs a day or two in the infirmary to recuperate. And it's all my fault. Oh, I feel so helpless.
ENTRY XXIX:
...in an attempt to occupy my mind from the disaster, I have taken to supervising the removal and retrofitting of new thrust engines on our new TIE fighters. It seems that several of them are producing ugly square blue blocks of energy around them. Bizarre.
ENTRY XXX:
I have sent a bounty hunter after the rebels who stole my ice-cream maker. His name is Boba Fett, and he is reputedly the best. I seem to remember his father from Geonosis. He was a good fighter, but I never understood why either he or his son are so popular or feared. It's got to be the armor. I'll admit, it looks so wizard, especially the helmet. I wish I had one like it. I'll bet he never has to wonder what color something is.
ENTRY XXXI:
Ever have one of those days? I'm having one now. Not only have Rebels apparently intercepted COMPLETE SCHEMATICS OF THE DEATH FREAKING STAR, including any possible weaknesses (COUGHthermalexhaustportsCOUGH), but I have recieved orders to break off from the fleet, disrupting my schedule for days, but the trace has lead us to the Tantive four, on a course intersecting with...can you guess it? TATOOINE, folks. TAT-FREAKING-TOO-INE. Sigh....the Emperor knows I have bad memories there. He could just as easily have sent Motti or Ozzel or some idiot, but NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO(!!!), I have to do all the cleanup work. When I get back, throats are going to constrict. And that's if I'm in a good mood.
Entry XXXII:
Okay, in my all-time weirdest things ever list, this is going up there, right under the yellow text:
We intercepted the Tantive IV, and boy, was it chock-full of known rebels. As a bonus, we found none other than Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan herself. And this is the odd thing, I just realized-
She looks like Padme.
Not identically, of course. But the eyes, the mouth, her expressions...she even had a variation on that funky bun hairdo she used to love so much. I think that's what really brought it out. Anyway, as you can imagine, all this got me quite upset, so we left none alive. We didn't find the plans, but some of the escape pods were jettisoned - I'm wagering they're in one of those. Why the pods weren't blasted instantly I'll never know - but on the upside, neither will the commanding officer in charge. Anyways, I've sent several battallions down to search the landing sites and near villages. I hope I've placed competent officials in charge, because I'm not going down there. Too much sand. I hate it, it just gets everywhere. Not to mention what it would do to my suit. OK, sleepy now, goodnight.
ENTRY XXXIII: (Think I'm gonna start using standard numerals now, this is getting redundant)
Boba Fett came back. He tracked down the rebel infiltrators, but most of them had split up. What irritated me was that he disintegrated those he found after questioning (Turns out they're heading for Bespin). And not only that, he disintegrated their spoils, he disintegrated their hideout, he even disintegrated the fragments of the bodies that he disintegrated. Think I'll have to warn him about that next time, boy's got some rage issues.
ENTRY 34:
You know what really irritates me? The size of Motti's Adam's apple. It's like this giant egg got stuck in his throat and he never bothered to try to hack it up. I hope he gives me an excuse to try to remove it.
ENTRY 35:
We escorted Leia Organa to her cell yesterday, shortly after which we deigned to discuss the location of the Rebel base. The stormtroopers outside her cell must have been disturbed by all the screaming. I would have avoided it if I could, but we tried everything - truth serum, sleep deprivation, scraping our fingernails across glass, randomly jumping into her cell and saying 'boo', shaking our fists at her, saying 'why we oughtta', hideous torture, yada, yada yada. Finally I had no choice but to seal her eyelids open and force her to watch a tape of that irritating children's show. You know, the one with the purple krayt dragon? I'm ashamed of myself, but it's very important we get results.
ENTRY 36:
Something's wrong with my vocabulator. I'm not sounding as low-pitched and threatening as I usually do. I sound kind of...force forbid...whiny.
ENTRY 37:
I'm getting really sick of this. I've just realized people can see my own eyes through this helmet in the right light. That's not menacing at all, and just won't do.
ENTRY 38:
Welp, we blew up Alderaan today. And the tremor in the force was so nasty that I honestly almost chucked in my helmet. Some might inquire as to how people like Tarkin and I can sleep with a clear conscience after murdering billions in one fell swoop. The answer is simple; of course we can. They started it.
ENTRY 39:
Ysanne Isard stopped by for a chat, and decided that we should play ping-pong in the rec room. Honestly, that girl creeps the hell out of me sometimes.
ENTRY 40:
Dum dum dum dum de-dum-dum dee-dum....dum dumm dumm-dum-de-dummm dumm te-dummm...I swear, I'd love to meet the composer who wrote our anthem. Genius, absolute wizardry at its best.
Entry 41:
I think my elbow needs tuning up. I was speaking to Tarkin, and my arm just started gesturing for no specific reason after I was done speaking. Anyhoo, no rebels on Dantooine, she lied to us, Tarkin whined about it, yada, yada, yada.
Entry 42:
I wonder, if you had a lightsaber big enough, would you be able to reflect the Death Star's beam? Don't ask, just food for thought.
Entry 43:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; that's what I could say about this afternoon's events. On the one hand, some Rebel punk kid, accompanied by a former Stormtrooper named Solo, as well as a large walking carpet infiltrated the battlestation, freed the princess, and escaped with her. So, bad vibes for sure, but at least we slipped a tracer onto their ship before they took off (makes me wonder how they did - that thing looks like a piece of junk).
But on the other hand, they were with my old master, and I TOTALLY CUT HIS LYING MANIPULATIVE ASS IN HALF!!
It was weird, though. He didn't actually get cut...he just sort of disappeared. It really freaked me out, and I had to poke his robe (which is all that was left, apart from his saber - that thing's going on my wall) with my foot a bit to make sure he was really dead. He also mumbled something about being more powerful than I could imagine if I killed him. I don't know what he was talking about - he seemd to be pretty darn weak - kind of
shuffling around more than actually fighting. And there was something wrong with his saber, too. Kept flashing on and off.
More powerful, indeed!
...
Maybe he turned into a giant lightsaber. That would be cool.
...nah.
Entry 44:
It's a very good thing that I stored this diary on my personal Interceptor. It will give me a ruminative focus as I make my way to the nearest planet with an Imperial presence (wish this thing's hyperdrive was working properly). I need to refuel, repair, and most importantly, sleep for about a week. It's been a hell of a day, folks.
Hell of a day.
Started out innocently enough. Infiltrators, princess, owning my master - I mentioned these already. Since then, a bit's happened.
I'd like to say, 'I told you so' to the contracted constuction crew of the Death Star. And I will, once I get back to civilization, and track them all down. Every last one of them.
Slowly.
I'd also like to say that to Tarkin, and Motti and all the rest - not in a hostile manner, except I can't. Their atoms are now floating freely about the space surrounding Yavin 4 (The rebels' hidden base, as it turns out - they're holed up in ancient Sith temples - how that for irony?).
I'd also like to meet that pilot who actually fired the shot heard (and felt) 'round the star - not to throttle him good and dead, no, not at all - but because I'm curious. The force was especially strong with this one, rare in and of itself, and also, he's a good pilot, whoever he is. The Empire needs more of those, not like that stupid wingman who bashed into me and sent me sailing out into space (although he did inadvertently save my life - I suppose I should be thanking him. Maybe I'll erect a memorial, and then kick it over. I dunno. Perhaps I'll-------
Entry 45:
That'll teach me to not put on the autopilot while I'm writing. That could have gotten me killed. Maybe I've been wrong about those programs all these years.
Anyway, I'm lucky I survived this crash. My Interceptor's going to need some work. My mapper's still working, though - I'm on a forest moon orbiting the gas giant Endor. Don't think it's inhabited, but I know for sure there are Imperial reconnaisance troops here, somewhere. Atmosphere's breathable...think I'll scout around and see what's out there. Hello, big green world, here I come...
Entry 46:
No sign of amy imperial settlements yet, and it's been six days. I've been surviving off of various roots and berries, as well as a parakeet that I managed to capture three days ago. It's times like this I wish my lightsaber actually gave off heat.
Entry 47:
I encountered a native today. I demanded that he tell me all he knew about the area, but I got nowhere. It reminds me of that time I 'interviewed' that Sullustan rebel spy. Despite learning nothing - mainly in part due to the fact I couldn't understand a word he was saying - it was still an entertaining exercise. I'm taking its remains with me, to ward off other possibly hostile natives. Also, just in case I get hungry again.
Entry 48:
I'm traveling at night now. A close call with a hungry beast has made me realize that however well my black armor camouflages me against the night, against audio-sensitive predators, I'm a sitting womp rat. Why me?
Entry 49:
Hmm. Tastes like Bantha.
Entry 50:
Something is wrong. The homing beacon I left aboard my Interceptor has ceased transmitting. I'm returning at once to investigate. It may seem a bit of a cliche, but I have a bad feeling about this.
Entry 51:
I'm grateful that I decided to keep the native's garments at hand - they're proving to be quite useful as a sack for his (dwindling) remains. I was getting sick of dragging him, anyway.
Entry 52:
...and there they were. Crawling all over my Interceptor, ripping its innards out, poking and prodding and tossing and turning (some of them spinning) with all of its sensitive equipment. I was not pleased, and told them so. I'm pretty sure the tossing the head of their kin at their feet got that message across, but I felt a bit of personal discipline was in order. I've since decided to remain here and activate a high-frequency homing beacon, as I repair the ship. My men will come to me, which is as it should be, and I will have something to occupy my time. Now, where did I put that hydrospanner...
Entry 53:
I have successfully made contact with a Moff currently supervising the fitting of an imperial installment, one Jerjerrod. He promises that scout troops will arrive within a week to transport me to the base. He also advises that the local race, called Ewoks, are harmless, easily frightened, yet curious creatures, as I am already aware. A shame, I was looking forward to further confrontation. Oh well, at least I won't go hungry.
Entry 54:
It was just before dawn when they attacked. They came out of nowhere. I am fortunate for two things: one, that I am light sleeper, and two, that the one who threw the first spear at me was a lousy marksman. At least thirty of them, coming at me with spears and bolas and rocks. While I was alarmed at first, It was quite the laughable attempt. Hopefully, this new slaughter will be enough to dissuade them from further attack.
Entry 55:
I can't sleep anymore. I awoke in searing pain to find a large boulder had smashed through the hatch, nearly crushing my left shoulder. I can still move my arm, though it hurts tremendously to do so. These Ewoks are masters of camouflage and stealth - I never even sense them approaching. I must remain awake, lest they cause further damage to my ship, or worse, to me.
Entry 56:
Three days without sleep. I am beginning to feel groggy, and the Ewok meat is beginning to go rancid. I feel quite ill. I shall endeavor to heat a piece of scrap metal using my saber, and cook upon that. Hope it works.
Entry 57:
A week now...yes, it's been a week. They'll be here soon. They haven't forgotten me. That's right. They'll be here soon. Only a matter of time.
Entry 58:
I thought I saw Obi-wan. Effects from sleep deprivation. I'll just keep telling myself that. Keep telling myself that. There's no such thing as ghosts. No such thing as ghosts.
Entry 59:
It was because I ate an arm, wasn't it? All the time i sat there and cooked it and devoured it they were watching OH YES THEY WERE WATCHING I KNOW I JUST KNOW that's why...that's why they stormed the ship they stormed the ship and they attacked me with blades and hacked into my shoulder and I couldn't get them off I'm so tired and they TOOK MY BLASTED ARM. I'll kill them I'll kill them all I'll slaughter every last one of them and feast with the Emperor on their BONES....
Entry 60:
ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOY ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES DARTH A DULL BOYALLWORKANDNOPLAYMAKESDA----
[The following is an excerpt from audio recording 3896-B, recorded by Squadron 58, under the command of one Moff Jerjerrod, stationed at time on the fourth moon of Endor]
"How much farther is it?"
"Just down this valley and...oh, my..."
**Sound of footsteps**
"That's disgusting."
**Retching**
"Ugh, someone get him a towel....I've never seen that much blood in one place...."
"Look, sir! Ewok heads!"
"In a pile? What was lord V-"
**What appears to be a sound of a lightsaber igniting**
"An admirable ploy. I commend you for your efforts, although they will prove futile."
"Lord Vader! What in Bespin happened to your arm?"
"Do you truly believe dressing in the skins of my soldiers will fool me? Your distractions grow tiresome!"
"Sir?"
"Prepare yourselves!"
"Sir, please. We need to get you to a bacta ta-ARGH!!!!"
**Scuffling, sounds of lightsaber movement**
"Sir, please, we..lk...hurgh..."
"He's gone berserk!"
**What appears to be a tree falling, blaster fire**
"Set to STUN! To ST-"
*More blaster fire, bodies falling**
**Vader, muffled, sounds like 'Yub yub this, 'commander'**
"ARRGH!"
**Stun blasts**
"Mommy....where's my podracer?"
**Loud crash**
"We...we've got him. Inform Moff Jerjerrod...tell him to send a pickup unit."
Entry 61:
Okay. I'm feeling better now.
Honestly.
In retrospect, I'm a bit surprised that I lost control of myself as easily as I did. Perhaps I must still learn control. But then again, you try lying awake for days on end, listening for twigs cracking, hearing calls of 'yub yub' from the blackness...(shudder)
Now if only the nightmares would stop.
At any rate, the new arm is healing quite nicely. Purrs like a nexu, no grinding, and the joints are self-lubricating - a good thing too, those oil baths were rather unpleasant. I'll get more replacement parts when I have the time.
Entry 62:
I tell you, if for some reason we create another Death Star, I know exactly where I'll suggest it be built.
Entry 63:
I had assumed that with my convalescence here aboard the Executor's medical bay, I would see an end to the hallucinations and visions that were so prominent during my...illlness during my stay on that forest moon.
It would appear I was mistaken.
I'm seeing Obi-Wan's phantom now. He won't appear to anyone else, just me. I even tried to inform one of the med-droids that there was a man standing at the foot of my bed, and it gave me a sedative. Between the massacre, the yellow text, and now this, it will be a wonder if the entire Empire doesn't consider me a lunatic before the year is through.
Entry 64:
He's absolutely everywhere now. Floating outside the bridge's window in deep space, inside my hyperbaric chamber, at the ship's market going for seven wupiwupi a pound - no matter where I go, he's just standing there, watching me. Disapproving. It's enough to make a man want to tear out his optic sensors.
Entry 65:
It would appear I've missed a bit of action while I was away. The rebels have been chased off of Yavin 4, and are flesing through the galaxy. But they must undoubtedly have a secondary base. We'll find it. And when we do, we'll strike back at them so hard....
And also, I am intrigued by the young pilot who destroyed the Death Star. I have recieved visions of him, in dreams....I should not care, and yet, the Force is very strong in him.
There's something about this boy...
Entry 66:
I really like the number 66. Reminds me of old times. Ah, those were the days. Simpler times, perhaps. Less pain wracking my body with every step. Sound sleep. Drinking liquid was a lot easier, too.
Oh, sorry. Yeah. Forgot to mention, I haven't picked this thing up in quite some time. There's just been so much to do. Report to my Master (who's really spending way too much time isolated in his palace on Corusca- sorry, Imperial Center now, on what has officially been renamed Palpatine Square - self-importance, anyone?), hunt down rebels like the scum they are, strangle the odd commander, infest healthy planets with vegetation-killing seeds, public speeches...you know, the usual. So it came as no surprise that I'd eventually lose track of this diary. Found it today underneath a stack of 'Bothan Boobies' which I confiscated from Ozzel last week. Oh, I haven't dared look at them, knowing how my master is with non-humans and all that. Imagine if he read my thoughts? Now that would be embarrassing. Anyways, I'm gonna start updating now that things have settled down. Heck, even Obi-Wan isn't appearing to me anymore.
Oh, and there's another Death Star in construction around Endor. Sometimes it's good to be alive.
Entry 67:
I wonder if Obi-Wan stopped appearing because he's...found someone else?
...
NO, no, it's not like that. Sorry, that just came out bad. I just wonder sometimes...do I have possession issues? I'm going to go talk to the ship's psycho-analysis droid about this.
Entry 68:
Speaking of which, I wonder sometimes just whatever happened to Threepio. I hope he's okay. Is he being powered-up? Is he getting enough shut-down time? Is he getting oil-baths when he needs them? I really hope he wasn't sold for scrap, or anything. Maybe I'm getting soft with my age, but...I can't help but worry.
Entry 69 (LOL):
The scouts have absolutely no clue how the analysis droid wound up half-crushed, floating outside the airlock. And that's how it will stay. Can't have anyone running about knowing all my filthy little secrets, can we?
Entry 70:
If I see one more rolled-up issue of 'Bothan Boobies' sticking out of Ozzel's belt buckle, I swear to the force I'll kill him. If not, I'll find another excuse.
Entry 71:
Xizor was in my master's audience chamber today, in person, as I made my report. That alone is enough to seriously enrage me (MY Master! MINE! Grrr...), but something happened which made me feel a lot better. I'm not sure, as the holocam angel was terrible, but you see my Master was having his toenails cut (something he should really do more often, by the look of things) as we all spoke, and I think Xizor took one to the eye. Burnt and charred as it was, I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. That'll teach him to grovel.
Entry 72:
That text again, that FORCE-CURSED YELLOW TEXT. I made out something about 'Episode V'. V? Violet? Vengeance? Vroom-Vroom? I'm so confused. I don't care if he thinks I'm mad, I'm reporting this next time I'm back home.
Entry 73:
If these rebels think they can just walk in and completely subvert a fledgling Empire's stranglehold... I mean, firm grip, for the sake of security, of course - on the galaxy, they're going to be on the recieving end of a rather nasty spanking. Followed by hideous torture, of course. It's the only we we learn and grow.
Entry 74:
So we've just set course for the Hoth system. You know, I've always wondered who named that. I mean, what does 'Hoth' make you think of? Some guy with a lisp saying 'hot'. And it's not. It's quite frigid.
I wonder about planet names sometimes. Whoever named Tatooine 'Tatooine', anyhow? Makes me think of some spacer with body art. They should have called it something else. Something like...Sandymus Prime, or whatever.
Hey, I never said that naming things was my forte. Come to think of it, I wonder what I would have named my son, if I'd had one. Something classy. Something like Lando, or something. I've always liked that name.
Ah, I'm rambling again. Point is, we're on our way there. Ozzel's leading the fleet, he'd better not screw up. I'm in a forcey-chokey kind of mood right now.
Entry 75:
Oh, I choked him, alright. I just choked him but GOOD. Just wanted to say that, feeling a lot better now. I'm going to go down and supervise the occupation myself, as it should be. After I flush these magazines out the airlock. I would have given them back if he'd done well here. That'll teach me to be generous. Next Admiral that screws up gets his oxygen taken away. No excuses.
Entry 76:
What a waste of a trip. I get out of my chamber, dust my cape off, shine up my helmet, take the turbolift down, get into the shuttle, head down to the planet, JUST in time to see the Milennium Falcon leaving. This idiotic pilot INSISTED on double-checking the thrusters before we took off. "Oh, better safe than sorry, Lord Vader." Jackass.
Despite the fact he's only got one arm now, he's piloting back surprisingly quickly. Think I'll recommend him for a promotio...oh, wait, no. Keeling over, hitting the floor. Guess I'm driving us back.
Entry 77:
First Ozzel comes out of lightspeed right next to the damned planet, setting them all alert to us, THEN they manage to slip transports past us, we almost CRASH two fnarling STAR DESTROYERS (Honestly, are there any GOOD pilots left in the galaxy? Are ours blind?) , and now we send a squadron of TIE fighters after them, and they lose them in an asteroid field. I'm getting really sick of all these stupid people. Even Solo. He should have just gone to hyperdrive if he'd had any sense. Doesn't he know what the odds of navigating an asteroid field are? Idiot. Next time I see him, I'll torture him. Just for being stupid. I'm not even going to ask him any questions.
Entry 78:
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Oh, there goes another one.
Pop.
It's a tradition for starfighter pilots to paint emblems on their hulls representing the amount of kills they acquire in battle. I believe I shall don a Zero-G suit, head out into the storm, and paint a couple dozen TIEs on that big asteroid shaped like a shoe - it's really cleaning up. I don't know how they keep missing that one.
Pop.
Entry 79:
Ok. Boots, chest armor, knobs and buttons all shined up? Check....and then some (I truly do appear to be shinier today than usual...most impressive).
Helmet on straight? Check.
Cape brushed off? Check.
Fleet moving away from asteroid field? Check.
Tension-relieving, personal-assistant-strangling exercise complete? Check.
Okay. Time for a meeting with my Master.
Entry 80:
Three things:
Firstly, for some reason I think that conversation could have gone much better. But for what it's worth, I think I hid my thoughts nicely.
Secondly:
Wow.
Through my time in this galaxy, I have seen a great many things. I have partaken in wars too terrible to recount, and witnessed miracles that most sentients would not believe possible. I have experienced the mysteries of the force, on both sides. I have spoken with wise men and fools. I have seen unique and plain forms of life, sentient and dumb (a certain old friend comes to mind). There is very little these days that surprises me. But nothing could prepare me for what my Master told me today.
That child who destroyed the Death Star? Who was strong in the force? Whose act became legend to the Rebel Alliance, encouraged all kinds of Imperial defections, caused the populace to doubt in the strength of the new Empire? Who I nearly killed?
My son.
Oh, yeah.
Not kidding.
Yeah.
I gotta sit down, I'm pacing a hole in the floor here.
Just, wow. If I had a death-stick...but I don't, and that's silly. My lungs are burnt enough as is. Besides, what kind of example would I be setting to my oh my god it's already happening to me.
Okay, so I fed my Master a line about having to destroy him if he didn't join us. I know that won't even be necessary. If he won't listen to me, then I'll give him a bloody good thrashing. Or...ground him. I don't know, this isn't the kind of thing I'm good at. I fly ships. And fix things. And strangle people. And sometimes, I fix things by strangling people. But, a parent? A....father?
Me?
...
I'm going to do the only sane thing possible upon finding out a thing like this: get some sleep. I can't think right now. I need to adjust. Good night.
Oh, and thirdly....just how in the hell did it take us this long to get the kid's name? We're the Empire, for the Force's sake. We know these things! We're watching you! The skies have ears! Makes no sense, I tell you.
Entry 81:
Which brings to mind the question...how exactly am I going to tell the kid? I'm no good at these face-to-grotesque breathmask things...
Wait, I know. I'll put out the word I want to contact the rebels. To give them a message.
"Rebels, a part of Lord Vader is with you."
No. That sounds dumb.
I've got it. "Vader has a message for the Rebels."
That's all that needs to be said.
I'll have it broadcast over the holonet. I'll talk to a representative personally. And when they get word I want to contact the pilot who destroyed the Death Star, they will offer him up to me out of fear. This is perfect.
Yes.
There is no possible way that this can go wrong. I am so amazing, sometimes.
Entry 82:
Not only was she the most beautiful woman who ever lived, not only could she wield a mean blaster, not only was she a skilled Queen and diplomat, not only was she a goddess in the repulsorbed, not only was she a kind and understanding, eternally giving soul...but she could give birth to a baby while dead.
That's just incredible. That's just how great she was.
Wait.
That makes no sense.
And wait. She was like, six months into it before I...well, did that bad thing.
That makes no sense either.
What the hell?
Entry 83:
Seeing as how an asteroid field is laying waste to three quarters of my Executor's TIE squadron, I've done the reasonable thing and brought in the only folks who can go in and get the dirty work done.
No, I'm not talking about the Latrine Space Duck or any other household cleaning mascot. I'm talking about Bounty Hunters.
I had Boba Fett in (who I warned about the disintegrating), of course, and to make it look like anyone else could actually get the job done, a few others as well. There was a lizard that walked like a man (and wore clothes too small for him), a guy with his head wrapped in toilet paper, a robot man-fly, a flasher, and a living combination lamp post-don't walk sign. I swear there's something wrong with everyone in the trade. If they can't get the job done, no one can, because quite frankly I'll be upset enough to choke everyone in the galaxy.
Entry 84:
A matter has come to my attention which I believe is cause for great concern. It could very well mean the end of my Empire, if it turns out to be true.
I was re-examining holocam recordings taken from one of the Death Star's myriad black boxes - examining my son's flight techniques. He's rather impressive, I'll give him that (I remember when I destroyed my very first spherical satellite...good times), but I have noticed he just may have had an unfair advantage. An advantage I once had.
An advantage that represents a great peril to the order of the galaxy.
He may have R2-D2 with him.
More to come on further examination.
Entry 85:
My fears have been realized. That is the droid, there is no question about it.
Now, you may believe that I am grossly overreacting over such an insignificant thing as a droid. I cannot blame you for this, but you would be wrong, for you have not experienced any amount of time with this particular droid by your side.
Let me tell you a few things about him.
That droid understands humans. Knows the way they think. It can form plans. It can improvise. It can repair hyperdrive engines faster than you can blink. Not just those - find any problem on any ship, and it can fix it. It can weld, it can fuse, it can separate. It can reprogram your ship's OS to fly right into the nearest star, if you let it.
It can fly.
It can electrocute. It can spit out oil, set people on fire, and douse the flames if it feels like it. And it can slice.
Oh, can it ever slice.
It can get into your onboard operating system and make it dance. It can slice past any code, any firewall, any protective measures you can think to put up against it. It can steal any bit of data it feels like. It can shut down battle station defenses. It can serve a mean flapjack.
It shouldn't even be able to do half of these things, but it does.
I'm fairly certain that it could control this Super Star Destroyer if one were to give it half the chance.
I know what that droid can do. And trust me, it isn't something you want working against you. My motives are clear...I must turn my son to the dark side...and reprogram that droid, so that it can make it that much easier for us to rule the galaxy as father and son.
Or maybe I should just have its memory erased. Cut off any problems before they can occur. We'll see how things pan out.
Entry 86:
You know, it's funny how different each and every larynx feels through the force, and how, when you crush them just so, they can make all sorts of interesting sounds. Needa's sounded like a drowning Noghri, which was amusing, so I have decided to accept his apology.
Entry 87:
I have reported the matter of the yellow text to my Master, and he cut of the transmission in mid-broadcast. There are times when I feel like the galaxy's biggest, blackest, raspiest ass.
Entry 88:
A speech to the peoples of the Empire I'd like to make some day:
We know you don't like the Gungans. We don't like the Gungans. I don't like the Gungans. Nobody likes the Gungans. There's a reason they're rarely seen off-world.
But that's not enough reason to blow them up.
Besides, less sensible people would inevitably scream 'prejudice' if we did. We'd prefer to avoid that.
We had to destroy Alderaan because it was harboring an insurrectionist movement. Not out of personal preference.
When the Gungans get out of line, we'll smack them down. But until then, they've committed no crime other than being their usual irritating selves. Okay?
Besides, the Emperor has a penthouse on Naboo.
Entry 89:
Fett tells me Solo hid on the side of this very ship to make his escape, and they're headed for Bespin.
Perhaps I've underestimated him. I'll invite him to dinner by way of apology.
Entry 90:
I neglected to mention. His name is Luke.
'Luke'?
I distinctly remember telling her I hated that name. But then, she hated all my choices, too. She was overly critical, and never listened when I told her I wanted a name that sounded tough.
'Luke'? What kind of pansy name is that?
Good thing we Sith have that renaming thing going on. In his case, it won't be just a rechristening, it'll be a favor.
Entry 91:
Which begs the question...what will it be? Something flashy. I always liked the name Lando. 'Darth Lando' perhaps? Hey...that's a smooth name. I like it.
Entry 92:
Speak of the devil. Cloud City, the prime Tibanna gas mine on Bespin, is run by one Baron Administrator Lando Calrissian. The good ones are always taken.
Interesting. It seems that according to our records, this gas mining operation of his doesn't fall within our jurisdiction, and isn't subject to taxation, despite the fact that it's in a registered sector. How...unusual.
Well. Good to know we have blackmail...or, rather...bargaining material.
Yes, my path is clear now. Surely, Luke will be able to sense the peril of his allies. I will use this Calrissian to lure him into a trap by endangering his friends. When all is complete, I will have taken the life from Solo, the droid from my son, my son from his own delusions, and the first name from Calrissian.
Okay, I'm pushing it. Calrissian can keep his name. I can live with 'Luke' for now. Until Darth "something else" comes along.
Entry 93:
The transmission of today's Imperial Center Holonet broadcast just came through. The gist of it is this:
"Vader: I Have A Message For The Rebels"
"This cryptic yet reassuring phrase was received by Holonet Communications early this morning. Unfortunately, the details of this warning or announcement are still unknown. Due to signal interference caused by an asteroid field in the area, the transmission was cut off shortly after it began. Sources say that the Imperial fleet is under no imminent danger, and should return to Imperial Center shortly, upon which time we may look forward to hearing the remainder of Vader's message to the Rebel insurrectionists who threaten our galaxy's peace. Judging by the one sentence that came through, and knowing Lord Vader's reputation for confidence and certainty in dealing with such threats, it would be no large assumption to assume that he has the Rebel threat well in hand, and feels the need to reassure the public by notifying these terrorists that their days are numbered."
I have today learned a valuable lesson. When you own the media, when every single broadcast is pre-arranged to sway events in the favor of both you and your fledgling government, when you spread propaganda and misinformation about the opposition as a matter of course...even your own intentions can become misread.
So, to sum;
Stupid asteroid field, stupid me for not verifying the message had gone through, stupid idea, stupid media, stupid rebels, stupid everything, stupid stupid.
Entry 94:
It is as much a joyous epiphany as it is a tragic realization.
I have to overthrow my master.
Really, there's no other choice. As a matter of fact, I can't see any reason NOT to.
First off, it's a Sith thing. I've been researching our history for a long time now, and I notice that the overthrowing and succession of the Master by the Apprentice is a rather common and apparently accepted trend. High amongst our values is power, and the will to achieve that power.
It's time for a new Master and Apprentice. I have a candidate.
I'm the number two man in the galaxy. I have a shot at being number one.
What kind of Sith would I be if I didn't take it?
Secondly, my mastery of the Dark Side is nowhere near as complete as my master's. This is both a good and bad thing - I cannot hope to ever be his equal, considering my limitations (lightning and mechanical suits don't mix after all). His mastery of it has also given him extended life - but at a cost. Despite how much longer he may live, he is withered and decayed, foul and physically weak.
Were I to strike quickly, he would not stand a chance at stopping me.
Thirdly, I'm not too wild about how easily he swallowed my line about converting Luke. Call me paranoid, but perhaps he wishes for an apprentice who isn't limited by a life-support system (and isn't crazy enough, in his opinion, to see bright yellow text where there is none - I know what I saw, but I digress). And given that long-life thing he's got going, he just might have enough time to train someone new. Time I might not have.
So, the time, as it were, is ripe.
I regret having to do this. He has taught me a great deal...but that's the nature of things. For what it is worth, I will make it as painless as possible. I owe my old friend that much.
Yes...I shall rule the galaxy with my son at my side.
Unless my Master has some secret cache of clones of himself stashed somewhere. Then I'm screwed.
Entry 95:
On Bespin now. There is a certain degree of anticipation that comes with situations such as this, and I confess to enjoying it. So much of my life has now become routine that I welcome little plays at intrigue.
We have Calrissian in talks at the moment, and are persuading him to see our point of view. My brief exchange of words with him went a good way into helping that along - I'm fairly certain he soiled his cape.
Soon, very soon, all that I desire shall come to pass. My son shall be at my side, and the galaxy ours alone to rule.
Furthermore, this is the last known location of the Rebel infiltrator who stole my ice-cream maker, and should he still be here, I'll be damned if he's getting away again. True, I could simply order another - I have - but it was a very well put-together little ice-cream maker. I want my Rocky Rancor Road.
Entry 96:
The problem with bringing a battalion of Stormtroopers with you is where to hide them when you're trapping someone. We've currently got them stashed in locked rooms throughout the city, but we've got about five or so left over, and the Falcon is due to arrive within the hour. Worse comes to worse, we'll stick them in an engine room somewhere and hope for the best.
Entry 97:
He is in pieces now, next to me in this temporary personal quarters. In a pathetic state. His parts are showing.
The Stormtroopers in the engine room reported a droid stumbling upon them. They blew him apart, and requested further instruction. I investigated, and nothing could prepare me for what I found.
C-3P0. One of my oldest creations. One of my oldest friends.
I sat there, holding his head, for a full hour, just remembering.
My childhood. Tatooine. Shmi. Watto. Kitster. Podracing. That jerk Sebulba. Sand.
Fond memories, bittersweet. Tinged with happiness and pain.
It makes me wonder if I'm truly cut out to be a Sith sometimes.
I haven't felt like this in a very, very long time.
I cannot afford sentimentality, it's interfering with my thoughts and could compromise my judgement. We'll take them in tomorrow.
Looking over at his remains now, it is a difficult decision to make, but I suppose I should have him destroyed. There's no telling how much he could reveal if he were to make the connection between me and the man I once was, if he still remembers me.
Good-bye, Threepio.
Entry 98:
Han Solo is the worst dinner guest of all time.
Honestly.
Repeated instances in which he has made my forces look incompetent aside, assisting in destroying the Death Star, and being stupid enough to actually fly into an asteroid field, I've got no personal grudge against the guy. I actually admire him for his tenacity.
(it seems he was a Stormtrooper for a brief period of time. A shame. If he had remained with us, I'm certain he would have become a decent commander. But, he washed out, which was his loss.)
He has a surprising amount of courage for a mere smuggler, and a death mark isn't an easy thing to live with - I know, having handed out a few dozen of those myself. He is a notable pilot, and under different circumstances I would love to test my own abilities against his.
But none of that can excuse bad table manners.
I consider myself a fairiy generous person. A good amount of people have betrayed or hurt me in my lifetime (still thinking of you, Master), and I've been good enough to let the past be the past. True, most of those individuals are now dead, but that's neither here nor there.
But I was willing to let everything Solo had done slide, and have a friendly chat with him over some supper.
But oh, no. He wouldn't have anything of it. First he pulls a blaster on me and shoots - understandable, given the surprise situation. I relieved him of it, and politely asked him and the party to join us for dinner.
At which time he proceeded to lay out the insults. Starting with Calrissian. Then Calrissian's attendant. Then Cloud City's security staff. Then the Stormtroopers present. Then Fett. Fett's ship. Then me. Then my mask (this, I recall, is when I began to become rather upset - I work hard at keeping this thing shiny). Then the Emperor. Then the Imperial flag, the Imperial anthem (again, a no-no - you don't mess with that anthem), and every Grand Moff from here to Imperial center.
And then he insulted my mother.
Oh, goodness heavens gracious me.
No.
The next thing I remember was that I was breathing louder than usual, and making Solo turn all sorts of funny colors from across the room. But a bargain is a bargain, and table manners are table manners, so for decency's sake, and Fett's, I allowed him to live. For the time being.
That did not, however, prevent me from knocking him unconscious and having him escorted out.
And of course, the walking pile of hair got all riled up after that, and Fett had to put him down with a stun blast. Cannot say that I blame the wookiee, really. Yoda once told me how ferocious they are about life debts. I only wish they were as ferocious about washing.
Fett didn't say much throughout the whole ordeal, moving only now and then to sip from his drink with a straw underneath that helmet of his. He's always quiet, and I think that's why I like him. He's got some serious bottled rage issues inside he needs to work out, but I like him nevertheless. Knows his place.
Calrissian was very pleasant and accommodating, although he seemed rather ill, and excused himself after the main course. Treachery and self-service have that effect on people. True, I maneuvered him into that corner...but here's me playing the galaxy's smallest viola. He'll recover.
Leia Organa, however, was fairly decent about the whole thing, which surprised me. I'd be very upset if someone had interrogated and tortured me for hours on end. Yet, she remained stoic about the whole thing, keeping her obvious anger in check, and we even discussed old Republican politics for a while. She's a born negotiator. Reminds m...ah, never mind.
...
He didn't even TOUCH his steak.
Honestly!
Entry 99:
It comes to me as something of a shock, realizing that I have absolutely no clue as to how I'm actually going to GET my son back to the Emperor. I know these rebels...many of them would take death before dishonor. And while I have no way of knowing that Luke is one of those, I'm not one to take chances (but you knew that already). So, I have to assume he won't come willingly. What are my options?
Okay, there's shoving him in the brig aboard the Executor. No, bad idea, he's strong in the force, can probably levitate things, like keys. Rules that out.
There's knocking him unconscious, and hitting him really hard each time he wakes up.
Nah, it's a long way back to Imperial Center. Don't want to damage his brain.
I could bury him neck up in a room full of sand.
Ehhh...wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, really. I hate sand.
So much.
But I think I'm onto something here. I just need to restrict his ability to move.
Maybe I could cut off his arms and legs?
No, that would prevent him from realizing his full Sith potential. And it also really sucks. Trust me, I know.
Think, Darth, THINK!
...
Ahh, it's hopeless. Right now I feel as dumb as that carbonite-frozen box of foodstuffs over there.
Hey...