AN: Okay, I've got 3 chapters for my other project, but this is a stress relief. I was playing Star Wars Battlefront 2 with a few friends, and one of them mentioned an idea that I thought was hilarious. So I offered to write a one-shot about it, dedicated to him. This is entirely for comedic purposes, and should not be taken seriously. Credit to EA, and everything that helped come up with Star Wars and it's characters and games. I just have the story.
The battlefield rang with the Emperor's maniacal cackle as another pathetic little trooper writhed in agony along the ground, lightning dancing across his armor in sinister flashes of purple and arcs of violet. The poor soldier finally stopped moving and laid still, causing the Emperor to frown slightly before moving to his next victim, paying no heed to the battle around him. For why would he need to? He was Chancellor Palpatine, Darth Sidious, and the future ruler of the galaxy! He was untouchable. Unapproachable, Invincible.
The sith lord's plan to rule the galaxy was flawless, every contingency taken care of, every little flaw taken into account and nullified. It was perfect. However, the Emperor often needed a break, both from being Chancellor Palpatine, the generous and kind leader of the Republic, and from being Darth Sidious, the ruthless and cruel Sith Lord. So he would find battlefields such as this, forsake his recognizable twin lightsabers, and watch in vindictive glee as soldiers and Jedi alike cowered before his superior might and skill.
He. Was. The. Emperor.
His thoughts were interrupted by the signal to push forward, into the central base. And push forward he did. By the dozens, Clone Troopers were slaughtered, butchered, and ripped apart by his hand, and his power. A force storm following in his wake and preventing any sort of pathetic retaliation before it even began. Feeling mildly drained, he moved backwards, out onto the ramp. He felt an impact on his shoulder, followed by an insignificant, but real flash of pain. He turned around and there he found a wounded soldier, crawling away pitifully.
His gait swift, and measured, he moved towards the wounded man. Upon seeing him, the soldier's pathetic attempts of escape grew more frantic and desperate, occasional grunts of pain escaping the soon to be corpse.
The Emperor let the intoxicating, wonderful power flood his being, dancing across the short distance in a burst of violet destruction, swift as the wind. It slammed into the soldier who soon died. Upon seeing him dead, the Emperor chuckled softly, but it swiftly grew into a mad scream of laughter, high-pitched and unnerving. This. This is what awaited all who would dare oppose him! The Mighty Emperor!
His laugh was unrelenting, just like him. It was unsettling, just like him. It was purely, and utterly mad. Just like him. Allies and foes alike shied and flinched away from him, some in anger, some out of caution, but most out of fear. Fear, not of his actions, but of the mind behind them.
The Emperor's head tilted back as his cackle echoed up to the heavens, his eyes closed as he preserved them, and his arms spread wide as he held his hands, still dancing with lightning, up towards the sky. His laughter faded into an entirely insane and bloodthirsty grin, and his eyes opened, and he never expected what he would see next.
The republic ARC-170 was plummeting – no not plummeting, diving, straight down. Straight down at him. And it was fast. And close, far too close to prevent.
The battlefield faded around him as his smile melted away, his mouth hanging slightly open in pure shock. To him, there was nothing but him. Him and that ship. That large, fast, and explosive jet that was moments away from slamming directly where he stood. His arms lowered before he straightened in defiance. His pride, his arrogance would never permit him to die in nothing but a glorious, deadly, and defiant end. This was all before he heard something.
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWW"
The Emperor's arms fell to his sides, staring at the unmistakable source of that scream. The unmanly, undignified, scream of someone who could not have been over 12, there was just no way. It somehow managed to voice-crack not once, not twice, but 4 times. In the space of one scream. Were he not about to die, the Emperor would have found it hilarious, especially to his demented mind.
The Emperor's last visage was of a broken, beaten man. Who was not only about to die, but about to die in the most undignified, most humiliating, most shameful way possible. He'd had his last wish, his last wish, a glorious death, torn away from him before it even began to take shape.
And the mighty Sith, the cunning Chancellor, the Invincible Emperor... knew no more.