Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars.

Admiral Firmus Piett was not a stranger to the idea of death.

In the Navy, death was always a possibility. This was, of course, perfectly understandable; the Navy was, after all, a branch of military service. That the officers on the Executor, and especially those assigned to the bridge, had a rather higher level of awareness of the possibility of death than that of the rest of the fleet was also understandable. The officers of that particular ship were at the mercy of not only the Rebels but their own commanding officer as well. Lord Vader had an unfortunate habit of disposing of his own officers before the Rebels had the chance to.

It came as no surprise that, ever since he had been given the captaincy of the Executor, Piett had regarded death with the wary eye of someone who expected to get jumped at any given moment. This paranoia had increased exponentially after his sudden promotion. Being promoted to replace someone that you had just watched be choked to death tends to breed paranoia. This is especially true when the person who just choked the aforementioned individual to death is your new direct superior. (Although, can it truly be called paranoia if the danger isn't imaginary?)

The position of admiral aboard the Executor was like a ticking bomb set for an unknown length of time. (Or, perhaps, Lord Vader's temper was the time bomb, and the admiral was simply collateral damage. He didn't think it mattered. Analogy was not a tool often used in his chosen profession, and, at any rate, the admiral ended up dead either way.)

He had been certain that his time had run out after he had failed to keep the Rebels from escaping Imperial custody on Cloud City. Captain Needa had been killed for practically the same offense after the incident with the Millennium Falcon and the asteroid belt, he knew. Many officers had been killed for much less.

Piett imagined invisible fingers tightening around his neck and forgot to breathe for a moment. He stood resigned as he watched the dark harbinger of his death. He wrestled with confusion and no small measure of relief when Lord Vader stalked off the bridge without ending the admiral's life.

He dared to hope.

Maybe, just maybe, he would survive this assignment. It would take a miracle, but what was his survival thus far if not a miracle?

Tentatively, he allowed himself to grow used to his position. He persevered in quiet competence. For as long as he was the admiral of the Executor, he would put his all into his service.

He continued in this way for a full year, striking an uneasy peace between his nerves and Lord Vader's overshadowing presence. He flourished in the truce, reveled in his pride of his beloved ship and her crew.

All of this came to an abrupt stop at Endor. He never saw it coming.

He had received his orders directly from the Emperor. They were not to be questioned. What's more, the task required of him was not difficult. All he had to do was keep the rebels from escaping. With a fleet like the one present that day, it should have been child's play. The hardest thing to overcome should have been the urge to exceed the given orders.

One single, crippled fighter should never have posed a danger to a Super Star Destroyer.

But it did.

It happened so quickly. He barked orders, desperately trying to prevent disaster.

It was too late.

The admiral perished in metal and vacuum and flame.

There was considerable irony in the fact that Lord Vader had nothing to do with his death. There was a terrible sort of mercy in the fact that he would never know that his crew had followed him into the abyss.

Admiral Piett had imagined his death so much it felt more like a memory, but he had never imagined that death would come like this.

A/N: Yes, the last sentence is a reference to the Hamilton Musical.

Admiral Piett is one of my favorite characters, and this is the first time I've written about him. I hope I did him justice.

This fic is also posted on AO3.