In the Death Star cafeteria. Tuesday.
"Heya Bax."
"Heya Per. Heya Sykes."
"Whatcha got?"
"Just the soup. You?"
"Pasta. Pasta alla ar-- arborio."
"Arrabiata."
"What?"
"Pasta alla arrabiata."
"Yeah, whatever man."
A pause. Baxter sits down.
"So Perry, you just had some leave, right man?"
"Yeah. I was just tellin' Sykes. It was the shit. Lotsa cheap drinks, lotsa hot babes. And I picked up a souvenir." Perry grins.
"A souvenir?"
"Idiot brought home a pet."
Whap. "Sykes!"
"You know there's no pets allowed on the Battlestation."
"Come on, it's just a little guy."
"If the Commander finds out--"
"It's just a little guy! Furry little orange swamp worm from Malastare. It's got the cutest little eye, the way it blinks at you--"
"Perry dude, you're totally gonna get slagged out for keeping something like that."
"Come on, Bax, gimme a break. It's not gonna transmit anything. Totally different genome."
"Whatever, dude. Just don't let the Commander find out."
"No worries, man. I've got it in a little terrarium. It'll be fine."
Two weeks later.
"Bax."
"Sykes."
Sykes takes a breath to say something, just sighs. Baxter sets his helmet and his beer on the table and sags into a chair.
"Fuck, man."
"Yeah. Fuck."
"Perry. Just... fuck."
Sykes shakes his head. "Fuckin' rebels."
Baxter sighs. "Did he have any family?"
"Dunno. I guess... I guess they'll notify his old man."
"You never think it's gonna happen to someone you know."
"Yeah man. Fuck. Poor Perry."
"I hope his old man takes it ok. That's gotta be hard."
"Yeah. I saw the scuts clearing out his cabin this morning."
"They sendin' his stuff back to his old man?"
"Nah. You got any idea what intersector freight costs? They'll send his honor chits, but the rest -- pssht -- into the trash."
"Huh. Too bad."
"Yeah. Ah well. Rest in peace, Perry." Sykes does a floppy salute and drains his beer.
Disclaimer: Written for fun, not profit. Star Wars belongs to George Lucas.