His back felt a little odd, without the wings to which he'd grown accustomed. His senses felt dulled without the antennae sprouting from his forehead feeding him constant sensory input. It had been a learning curve to start drinking through his mouth again rather than his nose. Like the rest of the crew, he was on stem cell therapy to help his brain regrow its former neural pathways – although the doctors were confident it would happen sooner rather than later.

Despite the loss of his ability to fly and his extra senses, and the bi-daily medical visits and the slimy-sweet taste of bacta that was his constant companion now, it felt good to be human again. It felt good to look at his crew, and see normal human faces. It felt good to look in the mirror, and see a normal human face. It felt good to put on his uniform without having to ever-so-carefully slide delicate, sensitive wings through discreet slits. It felt good to stop craving salad, and eat good solid meat again. It felt good for the constant hunger to slowly decrease and stop, so that meals were satisfying again.

There was an unusual bounce in Admiral Piett's step as he made his way to the bridge, and he had to suppress an unprofessional urge to whistle. It felt nice to have lips that could whistle, again. The door slid open and he forced down a beaming smile at the sight of his home. Crossing the walk to the viewport, he took up his post next to Lord Vader. "Good morning, my lord," he greeted cheerfully.

Darth Vader turned and considered him for a long moment. "Indeed, Admiral," he finally returned before looking back out at the stars. Piett chalked it up as a win.