The imposing blackguard strode directly to him and assumed a fighting stance, energy sword at the ready.
"I am Worf, son of Mog. Who are you?"
A pair of low hissing breaths then, nothing.
"You," Worf began, "you lead these stormtroopers here. You fired on escape pods, you have no honor."
The dark warrior brought his energy blade up with a snarl and swung in a wide arc aiming at Worf's neck.
The Klingon stepped back out of the way and let the hissing weapon pass by. He brought his blaster to bear and fired once aiming for the blinking lights on his foes chest.
The red blade flashed faster then the eye could follow and the energy bolt reflected off to one side with a high pitched squeal.
Worf growled, again, tossed the blaster aside and gripped his bat'leth with two hands. He and the dark invader circled one another in the smoky corridor.
"We will meet one another in single combat then; and either I shall dine in Sto-vo-kor with Kahless, or you will go back to whatever hell spawned you."
"Which race are you rebel?" The dark warrior asked. His deep voice seemed to fill the whole hallway. Worf jerked back instinctively at the sound, its pure menace.
"I am Klingon!" Worf shouted and attacked with abandon, slicing and twirling and trying to catch the armored giant unawares. Each time he attacked it was as if his opponent knew exactly where his next attack was coming from and countered deftly with his thrumming energy sword. Worf's weapon merely brushed against the edge of the glowing swords' energy field and the explosion of power nearly flung it out of his grip. Tiny spatters of molten metal showered him but he ignored the pain and fought on.
"You have some skill, 'Klingon,' but the force is not strong with you."
The red energy blade dipped and swayed lazily. Worf gnashed his teeth in frustration and tightened his grip on the leather wrapped handles of his bat'leth. His palms felt like wet slabs of meat and his arms and shoulders ached; the muscles already taxed with the effort from controlling his pitted and scarred blade.
Worf raised the bat'leth to strike again but suddenly his opponent spun around completely, brought his weapon up sliced the bat'leth in two, came back around and spitted him through the belly with it.
"A valiant effort, but none can stand against the hand of the emperor," Vader gestured contemptuously and the Enterprise security chief flew backwards off the lightsaber blade and into the bulkhead, propelled by an unseen force.
Worf felt the brush of Vader's cloak as he passed by and the vibration from his heavy boots on the deck plates, but not his own grievous wounds.
"It must have cauterized my nerves," Worf blinked twice, "but why are my eyes not working? I should still be able to see--" then, he fell into darkness.
Artoo Detoo continued along the bottom of the desert canyon hunting for a navigable path to the top of the mesa. He knew that night was falling and due to the slow degradation of the data collected by his photoreceptors, but it did not bother the little droid as he switched automatically to infrared and radar to navigate through the gathering gloom. He found a winding yet gently rising trail and began to ascend. His broad footpads clicked on the gravelly surface of the trail as he left the windswept dunes behind. Artoo's audio receptors picked up a noise like metal against stone ahead of him. The droid paused for a moment, but when the noise was not repeated, he eventually rolled onward.
Unseen by the small maintenance robot were several humanoid creatures not much larger than himself, hidden amongst the wind carved rocks and ledges lining the small arroyo. Clad in filthy reddish brown robes, utility belts, and bearing mismatched bits of technology the stunted creatures waited in ambush. They peered at the R2 unit from darkened crevices and from holes scraped under boulders. Their glowing yellow or red eyes were adapted to both the days' relentless glare and the nights' inky blackness.
Each of the creatures, known by the locals as Jawas, stood barely as high as the droid that they stalked and were known far and wide for their legendary avarice, which was complemented by their equally legendary cowardice.
Finally, one of the Jawas, a bit taller and bolder than the others jumped from a crevice and fired a battered blunderbuss shaped energy weapon into Artoo at point blank range.
Artoo squealed in surprise just before the energy burst struck his chassis and glowed briefly in the dimming light. Artoo moaned once as his systems shut down; then, his tripod feet unbalanced and he toppled forwards onto his faceplate with a muted crunch.
The Jawas let out a series of gibbering squeals as they descended warily from the nearby hills to argue and jabber over the stunned droid. Eventually, the small group decided that he was no longer dangerous and hefted Artoo on their diminutive shoulders like a prize, and hauled him away. They carried him to an immense sandcrawler vehicle wedged awkwardly in a nearby wadi.
The sandcrawler was as enormous as the Jawas were small. It grounds its way across the surface of Tatooine as a base of operations for the Jawas' scrap dealing and salvage enterprise. Its' rusted and pitted body rode on four huge but ill maintained caterpillar tracks and numerous hatches, doorways and exit ramps scattered haphazardly around the hull opened for the returning Jawa party.
The leader called out to the sandcrawler crew which lowered a wide mouthed flexible hose over the side. The scavengers brought the contraption over to Artoo's inert form and positioned it just so. They waited while one of their number welded a metal cylinder to Artoo's barrel like body; a restraining bolt common the galaxy over for remotely controlling a droid's functions.
When he was satisfied at last, the Jawa technician stepped back and signaled to his comrades to activate the hose. A rush of air and Artoo was gone, sucked into the belly of the lumbering sandcrawler.
Meanwhile, Threepio continued across the endless dunes. The golden droid struggled up one windswept dune and down another. He paused at the crest of each and scanned the horizon looking for some indication that the next dune in sight might be the last before him. With each arduous climb his joints crusted further with fine Tatooine sand, and his hydraulics whimpered pitifully with each step.
At last, Threepio descended into the trough between two dunes and did not ascend to the next. The dejected droid sat on the edge of the dune until the fierce light of Tatooine's suns burned out his flickering photoreceptors and left him frozen with one arm over his face, head hanging down, and legs jutting out, half buried in the eternal sands.
"Luke! Luke!" Beru Lars called to her nephew Luke Skywalker. The lad stood near a cluster of vaporators sporting his utility belt, macrobinoculars, and a blaster slung on his hip. It was always best to greet these scavengers armed, alert, and with an eye on your credits.
"Yes aunt Beru?" Luke leaned over the lip of the sandstone pit his home recessed into. Various chambers wove through the rock, and a small courtyard surrounded his aunt's modest garden and a few of her prized trees. Droid servants puttered here and there going about household tasks.
"If your uncle buys a translator, tell him to make sure it speaks Bocce."
Luke turned and looked at the rusty land barge parked in the middle of his uncles' property.
"I'll tell him, but I don't think we have much of a choice."
She nodded up at him and he rejoined his Uncle near the base of the Jawa sandcrawler. He had already moved down the line of battered droids and picked out a multi-armed agricultural robot, and was mulling over a red and white R5 unit. The head Jawa scurried around and pointed out the various features and extolled the quality of his wares.
A dozen Jawas utilized a magnetic crane to lean an oddly marked circular ring up against the treads of their sandcrawler. It was carved from some strange metal and covered in a dozen alien markings. The ring was large enough for several people of maybe a speeder to pass through the center when placed upright.
Owen Lars laughed openly, "you've been trying to pass that old thing off on us for years, has anybody even made an offer on that hunk of junk?"
The Jawa jabbered away, waving his arms. Luke leaned over to whisper in his Uncle's ear.
"What?" Owen Lars turned to Luke, ignoring the Jawa, "oh, of course Luke, Biggs can stay for dinner, but you'll still need to clean these droids up before dinner." The big farmer turned back to the Jawa, "Nah, we don't need a Stargate, no thanks."
Luke thanked his uncle and dashed off to tell his friend the good news.
Owen glanced farther down the line and saw a golden skinned man in an odd earth toned uniform, the jawa jabbered again and pointed at the 'man.'
"What do you mean, 'he's a droid'?" Owen walked briskly up to the humanoid looking 'droid.'
"Good afternoon sir, I am Data. I can assure you I am artificial," Data opened one of his access panels on his arm showing the blinking lights and micro circuitry beneath.
"You're very realistic looking; I suppose you are programmed for etiquette and protocol."
Data nodded, "It is amongst my primary functions sir," a small blue droid standing next to Data warbled suddenly. Data cocked his head and then nodded slightly to the little astromech, "ah yes, and I also speak Bocce."
"What?" Owen looked slightly confused, "Oh yes, but what I really need is a droid that speaks the binary language of moisture vaporators."
Data nodded, "I am fluent in many forms of binary communication, in fact my primary programming is based on binary storage of information. If there is any difficulty in communicating with your moisture vaporators, I am highly skilled in research and can--"
"Ok, shut up," he turned to the Jawa leader, "I'll take this one."