Chapter 1

Additional Disclaimer: Rhianwen also does not own Mr. T, and has just been informed that if she ever claims to, she will be thrown helluva far. Translation, anyone?
Dear The Emperor,

The trip here to A Galaxy Far, Far Away In The Other Direction went well. I spent it largely menacing the flight attendants. In just the right light, they began to resemble our Admirals. Several of them have since tragically and mysteriously perished.

And frankly, this Mr. Joker person just may be next. He was waiting for me at the airport with a vehicle, but he expected me to drive it back to the Library. And it didn't even leave the ground! The conditions on this planet are truly barbaric.

Once we reached this Library of his, he promptly sent me to 'fetch us some tea, there's a good chap'. I attempted to assure him that there was nothing 'good' or 'chappy' about me, but I do not think he heard me, as he was already looking crestfallen and recalling audibly, 'Oh…you're not Wendy.'

I replied that no, I was not, as I was a man. Well, more machine than man, but I digress.

How is the Wendy girl working out? Make sure you tell her not to touch any of my stuff. Especially my Admirals. I am going to have a lot of stress to release by the time I return. I sense it in the Force.

Particularly as I am currently living in the girl's apartment, surrounded at all times by disgustingly feminine décor, and subsisting only on bottled water. And this strange white-haired boy keeps wandering through my walls. No, that is not a typo. He really did walk through my wall. It is a clever trick, but I was in no mood to appreciate it at three in the morning when he wandered in and began asking me rude questions like "Who are you?" and "What are you doing in Ms. Wendy's bed?" "And wearing her nightie?"

It was a nice nightie, Master. You know that sometimes I like to feel pretty.

In the end, I had to choke the boy to death. Well, I tried. But he just sort of stood there, giving me a strange look. In the end boredom prevailed, and we agreed on a mutual cease-fire.

Today has been scarcely better, filled with menial tasks such as serving biscuits to several important politicians who had come for a meeting.

Far more disturbing was the task that Mr. Joker assigned me of softening the men to his wise and eloquent words with my girlish charms.

This was terribly embarrassing, and I do not think they were convinced. So I choked them all. Then cut them in two. You have always told me to be thorough, master. I remember when Ben Kenobi disappeared, I did a thorough kicking of his robe, just to be sure that he was not hiding in one of the pockets. Those Jedi are tricky.

Mr. Joker was rather off-put by coming into the room to begin the meeting and finding fifteen dead men slumped over the table and scattered about the floor. He had several harsh words for me. So I choked him as well. Then, remembering the terms of the exchange, I decided not to kill him.

Yet.

I may leave him up to you, although killing him would mean that we would be contractually obligated to keep the girl, and I refuse to share a room. Particularly with someone who has amassed the CD collection I found. The Cure. For the love of The Force.

Your obedient servant,

Darth Vader.

P.S. Send Admirals. I need something to kill.

Dear Lord Vader,

I am glad to hear that you are adjusting so well to your new life in A Galaxy Far, Far Away In The Other Direction. I must confess that things here at Coruscant are hardly going so smoothly.

Although we did little more than try to help her settle in, she somehow managed to break my lightsabre, the silly twit. Now I am completely unarmed. I shot Force Lightning at her, but at that exact moment, she noticed a shiny thing on the ground and bent to pick it up.

The Lightning hit a rather dumbstruck Admiral who happened to be passing by and stopped for a closer look. His last words were, "I don't recall Lord Vader having such a sweet ass."

That is, aside from "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRGH!"

The latter, I believe, was far more eloquent. Certainly, far more helpful and less conducive of giving me disturbing and unwanted mental images. Although…

Still, the timing was uncanny. Almost as though she knew the blast was coming beforehand. As though she sensed it with the Force.

I do not sense the Force in her at all – really, at all – but she could be a – very – skilled Force Masker. Those exist; I'm sure of it. No one will dare correct me, anyway.

Perhaps the matter deserves some further consideration.

That is, if she will stop distracting me by asking if I would like a cup of T.

I have no idea what that is. But she does seem obsessed with it. Perhaps this 'T' obsession can be turned to anger at her unjust separation from whatever it is, and her anger may prove useful.

Oh, and the little idiot sends you a message: "you may keep the nightie; it's a present." Also " ew."

Lord Vader…I do miss you. I miss your anger. The most I get from this child is the occasional hissy fit. Which generally leads to weeping.

Do try to stay angry; we don't want you becoming calm, for that way lies weakness. And we don't want you to be weak. Although, from what Wendy has told me, this Joker has an expert's skill with making people angry. Also, he is a demon in the sack, mrowr, whatever that means. I have vague recollections of doing "demonic" things in this "sack", but they are dim memories at best.

Love and kisses,

Palpy

P.S. I am not paying the postage fees for sending something as large and unwieldy as an Admiral through the mail, Lord Vader!

Dear Mr. Joker,

I hope this letter finds you well. Although, not too well, because the last thing I want is for you to decide that Mr. Vader is a better assistant than I am, and that the exchange is going to be permanent.

This is not to say that life on Coruscant isn't interesting – it is certainly that. Mr. The Emperor is the most utterly insane person I've ever worked for. And I'm sure you of all people know that that is saying something.

Today began with an aggravating and ultimately fruitless search for some tea. When I asked yesterday if Mr. The Emperor would like me to fetch him a cup to enjoy with his diabolical scheming (because I know how much you like that, and I thought it was sort of an evil mastermind "thing"), he behaved as though he had never heard of it, which I honestly thought was only him being silly. That evil mastermind sense of humour, you know. But when I asked one of the several Admirals roaming about and looking as though every second might be their last, they all stared at me as though I'd grown another head, too.

So, I can only conclude that this Galaxy is utterly tea-less. How barbaric.

And the milk is blue

At least the swordplay is fun. Because Mr. The Emperor has decided that I must be taught to use a sword. I told him that I was quite good with a gun, but nevertheless, he insisted. And the swords here are so pretty! They glow all different colours! The one he's given me to borrow while I'm here is red, but apparently there are blue ones, and green ones, and indigo ones, and yellow ones, and even purple ones!

I asked if I could have a pink one, which for some reason led him to shoot lightning at the man standing behind me when I dropped my helmet and bent down to pick it up.

Oh, right; the helmet. It's part of my new "uniform". He said something about all the things I brought along with me failing utterly to strike terror into the hearts of the galaxy. I told him that I should bloody well hope not, because I considered myself a reasonably fashionable girl, but he only smirked before incinerating all my pretty skirts and blouses. I told him that I expected him to replace all those, and he told me that of course, he planned to give me something more suitable to wear.

A bloody bikini, just to clarify. A black leather bikini, with a cape sprouting out of the back. Looks utterly silly, but not nearly as silly as the helmet. But when I complained about it, Mr. The Emperor just got really annoyed and called me an ingrate. And after all the trouble he'd gone to in popping out the face-plate, too. Must have taken him five whole seconds.

Nevertheless, the training got underway. That is to say, Mr. The Emperor gave me the pretty red glowing sword, pointed at a very nervous-looking man in a uniform, and told me to kill.

I asked if maybe he oughtn't to give the poor man a weapon if we were going to fight. Mr. The Emperor replied that we weren't going to fight – I was going to kill. That is, apparently, what they keep these poor men around for. Target practice.

I swear, Mr. Joker, I will never, ever complain about my job again.

Best of luck with Mr. Vader's training, and I hope I'll see you soon.

Your obedient servant who can barely see in her silly helmet,

Wendy.

P.S. Send tea. Please! I'm becoming desperate!

Dear Wendy,

I am glad to hear that you are having such fun with Mr. The Emperor on Coruscant. I am, in fact, so glad to hear it, that I shall disregard the twenty-seven or so times you referred to me as an "evil mastermind" in your letter. Put it up to high spirits and adrenaline, and all that.

But please do recall that, for future reference, we are not evil, we are misunderstood visionaries.

I also must wonder, when you refer to all these utterly insane people you have apparently worked for, who you are talking about. I do hope that you are not referring to Mr. Gentleman, because I will not stand to either hear, or read about, him disparaged.

Getting back on track, I must say that the idea of you using any kind of sword is both exciting and terrifying. What sort of property damage bill can I expect to receive from Mr. The Emperor when this is all over?

I cannot afford to divert any more money from the Mr. Gentleman Revival Fund, as we have recently discovered a completely unexpected source of economic drain. That is to say, we have recently found it necessary to pay off several countries to keep quiet when the ambassadors they sent to us for a meeting were mysteriously cut in half. It is a good thing that diplomacy is still easily bought, but this will put the project behind schedule by about two months.

This, regrettably, has not been the worst of it. As you have said, this barbaric galaxy must be utterly tea-less, as Mr. Vader is apparently entirely ignorant as to its proper construction, and indeed, its function.

I sent him to fetch a cup not long ago, and thought no more of it. A simple request, after all. You will not believe what he brought back.

You have, of course, heard of the semi-popular 1980's celebrity known only as Mr. T. I hadn't, but I found myself compelled to do a little research when Mr. Vader dragged the man in question into the room, suspended by his neatly bound ankles, his "bling" clanking frantically as he struggled to escape. As you might expect, I rather justifiably asked Mr. Vader just what the hell was going on here.

To which he replied, "I have brought you T, Master. It took quite a lot of searching on your Galaxy's non-holographic communications network, but no man is beyond the reach of a Sith."

Meanwhile, poor Mr. T was left to hang upside down in the middle of the room, informing us that we were both fools, to be pitied.

With some degree of trepidation, I felt it necessary to inform Lord Vader that this wasn't exactly, precisely what I had been looking for.

He seemed rather put-off by this, as he had apparently gone to considerable effort to locate and apprehend this somewhat hermetic cult figure.

I believe Lord Vader is still in his room, sulking, and I'm not sure what we're going to do about this T fellow.

And I still don't have a bloody cup of tea!

I may be forced to drastic action.

I may be forced to…get it myself.

God help me.

Joker

P.S. I have mustered up all my strength and courage, and fixed a cup of tea. I have also fixed a second one, which I mailed just a moment ago. It should arrive sometime within the next year, weather permitting. Try to hang on; it's not been easy on any of us.

End Notes: Questions? Comments? Howls of outrage?