A/N: Keep in mind life on the Death Star was pretty routine. So for this fanfic I obviously have to switch things up to make it interesting. I hope I deliver that while still keeping things within a realistic setting as Star Wars is a huge love of mine. So grab a cup of caf ️ and get cozy...

【Ｌｏｃａｔｉｏｎ：Ｏｕｔｅｒ

Ｒｉｍ

Ｔｅｒｒｉｔｏｒｉｅｓ

Ａｒｋａｎｉｓ ｓｅｃｔｏｒ

ＤＳ－１ Ｏｒｂｉｔａｌ

Ｂａｔｔｌｅ Ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ】

SIX MONTHS LATER...

"KRIFFING HELL CERU WHAT DID YOU DO?"

UPON CLOSER INSPECTION AS SHE PRIED THE PANEL OFF, she noticed wires that fed the solar collectors into the energy accumulator lines placed in the wrong depression. The reactor would implode, releasing emissions of high-pressured radio gas. Essentially, it would kill their tester pilot before even leaving the hangar.

I'm going to kill him.

These specific TIE Bombers had just been shipped from the Sinear Fleet system: the Empire's primary arms. There was no room for such grave errors, lest their lives end up in jeopardy. She muttered frustratingly in Huttese—her native language—about the numerous times she'd saved Ceru's hide. Zev and Mac, the usual jokesters, had warned not-so-subtly on the amount of mistakes he was costing them. At the very least, this would take another day to reconfigure. Even as she started to correct the feed—

A jolt of electricity suddenly zapped through a fingertip.

"Wermo! The number of times I have saved your arse just to have mine charred!" She grimaced as the stench singed her nostrils. He would so owe her; he was lucky the ship hadn't exploded in their private hangar.

Reserved for their crew aboard the DS-1 Orbital Battle Station, the space was exclusively used by the Empire's forces in combatting the Rebellion. Spreading like a virus as undercover rebels continuously infiltrated ranks to undermine the Empire's power. Despite their best efforts just another was discovered in a sect of engineers.

Virtually it would be impossible to disrupt such operations with their tight-knit team. But one could never be too careful with the lengths they'd go.

Unzipping the laxer of uniforms worn out of public view—the standard grey jumpsuit a nuisance— a cool breeze swept through the cotton shirt, fusion fuel still pungent. Yet it was a reprieve from the beads of sweat slicked against her skin from the last strenuous, laborious hours.

A tarp now draped the model she'd have to reconstruct (thank you, Ceru) before she headed out. The security doors blared and whirred open, granting her clearance. Fortunately, her room was in the same wing as her colleagues which proved its convenience after spending excessive amounts of time in the hangar. The assigned sub-level right below their quarters, had become routine as the Empire continuously expanded.

Her boots echoed across the durasteel floors, the vented lights illuminating her path. She cricked her neck rounding the last hallway. Swiping the magnetic strip off her keycard over the control panel, the door hissed open to reveal the sleeper chamber.

While the barracks housed the stormtroopers and their communal facilities, her quarters were equipped with a private partition. A much-needed respite from the gritty demands of her job. Strictly, access to a hygienic shower was granted to upper-rank officials only. Her particular line of work afforded her the luxury instead of a sonic.

Accustomed to rationing water as a precious commodity in her homeland, she could vividly recall granules of sand shedding like second skin upon first usage. The remnants of her past life remained arranged on a utilitarian storage cabinet. Designed to maximize the tight space while a reminder of the journey from her origins.

Of a lowly slave bred from an arid, Hutt-controlled planet.

Pulling out the handheld C-1 commlink stashed in a loose pocket, she headed to the fresher. "Ceru you still owe me 10 credits now it's 40. One for saving your ass. Two for being a pain in mine. Meet me at Pikey's bar in 0010, stat."

Her lips pulled in a grimace, still adjusting to the militarized jargon used aboard. It was very unlike the dialects she'd been surrounded by her entire life. Yet, in less than ten minutes she emerged refreshed and ready.

As permitted off duty, she was attired in civilian's grey shirt and slacks. Relieved to be out of a drab uniform aimed to prevent the fraternization of personnel, according to regulations. Experienced from many seedy hubs from Mos Espa to Mos Eisely, she'd found the dress code absurd.

Half the station was made up of male humanoids.

The few female officers belonging to lower staff and technicians, sought release regardless. After a strenuous week, those permissible to go off station indulged themselves on the surface, below.

Evidently, this led to scandals that threaded through the factions by the week's end. Hardly did that stop those who pridefully acclaimed themselves as a "barracks rat". On occasion she attended the discrete shindigs thrown in the barracks, though limited desirous invitations to drunken snogs.

A slow smirk curled her lips at the thought once securing her thick wavy tresses in a clip. Checking the chronometer just once, she headed to the only operated bar on station.

•••• ••••

Half the size of a cantina, the non-descript room was dismissed by the higher officials as a "hole in the wall". Easily spotted on the lower sub-levels, it remained a favored spot for off-duty stormtroopers and overworked imperials from the nearby overbridge.

A musky odor tended to linger in the air from the strenuous sweat cloying to uniforms. What warmth was provided by the floor vents brushed forth the aroma of spiced tonics arranged behind the bar. Occasionally the sensory assault drew out an Admiral. And much to her dismay, she spotted the crisp carbon-gray uniform.

Greeting was pug-face puce: Admiral Motti. "Ah, if it isn't one of our loveliest techs, Ayen."

Fair skin was flushed from the tonic braced in his hand, hairline receded in recent months with a sparse mustache. The smug expression upon the middle-aged man confirmed he'd long spotted her before she. As a high superior next to Grand Moff Tarkin, his presence was quite rare.

Unfortunately he appeared to have a vested interest: her.

Ugh.

"Admiral Motti," she addressed with a nod as protocol demanded. Hopefully, she could alleviate the glint in those pale eyes. It mattered not how many bars were on the mans plaque. She didn't wish to climb rank by accepting a loutish proposition.

His lip jutted out with an inviting tilt of his chin, "What brings you to Pikey's this evening?"

"Just here for a drink, sir," she replied calmly, steering clear of any suggestive comments. She knew his type too well: sleazy and entitled. Believed their rank gave them free rein to those "beneath" them.

She'd just as rather kiss a rancor.

It wasn't the first time she'd dealt with this behavior. But before Ayen could signal the bartender for her drink, the burly man was interrupted by his commlink. In a gruff tone he answered the device, no doubt speaking to a higher-ranking officer checking in for fraternizing subordinates.

Pretty boy Clive—TK-423–a womanizing stormtrooper on his time off, was shamelessly flirting with the cafeteria personnel that had transferred in. Hastening three stools down from the Admiral, she caught Clive's gaze who flashed a crooked grin in greeting. Signature dimples surfaced above a chiseled jawline. The Hapan native, bred from Hapes and renowned specifically for their beauty, turned his attentions back to the giggling posse, no doubt from one of his coquettish pickups.

Boy were those quite the ice breakers.

Their entire naval squadron had been deployed to Scarif for several months and this was their homecoming. They appeared confident the victory party being held in the barracks wouldn't reach prune Willhuff Tarkin. There would be hell to pay, otherwise. The guys were proficient when it came to their branch, but lacked a certain level of discretion.

The undeterred Admiral followed, leaning against the bar top with ease. His eyes lazily swept over to the quietly laughing girls and back. "You know, Ayen, you could go far in the Empire with a good word put in." He angled his head with a raised brow and tilted an emerald bottle in her direction, "With your skills and my guidance, perhaps captain in a short time."

I'd rather fight a clan of Tusken Raiders for all of Tatooine's 34 standard hours.

The burly bar owner known as Pike, emerged from his phone call just in time to rescue Ayen's increasingly sour mood. Her fingers slowly unclenched as he approached: a welcome sight. He raked a knuckle against the bar, wasting no time addressing business "The usual then, Lieutenant?"

Ayen couldn't help but smirk in a silent thank you.

The man was massive with a robust chest and thick stippled arms twice the size of her slender frame. His peppered hair was sleeked back into a short ponytail sporting a rugged beard and a gold hoop slung through one ear. The rough exterior held a familiarization that she found solace in. He was the embodiment of disorder in a sterile environment. As she'd acclimated aboard, they became fast friends.

"Pike, I'd like mine topped off as well."

"I think you've had your fill, Admiral."

It took effort not to snort into her folded arms, a habitual habit unchanged.

Few dared to oppose the man who provided sustenance to ease their taxing days. Perhaps that was why leniency was given to the bar slinger's attire. His disregard for the rigid dress code was blatantly shown by the stitched Corellian leather vest and rough-hewn garb.

"Just the lum though, I'm still declining your 'special batch'." She eyed the contents in the blender—an uncanny luminous sheen to the liquid—before shifting her weight away from the leering Admiral. Choosing to ignore his antics, her hands folded on the hollowed in hewn top. "I'd just as rather drink milk from a Bantha."

Pike laughed heartily revealing a row of teeth, several silver capped. Weathered laugh lines crinkled at the corner of his eyes. "Noted."

He slid over a tin cup with a wink.

It was no secret the societal balance was tipped significantly towards the elites. Her superiors had access to the finest Corellian wine, whiskey, and juri juice. The Emperor himself and his harem indulged in a Blossom wine imported from a renowned, opulent planet: Naboo. While the lower levels were subjected to the usual scrounge: lum, booze, or grog. Only recently had their selection expanded to include Pike's questionable concoctions.

Which she wasn't too keen on.

As she took a sip of the lum, the thick liquor instantly spread through her bloodstream, the slow heat revitalizing her senses. Due to its low content drunkeness would evade her but stave off the chill of space. That, even now, she was still acclimating to.

The Admiral encroached her personal space, acting as if he were downing the last of his drink as he leaned over.

Pike audibly cleared his throat as a firm warning.

In the past he'd run quite the inimical cantinas in Corellia, offered refuge by the Weequay pirates after the fall of the Republic. Once he was a part of the DS-1 staff, his zero harassment policy had earned him reputable rapport with the female personnel.

"Admiral you're cut off." Before the Admiral could retort, Pike snatched the remnants of his drink and chucked it into the bar sink. His furrowed brows did nothing to overshadow the sparked flint in his stare. "Else I'll wipe the floor with yeh'."

Ayen's anxiety spiked, the Admiral's actions garnering more attention as he became increasingly unsteady. Even Clive's lax posture had straightened in a debative stance. The female staff left, shot daggers at the inebriated man, one of whom held a pitcher contemplatively.

I know which one Clive will be taking back to his dorm.

With roll of her eyes Ayen focused on her drink as a blatant display of uninterest.

"Mark my words," the Admiral slurred, leaning in dangerously close reeking of sweat and booze. "I will exceed rank soon enough. Perhaps then you'll accept my offer, girl."

Ayen recoiled in disgust, Because you kiss the Moff's ass you creeping slug.

He'd come from a well-off family, quickly moving through the ranks of the Empire to aspire to a Moff. Unfortunately for him, stormtroopers gossiped. It was said he'd spent a heap of credits on his last trip to the Outlanders club on Coruscant.

Pike whistled with a shake of his head, "And that's my queue to have your ass escorted out." He turned from them with what sounded like, "damned imperials" before he lifted the comm to his lips.

"Allow me, sir," Clive interjected with a steady hand fastened on Pikes arm. The sharp disdain in the curl of his lip directed at the Admiral.

Ayen had already had enough.

Confident this wouldn't come with repercussions she tilted her chin defiantly. "There is no offer and never will be, Admiral. I suggest you take your leave before I report you to ISB (Imperial Security Bureau). You forget whom this could reach given my standing." She slid off the stool and kicked it towards him, causing a lapse from the unspoken threat of a certain Commander. Albeit, it appeared to sober the Admiral. "Remember, I didn't go through the Imperial Academy, I was hand selected."

Although that wasn't entirely the truth, she could tell the bite in her words registered as Clive took ahold of his arm. "Let's go," His voice brisk, the inner solider masked those glaring eyes of cypress. Her thanks was received as he glanced back at her once, before escorting the drunkard off.

"Kriffing blowfish." she muttered, annoyed.

The blatant unprofessionalism displayed, would've never been tolerated had the Emperor been aboard. Whenever the Emperor's presence graced the station's hangar, the atmosphere thickened with tension. The officers reminded her of restless Wookies as they barked out orders for the remainder of his stay.

No doubt, a Moff would chew the Admiral out. Hopefully it was Admiral Yularen and Motti got demoted for abuse of power.

"Pain in my arse..." Pike clicked his tongue, his eyes contemptuous as both Clive and the Admiral disappeared. He shook his head as he cleared away the empty pitchers left by the cafeteria personnel. No doubt they'd be prepping for their first night shift in the mess hall.

Slinging the rag back over his shoulder he detoured over to her spot. A small, genuine smile lifted her lips at the gesture, the ice in her voice thawed, "Thanks, Pike. Sometimes I don't know what I'd do without ya."

Her smile grew to a tease as she saluted the drink clenched between his gnarled fingers. He ushered a gravelly laugh, "Ah kid, you're like family to me. That entitled prick had it coming for him."

A hushed laugh followed with a shake of her head. "Don't they always. What time is it even?"

"Quarter past 11, why?"

"That nerfherder."

"Trouble in paradise?"

"Ha-ha."

Pike smirked, gathering the last tin cups. A fresh-faced lanky midshipman glanced over before he decidedly continued forward. She wasn't complaining. With the bar situated away from high-trafficked corridors, hardly were there passersby.

"You look worn, Ayen." Pike resorted to the lesser of formalities now that they were alone.

This, she preferred.

Being addressed as lieutenant still felt strange given she was hardly treated such. An ecru, freckled complexion, and casual demeanor while a draw to some, set her apart from the majority of stoic, drawn faces of pallor. Their haughty egos influenced by their prestigious backgrounds.

"I see you're quite observant today." She ushered a snort, running a finger through a droplet along the ridge of her cup. "No, more like I'm strained. A certain someone is on his way to a death sentence."

"Ceru fail inspection again?"

"I get it, he's young. But each time I'm putting my neck on the line to cover the written reports."

"That bad huh?"

"He should've been here a half hour ago. Probably a good thing after all that druk. But if our new model took off, it would've imploded."

"Kark, if that report ever got back to Lord Vader-"

"Yes, I know..." Ayen fiddled with her hands upon interjecting.

An instant chill speared her nerves by the mention of the Supreme Commander of Imperial Forces. A graven mistake such as this wouldn't just reach the boss above her, but the Sith himself. He was the overseer of all shipments once the technician's inspection reports were submitted. Specifically, it was his office that oversaw day-to-day operations in order for blocs to run smoothly.

Being a witness to the executor of her former Toydarian slave owner, left an impression in her memory. Vivid upon recollection. Yet in spite of his notoriety as she'd learn while aboard, she harbored a deep sense of gratitude as a former slave.

Even a roguish man like Pike, bowed out from the Commander. There remained an unspoken loyalty amongst the staff. Those few who did dare to oppose never lived long enough to breathe of it. Recent word spoke of another disposed officer at the Sith's hands.

His hooded figure often stayed to the shadows yet remained prominent in the whispers exchanged amongst ranks. Numerous months had passed since she'd last looked upon that fiery gaze or sweep of his cloak.

"Word has it you're one of the best techs here, kid." Pike replied, gruff. "Don't kork your position. Quit sticking your neck where lessons gotta' be learned."

Ayen scraped a frustrated hand through her hair at the chiding. "And have their blood on my hands? I lived in the roughest hubs of Tatooine. I thought I'd seen it all, Pike." Watto's image flickered in her mind again and she grimaced. "... his windpipe will be crushed before a word is uttered."

Pike grunted with a great shake of his head, "Don't ever inquire about the Inquisitor's interrogation tactics. Such druk will make yeh' sick."

"I don't even want to know."

"No, kid, you don't."

"Your words bring such comfort Pike, truly."

Pike ushered a hoarse laugh, stroking his beard in thought. "On that note, I'm going to take a quick break. Be back in three if you're still around."

He extracted a death stick from a cargo pocket and rolled it between his fingers. With a flick of his wrist, he disappeared behind a plastic flap that partitioned the room from the back storage.

"Let me know when you kick the habit!" she called back with a shake of her head. Never would she agree with his choice of poison. A small fortune the Slythmongers were accumulating, while peddling the cheap narcotics.

"We're all dying every day kid!"

Of course, he'd say that.

"Ah, Pike." Shooting back the last of the syrupy liquid, she slid the cup across with a thud. "I'm off. My apparent friend is choosing to ignore our commute."

"I'll let him know you came by."

"Do me a favor add your special batch the next time he orders a drink."

"It's already a deal."

Ayen laughed with a mocking salute before retracing her steps down the walkway. Passing an MSE droid scurrying to upkeep the station's cleanliness, she'd only made it a few steps before barreled into by a stoutly young man. His grey jumpsuit was soaked in sweat as trembling hands grasped her arms.

Ceru.

"Ayen!" He gasped as if he'd run down hundreds of levels. Feathery jet-black hair was slicked back from a broad forehead. Almond-shaped eyes expanded behind thick goggles, fearful.

Dread immediately gutted her stomach.

Ceru's usual demeanor was absent, his flaxen skin a paler hue. This was a rarity for the easygoing humanoid. "I-I got your comm but I was intercepted by an officer. I have the credits; I was coming down to meet you and—"

"Ceru," Ayen interjected, keeping her voice firm to slow her friend's ramblings. A habit of his still, as thick perspiration beaded his forehead. "What. Is. Wrong?"

Her brow slanted in question as Ceru bit his trembling lip.

The sloped folds in his forehead shone a maturity beyond eighteen standard years. An accumulation of stress after living a sheltered existence in his parents' shipyard. His naivety to the harsh realities of the galaxy remained evident even after he was recruited personally from his homeworld of Daiyu. She'd taken him under her wing the moment he'd been placed with her. Although he irked her, it was akin to a sibling. She considered him an integral part of the team after he'd helped her in areas she wasn't as adept in.

"You've been summoned," Ceru's voice quivered slightly, "this is all my fault isn't it? I should've stuck to communications like Zev and Mac barb! DRUK!"

Ayen felt the blood drain from her face, his words a physical blow as her reality crystallized into focus. "Who have I been summoned to, Ceru?" Already did she know even as the tone of her voice lowered imperceptibly.

"Lord Vader's quarters," His voice was a hoarse whisper that fused her nerves like ice as the words formed on his lips. "A-alone, Ayen."

Ayen felt her heart singe, the words a death knell. Summoned by the Sith Lord himself was not a common practice. Many levels were reached before high command. The realization that she was to be alone in the Supreme Commanders'—likely soundproof chambers—added to her sense of dread.

Oh... kriff.

Sonic: laser type shower with no water.
Hygienic shower: shower with water
Star Wars expletives (profanity)
Kriff/ing: Fuck/ing
Kark
Druk/ Kirk:
Shit