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“My lord,” Captain Piett called out, speed-walking up to the Sith from his place across the bridge. “We’ve intercepted a coded transmission. It’s brief, but all signs point to the rebels.”
“And where did this transmission come from?” Vader asked.
“The Outer Rim, my lord.”
“Pull it up, Captain.”
Piett rushed to the data outlet on the side of the bridge, and furiously typed the keys, code flying across the screen. A file popped up, and he moved the mouse towards it, clicking on the icon.
And nothing happened.
He clicked again.
Nothing happened.
He could hear Vader’s heavy breathing behind him, and his throat tightened. Whether there was an ominous force pressing down on it, he wasn't sure.
He clicked again, and nothing happened. Finally, before he could start hyperventilating, he turned over the mouse. What was-
Oh.
Oh, that berk.
Taped to the bottom of the mouse was a small bit of flimsi, with a note scrawled across it in a bright blue pen. Firmus, the note said, go to sleep. -M.V.
Piett ripped off the note, and crumpled it, recovering quickly. He clicked on the file again, and the transmission popped up on screen. He exhaled, clenching the note in his hand.
Vader angled his helmet down towards Piett’s tight fist. “Is there something you would like to share?”
“No, sir,” he said. “Not at all.”
Vader’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, then he turned away and watched the transmission. Meanwhile, Piett held back the anger that bubbled up inside his chest.
Oh, Veers was going to get it for that.
General Veers groaned, pulling off his jacket. He rubbed at his shoulder, which he'd bruised days earlier in a training session with the new recruits. He’d had a long day, and was more than ready to take a hot shower and be done with it all. Normally, around this time, he’d have to remind Firmus to take a break, but he’d left a fairly obvious note. Surely, that would do the trick.
Veers stepped out of his boots, and shrugged off the rest of his clothing, hopping into the shower. But it wasn't water that came out of the shower head.
Instead of warm water, tons and tons of glitter spilled from the shower head. When the shiny flakes got into his eyes, Veers swore, and abruptly shut the shower off. He ran to the sink and rinsed the glitter out of his eyes. This time, he made sure that it was water coming out of the faucet before he stuck his head under it.
When he looked up into the mirror, blinking the redness from his eyes, he growled at the sight that greeted him. He was covered from head to toe in bright blue glitter.
Firmus was going to pay for this one.
“As you can see my lord, the rebels have outposts at the following planets. It would most likely be best to operate a coordinated attack, going for each one at once,” Veers said, motioning to his datapad. He, Piett, Ozzel, and Vader were meeting in the conference room, each placed around an oval table. Vader stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed over his chest.
“And how, exactly, do you propose we- what is in your hair?” Vader exclaimed.
Veers blinked, tilting his eyes up, desperate to catch a glimpse of whatever hair was peeking through his cap. “Erm.”
Piett cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I heard that General Veers had a mishap with the shower head.”
Veers glared at him. Sure. You ‘heard that’, you son of a bantha.
“A shower head?” Vader questioned.
“Yes, my lord.” That little kriffer. Piett didn't even blink. He stared the Sith Lord dead in the eyes, knowing fully well the man could kill him with a twist of his wrist, and he implied that he’d pranked his superior officer. Sure, Veers and Piett were friends, but Vader didn't know that. Piett could die for this.
“And how do you know this?”
“Couldn't you tell? He’s practically shining with anger.”
If Veers was any less of a military man, his jaw would have dropped. That little bastard.
Looking from Veers to Piett, Ozzel opened his mouth to speak. “It seems the Captain doesn't understand proper manne-”
“Ah, yes,” Vader said. “I can see the fury sparkling within him.”
What.
“General. Continue.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, making eye contact with Piett. The Captain didn't even flinch. The Dark Lord of the kriffing Sith just jumped on board with Piett’s little act, and he didn’t even flinch.
Veers didn't know whether to respect the man, or to run away in fear.
Piett stepped up to the counter, waving a hand at the dry cleaner. He’d just gotten his uniforms cleaned, and he was more than ready to take his current one off. He’d been wearing it for three days already, and it was time to retire it.
“Firmus Piett?” the dry cleaner asked.
“Yes.”
The dry cleaner smirked, and handed him his clothes. “Have fun with that.”
Piett blinked. “Thank… you?”
When he got back to his quarters, he unzipped the garment bag, and quickly pulled on the new clothes. He shivered; the interior of the jacket was rougher than he remembered.
“What in the galaxy is on your neck?” Ozzel exclaimed. Vader, Veers, and the rest of the bridge glanced over at Piett, who was frowning in confusion.
He reached up to touch his neck, then pulled his hand away. “I don't…”
Oh.
Oh, no.
His fingers were covered in glitter.
His eyes snapped to Veers’, who was standing beside Lord Vader, across the bridge. “Glitter?” he scoffed.
“Apparently,” Ozzel said, looking him up and down, unimpressed. “You would do well to clean that off.”
“Why?” Veers asked. “Why, even I can tell that he’s shimmering with joy.”
Piett hated him. He hated him so much.
“Indeed,” Vader cut in. “Captain Piett is practically glittering. I see no need to change it.”
What.
Veers stared down at the armor shipments. “What happened?”
“I... don't know?” the pilot of the cargo ship mumbled.
“They’re pink.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Stormtrooper armor isn't meant to be bubblegum pink.”
“Now, that's debatable,” Piett said.
Veers whipped around to see him leaning against a pillar in the ship’s hangar, a can of pink spray paint beside him. Veers glared at him. “Stormtrooper armor isn't meant to be bubblegum pink. I can't send my men out to battle in this.”
“Still debatable. I think they’d enjoy it.”
“They’d look less like the Fist of the Empire, and more like a spat out wad of gum!”
“I still think they’d enjoy it. Who knows, Max. Maybe it would boost morale.”
“I'm not sending my troops out to fight a vicious slew of terrorists in princess-pink armor.”
“Quite frankly, it’s far more intimidating to watch a pink figure with a gun racing towards you than it is to see a knock-off sheet ghost.”
“ Knock-off sheet ghost?!”
“It’s come to my attention that the last shipment of stormtrooper armor was… meddled with.”
Piet blinked, swallowing nervously. “Yes, my lord.”
“We’ve decided to keep it as party armor,” Veers explained, not without feeling more than a bit ridiculous.
“Party armor.”
“To boost morale.”
Vader looked between the two, shook his head, and walked away. Piett and Veers watching him go nervously. “I think he’s questioning our sanity,” Piett said.
“Yes, well, he’s met us, hasn't he? Who doesn't question our sanity?”
Piett frowned. “My sister doesn't.”
“Your sister thinks you’re an accountant.”
“Fair point.”
Piett slipped his code cylinder into the door’s lock. He waited for the door of the Officer’s Lounge to turn green and let him in. Shockingly, they flashed yellow, and let out a loud beep. ‘ Please give your name for vocal confirmation. ’
Piett blinked. That was odd. It had never asked that before. There must have been an update to the security systems. “Firmus Piett.”
The light flashed red. ‘Please give your name for vocal confirmation.’
He repeated his name three times, but all to no avail. Eventually, he glanced around the corridor. Once he was sure there was no one lingering in the shadows, he whispered, “Lady?” The lights flashed green. “What am I supposed to say?” His screen dinged. He looked down at the writing, and barked, “That’s not my name!”
There was no response. With a sigh, he mumbled, “Captain Caffeinated Cowboy.”
The doors slid open, and he entered the Lounge with a sigh. “How did Max manage that one? I didn't think he’d be able to command you, Lady.”
His datapad dinged again. Only my Dark One can command me.
Piett frowned. “Dark One?”
“Piett,” Veers barked, marching up to him in the corridor. “Do you want to explain to me why, exactly, the Lady insists that I call myself ‘ General-ly Done With These Kriffers’ every time I enter a room?”
“So, funny story, I actually-”
“General. Captain,” Vader acknowledged the two as he brushed past them. “A word in my quarters, if you please. Now .”
Veers gave Piett a nervous look. That didn't bode well. Piett, on the other hand, just looked after Vader with confusion brewing in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” Veers asked.
“Lady reprogrammed my name, too. She said the Dark One told her to.”
“Dark one,” Veers mumbled, glancing back after Vader. “She doesn't mean…”
“I think so.”
Veers and Piett shared a look, and walked to Vader’s quarters. This should be fun.
“It has come to my attention that there has been some confusion betwixt the two of you.”
“Yes, my lord,” Piett swallowed.
“The new registered names were a byproduct of this, as I'm sure you’ve guessed.”
Piett and Veers shared a glance. Lord Vader, the second in command of the Galactic Empire, had pranked them to stop them from pranking each other.
You learned something new every day.
“Our apologies, sir,” Veers said. “I assure you, it won't happen again.”
“I did not ask for that. As shocking as it is that two of the most competent officers on this ship decided to divert their energies to pranking one another-”
Piett gulped.
“-you have not disappointed me.”
“I'm… sorry?”
“You’ve shown impeccable planning skills. Captain, you managed to get in and out of the shipping area with your… pink spray paint without being seen or stopped until you called for the General. General, you convinced the dry cleaners to meddle with the Captain’s uniform which, I'm well aware, is no easy feat.”
How are you aware of that?! Piett though hysterically.
“You’ve shown incredible tactical skills, and because of that, I must let you both in on a mission that has, before now, been kept a secret to all but myself.”
Veers and Piett shared a glance. This seemed more serious than glitter in the collar of Piett’s uniform. “What can we do, my lord?”
Vader motioned to a holo projector in the center of his room. The picture went static, then burst to life to show a live feed of Admiral Ozzel’s quarters. They watched as he frowned, and pulled at the drawer of his dresser. He pulled at it again, and swore furiously when it refused to open. He kept pulling, and finally, it flew open with a smash, spewing out bright orange paint that splashed onto his uniform and got stuck in his moustache. Veers let out a startled laugh, and Piett gaped at the holo in amazement. Vader cut the feed, and turned back to Veers and Piett.
“For the past month,” Vader said, “I have sporadically placed glue on the door of Admiral Ozzel’s clothing drawers. I’ve mastered the art of sticking the cabinet together, but not using enough glue that there is evidence left behind. I've increased the amount each time, so he suspected nothing but a sticking cabinet that gradually grew worse and worse. With the addition of your pranks on one another, he believed he could not be a target. He was lured into a false sense of security. Today, I struck.”
Piett gaped at the Sith. “Why are you telling us this?” he whispered in awe.
“This shall not be the last prank. If the mission is to continue, I need assistance. Can I trust you?”
His voice gruff with shock, Veers said, “Absolutely.”
“Good,” Vader nodded. “This is my credit card number, and here is the code cylinder to Ozzel’s room. You have access to anything you need, and if you’re in need of… otherworldly assistance, this is the frequency for a burner comm you shall use only for our mission.”
Piett took the objects into his arms, shaking with glee. Vader had thought this through.“And we can do… anything?”
“Anything. Tell me of your plans, first. I, too, would enjoy participating.”
“Of course, my lord,” Veers said, regaining his composure. “And, in regards to our money limit…”
“There is no limit.”
Joy bubbled up inside him. “Understood.”
After a short conversation about the resistance of orange paint, Vader dismissed them. On his way out the door, Piett went against his better judgement and turned back to the Sith. “My lord,” he said. “Why the nicknames?”
Vader leaned back. “There were multiple reasons. I had to get your attention.”
“And?”
“And I enjoyed seeing you gape in confusion like a fish out of water.”
Piett blinked. Touche, Sith Lord. Touche.
“Is that… bright blue glitter in your moustache?” Veers asked curiously. "Huh. How did that happen?"
Ozzel glared at him. “Shut up, General.”
“It's in your eyebrows, too.”
Ozzel spit out his caff with a shout. Piett snickered. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you said salt, not sugar.”
Ozzel spluttered, his face turning red. "That's not salt!"
Piett blinked. "Oh. Oh, dear. I'm sorry, red Axxilan peppers and salt look surprisingly similar. I must have mixed them up."
If Ozzel had been able to talk through the burning pain on his tongue, his words would have turned Piett's ears red.
‘ Please enter your name for vocal confirmation.’
“Blast it, I already have!”
“Is there an issue, Admiral?” Vader asked.
“This infernal, bumbling buffoon of a machine can't-”
‘ Name: entered. The door has opened for, infernal, bumbling buffoon.’
Vader brushed past him. “Members of Death Squadron would do well not to forget their own names.”
‘ Please enter your name for vocal confirmation.’
Piett blinked. This again? “Captain Caffeinated Cowboy.”
The lights flashed red. Piett sighed. He grabbed his datapad, and whispered to the ship, “What am I supposed to say now?”
His datapad lit up, and letters came across it in Basic. Piett blinked at the message, and, with an air of superiority, said, “Admiral of the Fleet Firmus Piett. Second in command to Darth Vader, leader of Death Squadron.”
The lights turned green, and the door opened.