Chapter Text
Everything was going well until the fire.
Of course, Moff Gideon wasn’t too concerned. Beskar was fireproof. He’d be just fine. All he had to do was wait out the fire in his stunning new outfit, kill the Mandalorians once the visibility was better, and then it would be back to life as the spectacle of Imperial perfection that he was.
As the fire drew closer, Gideon had already begun planning his next day. First, he’d have the Butler Troopers clean up the mess from the battle. Then, he would invite Commandant Hux and the rest of the Shadow Council out for high tea, purposefully excluding Captain Pellaeon. This would, of course, create an irreparable riff in Hux and Pellaeon’s friendship, which would provide some much-needed entertainment for Gideon to watch while he worked on restoring his cloning project.
In short, he had great plans for the future.
Presently, however, the fire was making it a little hard to think about the future. The room was getting very hot. The fire was spreading much more than anticipated.
No matter, of course. Beskar was fireproof. At least, he was quite sure it was fireproof. Granted, he’d only tested it experimentally with small bursts of flames. However, he doubted this would be much different. This was simply a minor setback in the grand scheme of evil schemes. He’d be over it by tomorrow.
Everything was going well.
Gideon opened his eyes. He’d had a very odd dream with a rather disappointing conclusion, or rather a lack thereof. He’d been fighting a group of pesky Mandalorians, including one Din Djarin and his 50-year-old gremlin son. The fight had been going rather well. Djarin had been very easy to subdue, a clear sign that the fight had been a dream, albeit a pleasant one. Then, as was the case with most dreams, the entire scene had dissolved into chaos. There’d been a fire of some sort, from what Gideon recalled, though he’d woken up ere he’d gotten any sense of closure.
He sat up in bed and stretched, squinting due to the bright sunlight coming in through his window.
Then he remembered he didn’t have a window in his bedroom. Since breaking free from the New Republic, he’d moved into his underground lair on Mandalore where the sun did not shine.
The sunlight wasn’t the only thing amiss. There was a man standing across from him, clad an Imperial naval uniform and beaming from ear to ear. He looked vaguely familiar and appeared to be holding a gift basket of sorts.
Gideon scowled at the stranger. Such a happy-looking man had no place in Gideon’s lair. The stranger would have to be removed at once. Naturally, Gideon reached for the pocket flamethrower he kept under his pillow…
Only the pocket flamethrower wasn’t there, nor was his pillow. In fact, there was nothing there but white, fluffy mist.
It was at that point that he realized he wasn’t in his bedroom at all. He wasn’t even in his lair. He was sitting on a cloud.
To make matters worse, the grinning stranger began to speak:
“Well, let me have the honor of being the first one to say, welcome to the Imperial Afterlife, Moff Gideon!”
“The Imperial Afterlife?” Gideon echoed in disbelief.
“We’re all very happy to have you here,” the man went on. “And though, I know this might not be the most traditional view, I’d like to say congratulations. Most people view death in such a negative light, but I’d like to view it as more of a victory over life. So, congratulations! Your service has been truly remarkable, and I hope you’ll find a nice, long rest in this life. Ah… and this is for you.”
The man plopped the gift basket into Gideon’s arms. Judging from the odor, it appeared to contain biscuits. Gideon wrinkled his nose. He loathed desserts in general for being a source of degeneracy in the ISB.
“So, this is what Hell smells like,” Gideon said. “Chocolate and cinnamon.”
“Actually, there’s no cinnamon in there,” the other man corrected him chirpily. “It’s actually Naboolian cloves. They have a similar flavor to cinnamon but it’s a little sweeter.”
“And what exactly are you then?” Gideon inquired. “Some kind of culinary demon from the underworld?”
“Oh, I didn’t introduce myself. How rude of me. My apologies.” The stranger extended a hand. “Captain Lorth Needa, formerly of the ISD Avenger.”
Gideon’s scowl hardened as the pieces began to come together.
“You’re the insufferably polite captain with the tauntaun charity who kept sending mental health day petitions to the ISB.” Gideon ignored the attempted handshake. “I suppose we’re here to torment each other for eternity.”
“Well, no, actually… but don’t feel bad. Most people who come here have similar misconceptions.” Needa nodded sympathetically. “For the most part, our little corner of the afterlife is actually quite pleasant. We have a few scuffles every now and then, but I’d say everyone grows to love it eventually. For one thing, we don’t have nearly as much of a Rebel problem as our poor living counterparts ever since we painted that boundary line. It was a little hard to paint clouds, but we managed, and it seems to have done the trick. They stay on their side, and we stay on ours. If they cross over, we have General Veers throw them back…”
“If you are not here to torment me,” Gideon interjected. “Then, why are you here? And how can I expedite your departure?”
“I’m glad you asked!” Needa said, utterly undeterred by Gideon’s resentment. “I’m here with the Imperial Society for the Mental Wellness of the Newly Deceased. We pair newly deceased Imperials with those who have been dead for years to help people acclimate to their life without life. We’re a nonprofit volunteer organization, and our doors are always open to new volunteers if you’d be interested.”
“I believe I told you in life that I despise the concept of charity,” Gideon said.
“Yes, you did. But if you ever change your mind, the option is open. Now, typically we try to pair kindred spirits. Someone with similar characteristics or a similar manner of death. Or perhaps there’s an acquaintance you had in life who you’d like to be reunited with?”
Gideon considered the question. He had gotten along reasonably well with the late Grand Moff Tarkin. They’d bonded over their mutual desire to stop Director Krennic from sitting at their table in the officer’s lounge. That said, Gideon didn’t particularly wish to be reunited with Tarkin. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed another human being’s company.
There was, however, another issue: Needa’s persistence.
The man was appallingly pushy about his altruistic efforts. He’d bombarded the ISB inbox with holographs of sad taunlets until they’d agreed to do a profit share fundraiser with the Imperial Adopt a Tauntaun Refuge Fund. After that, every agent had received transmission after transmission asking them to make a symbolic adoption. By the end of it, nearly every officer had caved in. They’d each received a complimentary plush tauntaun for their donation. While other officers had placed the plush on their desks or given it to their children, Gideon had skewered his on top of his personal ITO droid. It made for interesting interrogations.
If Needa was as determined in death as he was in life, he’d hound Gideon about this nonprofit nonsense for the rest of eternity. Better to quell that annoyance before it dragged on.
“Very well,” Gideon said. “I will indulge your unsolicited interest in finding me an acquaintance under the condition that you will no longer pester me with charity drives or fundraisers from now on.”
“Yes, I suppose that is fair.” For the first time this far, Needa’s enthusiasm faltered, but he quickly regained his high spirits. “If you don’t have another candidate in mind, I believe I found the perfect one for you. I happen to know another man who was crushed by a flaming starship. So, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to discuss and bond over.”
“I was not crushed by a starship.” Gideon still refused to accept such an ignominious end. “I was consumed by flames during battle.”
“Oh you sound just like him!” Needa declared with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “You’re going to be the best of friends!”