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No one in an Imperial command center is in a good mood when the rebels manage to not only damage your operations but also get away in the process. The misery only increases as Vader strides into the room, a tense, oppressive silence falling over everyone.
Your commanding officer grows pale, his composure hanging on by a thread as he stutters out his account, desperately trying to deflect the blame to anyone and anything else. But you can tell that it’s futile. You know that someone is getting promoted today.
You hope it won’t be you.
Vader quickly loses his patience, and your commanding officer cuts off in the middle of a word.
You watch with dreadful awe, holding in your own breath as though Vader would crush it out of you next if you dared to breathe it out. There’s something horribly unnatural about the sight of your commanding officer’s fingers writhing against his own neck, scrabbling for purchase against the invisible chokehold, struggling against nothing as his butcher stands meters away, orchestrating it all with no more than a whim and a closed fist.
The officer’s struggle slows, slackening arms drop his fingers toward the ground, the rest of his body following quickly after.
Not another person moves, frozen in anticipation as Vader sweeps the room with his gaze.
You’ve never felt such fear as when it lands on you.
“Congratulations,” he says, and it feels like the universe is mocking you, even if Vader isn’t. You try to remember that you’d wanted to rise in the ranks, once; that gratitude and eagerness to serve the Empire is what you should feel right now. You won’t end up like your former commanding officer, you lie to yourself, you won’t make any mistakes.
“Thank you, Lord Vader,” you manage.