Chapter Text
I never thought a week of paid vacation would lead to an intergalactic takeover.
My name is Mitsuki Ogasawara, and until yesterday, I was just a regular office worker in Yokohama. My life was defined by morning trains, endless spreadsheets, and the polite bowing of corporate Japan. To celebrate a rare break from work, I flew all the way to Los Angeles for a dream trip to Disneyland.
I was standing in the middle of Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge, holding a plastic lightsaber and waiting for a churro. The California sun was hot, and the park was crowded. I remember walking toward the "Rise of the Resistance" ride, feeling a strange dizziness. The sounds of the tourists faded away, replaced by a low, rhythmic humming.
Then, everything went black.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in Anaheim anymore.
I was sitting on a cold, throne-like chair made of dark stone. I didn't feel my soft summer blouse; instead, I felt the heavy weight of thick, black robes. My hands looked pale, wrinkled, and terrifyingly old.
"My Lord," a deep, mechanical voice boomed.
I looked up and nearly fell off the seat. Standing before me was Darth Vader. The black mask, the heavy breathing, the cape—everything. He bowed low, his red lightsaber hanging at his belt.
"The rebel base on Hoth has been located," Vader said. "We await your command to begin the assault."
I blinked. I wasn't Mitsuki the office lady anymore. I was Sheev Palpatine, the Emperor of the Galaxy. I didn't know how to command a Star Destroyer, but I did know one thing: if I didn't act like I knew what I was doing, this 7-foot cyborg would definitely notice something was wrong.
"Good... good," I whispered, trying to mimic that creepy, raspy voice from the movies. "Everything is proceeding exactly as I have foreseen."
Inside, I was screaming. I just wanted to go back to LA and finish my vacation. Instead, I had an empire to run.
I had been in this cold, dark palace on Coruscant for only a few hours, and I was already exhausted. Back in Yokohama, the worst part of my day was a long meeting with my department head. Here, the "meetings" involved planetary destruction and Sith Lords.
I was sitting on the throne, trying to remember everything I knew about the Star Wars timeline. 5 BBY... okay, so the first Death Star is still being built, I thought.
Suddenly, a high-ranking officer entered the room and bowed deeply. "My Lord, Director Krennic has arrived from the construction site. He is requesting an immediate audience to discuss the progress of the project."
My heart skipped a beat. Director Orson Krennic. I remembered him from Rogue One and Andor—the man with the dramatic white cape and the even more dramatic ego. In the movies, Palpatine usually sent Vader or Tarkin to deal with him, but today, he was coming straight to me.
I felt like I was sitting on needles. In my old life, if a project manager came to me with a problem, we would just look at a Powerpoint. In this world, if I said the wrong thing, I might accidentally order a planetary execution.
"Let him in," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I tucked my pale, wrinkled hands into my sleeves so he wouldn't see them trembling.
The heavy doors groaned open. Krennic marched in, his long white cape flowing behind him. He looked sharp, arrogant, and extremely stressed. He knelt before me, but I could see the ambition in his eyes.
"My Emperor," Krennic began, his voice filled with forced confidence. "The technical difficulties with the primary weapon's power source have been... addressed. However, I require more resources and more security. Grand Moff Tarkin is interfering with my command!"
I looked down at him. Oh no, I thought. This is just like a corporate dispute between two branch managers. I had to say something "Emperor-like." I couldn't tell him I was actually a 30-year-old woman from Japan who just wanted a Disney churro.
"Director Krennic," I rasped, leaning forward into the shadows. "Your... 'technical difficulties' are costing me time. Do not concern yourself with Tarkin. Concern yourself with the results. Is the station on schedule?"
Krennic paled. He looked like he was about to sweat through his expensive white uniform.
Inside, I was thinking: I have no idea what a 'Kyber Crystal' is, please don't ask me for technical advice.
Krennic took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with that desperate ambition I used to see in middle-management back in Yokohama.
"My Lord," he whispered, his voice echoing in the throne room. "The planet Ghorman sits on a massive supply of the crystals we need for the reactor. However, the locals are... stubborn. Their protests are slowing down our mining operations. If we simply 'adjust' the core mining protocols—effectively destroying the planet's inner stability—we can extract everything we need in weeks instead of years."
I froze. I remembered this. This was the Ghorman Massacre. If I said yes, I wasn't just signing a travel expense report; I was signing a death warrant for thousands of people.
But then I looked at Krennic. He was watching me like a hawk. If I showed any "mercy," he might realize I wasn't the real Palpatine. I had to play the part. I had to give him a "Big Pie" to keep him motivated—and keep him away from me.
I let out a low, cold chuckle. "Director Krennic... you finally show the vision I expected of you."
I saw him brighten up immediately. The man lived for praise.
"The galaxy is a complicated machine," I continued, leaning back into the shadows of the throne. "Sometimes, a few gears must be crushed to ensure the engine runs smoothly. You have my permission. Proceed with the Ghorman operation. Do not let the 'protests' of insignificant people stand in the way of my weapon."
Krennic bowed so low his forehead almost touched the floor. "Thank you, My Lord! I will not fail you!"
"See that you don't," I added, throwing in a bit of a threat for flavor. "The Death Star is your legacy, Orson. Complete it, and your name will be whispered with fear alongside the greatest names in history. Fail... and you will be forgotten."
I watched him march out, his white cape fluttering with newfound energy. He looked like he’d just been promoted to Senior Vice President.
Krennic was so high on my "Big Pie" speech that he turned around too fast. Between his dramatic cape, the weeks of overtime, and what I guessed was a severe case of low blood sugar, his legs simply gave out.
Thud!
The Director of Advanced Weapons Research hit the polished floor like a sack of credits. He stumbled, his white cape Tangling around his boots, and he nearly face-planted right in front of the throne. It was incredibly pathetic.
Back in Yokohama, my "In-house legal" brain took over instantly. Safety hazard! Unsafe floor conditions! Potential liability claim! Is there a defibrillator in the Death Star?!
Before I could remind myself that I was a Dark Lord of the Sith, I jumped out of my throne. "Are you okay?!" I blurred out, reaching out a hand to help him. "That was a nasty fall!"
The room went silent. I mean, dead silent. The Royal Guards in their red armor actually twitched.
Krennic looked up at me from the floor, his eyes wide with pure shock. He wasn't looking at a monster; he was looking at an Emperor who had just shown... human concern? In his mind, he probably thought I was going to use Force Lightning to finish him off for being clumsy. Instead, I was standing there looking like a worried HR manager.
I realized my mistake immediately. I had to pivot. I cleared my throat and deepened my voice back to that creepy rasp.
"Director... stay down for a moment," I said, trying to make 'caring' sound 'menacing.' "Your life belongs to me. If you die of exhaustion before the station is finished, it would be a... waste of Imperial resources. Control your health as strictly as you control your scientists."
Krennic’s face went from pale to bright red. Tears actually started to well up in his eyes. He didn't see the "legal liability" worry—he saw a God-King showing him personal grace.
He scrambled to his knees, ignoring his bruised ego, and grabbed the hem of my black robes.
"My Lord!" he choked out, his voice trembling with emotion. "I... I have been overlooked by so many. Tarkin treats me like a tool! But you... you see my struggle! I swear to you, by the stars themselves, I will give my soul to this project. I am yours, body and mind! I will burn Ghorman to the ground just to see you smile!"
I stood there, frozen. Oh no, I thought. I’ve accidentally created a fanatic. I just didn't want him to file a lawsuit, and now he’s ready to commit more war crimes out of pure love for me.
"Good," I managed to say, patting his shoulder awkwardly. "Now... go eat something. That is an order."
As he floated out of the room on cloud nine, I sat back down and put my head in my hands. Being the Emperor was much harder than being a salaryman.
The adrenaline from the Krennic incident finally began to fade, replaced by the familiar, soul-crushing weight of paperwork. It turns out that ruling a galaxy is 10% dark side sorcery and 90% administrative approval.
I retreated to my private study, a room filled with flickering blue holograms and floating digital tablets. I sat behind a massive desk made of obsidian, staring at the glowing text.
At first, I panicked. I can’t read Aurebesh! But then, a strange sensation washed over my brain—a lingering shadow of the real Palpatine’s consciousness. The jagged symbols began to shift and blur until I could understand them perfectly. My years as an In-house Counsel in Yokohama weren't wasted; a contract is a contract, whether it’s for office supplies or TIE Fighter parts.
"Let’s see what we have here," I muttered, my raspy voice echoing in the empty room.
The first few files were horrifying.
Proposal 88-B: A 30% tax increase on the Outer Rim to fund "Palace Renovations."
Proposal 104-C: A request to seize all private lands on a small moon just to build a private resort for Admiral Motti.
My legal brain screamed. This is a disaster waiting to happen! In my old firm, we called this "high-risk liability." If I taxed these people into starvation, the Rebellion wouldn't just be a nuisance—it would be a tidal wave.
I picked up the digital stylus and began tapping "REJECTED" on the screen with aggressive speed.
"Reasoning: Unreasonable tax burden likely to trigger civil unrest and decrease long-term GDP. Suggest a 5% luxury tax on Core World shipping instead," I noted down. I realized I was basically doing a Legal Compliance Audit for the Galactic Empire.
I spent hours correcting "illegal" seizures and striking down "unconstitutional" military arrests (well, unconstitutional according to the laws I was making up as I went). I felt like a hero, even if I was wearing the robes of a villain.
By the time the artificial lights of Coruscant dimmed to simulate "night," my back was aching. My old, Emperor-shaped spine was not built for 12-hour shifts.
I walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The city-planet stretched out forever, a sea of glowing lights and flying traffic. It was a thousand times more beautiful than the Yokohama skyline, yet I felt more alone than ever.
I caught my reflection in the glass. The hood was pulled low, the skin was grey and scarred, and those yellow-rimmed eyes looked back at me. I wasn't Mitsuki Ogasawara, the girl who liked Miu Miu bags and Dior lipstick. I was the monster in the tower.
"I just wanted a vacation," I whispered to the empty room.
I lay down on the massive, uncomfortable bed, still wearing half my robes because I didn't know how the buttons worked. As I closed my eyes, I had one final thought: I wonder if I can use the Death Star budget to build a decent Japanese restaurant on Coruscant? I’d kill for some authentic ramen right now.
After a few days, I figured out the Force Lightning. It felt like a massive static shock combined with a shot of espresso. I practiced in my private chambers, zapping a stray droid that moved too slowly. Zzz-zap! "Unlimited power!" I whispered, giggling in my raspy Palpatine voice. It was a great stress reliever.
I had Krennic eating out of the palm of my hand. Every morning, he sent me a "Status Update" (basically a galactic Slack message) about the Ghorman project. He even started ending his reports with, "For your health and glory, My Lord." I think I’m the first boss who ever told him to eat a snack, and he’s now my most loyal golden retriever.
In the Senate, I was a star. Whenever Mon Mothma or Bail Organa started talking about "human rights" or "over-taxation," I’d just lean forward, let my hood shadow my face, and say, "The Senate will observe order." My legal background made it easy to find loopholes in their arguments. I felt like a Senior Partner at a top-tier law firm, shutting down the opposition.
"I am a natural at this," I told my reflection while trying on a new, slightly silkier black robe. "Maybe I don't even need to go back to Yokohama."
Then came the morning briefing.
A young officer bowed so low he was practically doing a push-up. "My Lord, the Executrix has entered the system. Grand Moff Tarkin has returned from the Outer Rim. He requests a private audience to discuss the final stages of the 'Stardust' project and the... unusual administrative changes you’ve made this week."
My stomach dropped.
Krennic is an emotional wreck; he’s easy to fool. Vader is a drama queen; he just wants someone to tell him what to do. But Tarkin? Tarkin is a shark. He’s cold, he’s brilliant, and he spent years working side-by-side with the real Palpatine. He knows the Emperor’s smell, his gait, and his exact brand of evil.
"He’s coming here? Now?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly. I quickly cleared my throat. "I mean... let him come. I shall... deal with him."
I sat on my throne, my heart hammering against my ribs. I tried to remember everything from the movies. Tarkin is all about "Fear." The Tarkin Doctrine.
Okay, Mitsuki, I told myself. Think like a corporate auditor. He’s just a very, very scary regional manager. If he suspects anything, I’ll just... I’ll just zap him? No, that’s too messy. I have to out-logic him.
The heavy doors began to open. I could see the tall, thin silhouette of the man in the olive-green uniform. Even from a distance, he looked like he was judging my posture.
"Don't trip on the robe," I prayed silently. "Please, for the love of the Force, don't let me slip into my polite Yokohama bowing habit."
tbc