I pushed the throttle and slipped through the clouds like a knife through whipped cream. For a moment—just a moment—it felt like something out of heaven. Soft light, open skies, that impossible weightlessness. But nah. This wasn’t heaven. Just the upper atmosphere of some mid-rim dump where the food was radioactive beige and the people even worse.

 

 

 

Still, it was as close as someone like me was ever gonna get. I smiled and looked over at my copilot.

 

 

 

She smiled back. Just a little. That made it rare enough to count.

 

 

 

Hard to smile after a lifetime of slavery, but she was starting to figure out the concept of fun. Of selfishness. Of existing just for the hell of it.

 

 

 

I tapped the console, and music burst out the overheads like a second sun.

 

 

 

“Break me down and I’ll call you mine—

 

And I know I’ve been arouuund!”

 

 

 

Girl in Red. God-tier music. One of the few things that kept me me in this godforsaken galaxy. You see existance in star wars is bleak. Every few decades some lunatic tries to take over or destroy the galaxy. The corruption and rot is ever-present, Tech is stagnant, it almost felt like home when I saw speeder companies bringing out same products with just marginally better performance or accessories and call it new. And music was trash.

 

 

 

When I got thrown into this place by accident—or divine prank, still not sure which—I didn’t have much. Just my phone, a few items, and a severe case of what the hell is going on. But I managed to jury-rig a way to charge and fix it. Took months. The tech here was a nightmare— stagnant yet insanely advanced but also designed by drunk ferrets. Made me contemplate throwing myself into a black hole more than once. But my love for civilized and actual music pulled me back from the edge.

 

 

 

Totally worth it.

 

 

 

Penny—nickname, don’t judge—sat beside me, head bobbing to the beat, trying her best to mouth the lyrics. The words were pure gibberish, but the vibe was perfect. Music didn’t care about species or syntax. It just hit. Like a good punch. Or a bad kiss. Or an anti-matter reactor melting down in the background while you harmonize through the apocalypse.

 

 

 

“Show me that you really care…

 

That you’re really here…”

 

 

 

Yeah. That line hit hard.

 

 

 

One good thing about getting dumped into this galaxy: I got better at singing. Not magically, just… tighter control. Better pitch, sharper breath, more confidence. Honestly, if someone asked me what superpower I gained in space, I’d say it was singing.

 

 

 

Sure, I had other stuff too. Physically, I looked like I was drawn by a DC intern who only knew how to render trauma and abs. I was faster, stronger—basically a human on Prime with free two-day delivery and built-in guilt. But blasters didn’t care. I could maybe tank one shot before the second one turned my spleen into fondue.

 

 

 

Singing, though? Music? That saved my life. Not metaphorically. Literally. Singing, sharing songs, giving poor bastards in this musically bankrupt galaxy a taste of Earth’s finest—that’s what made people see me as something more than “the big human with possibly lootable organs.”

 

 

 

Now I had a reputation. A strange one.

 

 

 

“Oh look, it’s the singer! Let’s hear something. If it's not good I'll shoot you.”

 

 

 

Progress.

 

 

 

We touched down just as the song ended, the landing gear kissing the tarmac with surprising grace. Ahead loomed the dreaded structure: A government registration office. Imperial, which automatically made it evil, but honestly, all government buildings operated under the same core philosophy—maximize paperwork, minimize hope.

 

 

 

I was here to blow the place up in protest and etch my name into the collective trauma of bureaucrats across the multiverse.

 

 

 

Or, more accurately, I was here to finalize a citizenship form. For Penny.

 

 

 

Not quite as sexy.

 

 

 

See, I’d been making runs to this hellhole for two months trying to get her registered as a person. Imagine that—needing permission to exist. Her full name was Thal’penari, but I called her Penny because I was a culturally insensitive idiot with a bad memory for alien apostrophes.

 

 

 

Today was the day, though. The papers were supposedly ready. All we had to do was walk in, get the cert, and walk out. Then maybe I’d find some greasy food stall and deep-fry the taste of galactic bureaucracy out of my mouth.

 

 

 

I glanced at Penny. She looked calm. But her lekku were twitching—small signs of tension.

 

 

 

Me? I was feeling good. Maybe too good. Which meant fate was going to gut-punch me any minute now.

 

 

 

The inside of the office smelled like old laminate, overheated wiring, and the stale tension of people who hated their jobs but hated getting fired more. I half-expected a line of souls waiting to register for purgatory, but no, just dusty chairs and dead-eyed clerks behind flickering terminals.

 

 

 

The front desk was manned by a droid so old it had been retrofitted with analog parts. It waved us forward with all the enthusiasm of a rotting tree branch. Our number blinked on a cracked screen. I tugged Penny’s hand gently, and we stepped up to the counter.

 

 

 

The clerk looked like every Imperial mid-tier loser I’d ever met. Human. Early 30s. Hair slicked back like he thought it earned him rank. He barely glanced at me before his mouth started chanting the cursed language of bureaucracy.

 

 

 

"Papers?" he drawled.

 

 

 

But I was not to be defeated this easily. I'd spent the last two months getting proficient in this blasted language of bureaucracy.

 

 

 

I pulled out the stack I’d been grooming like a bonsai tree for weeks. Perfect. Stamped. Double-checked. Triple-signed.

 

 

 

He looked at them. Then at me. Then back to the papers.

 

 

 

"This form’s expired."

 

 

 

"No, it’s not. Look again—rev. update 5A, local planetary variant. Ratified two weeks ago."

 

 

 

He blinked. "...Oh. Huh."

 

 

 

The clerk narrowed his eyes recognising my skill and the fact that he wasn't torturing some poor bureaucratically illiterate Outer-rim refugee.

 

 

 

He started using forbidden spells and arts of form and procedures. I countered easily. But I recognised this was just an opening act. I recognised his skill too and gave him a quiet nod of respect which he returned. The whole office seemed to recognise this momentous event and left us alone while watching in awe as our legendary battle began.

 

 

 

His brow furrowed. He began to dig, pulling out obscure clauses and rare procedural traps. This wasn’t a registration. This was war.

 

 

 

But I was ready.

 

 

 

I countered. Redirected. Cross-referenced. At one point, I quoted from the mid-rim relocation statutes like I’d written them myself.

 

 

 

The battle escalated. Bureaucratic combat.

 

 

 

Penny looked between us like we were dueling wizards.

 

 

 

The imperial bureaucrat was skilled. Better at pulling out procedures and laws out of his ass better than anyone I'd ever seen but I wasn't a learner anymore. I was a changed man. 2 months ago he would have eaten me alive, now I easily countered him. He recognised the true depth of my skills as did I. We gestured. We spat. I even did a whole mic drop sequence. He somehow struck a jojo pose. How he knew it? I had no idea but but I was pretty sure neither did he. This went on till he made a mistake. He dropped obscure code designations and brought out the weapon of last resort: Form E7-CB/Beta. Small one but in the battle of masters, a fatal one.

 

 

 

I didn’t flinch as I produced the override clause. That had been the trap I had been laying since I recognised his endgame. After that I kept him unbalanced and pushed him further till I gave him the bureaucratic equivalent of FATALITY!

 

 

 

"It's over officer. I have the high ground." I panted out. My throat was dry and sweat poured down my forehead. He was really good but now he leaned back, stared at me like I’d just bent time. But he soon nodded. Game recognises game. 

 

 

 

"Well played Mister Warner. Well played indeed. It is good to see that at least someone speaks the civilized language in this blasted portion of the galaxy." He drawled out. No less exhausted and spent then me.

 

 

 

"You were pretty good yourself. Better than anyone I ever faced. I only won because you made a mistake. It was luck-"

 

 

 

"Now now mister Warner. Let's not insult your skill. Seizing opportunity and luck is all part and parcel of the great game. You have my respect."

 

 

 

"Thank you. Anyways now my friend Penny here-"

 

 

 

Penny where? I looked around the bleak office and found no cute colourful twi'lek, who I had no chance with, in my vicinity. I decided to look for the most intelligent life-form in this office for some answers. I locked eyes with a small tan skined human kid. He pointed outside. I looked back at the bureaucrat and he gave me a nod. Which hopefully meant he'd allow me to cut the line when I got back with my wayward crewmate mate.

 

 

 

I stood in the middle of the government plaza, hands on my hips, staring at crowd.

 

 

 

I looked left. Then right.

 

 

 

“Penny?” I called out. “Penny!”

 

 

 

Nothing.

 

 

 

Not a soul in that direction. No glimpse of teal skin. No flash of her head wrap. Just crowds moving and civilians shouting and nothing that made sense.

 

 

 

I checked again. Because obviously I was hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or mid-stroke.

 

 

 

Nope. Still gone.

 

 

 

She wasn't here. Neither was my ship.

 

 

 

Wait-WHAT?! MY SHIP!!

 

 

 

"My fucking ship?! Where is it?!"

 

 

 

I sprinted toward the parking droid and immediately accosted and interrogated it. 

 

 

 

“My ship!” I barked. “Where the hell is my ship?!”

 

 

 

The droid spat out a bunch of random beeps before projecting a bland little holo-log. There it was: inbound entry from earlier. Docked. Scanned. All under the name: Alex Warner. Next to the entry of my newly purchased ship was the exit log. Ten minutes ago: departure. Cleared. Same name. Same credentials.

 

 

 

Except I hadn’t left..

 

 

 

Only one other person had my codes. One person who I gave it to as placeholder till we could get her certs. One other person I’d given that trust to, like a complete dumbass.

 

 

 

Penny.

 

 

 

Penny was gone.

 

 

 

And so was my ship. My ship. My teal-painted, half-salvaged, fully-mine ship. Now she was gone. With my ship. And it wasn't just with my ship. It was my home. I slept in it. It was gone along with my credits, my weapons, my belongings, my documentation, my smartphone, my mother's necklace, my fucking comforter, the money I saved for repaying the loan I took to get it. It was all gone.

 

 

 

Taken by someone I'd considered my friend. Had a crush on. Someone I sticked out my neck to free from slavery. Someone I fed, sheltered and cared for. For whom I slaved away at this building, calling in favours, booking forms, going through lengthy procedures, arguing with imperial bureaucrats, paying the fees to get her registered. Someone who gave me innocent smiles all the time. Now she was gone.

 

 

 

I kept staring at the empty spot like maybe it’d come back if I blinked hard enough. I wasn't even angry, sad or shocked. I wasn't sure what I was feeling but I felt like I wasn't in my own body. 

 

 

 

“Hey, citizen,” A voice broke through the fog—deep, modulated, vaguely amused, “You alright?”

 

 

 

I was jolted out my fugue by a pair of storm troopers looking at me with...concern? That was deeply disturbing. I bit down on the thousand things I wanted to say. “No. I got robbed. And the Twi’lek I was with. She disappeared.”

 

 

 

The troopers glanced at each other, then walked over with the kind of cautious optimism that said we’re bored and this sounds juicy.

 

 

 

The shorter one took off his helmet. Probably in his early thirties. Light stubble, sun-creased skin, a smug but not unkind expression, the kind of guy who used the phrase ‘guy code’ unironically.

 

 

 

“Twi’lek, huh?” he said, as if confirming a suspicion. “She blue or green?”

 

 

 

“Teal.”

 

 

 

“Oof. Exotic. That’s the premium kind.”

 

 

 

I narrowed my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

 

 

The other trooper laughed. “It means you’re not the first sob story to come through here with his wallet and soul missing. Twi’lek girls are like magicians. Except the only thing that disappears is your stuff. You should hear the stories out of Lothal. Twi’lek dancers clean out whole squads before breakfast. What did she steal from your sorry behind?”

 

 

 

“She took my ship,” I said quietly.

 

 

 

Both men froze for a beat.

 

 

 

“Oh kriff,” they said in unison.

 

 

 

The short one shook his head. “Damn. Ship theft is next-level betrayal.”

 

 

 

“You didn’t see this coming?” his friend asked. “She smile a lot? Touch your arm when she thanked you?”

 

 

 

I didn’t answer.

 

 

 

They exchanged a look.

 

 

 

“She smiled a lot, didn’t she?”

 

 

 

“She was different,” I said, not sure if I believed it.

 

 

 

“Oh, they’re all different, buddy.” The short one leaned on a nearby pillar like he was preparing a TED Talk titled How I Got Played and So Did You. “That’s the point. They don’t look like con artists. They look like trauma with cute accents. That’s the grift.”

 

 

 

“They flinch, they cry, they say ‘thank you’ in that voice,” the other added. “And boom- suddenly you’re buying them food, fixing their ID, and giving them the keys to your transport.”

 

 

 

“You’re not angry yet,” said the first one. “Wait till it hits you tonight. That’s when betrayal really marinates.”

 

 

 

I rubbed my face. “She was a real slave. Ryloth-born. Not very cunning.”

 

 

 

The first trooper shrugged. “Sure. And I’m the Emperor’s long-lost nephew. Look, I’m not saying she wasn’t. Maybe she was. But the second they get out, they adapt. That’s the thing about Twi’leks—smart, slippery, good survival instincts. Natural thieves. Nature made ’em pretty for a reason. Distracts the weak.”

 

 

 

“Not to mention,” added the second, “they’ve got these reputations for being empathetic and sensual and all that, but most of that’s conditioning. Breeding camps, pleasure houses—it’s just scripts they learn to run on soft-hearted types.”

 

 

 

“And you—no offense—look like a doormat. I know you're big and intimidating but you've got the face. You know the helpful kind.”

 

 

 

I didn’t bother answering that insult. It was true.

 

 

 

“…I painted the ship teal.”

 

 

 

They both groaned. “Oh, man.”

 

 

 

The first trooper slapped his chest plate lightly. “But hey. Silver lining? You’re free now.”

 

 

 

He grinned. “Could put that energy to better use. You ever consider signing on? Proper work. Steady meals. Gets your mind off betrayal and, who knows, maybe one day you’re stationed near Ryloth.”

 

 

 

He winked. “Little poetic justice. Just saying.”

 

 

 

I looked at him sideways, before remembered I was chatting with a stormtrooper for comfort. Just how much worse could this day get? 

 

 

 

“I’m serious,” the trooper added. “You’d fit in. You’re human, you’re tall, you’re clearly trained. You don’t seem like a mope. This kind of heartbreak? Builds character. The kind we like.”

 

 

 

“Thanks,” i said dryly.

 

 

 

Just then, another figure strolled in—taller, sharper, wrapped in an Imperial officer’s coat so stiff it looked like it had a command structure of its own, and the kind of face that was used to giving bad advice confidently.

 

 

 

"What's all this, then?" The captain intoned in a deep voice which he probably used to project he was being strict but his expression just screamed like he was dying to know the gossip. I suppose being in the Imperial army was pretty boring.

 

 

 

“Captain Grint,” one of them said after they both gave him a stiff salute. “This here’s—uh—?”

 

 

 

“Alex.”

 

 

 

“Alex! Poor sod got the full Ryloth special.” The short trooper said before delivering an abridged version of my personal tragedy.

 

 

 

 

"You lose your ship and your Twi'lek?" Captain Grint gave a low whistle. “Tell me you at least had a backup stash somewhere.”

 

 

 

I just stared.

 

 

 

“Oh come on!” the captain said, throwing his arms up. “Rule number one of frontier living: never store everything in one place! Always hide a stash. Locker, floor panel, sock drawer—you gotta diversify!”

 

 

 

The short one nodded. “I once hid 700 credits in a deodorant stick. Got mugged, but I smelled rich for weeks.”

 

 

 

Grint snorted. “You want investment advice? Get an astromech. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t lie. If it betrays you, you can just kick it and call it a diagnostic, and it makes a funny noises when you kick it.”

 

 

 

The captain nodded slowly, as if reading between the lines.

 

 

 

“Alright. You need space. I get it.”

 

 

 

He lowered his voice just enough to sound like he was offering real kindness. “Look… it’s not your fault. They’re built different, yeah, but you’re not weak for falling for it. You’re just not used to what this galaxy really is. The rot. The lies. That’ll change.”

 

 

 

He gave my arm a brief, solid pat. Like he was proud of my tragic backstory.

 

 

 

“When it does, we’ll still be here.”

 

 

 

I wondered how much the Empire spent on training and equipping these guys that they could deliver such cringey lines with a straight face.

 

 

 

And just like that, the Empire’s most emotionally available idiots turned and walked away—leaving me in the plaza, alone, broke, betrayed, and seriously considering enlisting just to annoy myself.