She's a Rebel [Star Wars | Luke Skywalker] *EDITING*

A New Hope

"General Hawkins, Lord Vader requests your presence at the conference about the stolen plans," Commander Tagge says, walking up to me. I glance over at the slimy young man. Stolen plans? Sounds like that ragtag group of Rebel spies managed to steal the plans for the Death Star after all. Hopefully they don't get round to blowing it up while Zach, Evan and I are still stationed here. 

"I'm busy," I snap at him, going back to fuelling my ship.

It's a beautiful ship, sleek and black, and not one of those pathetic Twin Ion Engine fighters that the majority of the Empire use. It's a brilliant ship from Corellia; a TSR P.1127, with two 30mm cannon gun pods in the centre of each wing, as well as the main gun on the bottom of the fuselage and a bomb and cargo hold towards the back of the ship, it's a powerful weapon.

"You really must come," Tagge persists as I oil and clean the hydraulic systems under the wings. "Vader asked for you specifically."

"Can't it wait?" I say, raising one of my eyebrows at him as I close the hatch to the hydraulic systems and chuck the oil can and rag I was using back into the crate on the floor.

"I don't think it is wise to upset him," he continues as I unscrew the pump, close the fuel hatch and put the fuelling equipment away. I suppose it isn't, considering Vader actually somewhat likes me more than the other Imperial Generals.

I sigh and make my way out of Hangar 2037, following Tagge towards the conference room. My lightsaber bumps against my right thigh as I walk, and my blaster in its holster bumps against my left. I decide to compose myself, and as we walk I flick my black hair from my blue eyes and tie it back in a low bun that hangs just above the nape of my neck, shorter hairs escaping and hanging by my eyes. I adjust my shiny rank plaque that is pinned to my tunic, and smooth my tunic down.

"We have men who can do that for you," Tagge tells me, very condescendingly, and I turn to look at him.

"Well, I can do it better," I snap at him. "And this ship requires minute care. It's better than those shoddy excuses for fighters you use in your Starfleet. It's a wonder the Rebellion haven't already wiped us out."

He closes his mouth and nods, turning away from me, and I smirk to myself.

I glance around at the corridors as we walk. They are grey and black, with white shafts arranged in elongated oval patterns for letting in artificial light. I frown to myself. I hate it here. The air always feels contaminated, even though it's pumped through the station by numerous ducts, the colours are dull and lifeless, and there's never any natural light. It's all so formal and pristine and orderly. There's no recklessness or originality anywhere.

We reach the conference room, which is the same shade of grey as the corridors, and I glance around at the Imperial Officers already here who are all looking very concerned. Tagge takes a seat around the shiny black table, but I refuse to sit with them. I stay stood in the corner, away from them, leaning against the wall, and I pick at some oil that has managed to find its way under my fingernail.

Tagge clears his throat loudly, breaking the tense silence in the room. "Until this battle station is fully operational, we are vulnerable," he begins. "The Rebel Alliance is too well equipped. They're more dangerous than we realise."

I smile to myself as I look up at the group of them, and the worried expressions on their faces. Oh, yes we are.

Admiral Motti twists nervously in his chair. "Dangerous to your Starfleet, Commander, not to this battle station," he retorts.

"The Rebellion will continue to gain support in the Imperial Senate as long as-"

"The Imperial Senate will no longer be of any concern to us," Grand Moff Tarkin interrupts Tagge as he comes striding into the conference room. He's old and scrawny, yet egotistical, stern and brutal.