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[Submitted by FluffySharkz_ | Twitter]

If anyone hasn’t spent a Friday night binging shitty free B-Movies on Amazon prime I cannot recommend it enough. You scroll through the “more like this” rabbit hole far enough and find some real gems, take such classics as “Buba the Redneck Werewolf” or “Attack of the Killer Doughnuts” although I will recommend ”The Velocipastor” simply for the fact that the first scene has several shots that cut to text reading “VFX car on fire” in the place of any visuals.

amber smooched 13 send post

stupid hyperlaser misses his only shot watch now to find out what happens next

Is this the greatest power in the universe?

The really funny thing about Hobbits dressing like 19th century gentleman farmers and everyone else looking generically renaissance/medieval is that it kind of heavily implies that Hobbits are the only ones who developed advanced sewing techniques.

Hobbits are the best tailors #confirmed

doodle dump ahead

The Agony of Tarkin

Some days, Cormal was sure the galaxy had it out for him.

Some days like today. Especially today. In fact, with the way his day had gone so far, Cormal should probably keep an eye out for pianos falling from the sky on his walk home to squash him. Although on second thought, maybe not. Maybe instead, he should stand under the shadow of the incoming mass, arms flung wide open in calm acceptance, peaceful smile on his face. Death by piano was preferable than death by other, more extended means like, say, strangulation. Cormal shivered.

It had all begun when Cormal had picked up a side job as an extra for the Imperial Opera. He had needed the credits, thanks to his dingy apartment with the leaky pipes and creakingly thin walls raising rent again, and besides, Cormal had always fancied himself a bit of an actor. In his teens, he had dreamed of performing in his schools plays, front and center under the glowing spotlights, but unfortunately, one ugly, insurmountable fact towered over Cormal’s dreams: Cormal had crippling stage fright. During the first speaking role he’d ever gotten, he had stepped forward, opened his mouth bravely, and promptly fainted on the spot. Cormal could still remember the line, a trite proverb about how a fool and his ship are soon parted indelibly seared into his brain by the red-hot humiliation. Waking up on the grimy floor of the stage had been unpleasant; hearing the muttering of the crowd had been uncomfortable; frenziedly trying to remember his line – fools? fools and what? fools and what – had been unbearable.

The director, a washed-out theatre teacher who fancied himself a misunderstood genius, had not been happy. Cormal had spent the next thirty minutes being strongly impressed upon that the show must go on despite any unconsciousness, bloodshed, or other medical emergencies. Forever banished to the background afterwards, Cormal had played shrubs and TIE-fighters and dancer #4 and in one notable instance, half of a sliding door, all while shyly imagining himself as the main character. As the years had pattered on, though, school finished and adulthood begun, Cormal had had to turn his attention from dazzling daydreams to concrete realities, such as fun truths like how renting a closet-sized apartment on Coruscant cost an arm, a leg, and a few extra fingers, all while you still had to cough up funds for other pesky matters like food.

After a bright red message had cheerily flashed onto Cormal’s comm about new rent rates, Cormal had had to face the dismal truth that he needed another source of income. He had plugged his credentials into a job site to find jobs suitable for him, and it had promptly spat out no results at a speed that was downright insulting. The page hadn’t even flashed a loading symbol. And so, he’d had to pull up more generic jobs – sanitary droid maintenance: no, Cormal was dealing with enough shit, thank you – cage cleaner at bantha exhibition: no, see above – collector at fecal research institute: Cormal had shut down his datapad with a shudder. In the end, only one job had been fecal free (physically speaking, anyway), one that Cormal had spied stashed away at the bottom of the listings.

The Imperial Opera Company needed extras to fill scenes for its newest opera, The Bantha and the Gungan. Upon reading the bulletin, something close to excitement had sparked in Cormal. He thought the stage had been closed to him forever, but here was an open door back. An open, paid door. Reaching out to thumb the Apply button in all of its neon yellow glory, Cormal had hesitated for half a second, thinking of the blatant Imperial propaganda pushed by the opera and Palpatine’s frequent attendance…and then his lights had flickered off. Damn energy bill. At that, the button had been slammed without another thought. He would be an extra, beneath political and moral notice.  

Or so he had thought. So he had stupidly, stupidly thought.

Things had gone well, at first. He had gotten the job and immediately been assigned Bantha End #3, a politic way of saying he was a bantha’s ass. But any doubts about being a bantha’s ass had been cleanly swept away by his first paycheck. The opera seemingly had credits to burn, probably because Palpatine’s attention and the frequent attendance of ridiculously wealthy businessmen attempting to purchase the veneer of old-money snobbery.

Seeing his account go from red to green had given Cormal a high unmatched by any spice he’d ever tried. Maybe the Empire wasn’t so bad. As the weeks had slid on and his account had fattened, he’d grew more and more certain that he’d made the right decision. Questionable ethics of propaganda aside, Cormal was paying rent on time for the first time in two years. Principles were for those who could afford them.

Then, the Imperial Opera had decided (been ordered) to put on a special production of The Agony of Tarkin, a doleful opera about the last days of the esteemed (or not so esteemed—the loss of the Death Star had pinched some pockets of those aforementioned businessmen sharply) Admiral, as a memorial for his late passing. Hearing the news hadn’t made Cormal so much as blink. His company was called the Imperial Opera Company, after all, not the Morals and Justice Brigade. As long as Cormal got his paycheck, he wasn’t complaining.

A blissful if willfully blind moral philosophy that had served him well up until he’d marched up to the casting announcement, only to freeze on the spot at the horrible, horrible words confronting him. This couldn’t be right. Surely, even the Imperial Opera Company wouldn’t dare—

“Congrats, Cormal!” chirped Yari, the coat girl, pink lekku bouncing as she bounded down the hall. “Your first major role, huh?”

Cormal tried to acknowledge her sweet well-wishes (especially as, well, Yari was cute) but could only mumble something in the distant neighborhood of, “thanksappreciate,” while he stared at the posting blankly.

Cormal Sessi – Darth Vader

He hadn’t known Darth Vader was a character in the opera. Should have guessed – Vader had escorted Tarkin during his final days, and Tarkin’s final day alive was the plot – but Vader? Vader singing?

Cormal tried to picture it, but the mental image adamantly refused to be born or even conceived. Darth Vader didn’t exactly inspire anyone to burst into song. Maybe into last rite prayer hymns.

Shock wearing off and brain rattling back to life, Cormal remembered he was an extra with no training in classical singing. Inspecting the posting more closely revealed the comforting news that Vader was a non-singing, non-speaking role. Well, that made sense. (And was a huge relief – no risk of repeating the awful fool and ship snafu.) From what Cormal had observed of Vader during mandatory Imperial broadcasts, the man (? being?) seemed to excel in standing around threateningly. Very little was known about Vader at all; he had popped into existence at the beginning of the Empire twenty odd years ago and had yet to pop out of it, despite myriad attempts from rebel terrorists, power-hungry Imperials, and straight up dumbasses. Cormal still remembered his brash, sports-inclined classmates who had been confident they could beat Vader in hand-to-hand combat. Idiots.

Cormal took a breath. He could handle this. He could stand around threateningly. Given that most of the opera consisted of choirs bathed in pink light singing to Tarkin about his great foresight and leadership, Cormal probably wouldn’t have to move a millimeter, unlike with the bantha costume where the hairy tail had kept smacking him in the face every time he had so much as breathed. Cheered up at the thought, Cormal put his hands in his pockets and walked off, thinking of tomorrow’s payday.

--

“You’re sure that’s not everything?”

Cormal knew he sounded desperate. But he was currently sweaty, itchy, and weighed down by what felt to be about 30 pounds of fabric, and from the looks of piles next to him on the floor, about to be weighed down by 30 pounds more.

Pins in her mouth, tsking, Marl, the costume designer, shook her head. “When I heard they decided to have Vader in this…I swear! Thought they had all gone mad. Vader, of all Imperials. His get-up is ridiculous. Ridiculous! I had to study government broadcasts for a week. Do you know how many pockets that suit has? Don’t even get me started on the fabric, it’s clearly industrial strength but gods help me if I could find anything that looked like it anywhere. It’s quilted armor! Quilted! Doesn’t help that our dear dictator,” – Cormal winced as a pin jabbed into his skin, which was apt to happen whenever the director entered the conversation – “insists on historical accuracy for everything! Historical accuracy, my ass. The man is just worried about Vader attending and getting in a snit about his portrayal.”

“Um,” Cormal began, not having considered Vader attending the opera and feeling weak-kneed at the thought.

“Oh, don’t you worry, dearie, I have never seen Vader attend an opera yet, and I’ve been working here for fifty years.” Reflectively, mouth muffled by pins, “Palpatine is who you really need to worry about.”

Oh, great. Like Palpatine was any better. Vader at least was straightforward, a predator who went for the throat (literally). Cormal got the impression that Palpatine liked to play with his food. He could only hope that Palpatine and Vader’s relationship was casual enough to where Palpatine didn’t give a rat’s ass about Vader’s on-stage persona. Cormal glowered. With his luck, the two were probably like father and son. Vader did seem like someone only Palpatine could have produced.

Why me, Cormal thought, and then startled because he’d accidentally grumbled it out loud.

“Because of your height, sweetie,” Marl responded comfortingly. “No one else was tall enough.” She stepped back, scanning him from head to toe. “Now, this is far from historically accurate, but under the spotlights it will look close enough.”

“It better,” Yari scampered into the room, arms stacked with datapads. “I got news from the top. Palpatine will be attending opening night with allll the bigwigs to honor Tarkin. Everyone involved in the Death Star has to attend. Imperial governors, Moffs. Mostly all its investors who had to kiss their credits goodbye when it blew up.” With a giggle, “Bet they’re happy about that.” The datapads thunked down as she lazily crashed onto the couch across from Cormal, who instantly stiffened at her nearness and frantically hoped he wasn’t blooming bright red. “Vader’s gonna be there too.”

Cormal, already struggling to act natural in front of Yari (how did he usually hold his arms? Wait, what did he usually do with his face--), froze into a posture reminiscent of a snitmouse wetting itself.

“So, what are the buttons on the chest for?” Yari asked conversationally, cheerfully unconcerned with Cormal’s brain stuttering to a halt while his heart raced at sonic boom speeds.

“Shiraya if I know,” Marl sighed. “Half the design of this suit doesn’t make sense. It seems less than comfortable.” She glared up at Cormal. “You be careful not to trip.”

“Yeah, I don’t get the sense that Vader is the type to laugh at himself,” Yari added, popping her chewgum thoughtfully. “You think you got this, Cormal?”

“I—” Cormal managed to get out, mind shredded between Yari’s closeness and the specter of performing as an infamously murderous leader in front of the infamously murderous leader without getting murdered by said infamously murderous leader.

“You must be nervous, huh,” Yari patted him in a gesture that made Cormal’s shredded brain melt into deliciously hot air (a confusing sensation when his stomach was a puddle of greasy nerves). “Are you planning to research him for the role?”

Cormal had not planned to so much as a glance at a headline, but, stomach tumbling like a holocycle machine, he suddenly felt gripped with certainty that he should. Having your neck on the line was a potent muse.

“…Yeah.”

“Good thinking! It’s what all the greats do!” Yari chirruped with a grin.

“Why don’t we pull up a datapad now?” Marl said kindly, yanking an ominous box of pins that foretold of many more pricks in the near future closer. “That way you have something to do.”

“Uh, sounds good.” Cormal squared his shoulders. He wanted to be an actor, and Yari said this was what the greats did, so this is what he should do. How bad could it be?

--

Cormal had never truly appreciated the phrase about your heart jumping into your mouth until now. The simultaneous mixture of fear and nausea whirling through him made him feel like his heart had leapt into his mouth and then started jigging.  

“Whoah,” Yari breathed. “He’s doing another backflip.”

As if he could hear her, the grainy Vader on the holoprojector leapt up a humanly impossible height and then thundered down like a sledgehammer precisely hitting its target. Hitting, and smashing. Smashing into fine-dust smithereens.

“How is his cape fluttering? There’s no wind in space,” Marl muttered, hovering over (another) box of inky black fabric as she watched holo-Vader in confusion.   

Cormal wasn’t confused. Over the past hour, watching holovid after holovid of Vader unceremoniously squashing opponents, fleets, and entire armies, he had got the sense that Vader and the words physically impossible didn’t belong in the same sentence. The sheer number of bone-chillingly risky feats the dark figure pulled off…if Vader had been anyone else, Cormal would have thought the man on a suicide mission.

“Gosh, Cormal, you’re going to have to get in shape real fast,” Yari tutted in wonder. “What if the director wants you to do this stuff?”

Considering that Cormal could currently barely move his arms because of the sheer amount of costume on him, the director might as well wish for galactic peace and an end to poverty to boot.

“His suit had to weigh him down significantly,” Marl mused. “Incredible that he’s strong enough to handle—” holo-Vader singlehandedly shoved down an eight-foot-tall alien then sliced its throat – “All that.”

 Glancing at Cormal, Marl tsked again. “You look like death warmed over, dearie.”

Well—

“I told you not to fret. All Vader did on the Death Star was stand around. At least according to the script we were given by ISB. And that’s all that matters.”

“Wait, we were given the script?” Cormal squeaked. “By ISB?”

“We’re given every script after ISB review,” Marl tutted. “We’re the Imperial Opera Company, we have to ensure we’re representing the Empire with integrity, as they call it.” With a heavy look over her specs, “Have an issue with that?”

“No, of course not,” Cormal said hastily. “Just…didn’t know.” He should have guessed. No doubt ISB would also be watching to ensure that the performance was enthusiastic, accurate, appropriate, and probably a whole other list of adjectives straight out of primary school patriotism class. Good thing ISB was notoriously reasonable. Not hair-trigger sensitive at all.

“This is really a good opportunity for you, Cormal,” Yari gushed. “Just think of everyone who will be watching you! Plus, standing is easy. Especially as Vader.” Rolling her chewgum again, she shrugged. “He just stands like a dad.”

That much was true. For all of Vader’s razor-sharp ferociousness, he did stand like a dad, thumbs looped in his belt or arms crossed. The only thing missing was a sternly disappointed expression. Or maybe that had just been Cormal’s father.

“Just do the most dramatic thing possible, and you’ll be golden,” Yari said sagely. “After all,” she leapt up, and Cormal missed her warmth immediately, “The show must go in!” She winked and twirled out.

Despite Yari’s upbeat goodbye (and attention), misery roiled in Cormal, her words only reminding him of the lambasting he’d received from his theatre teacher after forgetting about fools’ relationships to their ships. The show must go on. Words that apparently would haunt Cormal forever.

After a beat, Cormal raised his chin. Yari was right. He had been tossed the role with all of its shiny opportunity, and he shouldn’t fumble it. He could do this. He could.

--

Or so he thought, until a few weeks later when standing in the wings, stage in front of him washed in pink light. He was going to vomit. He was going to faint. He was going to vomit while fainting. It didn’t help that the final version of the costume had all of the airiness of a coffin and the weight of one to match. After the helmet slotted into place, Cormal felt as if he’d been sealed into a tomb. (And felt immensely confused that Vader chose to live like this, but Cormal got the sense that Vader’s mind had all the pleasant warmth of a bowl full of skittering spiders).

At one point, Marl had fretted over his ability to move, but the director had solved the issue by simply marking one point on the stage with an X and ordering Cormal not to shift from it. It should have been relieving, but an odd sense of insult rose in Cormal instead, reminded of his days as an unwanted cast member pointedly hidden in the background. Although, to be fair, he was playing Vader. You didn’t get any more unwanted than him.

“Okay, it’s go time,” a stage worker hissed. “We’re about to wheel you on stage. Don’t move.”

No worries. Cormal could have been chased by a rabid wampa and wouldn’t have been able to move an inch. Between the heaviness of the suit and its poor airflow, he could barely breathe. He set his jaw as the harsh pink lights (why they had chosen pink for Tarkin, Cormal would never understand) dimmed and the stage workers (several, from the chorus of curses filling his ears) pushed him onto stage.

Hearing them scurry off, Cormal clenched his jaw as the stage instantly became awash with lights again, mournful choirs in white bellowing to the figures on the stage, which included various Imperial figureheads. As they sung about Tarkin’s courage and purity, Cormal peeked through the mask’s eyeholes to pinpoint the box in the center of the opera chambers, where the Emperor himself currently resided along with other important attendees. He couldn’t spot Vader, but then again, Vader would blend into the dark as if he had been cut from it.

It was then that Cormal hiccupped. Not an issue. He hadn’t been suited with a mic. He would have to yell at the top of the lungs for the audience to hear him.

What was an issue was what followed the hiccup: dizziness.

Oh, no.

Oh no no no no no.

Cormal had few memories of the time he had fainted on stage as a teenager, deliberately and thoroughly purged from his mind. Not a subject he chose to dwell on. However, the memory was becoming all the more real each moment, as Cormal, hot and sticky from the suit, realized with horror that the dizziness forecast stormier health on the horizon. He was having trouble breathing, the heat of the stage lights like glowing coals on top of the broiling oven of the costume he’d been wedged into. Moff Tarkin was singing his response to the chorus as the other Moffs on stage harmonized, something about his judicious foresight on the Death Star being a credit to Imperial blood, but he began to sound far away and tinny as the world spun around Cormal, heat of the suit catching up to him.

And beyond that…something about looking at that box, knowing who was looking back, had brought Cormal’s stage fright blazing back to life in a surge of electric terror. Vader was watching him, Cormal was sure of it. More than that – studying him. Noting him. The thought made Cormal’s surging fright crest into a tidal wave, about to crash down and sweep out—

KAAthunk

--

The Imperial Opera House of Imperial Center, filled to the brim with dignitaries and investors and Moffs and important beings of every stripe imaginable, let out a gasp as the Vader onstage toppled over like a fallen tree, right onto Tarkin’s feet. What had been a picture-perfect tableau of Imperial strength turned into chaos as Tarkin tried to keep singing wobblily while the other Moffs scattered frantically. Vader, unassailable in the eyes of the Empire, had swooned dead away during Tarkin’s crowning aria about his Death Star, stealing the scene in a move worthy of the most seasoned diva. Conversations buzzed quietly as beings spoke in hushed whispers at the unexpected turn the opera had taken, surprise simmering in the air.  

About halfway through Tarkin’s third shaky note, Cormal came to. For a tenth of a second, he was confused. Why was the reincarnation of Wilhuff Tarkin looming over him and singing off-key? For that matter, what was all the hubbub of whispering in the ba—

Shit.

Cormal was dead. Ohhh, he was so dead. So very, very dead.

Amidst the panic zooming through him, Cormal’s mind defaulted to its basic settings, flashing him straight back to the last time he’d found himself fallen on stage; how his mind had gone white-blank under the spotlights as a teen as he desperately tried to remember his line about fools and ships, words he hadn’t remembered and now would never forget; his teacher castigating him in front of the cast while Cormal stared at the ground, tears in his eyes; the dread thickening in his stomach years later at reading the casting announcement with the harsh black name next to his; Marl poking him with pins while proudly talking of the Empire; Yari shrugging about Vader’s dramatics with a laugh. As the memories swooped by faster and faster, they became an all-consuming whirl of his teacher and Yari in a dizzy beat of the show must go on just do the most dramatic thing possible the show must go on just do the most dramatic thing possible the show must go on just do the most dramatic thing possible—until finally, they settled on a single, shining sentence.

Cormal summoned all of his strength and raised a hand.

--

The audience went completely silent as Vader, flattened on stage, raised a hand at Tarkin, who was still stubbornly singing about the Death Star. Everyone waited with bated breath; no one knew what to expect.

Dramatically, pointing directly at Tarkin, Vader bellowed, “A FOOL AND HIS SHIP ARE SOON PARTED.”

Gasps sounded from the audience. Mouths dropped at the boldness of the opera to address the sourer part of Tarkin’s legacy rankling everyone’s minds—namely, that for all his wise purity and strong leadership, Tarkin had been less than successful in the end. A fact that had cost quite a few disgruntled audience members quite a bit of money after they’d invested in the Death Star as the latest hot asset—something they had known better than to complain about publicly. Until now.

After a stunned beat, the audience broke out into an applause, which grew in volume as more and more members joined in. Whooping filled the air, feet stomped, a few shrill whistles echoed. One particularly uncouth attendee hollered, “You tell the bastard, Vader!” as the Tarkin onstage goggled down at Vader with sheer insult on his face. Hoots of delight rang throughout the theater at the brilliant twist of having Vader show up Tarkin at his own funeral after Tarkin’s failure to protect investor interests.

Cormal barely registered any of it, delirious. At last. At last, he had remembered his line. He flopped his head back onto the floor, exhausted but content. He was dead, and he knew it, but oddly didn’t care a jot. Couldn’t feel anything other than a strange serenity. Hearing the sweep of the curtain shutting as the audience kept roaring, he let the sounds wash over him as footsteps approached. The director was screaming something, Tarkin was sniffling, Marl was yanking at his costume and muttering to herself, but Cormal ignored it all, floating in a state of fevered ecstasy as he blacked out again while being dragged off stage.

--

A fevered ecstasy that lasted until he woke up in a locked room. Blearily realizing he was propped up in a cold plastisteel chair behind a table topped with a single glass of water, Cormal felt his insides turn to mush as the events of the evening struck him at last. He had gotten his moment on stage, albeit unwillingly, but he probably only had a couple of hours with an unsnapped neck left, if that, since Va—

“I see you are awake at last.”

Slowly, beggingly, Cormal turned his face to see an immense figure in black standing in the corner of the room. Fuuuck. The respirator echoing through the air seemed to double as a countdown clock, ticking towards Cormal’s death with a consistent beat that made him feel sicker by the moment.

“Your display on stage turned Admiral Tarkin’s memorial into a farce.” Vader crossed his arms. “One that will not be easily forgotten.”

Cormal stared, hypnotized by the mask’s heavy gaze as he remembered the holovids of the Dark Lord he’d seen earlier. He wondered if Vader would even bother to give Cormal a dramatic death or whether he’d snap Cormal’s neck with the same attention he’d give to stepping on a bugbant. He also wondered why Vader sounded so self-satisfied. The man was practically purring.

“Obviously, such a display cannot go unreprimanded.” Vader – just like in the footage, the back of Cormal’s mind noted absently – hooked his thumbs on his belt loops. “I have informed the Imperial Opera Company that you are to be fired. Immediately.”

What?

Cormal glanced up incredulously, not daring to say anything.

“ISB wanted to execute you for going off-script. However, political donors were well-pleased by the Empire’s acknowledgement of,” and here Vader seemed even more smug, “Tarkin’s failure.”

Cormal blinked.

“In light of their support, I have deemed execution unnecessary.” The air suddenly chilled. “As long as there are no future displays of this nature.”

“…Uh, of course,” Cormal squeaked, wondering if he was still blacked out on stage and this was a fever dream. “T-thank you.” He winced, uncertain of the etiquette surrounding thanking someone for not snapping your neck.

Vader didn’t respond, striding out instead without so much as glancing at Cormal, who watched in impressed fascination as the black cloak billowed out the door. Vader made wearing the suit look easy.

The impressed fascination speedily evaporated, however, when Cormal had the dismal recollection that although his neck was intact, his livelihood was not. He’d have to find a second job, and soon, and the second job would most likely involve shoveling shit.

Miserably staring down at his water, he heard Yari enter the room a few minutes later.

“Gosh, Cormal,” she clicked her tongue and shook her head, “You really had Vader berate Tarkin at his own memorial service.”

“…Yeah,” Cormal said after a pause. Sighing, he repeated, “Yeah.”

Yari glanced back and forth and, seeing no one else approaching, leaned forward and conspiratorially whispered, “I thought it was amazing.”

Cormal’s head shot up, his eyes disbelieving but hopeful.

Yari tapped his hand. “If you manage to get out of this…call me.” She smiled, then danced off with a giggle.

Cormal couldn’t believe it. Yari had—had noticed him? To be fair, everyone had noticed him, including shadowy and incomprehensible powers that were better left unpoked, but—but—

A bright grin bloomed across Cormal’s face. Well. Well. Perhaps things weren’t so bad after all. He might have brushed so close to death he had practically danced a cheek-to-cheek tango with it, but that perilous tango had gotten him a date. With Yari. He needed to get on applying to the second job right away. He couldn’t take Yari out on a date and not buy her flowers.   

As Cormal pushed himself off his chair, all of the incidents of the past few hours wound up in his chest to burst into a glow of pride. He wished his teacher could see him now. The show must go on, indeed. Cormal bet his teacher had never had to carry on a show during imminent threat of execution.

Not that Cormal ever, ever planned to be on stage again. He shivered. He’d clean bantha cages with the cheerful vigor of someone designed for it. No chance of running into Vader there. Or having to be Vader. After one day in the man’s shoes, Cormal felt that some minds were better off undelved. Anyone wanting to dig deeper into Vader was probably certifiably insane.

Shaking all spidery thoughts of Vader off, Cormal walked out humming. He had a date to prepare for.