The white armour of the stormtrooper, standing out in relief from the clouds of tobacco smoke, looked at his counterpart through the dark lenses of his visor. He was a not very tall, thin, sinewy, grey-haired man. He thoughtfully twirled a glass of cognac in his hand and engaged in leisurely conversation with his armoured companion, who was sipping some kind of cocktail through a straw. The man's voice was calm and even, but the information he was revealing was like a bomb going off:
"Look at him and remember him well!" he said, showing several photos on the screen of his datapad. "This moral monster kidnapped my daughter! Not only did he marry her without our consent or that of his Order, which forbade marriage at the time, but he also took her away to who knows where!
The stormtrooper studied the images closely for a few seconds. He immediately recognised the man in them. How could he not? During the Republic, this man's fame had spread throughout the galaxy, and even now, the Empire would clearly pay good money for him, preferably alive. After all, it knew what kind of ally it could gain with him if his mind was properly conditioned. And, of course, he was very happy that it was he, a simple and unremarkable soldier, who had the honour of finding him.
"I know exactly who he is," replied the young man in white, pausing for a moment. "He is Anakin Skywalker, the pillar and hope of the Jedi Order, now deceased. Do you want me to find him?"
"Excellent, I like the beginning," nodded the grey-haired man with satisfaction. "I see that the Empire is wrong to underestimate its soldiers, considering them nothing more than living droids, expendable material without brains. Now I am finally convinced of how wrong they are. Yes, I want you to find out where he is and then debrief him. Deliver him to the Emperor with full honours and return my daughter to me.
"You know," said the stormtrooper, flattered, "I have some ideas about where he might be hiding, along with the other Jedi. I have a feeling about them, but this information is more for me than for you. As for your daughter, if necessary, I will pull her out of his bed and bring her to you.
The man winced painfully at these words, and his eyes flashed with anger.
"Don't say that! I can't even imagine my daughter, my pure and innocent Padmé, suddenly with him... I'd have a heart attack just thinking about it.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," the officer said quickly. "I just wanted you to know that I'm taking care of this, and it won't be a month before your daughter is home and Skywalker is.....
Instead of continuing his speech, the soldier eloquently bent a napkin twisted into a rope, clearly showing what he intended to do with Anakin. Or perhaps he would leave it to the Emperor. It all depended on the mood of both men.
"Excellent, here's a deposit, the rest when you get the goods," said the satisfied man, placing a pile of silver credits in front of the stormtrooper. "See you soon, I'm in a hurry. For information, contact Ruvy Naberi.
With that, the man stood up, put on his hat, and left the cantina, leaving the stormtrooper alone. The latter quickly shoved the credits into his belt pouch, leaving only a couple to pay for the cocktail, stood up, and solemnly made his way to the restroom. There, making sure he was completely alone in the safety of the cubicle, he took off his helmet with relish, something he would never have done in front of others. Well, this Ruvy, by placing the order on him, had unambiguously hinted to the soldier that he had his own motives for catching Skywalker and dealing with him.
"And what are they?" he said aloud, looking in the mirror and seeing not the faceless mask of the helmet, but his own face. Silver skin, shiny black hair and brightly shining silver eyes, though now sparkling with the malicious fury of a satisfied man who had long sought revenge and finally had the opportunity to carry it out. "Well, let's see now, Skywalker, how you'll get out of this. And who will they call cool now? Who knows, maybe I didn't trade my lightsaber for a blaster for nothing. Don't worry, Darra, your death will not go unpunished, not now. The Emperor does not let traitors live.
Having said that, the stormtrooper did not mince his words. Although he was not close to the Emperor, he had heard enough about his fierce temper and lack of mercy towards those who messed up. And Skywalker, according to rumours, had messed up in front of him many years ago and had been steadily adding to the current ruler's hatred for him all these years. Or rather, back then he was just a simple Master of the Order. No one knew why the Emperor disliked him so much, but everyone around him had heard about how he felt about him, and that was enough. Although, no, the reasons for such a long and deep animosity were clearly well known to the former Emperor, known to all as Darth Sidious, who, after only six months in power, died under strange circumstances, leaving behind his apprentice, with whom our stormtrooper now decided to share, unable to resist the temptation.
"Lord Keen," he said into the speaker as soon as the hologram of the cyborg appeared on the screen, "I have found Skywalker's trail, and very soon you will be able to see your old friend.
The emperor replied monosyllabically, as he did not like to waste words, although in former times he had won only because of the beauty of his speeches. But now he made it clear to his servant that he was pleased with the news.
"That's not all!" the stormtrooper winked to himself, put his helmet back on, and left the restroom, nearly bumping into a drunk who had bumped into him with his shoulder in an attempt to stay upright.
"Sorry," he muttered without looking up, then plopped down at a nearby table and shouted to the waiter, "A hundred grams of cognac!"
The soldier glanced at him with disgust. He was a tall, thin man whose age was difficult to determine due to the dust, dirt and blood covering him almost from head to toe. His old shirt, which had lost most of its colour and shape, was caked with dirt and bloody stains. Or maybe he wasn't drunk at all, staggering for a completely different reason, but one that covered his head and moustache with a crust of dried blood, partially sliding down onto his face. The soldier was about to leave when the Togrut called out to him:
"Hey, come here, I have information.
"What do you want?" replied the stormtrooper discontentedly. "Go wash yourself, or you'll die of sepsis, your wound is serious. And where did you get that? Obviously not from a blaster.
"No," replied the trooper, unexpectedly animated, "My lady left me her autograph. She gave me a shovel to the face.
"And you forgave her? The stormtrooper began to empathise with the situation, his Jedi past clearly coming to the fore. "I would have given her a good comeback!
"Well, so am I," the togrut laughed drunkenly. "Sit down, I'm telling you, I have information. It directly concerns the person you were talking about with that grey-haired man.
The stormtrooper became interested and, against his will, sat down opposite the drunkard, who stank unbearably of dirty clothes and sweat.
"Do you really know something about the fugitive Jedi?" he asked first.
"Not everything, no," the togrut replied unexpectedly clearly, "but I know one thing for sure. His name is Skywalker, I think, or Skyroker, I don't remember, she called him both.
"What do you know about him, and who is she?" the soldier asked in a businesslike tone.
"I didn't know him personally," the casual acquaintance began to explain, "but I heard a lot about him. My lady talked about him all the time, she obviously knew him well and mentioned him constantly. She was a Jedi too, but they kicked her out before she finished her training. So she returned to her native nest, under my wing. And how did she repay me for taking her in? See? And the man turned to his left, showing off the cut skin from his eyebrow to his chin. What a creature! When I find him, we'll settle the score!
"Let's have a drink first!" The stormtrooper rubbed his hands together eagerly, sensing that his goal was getting closer. And he was right.
***
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