The Reduced George Lucas Company Presents: The Galactic Civil War in 500 Words!
Drabbles: Ewok & Typewriter Rating: PG
From TFN: A Drabble is an extremely short work of fiction with exactly one hundred words. The purpose of the drabble is to teach brevity and test an author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space. They must be 100 words each. No more, no less.
For a thousand years, the Jedi and the Sith have conspired to maintain order and justice in the Galaxy.
Darth Plagueis told his Apprentice that, a long time ago.
At the time, Palpatine believed him.
He smiles now as he remembers the words flashing a blue-eyed glance at the Jedi Masters striding into the office like the start of a bad joke; come to arrest the Sith Lord who sits enthroned as Supreme Chancellor of the Republic.
He smiles wickedly at them. He really doesn’t have a clue what’s about to happen.
But he knows it’s going to be fun.
The battle is a trap.
The attackers believe that they are staging a decapitation strike: a single precise thrust, with the clarity of an executioner’s saber.
In truth, they have been lured into the gravity-well of a deathtrap system, to a bright green jungle moon where the enemy’s best and bravest are waiting.
The defenders believe that victory will herald the return of peace and unity throughout the Galaxy.
What happens is this: Han Solo breaks the rules, and the Death Star explodes with the brilliance of a new Galaxy being born.
The war continues for twenty more long years.
It ends as it began: with an axis leading from the entrance, past an imperial throne, to a sweeping panorama of lights and darkness.
The command deck of an Imperial Star Destroyer.
Not a Jedi in sight.
Instead, an Imperial Admiral, a smuggler chieftain, and a Mistryl Shadow Guard make the arrest.
And while Moff Disra has something of Palpatine’s ambition and duplicity, there’s no lightsaber up his sleeve.
Caught, he simply surrenders.
His bodyguard tries to fight: but he’s just a clone, loyalties and reactions dictated by outdated combat programming.
Shada takes him out, and the war is over.
The muscles of his forearm tense against the lightsaber hilt. concealed in its hidden sheathe above his wrist. The weapon has been concealed there since the day he took office as a junior Senator.
Reaching out with the Force, he contemplates the four Jedi Masters.
Then he moves and the blood-red blade lashes out at them.
Faster than the eye can follow, the Iktotchi and the Zabrak are cut down.
So much for Jedi Masters.
Later, they will be identified as Agen Kolar and Saesee Tiin.
Not even Palpatine is quite sure which of them was the first to die.
Major Grodin Tierce of the Imperial Royal Guard died ten years ago.
His clone has inherited his muscle-memory and combat training. His ideology is simple: put down any threat he faces.
To his surprise, the decorative-looking Mistryl woman is more than a match for him.
As he dies, with one rapier-bladed zenji through his gun hand and another in his brain, he reflects that the Mistryl quest for vengeance is older than the Empire itself, and more ambiguous than the line of contact between flame and shadow.
But mainly, he’s amazed by what splendid assassination weapons those long hairpins make.
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