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The First Brother's Quarters aboard
The Devastator Pov:
During my meditation, I'd somewhat managed to organise my mind and start processing the First Brother's memories — and honestly? Not bad. Not perfect by any hallmark, but I can work with this. Apparently, before Grand Admiral Thrawn's TIE Defender project fell apart on Lothal — if I remember correctly — I'd already managed to secure the schematics and technical data. From there, it was pretty much smooth sailing. Replacing all the standard TIEs with what's arguably the greatest starfighter of this era? That's damn impressive.
Technically speaking, the First Brother commanded one of the largest Imperial fleets before Endor. The 14th Fleet was a testing bed for newer and slightly experimental ships and weaponry.
The fleet composition, though? Could be better — but I can work with this. Five Imperial II-class Star Destroyers. Twenty Victory-class Star Destroyers, split evenly between the Victory I and Victory II models. A spread of anti-starfighter vessels. And to top it off, two Interdictor-class Star Destroyers.
Apparently, most of the 14th got dragged to Endor. And we all know how that ended. With the number of ships reduced — and no current power base or solid support — that leaves us in a... less-than-ideal situation.
But the troop composition? That's where it gets interesting.
Thanks to some decent tactical foresight, the stormtrooper corps under his command — the 412th Legion — is made up of Clone War's veterans and survivors and the vanguard of the Rebellion's failed Mid Rim push. Fifty thousand battle-hardened troopers, well-equipped, well-trained.
I've already decided to replace the AT-ATs with AT-TEs. They're superior in almost every way — and most importantly, they don't fall over every time someone sneezes. One of the Republic's better designs, if I'm being honest. But I digress.
The 412th is spread across the fleet. The remaining 1,500 Death Troopers are stationed aboard the Devastator. Presumably to watch him.
But now?
They answer to me.
As I stand, finishing as much meditation as I can manage, my back and neck start clicking — the joys of not having Lord Vader's meditation chamber. That blasted pod was probably the only time he ever looked relaxed. Granted he probably needed it more than me but he's dead. Meanwhile, me? My back's shot. Lumbago's acting up again.
With a sigh, I leave my quarters behind and make my way toward the Death Troopers' personal training hall. Time to see if elite soldiers still know how to sweat.
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The First Brother's Pov within the Death Trooper Quarters/Training room aboard The Devastator:
As I step into the training room, I spot a few Death Troopers running drills and exercises. Through my mask, I watch them pause and snap to attention the moment they notice me.
"Ignore my presence, men. Continue your training — I only wish to speak with Commander Desmond."
They nod and get back to it, their discipline as sharp as ever. I make my way to Desmond.
"Commander, I'm in need of you."
He responds without hesitation, "Yes, my Lord."
We walk a short distance out of earshot from the others.
"Commander, I require your assistance on two matters. First — a spar. It's been a while since I've seen real front-line combat, and I'd prefer not to let my skills dull. Second — I want your best squad they're to travel to the Mustafar system and retrieve everything noted in this list from Lord Vader's castle."
I transmit the list to his datapad. He reads through it quickly and gives a firm nod.
"My Lord, I'll see it done immediately. And if you wish to spar, I accept — though I ask you don't use the Force."
I nod. "Take five minutes to prepare."
He turns away, and I drop to one knee and settle into a brief meditation, also using the force to take off my armour.
The minutes pass quickly. When I rise, I notice the Death Troopers have stepped aside, forming a silent ring around us. Only Desmond and I stand in the centre now.
"Ready, Commander?"
He nods.
We both settle into our stances. I open with a light kick — a simple probe. He blocks cleanly. I follow up with a sharp punch that staggers him a step back. I sweep at his legs — he rolls away. He counters with a kick, which I dodge with a quick hop.
Then he charges — a right hook aimed at my helmet, followed by a gut punch. I headbutt him mid-motion, then pull him into a chokehold. He struggles hard, but the resistance fades — until finally, he taps out.
We both stand, breathing steady.
Not bad. Honestly? I've had easier fights from some Jedi Knights but he is still impressive.
I clap him on the shoulder. "You're the best I've fought in a long time — including Force sensitives. When there's time, I've got some techniques and tips to share with you. Good work, Commander."
He straightens. "My Lord… call me Desmond. You've more than earned that right."
I nod. "Good day, Desmond."
I use the force to quickly put my armour back on and depart.
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Thaddeus Drax Pov: The Bridge of the Imperial Class I Star Destroyer 'The Devastator'
The bridge of the Devastator is quite, unlike other Star Destroyer's we on the Devastator pride ourselves on being efficient everything has a purpose, from the low murmur of status reports manned by officers that survived Lord Vader's scrutiny.
It's divided into levels — crew pits down below where the sensor and comms technicians work, and the upper command walkway where I stand, overseeing it all. To my right, the helmsman calls out course adjustments; to my left, the chief gunnery officer monitors the energy banks and weapons grid.
From the viewport I can see the Bastion a satisfactory planet for his Lord's plans the stars like specks of bone. Somewhere out there, the Rebellion calls iitself the Republic. Traitors and liars pretending to be saviours. It makes me sick.
The doors to the bridge hissed open, and I turned instinctively toward the sound of boots — precise, deliberate, unmistakable.
The First Brother, his Lord.
He didn't say a word at first. Just strode straight past the consoles and made for the main viewport like he owned the very stars themselves. I followed, of course.
Always two steps behind. That was the chain of command. Many learnt the mistake of interrupting Lord Vader when he looked out of the viewport.
"My Lord," I said, bowing my head.
He didn't waste a moment. His voice cut straight into the command comms as he spoke — loud enough for the entire bridge to hear.
"Commander. It is due time for your promotion. Now... Admiral. The consolidation of my Empire begins here. As we've discussed, it is time for the subjugation of the surrounding sectors. Failure is not an option. We strike fast and hard. If we don't — the Empire as we know it collapses."
The words slammed into me like a salvo.
Admiral.
My spine straightened before my mind even processed it. No ceremony. No delay. Just a direct order and a battlefield promotion on the spot.
He walked off before I could even stammer a reply. Just left me standing there, thunderstruck.
I turned back to the viewport, watching his reflection shrink as he left the bridge. My jaw tightened. The old Empire would have demanded forms, witnesses, traditions.
But not him.
No hesitation. No mercy. Only momentum.
I nodded to myself and turned to the nearest console. "Get me sector maps. I want status reports on all nearby garrisons, fuel lines, and shipyards. The campaign begins now."
If I was to be Admiral, I would be his Admiral. To my very end.
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The First Brother Pov: The Hanger Bay of the Imperial Class I Star Destroyer 'The Devastator'
As I step into the hangar bay, the cold air hits me — the scent of fuel, ozone, and durasteel hanging thick in the atmosphere.
Two full contingents of stormtroopers from the 412th Legion stand at attention, their pristine white armour gleaming beneath the harsh floodlights.
Veterans, every one of them. Hardened by the Clone Wars, the Mid Rim campaigns, and the long fall from glory. I should invest eventually in new armour or go back to some older Phase II maybe.
I motion with a subtle flick of my hand, and the troops begin to follow. Our boots echo in unison across the duracrete floor as we approach the waiting shuttles.
I stop just short of the boarding ramp. Let them hear me.
I project my voice with as much controlled power as I can summon — the kind that stirs men to action, not with fear, but with belief.
"Men," I begin, "today we ensure Grand Moff Killian's loyalty. Today we bring the Bastion into the fold. We may face resistance — from cowards, traitors, or relics clinging to their past titles. But remember why we march. Not for conquest. Not for cruelty. But for order. For strength. For a better, brighter Empire."
There's a moment of silence.
Then it hits.
"FOR THE EMPIRE!"
"LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE!"
The hangar shakes with their voices. I don't smile—not outwardly—but I can feel their emotions, it's breathtaking in away to be perfectly honest, I will protect my bucket heads.
I turn and board the Lambda-class shuttle. Through the viewport, I watch as the stormtroopers file into the two transport shuttles flanking us. The engines hum to life one by one.
"Pilot," I say, settling into my seat, "take us to the Grand Moff's palace."
He nods, eyes sharp. No words needed.
The shuttle lifts, rising into the darkening sky.
Let's hope this goes according to plan.
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Imperial Officer Pov: The Palace of Grand Moff Killian
A stormtrooper rushes toward me, armour clanking with every step.
"Sir, three shuttles have left the Devastator and are making their way here now."
I nod slowly. That's to be expected. "Have you contacted them?"
He hesitates. "We've attempted contact, sir. All attempts have been ignored. What should we do?"
Oh… Sithspit.
"Alright, stormtrooper — prepare the defences in the palace. No need for a full planetary alert yet, but I'll go inform the Grand Moff."
He snaps a crisp salute and jogs off. And me? I swallow hard and steel myself.
Why me?
I reach the Grand Moff's door and knock, entering after a pause. There he is — once a proud and battle-hardened hero of the Clone Wars, now a bloated shadow of his former self. His Imperial uniform barely contains his girth as he stuffs his face and washes it down with wine from Alderaan.
He looks up sluggishly. "Yes, what is it?"
"My Lord, the Lord Inquisitor — and two transport shuttles are inbound. They've ignored all communication attempts. Given the clearance level… we assume this is not a diplomatic visit."
The Grand Moff glares at me and downs his entire glass. He groans as he stands, his face flushed with drink and fury.
"Fine. I'm going there myself. This damned Inquisitor might've been one of the Emperor's pets, but hell if I'm letting some freak walk over me."
I nod, silently deciding to follow. Better to die quickly than be singled out later.
We arrive at the landing platform just as the sun disappears beyond the horizon. Night falls fast. The Lambda-class shuttle touches down first, and two transport shuttles land nearby, deploying troops into tight, professional formation.
The Grand Moff opens his mouth to speak —
—but the ramp descends.
And silence falls.
From the gloom, a dark figure emerges. The very air seems to tighten, and the platform dims unnaturally. He moves like a phantom wrapped in a heavy cloak, a deep red visor glowing beneath his hood. Even without saying a word, the planet seems to shudder in his wake.
"Grand Moff Killian," he says. His voice is low. Measured. Terrifying. "What a disgrace you are. To think the once-famous Admiral has fallen so far."
Killian turns purple with rage. Spit flies from his lips. He snarls, but the Inquisitor raises a hand. His troops surge forward, sweeping past us and into the palace without pause.
Now it's just the Moff… and the Lord Inquisitor.
"Effective immediately," The Lord Inquisitor intones, "this planet, its surrounding systems, and everything under your jurisdiction — is mine. Do you accept this, Killian?"
The Moff quakes. "No! The Emperor himself gave me this world! I won't surrender it to a freak like you!"
The air turns bitter cold.
I know what's coming.
I step back.
The Lord Inquisitor's hand clenches. Killian's hands go to his throat as he's lifted off the ground, choking. I hear a snap. Then a dull thud as the lifeless body hits the platform.
Silence.
Then the Inquisitor turns to me.
"And you? Any objections?"
I shake my head violently. "No, my Lord."
He hums — a low, satisfied sound. "Good. From now on, see to it that any resistance is crushed. Ensure everyone recognises the change in leadership. If you do this well, you'll earn yourself a lieutenant's badge."
I nod frantically. "Yes, my Lord."
Then I turn and run. Fast.
My old mentor once told me: never argue with someone who can kill you with a look. That was before Lord Vader killed him.
But the point still stands.