UNTITLED STAR WARS PROJECT CHAPTER 1

Simon picks up the steaming cup of coffee; he looks at the black liquid inside with contempt before gulping down a mouthful. He is sat in a smoky café, surrounded by what his dad used to call 'real men', which translated to Simon as knuckle dragging manual labour types. The café is your typical run-of-the-mill greasy spoon, discoloured walls and ceiling, the smell of hot oil, smoke and coffee hangs in the air like an unwelcome guest.

'How long until he arrives?', Simon wondered, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of cigarettes and puts one to his lips. Patting his jacket pockets, he realises he is without a lighter.

"Christ...", he sighs.

Simon scans the café to locate a suitable candidate to borrow a lighter from. To his left is a man that resembles a leather bound bulldog scoffing some greasy 'treat'. After a moment of thought he decides to approach the man.

"Excuse me."

The man looks up and wipes a globule of what appears to be egg from his chin with a grimy hand.

"What?"

"I don't suppose you have a lighter do you?" Simon asks.

His eyes meet the mans stony gaze, eye contact is maintained for a good five seconds, before the man grunts and tosses a dirt flecked lighter on to the table. Simon picks it up and ignites his cigarette.

"Cheers."

The man nods, "No problem."

Simon returns to his stool at the window. A man in a black suit and sunglasses has appeared next to him. Everything suddenly goes silent; time has frozen around them, people in the middle of pouring cups of tea, frozen mid conversation, a living portrait of working class Britain.

Only Simon and the black suited man remain mobile, Simon glances at his watch, stopped.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to show up Johnson."

Johnson takes his glasses off and places them in his suit pocket. He is a middle-aged man, with a pale, thin face and jet black hair slicked over in a side parting.

"I was delayed." Johnson replies abruptly, placing a black briefcase on the table.

He rapidly thumbs a security code into the lock of the brief case, the clasps click open. He opens the case slightly and produces a tiny piece of paper, roughly the size of a matchbox and hands it to Simon.

"You know the drill," Johnson says coldly, he closes the briefcase, produces his sunglasses and puts them on. "Try not to screw it up this time, she will not be pleased."

With this he exits the café, movement and sound rush back into the room like a tsunami filled with the hustle and bustle of life, Simon jumps a little at the sudden rush of noise. No matter how many times Johnson does that, he never gets used to it.

Simon examines the piece of paper; there are words, too small to be read with the naked eye. He tucks it away in his wallet and leaves the café.

Jazek Thoth pushes the dried bantha steak around on his plate as he gazes out at the stars in the vast expanses of space. Back home on Corellia he would have wolfed down this dish without hesitation, but he had too much on his mind.

The Y-85 Titan drop ship, The Annihilator, had come out of hyperdrive around three hours ago and something was wrong. The ships navigation computer had blown and was sparking erratically at the rear of the cockpit, while an engineer was frantically trying to fix it without being electrocuted.

Jazek tosses his plate into a waste receptacle next to his chair; he reaches for the comm unit.

"Citadel 592, come in."

The comm units are channelling massive amounts of interference; there is no way that they are getting through to anyone. He throws the hand set onto the control panel, exasperated and turns to the engineer.

"Damn, what ever happened out there has fried all the systems."

The engineer pays no mind to him, as he is still battling with the Nav System.

Jazek sighs and pushes himself up, stretches and places his black imperial cap on his head and exits the cockpit.

He steps out into Corridor A, which leads left to the mess hall, maintenance decks and the brig. The corridor to the right leads towards the living quarters for crew. As Jazek starts to make his way towards the mess hall, in his search for some thing other than dried bantha steak, a messenger droid hovers quickly round the corner.

"Pilot. Jazek. Thoth." The droid stated in a buzzing mechanical voice.

"Yes?" Enquired Jazek.

"Please provide identification." A small screen protruded from the droids mid section.

The screen turned a deep red colour; Jazek pressed his thumb against it and it turned a sickly green colour and emitted an affirmative beep.

A crackling blue hologram appears in front of him, it is Grand Moff Farkaas, one of Emperor Palpatine's right hand men. He is bleary eyed and his uniform is crooked.

'Obviously not used to emerging from a cryochamber.' Jazek thought to himself, making sure the amusement didn't show on his face.

"Jazek, I wish to speak to you in my private quarters now! I want to know what the hell is going on!" The hologram bellowed sharply, the message faded.

"Shall I inform Grand Moff Farkaas that you are on your way?" The droid enquired.

Jazek was visibly shaken by the message because he knew what horrors awaited him if he didn't please his superiors, just the other week one of Jazek's close friends had been blasted out of the airlock by Farkaas for showing mercy towards some Rebel prisoners.

"Yes, tell him I shall be there immediately." He replied, as the droid hovered off down the corridor.

Jazek stood there for a moment and listened. For the first time since they had left Corouscant the engines had fallen silent.