“I am going to stomp so much mud into your laptop for this” plotted the womp rat, unamused by Riot Mar’s plastic starfighter, or that hydrocarbons were frittered on purposes other than womp rat warming.
“Teams xmas party!” enthused the stormtrooper, imagining all the cocktail stick snacking opportunities. “Timesheet it under ITS00A, xmas party replacement project, and don’t invite the cabinet secretary”. Raising a skewered cube of non-dairy alternative he declared, “That’s no moon”.
The stormtrooper guarded the womp rat carefully, as the Index transited to some dangerous locations, frequented by the undead. System 522 was particularly infested, until a brave soldier of the rebellion carried out an epic mission to wipe them out once and for all.
“Surely I can’t miss at this range” hoped the stormtrooper, blissfully ignorant of the fact that Miles Dyson had just rolled out a firmware upgrade to the autonomous targets, and one was now sneaking up behind him.
“All right, sweethearts, what are you waiting for, breakfast in bed? Another glorious day in the Services! A day in the Services is like a day on the farm. Every meal’s a banquet! Every paycheck a fortune! Every formation a parade! I LOVE the Services!”
With no towing cable to wrap around the legs of the Wampa, Mythrol relied on the agility of his speeder to evade the beast. Luckily his entertainment system allowed him to skip past all the unwanted intrusions, especially the repetitive ones, looking at you Marc Jacobs. Mythrol did not enjoy repetition, preferring to automate it away like a thought-leader.
There were always a few weapons in the Hangar Bay.