Death Star, Mark II [galaxy far, far away and NFB]

The ramp of the shuttecraft lowered towards the floor of the docking back with a hiss of hydraulics and steam.

Vader strode down and walked directly towards the Death Star administrator, Moff Jerjerrod. The long lines of Stormtroopers and naval officers might not have existed at all as far as he was concerned.

Jerjerrod swallowed hard, trying to hold him composure as he fell in step with the Sith. "Lord Vader, this is an unexpected pleasure. We're honored by your presence," he said.

Vader barely repressed a snort. "You may dispense with the pleasantries," he said, not slowing down. "I'm here to put you back on schedule."

"I assure you, Lord Vader, my men are working as fast as they can," Jerjerrod replied, pursing his lips.

It was very obvious that Vader didn't believe him. "Perhaps I can find new ways to motivate them," he suggested.

"I tell you, this station will be operational as planned," Jerjerrod insisted.

Vader stopped and turned. "The Emperor does not share your optimistic appraisal of the situation," he said.

Jerjerrod went pale. "But he asks the impossible," he hissed, not exactly sure why he thought that Vader would care. "I need more men."

Vader was supremely unmoved. "Then perhaps you can tell him when he arrives," he replied.

"The Emperor's coming here?" the moff squeaked, aghast.

Vader nodded. "That is correct, Commander. And he is most displeased with your apparent lack of progress."

"We shall double our efforts," Jerjerrod said quickly.

Vader was fairly certain that wasn't going to save him. "I hope so, Commander, for your sake," he said. Not that he really cared. "The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am."

The way the moff's face lost all of its color was decidedly satisfying. This was what he was, who he was.

Darth Vader. Terror of the galaxy.

It was pointless to pretend that anything could change.