The doors of the turbolift opened and Baron Soontir Fel stepped into the 181st Fighter Wing's pilot lounge. Resplendent in his finest Imperial uniform, the baron expected a greeting from the commander of the 181st, Evir Derricote. Instead, what he saw made his blood boil. Several members of the 181st lay in a syntheholic stupor brought on by excessive juma juice consumption. A group of pilots were gathered around the main conference table taking bets on a pair of rodents fighting in a makeshift ring around the holoemitter. On the sofa furthest from the turbolift sat a large, grossly overweight mass of a man, with two semi naked Twi'Lek girls draped over him. One was pouring fine wine into the mans mouth while the other fed him delicacies brought from all over the empire. Fel marched to the man and stared down at him, his golden brown eyes burning with rage,
"Are you Derricote?" He snarled through clenched teeth.
"Whatever it is, I didn't do it." The amorphous mass didn't look up. He swallowed his mouthful and met Fel's wrathful gaze "Unless I was meant to. Then I did it." He laughed and motioned for the girls to carry on serving him.
Fel swept the cane he was holding in a backhanded arch, smashing the wine bottle into glittering fragments. Derricote stood uneasily to his feet with a roar, his face red and mere inches from Fel’s own. In the commotion, the sleeping pilots awoke with a start and the group gathered at the rodent deathmatch went quiet. All eyes were on the lithe, fresh-cut figure, stood before the mountainous form of the commander.
“I’ll see you shot into space for that attack, you little runt!” Derricote growled. Fel’s expression never shifted from the look of disgust he wore.
“I’m Soontir Fel, commander. Or should I say, former commander.”
“Who?” Derricote asked, before the handle of Fel’s cane found it’s way into his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs and collapsing the overweight man to the floor, coughing and spluttering. Fel turned to the Twi’Leks on the sofa,
“Go, now.” His tone was calm but authoritative. The girls dressed and left without a sound.
“I’m your new wing commander.” He turned to the group “And I’ve never seen a sorrier sight in my entire life!” He kicked over the closest table and sent glassware shattering across the floor.
“You’re not fit to be a Hutt’s waste cleaners, let alone Interceptor pilots!” The group cowered from the roar.
“You!” Fel pointed his cane to the closest pilot, a slender, tan-skinned lad of no more than 20 standard years, “When was your last proficiency test?” The man looked to his compatriots and back at Fel,
“Well?!” Fel roared, stepping towards him.
“T-t-two cycles ago, sir…” He man stuttered out.
“Too long. You need proficiencies every cycle to maintain an Interceptor!” He stepped towards there group. All but one member took a step back from his advance, his dark eyes never leaving those of the baron’s.
“You, what’s your name?” Fel questioned.
“Stele.” His voice was hoarse and thickly accented. “Maarek Stele.”
“I admire you, Stele,” Fel’s fist connected squarely with his jaw, knocking the pilot to the floor “But don’t ever face up to me again, understood?” Stele pushed himself up on his elbows, massaging his jaw “Sir, yes sir.”
Fel turned to the rest of the assembled pilots. “I will be administering more of those if you fail in your retraining. Now, sober up, straighten your uniforms, and be ready to start in 30 minutes. Oh, and someone pick Derricote up and get him out of here. Then clean up all this mess.”