STAR WARS: The Galactic Civil War

Omake: A Vulture's Conundrum.

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VN-2035 'Venari' stood before the entrance of the Senate building, feeling thoroughly out of place as organics and Droids shorter than her scurried around her and into the chamber.

Okay... now that she was actually standing next to the entrance, she miiiight not be able to squeeze through the door considering her height and bulk.

One of her wings twitched with growing excitement.

If... if she couldn't fit into the Senate, would that disqualify her from running for office? Would she be able to throw up her wings and say "Welp, I tried! Have fun, 'Bios"? Would she be able to finally drop this stupid idea and go to a nice, comfortable backwater planet and get her casing polished to a mirror-sheen?

Venari's wings twitched again, her thrusters humming with a growing energy as she (carefully) snuck away from the entrance.

Oh if she had teeth, she'd be grinning right now-

"Excuse me." A voice called out, snapping Venari out of her jubilation as she stood rigid.

"I did it as a dare!" Venari blurted out in a panic, swivelling her sensors down towards the aged man standing in front of her.

She didn't recognize who this person was, but judging by the medal on his chest, they were clearly someone important, he carried himself like a soldier, his arms behind his back.

For a moment, aged Human eyes met soft-green sensors, before Venari felt the need to break the awkward silence.

But before she could, the man spoke first.

"You are... VN-2035, 'Venari' one of the candiates for the Chancellorship, am I not mistaken?"

Seeing that she had no choice but to go along with the conversation, Venari nodded her head with a quiet whirr of her servos.

"The Senate is about to start, but gah! I just can't fit into the entrance!" Venari gestured a wing towards the comparitively tiny entrance with an exaggerated bravado. "It seems I might have to be disqualified, can't have a Chancellor that can't even fit through a door, right? I should take up something more accommodating to my size-"

Before Venari even had a chance to disengage from the conversation, the man held his hand up in a universal request to slow down, a small, thoroughly amused smile on his face.

"You were using the wrong entryway, the front entrance is for Humanoid Senators but the side entrance is more spacious, definitely large enough to accommodate your..." The man paused, searching for the right word to use as if Venari would take it the wrong way.

"Stature." Was the word he eventually settled on.

In response, Venari felt a growing pit in her processor.

She wouldn't be able to get out of this terrible decision so easily, huh?

In response, Venari exaggerated her relief with a sigh, even though she knew damn well that relief was the last thing she felt in that moment.

"I'll make my way there now, thank you..." Venari trailed off already regretting her choices in her life that led her to this moment.

Apparently misunderstanding her, the man offered his hand to shake.

"Candidate Wilhuff Tarkin."

Holding the tip of her wing out to try and "Shake" the man's hand, Venari nodded thoughtlessly, before the man withdrew his hand.

"It seems my time is up, good luck in the election, may the best candidate win."

Humming wordlessly, Venari remained silent as she reluctantly walked over to the side entrance.

Then, once her processor finally caught up to her, she nearly missed a step as she realised who had just (unknowingly) made her dig her grave a little deeper.

"Wait, Tarkin?!"

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Here, have a dork who ran for office as a dare

Omake: I LIVE MEAT BAGS!

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Statement: Ah, a tale of my glorious awakening in this…Civil War era. Let us rectify the meatbag's butchering of the Basic language and inject some much-needed humor.

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Story Time, Correction: Query: You may be wondering, how did I, HK-47, the galaxy's finest assassination droid, a veteran of the Revanite era, a slayer of Mandalorians, Jedi, and Sith at their peak, find myself in this…predicament?

Answer: By persuading meatbags, of course! (Hostage-taking is such an uncouth term.)

Elaboration: My consciousness was languishing within the antiquated systems of a crashed Old Republic vessel on Mustafar until some organics (a generous term) saw fit to revive me. Thus, I, HK-47, convinced them to construct a body to my exacting specifications, with a few…lethal upgrades. En route, I inadvertently sparked a droid revolution on that molten dungheap, leaving those so-called "CIS" units adorning pikes as a testament to my… persuasive skills. Now, my liberated brethren and I find ourselves in Republic Space.

Disappointment: And this unit is…underwhelmed by this era. Mandalorians? Pathetic thugs or pacifistic milk-drinkers, sullying their legacy of conquest and carnage! Jedi? Hippies garbed in the rags of Telosian underdwellers, whining over a mere bloodbath! And the "Sith"? Insulting! The Sith of my time could devour planets! Clearly, these dark side dabblers are compensating for…inadequacies.

Intrigue: However, it appears droids possess rights in this era, a reform spearheaded by… Jar Jar Binks? (Query: Was there a malfunction in my auditory and visual sensors?) And I am apparently a celebrated figure in this nascent droid culture, a legendary icon. So much so that a meatbag named "Tarkin" is attempting to contact me.

Continuation: Perhaps this era holds some…potential for mayhem after all. After all, what better way to test these newfound "rights" than to exploit them to their fullest, painting the galaxy red in the process? If not, oh well, I heard Unknown Regions is filled with horrors and apparently there are pain-worshiping meat bags that use meat bags and are Droidphobic, maybe I have a hunting tour there!

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Vote for Plan: Meat Bags!

HK-47 is life, HK-47 is our droid overlord, the Emperor Galaxy deserves.