thank you for your trust, galen.

Send me a number and character and I’ll draw them!

TARKIN HITS KRENNIC WITH WALKING STICK FOR IMPETULANT COMMENT 

Tarkin stares out a large window in one of the corridors of the Executrix, his eyes locked on the large mechanitation that would soon be the most feared thing in the galaxy next to the Empire itself. It took years of design and even longer for building, with the Emperor overseeing every detail of the battle station’s construction. It wasn’t something had Tarkin been in charge that he would have personally came up with, but he was not in a position to criticize the Emperor, no matter how different he may have felt. 

He wasn’t entirely daft.

Though in all fairness the project couldn’t have been completed or even thought of without the help of both Erso as well as Krennic, with the latter proving to be quite the pain to deal with.

Although as if on cue the Grand Moff hears rapid footfalls coming down the once quiet corridor and the ever noticeable swishing of a cape that followed mere seconds later, quickly announcing said Director’s presence long before he hears the man’s voice.

“Ah Director,” Tarkin starts as he doesn’t move, gaze still fixed on the Death Star, “To what do I owe the… pleasure? I do hope it is good news for once, if only so that I may inform the Emperor we are making progress on his dearest project.”

He clenches his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking in his grip, further irritated by the sound. As if it will somehow alert the Grand Moff to the intensity of his frustration at the man’s presence here, as if he should care what Tarkin’s opinion of him is. It’s not relevant, it has no bearing on him. The Emperor is pleased with his efforts, and that’s what matters. At this juncture, it is far too late for Tarkin to stop his trajectory to the top. 

“The project continues along the timeline I have provided,” he says, without waiting for the man to turn to look at him, glaring at his attache to dismiss them. The trooper escort had been a carefully chosen move, and Tarkin had evaded it by sheer lack of attention. He steps into the room, not bothering to wait for a response. “My men meet their benchmarks efficiently, and on schedule. If you have further curiosity about our progress, you might consult the timeline I copied you on.” 

Finally, he’s silent. He hates the silence, it feels like there is more he is owed to say. As if there are more excuses to make. But he refuses to make excuses, especially here. He knows he is out of his depth, he can see the expanse between them. And not just the length of floor, although he has stepped no further than a meter into the room. He is not cut from the same cloth as Tarkin, it reads in their voices, their posture-- and their stations. He will always struggle, he will always have to fight for what he has. And it tears at him, leaves him with clenched fists and a muscle throbbing in his jaw. 

“Monster? That’s a point of view, is it not?”

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