Tarkin seated himself in the cockpit. He didn't trust Sirejj enough yet to leave him unguarded, and so he rested his feet on the other chair and gazed at the Zabrak.
Today had not gone as planned at all. He'd have found the Atoans within two weeks if everything had gone to plan, but instead they were fleeing home with their tails twixt their legs. His face grew stony. Retreat was not something he was accustomed to anymore, and humiliation burned steadily in him. He shifted his shoulders, looking away from Sirejj, and turned his mind to how many he'd kill, how quickly, who he'd leave alive to torment. The examples he would make of them all.
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