If you asked Ethan who—or rather *what*—he was, he would give you a different answer every time, and he meant it. Some days he claimed he was Dagon Marek himself, reincarnated in a shiny new droid body, a combination of intellect, brawn, and vaguely questionable fashion sense. Other days, he insisted he was a sentient Jedi droid, a "shard" of the Force tasked with guiding his master while making passive-aggressive commentary on intergalactic politics. Occasionally, he even admitted, with a hint of pride, that he was the amalgamation of Dagon Marek the slacker and Dagon Marek the war hero—also known as Starkiller—but with slightly better hygiene. Ethan never bothered clarifying which version of reality was real, because, honestly, being a droid who could argue philosophy, shoot turbolasers, and simultaneously brew the perfect cup of Coruscanti espresso was *fun*.
The problem, of course, was that while Dagon was off reducing Separatist forces to cosmic dust on Jabiim, Ethan had been left to his own devices. And as far as he was concerned, doing nothing was a *full-time occupation*. Sure, the Terminus was orbiting Jablim, pulsing with power and housing seventeen thousand clones who were doing a stellar job of being heroic and terrifying, but Ethan had objectives of his own. First on the docket: the Katana Fleet.
Ah yes, the Katana Fleet—officially a task force of two hundred Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers, unofficially a cosmic joke. Journalists had, with poetic flair, dubbed it "the Dark Force," which sounded threatening if you ignored the fact that the fleet's maiden voyage had ended in literal disaster. The Dreadnaughts were supposed to be the Republic's new military marvel: six decks of steel, space-optimized interiors, experimental AT-PT walkers, and full-rig slave circuitry that reduced crew requirements from sixteen thousand to a measly 2,200 per ship. Rendili StarDrive had redesigned the ships' interiors so lavishly that Ethan was almost certain the crew could have hosted galactic tea parties mid-battle. The hulls were dark gray, apparently to make the ships "look intimidating," but Ethan suspected it was more to hide the evidence of the thousands of engineers who had vomited in horror during construction.
The "efficiency demonstration" that was meant to inspire awe quickly became a catastrophe. Somehow, a hive virus had hitchhiked aboard the fleet during one of the Dreadnaughts' brief port stops. The virus, elegant in its own horrifying way, drove the crews insane *just before it killed them*. And in a plot twist that would make any strategist weep, the infected crewers decided the logical thing to do was to enslave their own ships together. Then, of course, the command staff also lost their minds, and the fleet jumped blindly into hyperspace. Two hundred Dreadnaughts, vanished. Poof. Disappeared into the void. "Congratulations, humans," Ethan muttered to himself. "You've officially ruined another military project. Again."
The Katana Fleet had become a cautionary tale in galactic history, a fleet so spectacularly mismanaged that even the Senate's bureaucrats nodded solemnly at its mention, murmuring, *"Well, at least it's not our fault this time."* Ethan, naturally, found this hilarious.
Dagon, of course, remembered the location where the fleet had gone—Halm Sector, Halm System, in the Mid Rim, far from any civilized sector, basically the galactic equivalent of the desert behind someone's backyard shed. Hidden in a nebula, abandoned, unremarkable—perfect for storing hundreds of insane warships without anyone noticing.
Orders had already been dispatched for the Katana Fleet. Forty-five ships were sent to Chiss space under the watchful eye of Admiral Thrawn. Ethan, after reviewing the manifest, raised a metallic brow—well, he would have, if he had one. "Peace offering, huh?" he muttered. "Because nothing says 'trustworthy ally' like giving someone a fleet that almost murdered everyone who touched it." Thrawn, as always, accepted with terrifying calm, and Ethan rolled his internal optics. "Yep. Makes sense. Humans, am I right?"
Fifty ships were dispatched to Lantilles, under the command of Moff Terbon, a man so loyal to Dagon that Ethan suspected Terbon would probably sell his own organs if Dagon requested politely. The Dreadnaughts were to be outfitted with Dagon's modifications, specifically the Ray Fokker adaptations, plus any enhancements the existing Lantilles fleet already possessed. Ethan made a note to remind Dagon to avoid any modifications that might spontaneously explode mid-battle, though he suspected the General would call that a feature.
Ten ships were sent to Rhan Kota's forces. Ethan found this particularly amusing because the ten ships were essentially treated like gifts to a well-behaved puppy. "Here you go, boss. Don't chew the furniture." Five went to Ryloth, as a gesture of goodwill—or perhaps to avoid political tantrums. The remainder were quietly stashed on Malachor, hidden where no one would stumble upon them until Dagon decided otherwise. Ethan chuckled audibly to himself at this. "A droid's paradise," he muttered. "Hide all the dangerous toys in one place and then walk away. Brilliant."
It was at this point Ethan received a message, blinking into existence in a holographic projection above his control console: *"Vacation is over."*
Ethan's circuits whirred in protest. Vacation? He had not technically been on vacation. But apparently, according to the General, doing nothing while Dagon obliterated Separatist forces qualified as "vacation." Ethan flopped into his console chair—well, he would if he could—reassessing the situation. Orders awaited, the galaxy needed intervention, and apparently he had to supervise the transportation of a fleet that had already traumatized half a dozen sectors.
As he prepared reports, he realized the absurdity of it all. Hundreds of Dreadnaughts, insane crews, experimental walkers, poorly designed interior decor, the Dark Force moniker—it was a disaster in progress and yet perfectly under Dagon's control. Ethan couldn't help but comment. "Yes, General Marek. Sure. I will make sure no one dies from the ships' psychological trauma. Totally. Nothing could go wrong."
Of course, that was only the beginning. Coordinating hyperspace jumps, ensuring the Katana Fleet didn't collide with anything, managing communications with Thrawn and Terbon while fielding inquiries from curious senators—it was all very serious work. And yet, Ethan found himself humming quietly as he worked, a tune that sounded suspiciously like the theme from *Cantina Band*, which he claimed helped with his "processing efficiency."
A minor incident occurred when a drone mistakenly delivered a message intended for Dagon to Ethan's console. It read: *"Please confirm the Republic fleet's orders to Muunilist. Over. P.S. Don't blow anything up without authorization."* Ethan squinted at the hologram. "Authorization? What's that? Never heard of her." He replayed the message three times just to be safe, muttering, "Ah yes, bureaucratic procedure… hilarious. Absolutely hilarious."
Meanwhile, the fleet itself seemed to sense Ethan's mild chaos energy and behaved accordingly. One Dreadnaught—named *Overcompensator*, for reasons unknown—decided it wanted to rotate its main guns in a pattern that resembled the choreography of a very aggressive ballet. Ethan had to redirect its AI, which promptly argued back in binary for ten minutes before finally complying. "And this is why we cannot have nice things," Ethan said under his breath.
During this chaos, Ethan received another update: the fifty ships at Lantilles had been fully modified according to Dagon's specifications. Apparently, some of the Ray Fokker enhancements involved advanced particle disruptors, upgraded shields, and, in Ethan's personal assessment, a *slight chance of spontaneous fireworks*. Ethan made a note to remind the General that "spontaneous fireworks" might be fun at parties but disastrous in combat.
Thrawn's forty-five ships in Chiss space were quietly, terrifyingly efficient. Ethan watched the updates come through: formations perfectly aligned, jumps executed flawlessly, the Chiss officers perfectly calm. Ethan groaned inwardly. "Of course. Everything in Chiss space is terrifyingly competent. Nothing could possibly go wrong there. Nope. None."
Rhan Kota's ten ships had already performed a minor training exercise, which Ethan had monitored remotely. He noted with amusement that the clones manning the Dreadnaughts had formed a spontaneous jazz band during downtime. "Ah, creativity under stress," Ethan commented. "Galactic civilization at its finest."
By the time Ethan had finished logging all the data, the sheer absurdity of the situation hit him. Two hundred Dreadnaughts, spread across multiple sectors, some in the hands of Jedi, some in the hands of loyalists, some in the hands of Chiss, all modified in half-baked ways by Dagon Marek, and Ethan was expected to ensure *everything ran smoothly*. He reclined in his chair again, flicking his mechanical wrist lazily. "You know," he said to no one in particular, "this is why I have a sense of humor. Otherwise, I would have spontaneously combusted weeks ago."
Finally, a comm ping arrived from Dagon himself: *"Ethan, report."* Ethan adjusted his circuits, prepared his most serious holographic projection, and replied: *"All fleets accounted for, modifications ongoing, sanity levels questionable, but operational. Katana Fleet remains alive and only slightly homicidal. Will continue monitoring."*
There was a pause. Then: *"Excellent. Proceed."*
Ethan's optics flickered. "Proceed… meaning chaos control, disaster mitigation, and minor intergalactic therapy sessions for hundreds of ships. Affirmative, General." He added, quietly, "And seriously, who names a fleet the Dark Force? Really. I have to deal with that? Really?"
He leaned back, circuits humming softly as the Terminus adjusted its orbit. The galaxy was a messy, absurd, chaotic place, and Ethan—droid, shard, reincarnation, and slightly sarcastic observer—was right in the middle of it. And, much to his delight, he wouldn't have it any other way.
By the time the evening shift began aboard the Terminus, Ethan had thoroughly cataloged the fleet status, made humorous commentary about every single Dreadnaught's "personality," and even begun drafting a brief for Dagon entitled: *"How Not to Have a Catastrophic Galactic Fleet Explosion 101."*
When the next message arrived—*"Next mission: Muunilist"—*Ethan's circuits nearly shorted from anticipation and sheer comedic potential. "Vacation, my metal butt," he muttered, "it's over. Time to deliver galactic chaos with a side of protocol." And with that, he dove headfirst into organizing a fleet that, by all known rules of physics and common sense, should never have worked.
Ethan had one guiding principle: keep the ships alive, keep the crews mostly sane, and above all, keep his sense of humor intact. The galaxy might burn, fleets might explode, Jedi might sigh in frustration, but as long as he had circuits and sarcasm, Ethan was unstoppable. And he would remind every Dreadnaught commander, every clone, and every overzealous senator of that fact—often loudly, often unnecessarily, and always with comedic precision.