Captain Firmus Piett was on holiday. He didn't want to go on holiday, but it was fine. It was going well. His sister's family were... nice...
Then Luke Lars showed up.
"I apologise for interrupting you on leave, Captain," Luke Lars said, scratching the back of his neck, shifting on the balls of his feet and looking all around shifty, suspicious and sheepish. "But I... was on planet, and I had hoped to ask of you a small favour?"
Piett suddenly regretted wishing he was back on the Executor—the moment he heard that, he had the feeling this would not be good.
"A—" Piett blinked. "A small favour?" This evening was getting more and more bizarre.
Lucus had pushed himself to his feet, to see who the young man in the... terribly uncared for Imperial uniform was—was that a rip on his sleeve?—and where he'd come from. Despite the fact that there was no way Lars could see his nephew past Piett, he glanced in that direction and smiled warmly.
"It's nothing, I promise. I hope," Lars assured him. "And I truly don't mean to intrude, I'll be going as soon as possible. But I remembered from your file that you used to work with the antipirate fleet of Axxila—"
"That I did." Piett folded his arms, resisting the urge to glower—at Lars or at Lucus. His past as one who combated criminals, pirates, slavers, was not one to be belittled or judged...
"Well then, I was hoping you could point me in the direction of their headquarters? The headquarters of the public relations branch, at least—the contacts. I have a question to ask of them."