* Originally posted on ImperialChicks dot com quite some time ago. Thanks to Blitzen for beta-reading *

Imperial Center - the planet once called Coruscant - was the bright center of the galaxy, the shining, glowing heart of the Empire. But neither sunshine nor starlight ever reached the bowels of the gigantic planet-city. Far from the luxury suites and penthouses of the multiple-hundred-story high skyscrapers, deep down below, the city's underworld was frozen in time, buried forever in the rotting stench of its lightless streets. Time went by, governments rose and fell, but nothing ever changed down there. In low levels Coruscant sleazy cantinas, brothels and sabbac parlors remained, as ever, the meeting place of the most unsavory characters of the galaxy: local crime lords, smugglers, gun-runners, spice dealers and fugitives.

In one of the countless cantinas of Sector 112, a man in his thirties sat in front of the bar. Many glasses of Gizer Ale - most of them empty, others full - were in front of him, and he stared sightlessly at the crowd, his gaze made empty by drunkenness. He wore a colorless flightsuit, greasy and spotted with dirt. His hair was almost shoulder length and looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in ages. His beard was dirty and unkempt, and he looked very much like a beggar. No one would have recognized in this pitiful wreck one of the most wanted men in the galaxy. Han Solo, former lieutenant in the Imperial Fleet, deserter, smuggler, con man and now general - no less - of the Rebel Alliance, was indeed no ordinary beggar. The planetary security of Imperial Center was of the best, but Han Solo knew the tricks of his trade and his presence in the very heart of Imperial Center had gone completely unnoticed.

Solo was on no secret mission this time. The only mission he had given himself was to down as much beer and Corellian brandy as he dared to. And Han Solo dared quite a lot.

He now looked at his own reflection in the mirror hanging behind the bartender, and found himself quite scruffy-looking. Deep pain flashed suddenly through his mind at this very word. Scruffy-looking. That reminded him of Hoth. And of Leia.

The ice planet of Hoth was one place Han was not likely to forget. There, the guerrilla experts of the Rebel Alliance had been forced to fight their first conventional battle, and the result has been as swift as it was predictable. The pitiful band of rag-tag soldiers led by General Rieekan was no match for the well-trained, hi-tech Imperial war machine, and Echo Base had become an icy tomb for many of them. Han could remember the ground shaking like a leaf about to fall under the giant feet of the dreaded Imperial Walkers, and their heavy turbolaser fire turning artillery pieces, troops and shield generators alike into smoking dust.

And he could remember all too well the victory celebrations given in honor of General Maximilian Veers, a commanding officer that day. Recovering from a rather unpleasant stay in carbonite, Han had had plenty of time to browse through the files of the HoloNet archives. Even then, he hadn't liked what he saw. The victorious Imperial General, standing very tall in his spotless dress uniform, radiated quiet strength and self-confidence, yet with no trace of the arrogance and cockiness Han himself usually displayed. Han knew instinctively what kind of man this general was, and that made him very uneasy. There was no need for the likes of General Veers to show off. His kind were born leaders and walked through life with a natural aura of authority and confidence everybody could feel at once. Arrogance - that hollow mask often used to hide one's weaknesses - was not necessary. Not at all. And immediately, Han hated the Imperial for that. For he himself had once been a promising, talented Imperial officer. That was ages ago, before his life became a downward spiral. The court-martial. The bleak ceremony where he was stripped of his rank, his insignias torn away from his now-useless uniform. His ceremonial sword broken under the boots of the youngest ensign of the garrison. Then the small jobs rapidly turning into illegal operations, and finally ending up a Rebel, pursued through the galaxy by the very same authority he once represented.

Oh yes, watching General Veers receiving the Star of Honor from the Supreme Commander of the Fleet - Lord Vader himself - reminded Han all that. And he hated the man for it. For the Imperial was the painful image of everything Han could have been, but wasn't. Loyalty. Sense of duty. Pride. Strength. Honor. Yes, that successful senior officer could have been him. Should have been. But it was too late now, and deep hatred and envy filled Han's heart. He didn't lack physical courage and had proven it many times...but moral courage and integrity were long gone, and Han was not stupid enough to deny it in his very few moments of self-honesty. He had succeeded in burying those disquieting thoughts deep down in his mind. Until last month. Until this undercover mission gone sour, where Leia and himself led their two separate teams. They almost succeeded, were caught, escaped, but it was close...business as usual.

Then everything had changed. Leia suddenly became distant and avoided him. He couldn't understand why, and simply assumed that the recent discovery of her father's true identity deeply distressed her, and that she needed some time alone to cope with the news. However, her behavior was odd. She avoided meeting his gaze, something she had never done before - with anyone. Her attitude seemed to be a strange mix of contradictory emotions. Shame was one of them, that much he was sure of. But the other, elusive part seemed to be...some kind of private, inner glow.

When this young fool of a Kirak finally broke the news, everything fell into place with fatal certainty. For reasons all too clear, Leia had disappeared for a very long night in the quarters of one General Veers. Of course, Han had given Kirak the beating of his life, calling him a liar. But when he confronted Leia with the gossip, his whole universe had collapsed. She didn't even try to deny or lie. She was, in many aspects, a lot braver than he was. Han didn't say anything then. No questions, no accusations, no emotional scene. His face ashen white, he just turned his back and fled. From cantinas to sabbac tables, from alcohol to spice. The downward spiral of his life again.

Now he sat in this filthy cantina, and the image of General Veers laughed at him in his mind. A bottomless hatred was filling Han's heart, and he tried to drown his mental agony into too many drinks. But his drunken mind was doing nasty tricks to him. Han suddenly had the vivid mental image of Leia kneeling in front of the Imperial, her arms wrapped around his waist, her mouth eagerly worshipping his erect manhood while his hands clasped the silky brown veil of her untied hair. He tried to banish the horrendous image from his mind...to no avail. Others came to assault him and he contemplated them, enthralled, hypnotized like a womp-rat caught in the lights of an incoming landspeeder, drowning into his mind-vision with an almost masochistic fascination. Leia. Her small and lean body pinned down under the Imperial's powerful frame, panting and moaning as he possessed her. Oh Force, what had she done! What was she thinking of, lying there, all pretense gone, naked and open before him, each and every part of her being begging to be taken? Han wondered wildly what thoughts had crossed the mind of General Maximilian Veers, commander of Lord Vader's dreaded Death Squadron, decorated war hero of the Empire, as Rebel leader Princess Leia lay naked in his arms, her belly a pool of molten metal, her skin shivering under his hands. How had he felt, really, at the very moment he entered her, and felt her hips hungrily arching upward to welcome his thrusts? Han needed very little imagination to know what must have followed next. He could almost see the expression carved on Leia's face just before she climaxed, her mouth half open, eyes made glassy by ecstasy, head tilted backward, her whole body suddenly tensing then becoming limp while her hands clasped convulsively the strong shoulders of her lover-enemy. Had she cried out then? Had she called his name?

Han let out an anguished and angry groan, shaking his head violently from left to right in a vain attempt to get rid of the nightmarish visions alcohol and his own subconscious had conjured for him. He felt shaky and nauseous. He had come to this place to lose himself into the false comfort of drunkenness, only to see the painful reality of truth staring back at him from the bottom of his glass. The Gizer ale he was sipping had now the bitter, coppery taste of defeat and betrayal. And weakness, whispered a little, unforgiving voice at the back of his mind. This whole sordid cantina stank of weakness, as much as he did. Weakness was all around, in each and every pitiful being present: the weakness and cowardice of those who try to find oblivion in the fake paradise of alcohol and drugs, instead of standing up like men and confronting the trials life had in store for them.

The man who had once worn the uniform of an Imperial lieutenant stood up, staggering like a very old man. He stumbled towards the door and almost fell. Through the thick haze of alcohol, the walls spun around him like a wheel. Han leaned against the filthy duraplast and threw up. And the taste that filled his mouth was less bitter that the one which filled his devastated, vanquished mind.