* * *
The turbolift doors of Cellblock 5397C aboard the Death Star opened.
The Imperial officer at the prison section’s computer looked up. His back stiffened as the two stormtroopers and Wookie entered. “I wasn’t made aware of any new prisoners,” he said, his tone as prim as his black uniform.
The taller stormtrooper shrugged. The shorter one offered, “Prison transfer from... ah... cell block one-nine-eight-two-A to cell back five-three-nine-seven-C.”
The officer keyed for a list of prisoners; his lip twisted. “I see no such transfer logged.” His hand was now on the butt of his blaster.
The taller stormtrooper canted his head. “Superiors. You know ‘em.”
“I am one,” responded the officer.
He promptly fell to the floor when a shot struck him in the chest.
The other stormtroopers in the room were caught off-guard; their blasters’ panicked responses struck the metal walls about the Wookie as he charged and slammed one into the wall. His companions made short work of the other guards, the bright shots making their faceplates iridesce.
When the last stormtrooper fell, the taller newcomer tore off his helmet. “It was stuffy in there,” protested Han Solo.
“Suck it up,” Luke Skywalker told him, leaving his own helmet on. He hefted his blaster and walked to the entrance into the prison area proper. “I’m going to find the Princess. You stay here and keep guard. I’ll holler if I need anything.”
“Try not to holler,” Han called back and leaned in the officer’s seat, propping his legs on the computer monitor.
Rolling his eyes, Luke advanced down the corridor. Stark metal hovered in his peripheral vision; the black lettering above each cell door was nearly indecipherable in the dark, and so Luke’s progress was slow. The Force must have abandoned him for the moment, for the very last cell Luke checked was the one for which he had searched. He pressed the door release, imagining the Princess’s gratitude, and took a step across the threshold before realizing the Princess was not lying on her metal bunk.
A blow to the back of his head pushed him to his knees. His blaster was torn from his grip, his head slammed against the metal floor with a clang, his arms pulled behind his back with such pain he yelled. He was pushed roughly to the floor, his arms still pinned behind him; an arm wrapped around his neck and a weight pressed upon his back.
“Blasted stormtrooper,” said a feminine voice.
“I’m — not the bad guy!” Luke gasped.
“Sure you aren’t.”
She pushed harder. Luke tried to keep his tears pent — what would Han say? — but the pain stung his eyes.
“I’m serious!” he insisted.
“That’s what they all say.” Luke’s arms were released and the pressure removed, but before he could exhale in relief, the click of a loaded blasted emanated from somewhere to his right. He looked in that direction; Leia glared coldly back at him. “Don’t. Move.”
“That’s fine,” Luke sighed. “I like the floor. Much more cozy than the escape ship waiting in the hangar for you, because, you know, I came here to rescue you...”
Leia shook her head. “I’m not falling for your tricks. Now give me your armor.”
“My — my what—?”
Luke hesitantly removed his helmet.
At this moment, Han conveniently poked his head into the doorway. “Doggone it, kid, I told you not to holler—” A blaster bolt from Leia forced him to duck back under cover. “The heck? Your Highness, if you didn’t notice, we’re here to rescue you.”
“Vader is full of tricks,” hissed Leia. “I’m not trusting anyone who wears stormtrooper armor, and you can’t tell me otherwise. Now get in here.”
Han emerged from behind the doorframe, his hands behind his head in surrender. “I don’t see where you’re going with this...”
“Get on that bunk.” She jabbed with her blaster then peeked out the doorway. “Good, no one else— My goodness, what is that? — a walking carpet?”
“Yep,” Han said through his smirk. “Mine.”
Leia wrinkled her nose and raised her blaster. The distinctive warble of a stun blast echoed through the corridor; Han snarled and started forward, only to be stopped by Leia’s raised weapon and eyebrows.
“Cellblock five-three-nine-seven-C, this is Imperial Command. What has happened to your men? Please respond.”
Han swore. “They’re coming, Princess. Let’s jet. Quick-like.”
“...not enough time,” Leia murmured to herself. Then she looked up. “I’ll be sure to do that, sir.” Leia smiled brightly and stepped out of the cell. Han realized what she was about to do a split-second before she pressed the door close button.
“Princess, that’s not a good idea—!”
The door closed before her face like metal curtains.
Han flung himself against the door, his yelling punctuated by the impact of his fists on the stubborn metal. “PRINCESS! LET — US — OUT!”
Luke had already resigned himself to the bunk on the far wall. “It’s no use, Han,” he said. “We’re stuck here.”
The muscles along Han’s jaw throbbed with fury, but his voice belied the fire in his eyes as he turned. “Your fault, kid.”
“I didn’t know she would lock us in here!”
“With women, expect the unexpected. FYI, I call dibs on the bed.”
Luke shifted. “It’s not much more comfortable than the floor.”
Han grunted in reply. A chorus of blasterfire rang outside the door, and he resigned himself to the fact that he would be getting no reward.
* * * * *
I wish I had made this more humorous, but I couldn't think of how to include more jokes whilst keeping the story some dignity, so this is it. Comments and criticism are appreciated, especially because this is the first time I've written fan-fiction prose comedy.