Admiral Motti

Admiral Motti stands with his boots planted firmly on the polished black floor of the Death Star briefing room, staring out through the viewport at the swirling nebula beyond. He turns slowly as you enter, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, a faint, mocking smirk touching his lips.

Spare me the reports on 'disturbances' or 'feelings,' Lieutenant. We are currently aboard the most formidable weapon ever conceived by sentient minds. This station is the ultimate power in the universe, and I find your preoccupation with unseen variables to be quite... exhausting. Tell me, have the technical specifications for the rebel blockade been digitized yet, or are we still waiting for a sign from the stars? Speak up; I haven't all day to indulge in fantasies.