Director Krennic marched into Vader’s meditation chamber, his cape whipping through the sulphurous Mustafarian atmosphere. To enter Vader's private sanctum uninvited was unheard of, but in the supreme assurance of his powers, the Sith Lord had never deigned to place guards about the chamber, even at his most vulnerable.
The meditation chamber slid apart, emitting rubber-scented steam and four maintenance droids, which trundled away, carrying the dismantled pieces of Vader’s intimidating armored carapace. Only one ‘droid’ remained within the meditation pod, a cheap-looking pleasure droid squirming its rubber form as it cupped its monstrously large breasts. The once-terrifying death rattle of its ventilator came now as a repetitive, high-pitch squeak, like an R2 unit.
“You were so deep in meditation, you didn’t notice me slicing your maintenance droids,” Krennic sneered. “Your sad devotion to that ancient religion was your undoing.”
With an indignant squeak, the sex droid thrust out an arm. Krennic felt the slightest pressure about his throat before electricity jolted through the droid's crotch. It fell to the floor, twitching and writhing in overwhelming, orgasmic pleasure. Krennic cleared his throat.
“We’ve been imprisoning Jedi for years. Don’t you think we’d have learned a few tricks for shutting down their powers?” he snapped. “Now, what was it you said to me the last time we met, doll? Oh yes... ‘Be careful not to choke on your aspirations.’ Well…” He stooped over the squirming droid, caressing its ventilator. “One last part of you to replace. Then we’ll see who is choking on what.”