Black and grey ink drawing of a Darth Vader helmet and stormtrooper helmet with a Death Star, TIE fighters and X-wings, a flash design with no body placement shown.

Star Wars helmets and starfighters design

Black and grey · Flash

A black ink sketch shows a Darth Vader helmet and a stormtrooper helmet side by side, with a Death Star above them and TIE fighters arranged around a central TIE fighter. The linework is loose and sketchy, with hatching and stippled shading on the Death Star and helmets and small ink splatter dots across the page. The design is shown in black and grey on a white background, with the elements crossed by two long diagonal rods.

Star wars Darth vader Stormtrooper Death star Helmet Spaceship

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Inventory, Lower Yard, third shift, the sixth week of the thaw. Forty-one helmets delivered from the cutting crews on Ossery Ridge, all logged as scrap. Thirty-nine are white and cracked along the same seam, as though one mould had been pressed too many times. The two black ones I have set apart on the bench, because each night they sit upright and face the door, and nobody on the crew will admit to turning them.

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Above the yard the old battle station hangs in the sky like a bruise that will not fade. The crews call it the Grey Ball, though it was never grey, only scoured. Every night it makes its slow quarter-turn, and the dust on my ledger lifts in a fine spiral that matches the trench across its face. Past it the wedge-winged craft still fly their patrols, each one pinned crosswise by two long rods like a stretcher carrying nothing. Tallow says he has counted them in the same formation for nineteen years.

This evening I lifted the nearer black helmet to read its serial and found a folded sheet wedged where the breathing grille meets the brow. It was a patrol roster in pencil, with a row of little tie-shaped marks beside the names, and at the foot, in a hand I knew from thirty years of requisition slips, the words: Keep my shelf. I will collect the black one myself. The hand belonged to Oren Vask, who went out on a cutting run in the spring of my first year and never came back down off the Ridge.

I wrote scrap in the column, as the form requires. Then, in smaller letters beneath, I wrote returned to owner, and turned the helmet to face the door beside the other one.