"Three to dirt. FL-6026, you have the point."

The helmet only filtered scents and senses coming in, it did little to prevent anything already inside its confines. Right now FL-6026's world was sweat, forming on his brow, assailing his senses, dripping into his eyes as he tried to focus on his HUD. The Sergeant's words were still sounding in his ears.

You have the point.

There was only one way out of an Atmospheric Assault Lander. And one way for blasterfire to come in.

But the Sergeant wouldn't have picked a stormtrooper they didn't trust to have the point.

FL-6026-Sixer-took a deep breath before he spoke, wincing at the faint shake he heard in his words. "Roger, Sergeant."

There was no comforting hand on his shoulder, no private comm acknowledgement of faith and trust. FL-6024 and his comrades were stormtroopers of the First Order-they didn't need that.

Or at least that's what the Sergeant said.

The AAL shook as the atmosphere buffeted the light craft, and the troopers swayed back and forth where they stood, unconcerned. For the most part. There were sounds all of them knew and recognized as unconscious giveaways. When you spent time in anonymous armor twenty-four-seven, you learned to identify your comrades by their little tics. Gunner and Bearer, the repeater blaster crewers who'd loved their jobs so much they'd taken their roles as names, were breathing harshly through their noses, just as in sync in body as they were on the gun. Scry had her head faintly bowed, and even without hearing Sixer knew she was murmuring some prayer in her native language, a last remnant of her past that even General Hux's training regimen and the tutelage of Captains Cardinal and Phasma had been unable to stamp out. Deuce was carrying out a functions check on his rifle like it was a talisman.

General Hux-the original one, Brendol-had been big on conformity, but for whatever reason he'd never given orders to stamp out the nicknames, provided they weren't used around him. It was whispered he was an admirer of the Clone Troopers of the Old Republic-and perhaps those names reminded him of those warriors of old.

"One to dirt." If the Sergeant had a nickname, Sixer had yet to learn it. "Safeties off."

Clicks, whines, and other metallic noises sounded as the troopers readied their weapons. Sixer took a deep breath, snugging the stock against his shoulder. He could hear explosions sounding outside the craft now, and he tilted his head. "Sergeant, it sounds like it's hot out there. We might want to find another LZ."

"Acknowledged," came the toneless reply. "Thirty to dirt."

Sixer frowned behind his helmet, feeling his heart rate pick up. Flying into a landing zone being pounded by indirect fire seemed to fly in the face of all his lessons. "Sergeant, we're going to take heavy casualties-"

"Acknowledged," repeated the squad leader, voice still flat. "Ten to dirt…five...four...three...two...one-"

With a jerk the landing craft came to a halt and landed, boarding ramp lowering and revealing an artillery-cratered battlefield beyond. As Sixer had predicted shellfire was already raining down, explosions wracking the landing zone the troopers were going to debark into. There was no cover.

"Let's go!" Action always brought out the Sergeant's suppressed emotions. "FL-6026, move!"

They were going to die if they charged out there.

But orders were orders.

And a Stormtrooper of the First Order always followed orders.

Sixer charged forward, and as soon as he cleared the troop bay thunder roared in his ear. His field of vision spun wildly-he didn't even feel the blast hit him-and his world went black.

When he came to, his world was glossy black. White figures with different colored blobs perched atop them loomed over him, quietly murmuring to each other. Sixer blinked, and the figures resolved themselves into the troopers of his squad.

One of them-Deuce, judging by his fishbelly-pale skin-turned round to wave at someone. "Sergeant, he's waking up."

The figure that approached still had its helmet on, but the Sergeant's black pauldron was identifier enough. "FL-6026. Still among the living, I see."

Sixer rolled his shoulders, immediately trying to sit up in his hospital bed as his mind immediately shrieked at him to go to as close to a parade rest as he could. "Sergeant, I-"

The Sergeant raised a hand, and Sixer subsided. "Good work. Even live-fire exercises can get boring, I know. And I think you learned a lesson today. All of you, even those of you who didn't end up too close to an artillery simulator, should have. One of you tell me what it was?"

Gunner and Bearer, ever the double act, braced to parade rest. Though Gunner was female and Bearer a male, even their voices sounded similar. "Always follow orders, Sergeant."

"Thank you." The Sergeant's low contralto had a hint of pride in it; though restrained, she did take care to show every now and again when she appreciated the progress of the soldiers she mentored. "We live to serve the First Order, and everything we do advances its path to bringing back stability to the galaxy. Even our deaths. No one, from FL-6026 here on up, is unexpendable. We follow orders, we get the job done for the Order-no matter what the cost. Am I understood?"

As one, the squad chorused back an affirmative.

"Excellent. Carry on. And one of you see to it FL-6026 gets himself some food."

There were officers in the cafeteria that day. Sixer and the others took care to give them a wide berth, wary of their lack of armor, of the power that came with the commission and tunic and cuff rank. There were stormtroopers among the figures in fabric, easily identifiable by their ramrod posture, their shaved-short hair and how they grouped with others of their ilk. The Navy officers, and even the NCOs, were seemingly more lax in their bearing and grooming, though Sixer had no doubt they still outclassed any crewer or officer in Republic or Resistance service.

But even in the uniformity of the officer corps, some figures managed to stand out.

"Up front, head table," muttered Scry around a mouthful of protein cube. "Is that General Hux?"

Deuce stiffened, pale skin growing paler still as he lowered his fork. "Nobody called the room to attention-"

"Should we call it?" Bearer's watery eyes nervously glanced to Gunner on his right.

Gunner, nonchalant as ever, just gave her partner a smirk that suited her elfin features rather well. "You want to be the one who calls the room to attention for a Sergeant who happens to be a redhead?"

"It's Hux, I'm telling you," snapped Scry. "We-ROOM TEN-SHUN!"

Sixer reacted instinctively, awestruck as always by the sound the other hundreds of soldiers and crewers in the room made as they all shot to their feet and braced to attention at the same time.

But the voice that put them at ease wasn't the harsh yet polished tones of the General. It was a low baritone, filtered through a mask. "At ease."

As they settled down, Sixer saw that Scry had gone just as pale as Deuce. He didn't dare turn round. "Is that-"

She nodded, eyes wide as he resumed eating her protein cubes. Even jaunty Gunner looked tense.

It wasn't entirely uncalled for. Kylo Ren never came round trooper territory. Not for pleasant reasons.

"What's he doing," muttered Sixer. Scry was the only one who had eyes-on the eminent personnel at the back of the room.

"He's...he's taking his mask off." She sounded shocked. "He looks…"

The others leaned in, and Sixer was aware of the tension in his voice. "What? He looks like what?"

"I dunno. He's turned away, talking to the General. His hood's hiding his face." Scry shook her head, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "I think that might be for the best."

"I bet you he's not bad-looking at all," said Sixer, surprising himself with the irreverent words. "Like someone like that's gotta keep fit to handle all that CQB-"

Gunner was grinning like a gargoyle, opportunity to tease Sixer overcoming her tension from the Jedi Killer's presence. "Well well well, got a little crush there Sixer?"

He could feel his cheeks flushing bright red; Gunner's attention had a way of doing that to him. "Look, I'm just saying-"

"And I'm just saying his mask's back on," hissed Scry. "He's coming our way."

Even Gunner shut up at that, and the troopers fell silent. They could feel the Dark Side warrior's approach: silence followed in his wake, but there was a chill in the air too, more imagined than felt. Maybe. Some of the older troopers, the very few remaining Imperial veterans, had seen Force-users in action. But to Sixer's generation it was more theory and stories than reality.

He must have thought that a little too loud, because as the robed figure swept past their table, it stopped short. Slowly, the mask turned to regard Sixer and his comrades, tilting almost quizzically.

Sixer could feel his pulse pounding in his throat. Scry's eyes were closed, her head cast down. He knew she was praying again.

The mask swept the table's occupants….and then Kylo Ren moved off, all without having said a word.

For the troopers, it was probably the closest they'd come to staring down death itself. For a few minutes, no one spoke.

Eventually, when he'd distracted himself with enough protein cubes, Sixer decided to break the silence. "Well. Bet you that was Hux after all."

"Impossible," said Deuce, skin finally approaching a more natural shade of pale. "No grand speech."

Snickers at that, quickly suppressed, but Gunner gave Deuce a dirty look. "That man's responsible for the soldier you are today, watch your tongue."

"I just wish I had that coat of his." Bearer had managed to recover some of his good humor too. "Think I could get a commission?"

"It's for senior officers only, I think," said Scry, dourly picking at her protein cubes. "Besides, you have to forget how to use sleeves."

Sixer snickered again. The General's preference for occasionally using his coat as a cape was one of his well-known idiosyncrasies. "I imagine when you're as good an officer as he is, you can get away with that."

"You just wish you looked as good as he does with it," retorted Gunner.

Bearer smirked as he took a swig of his water."Now who's got a crush, eh?"

Gunner didn't get a chance to answer back; there was a brief crackle and the ship's PA came to life: "Now hear this-all FL Corps trainees, report to assigned classrooms for afternoon instruction."

Sixer got to his feet, moving to bus his tray. "Heard we're getting trained on calling for fires today."

"Artillery?" Scry perked up. "Always nice to have the hand of the gods on our side."

"Too right." Gunner chugged the rest of her water. "Always nice to have more toys to smash the Republic and the Resistance's dogs."

"Bring some of that peace and order back with super fire power." Sixer laughed as he tugged on his helmet. Once upon a time he'd been a child roaming the streets of Ketaris, scrabbling for food, for water, for survival. He'd never had friends, no siblings, and sometimes Sixer wondered how that lonely boy would've felt knowing that this purpose, this calling and dedication, lay ahead of him. That he would one day be one of the galaxy's finest and would help topple the anarchy that reigned over it.

That one day he would have comrades like these, all shaped, molded and sculpted into the First Order's finest. Identical in purpose, capability and appearance. Men and women he could count on to have his back in a way that street urchin never could have.

Maybe that kid would have looked up at the night sky with a little more hope.

The man he'd become, however, knew that the future for him, his comrades and the galaxy under the First Order was just as bright as those stars.