No one quite knew what was happening. Through the chaos, fire, and hail of blaster-fire, the single Stormtrooper technician had become so disoriented that he was just barely able to perceive his orders from his commanding officer. All anyone knew for sure was that the base was under Rebel attack, and that they had somehow infiltrated the innermost archives here on Scarif, which was arguably the most secured location on the planet, dare he say. He wasn't just saying that because he had had a hand in its security measures, either.

No one was told what the rebels were aiming to steal, but almost everyone would guess the same thing: the blueprints for the Death Star. Were they hoping to find some design flaw to exploit? Surely it was in vain; a weapon that critical must be impenetrable.

Regardless of how futile their last-ditch effort was, the trooper's squadron was being rerouted to help defend the archives and purge the chamber of intruders anyway.

When they arrived at the main door, he couldn't see the enemy at first, only a maze of blaster-fire. Then he spotted it; the Imperial droid at the front console, which he had, at first, mistaken for one of their own. It had evidently been reprogrammed and was now one of them. With a pistol in one hand, the thing was picking off targets without even looking while the other hand frantically tapped at the controls, searching for something. No doubt, it was trying to locate the batch of files on the Death Star for the rebels to retrieve on the other side of the door.

The A.I. was getting shot at too. But despite the damage the Imperials' fire was doing, it continued, unfazed. The trooper looked on, crouched behind a corner, as comrades dropped right before his eyes. Skillfully placed shots from the droid were doing them in. He almost felt proud of the Empire's ingenuity in designing the security droid. But now their craftsmanship was being used against them, ironically.

As a technician, he was ill-equipped for this fight. His weapon's range was too poor to hit the mark, and laying down suppressing fire would do little to demoralize it. Stepping out of his cover wouldn't be worth the risk until he had access to the door's control panel. Essentially, opening the blast doors was his only real purpose in this scenario. His squadron seemed to understand this, and did their best to cover him.

The blaster-fire was finally taking its toll on the hardy robot as it began to spark and sputter. Its movements grew more sluggish and pained until the hulking thing could finally take no more. Its eye-lights flickered out as it crumbled to the ground, flaring and smoking.

The squad advanced, the trooper not far behind. Analyzing the console, he could tell that it had found what it was looking for at the last second. Dammit.

He knew he had to get that door open fast. But for a moment, his thought process was still stuck on the droid. The Rebels had to have found some sort of flaw in the bot's internal security that allowed them to reprogram it. The perfectionist in him wanted to close that gap in the programming. The Empire didn't need any more of its droids going rogue.

On his way past the wreckage, he snagged its chip from the back of its head. The storage disk hadn't been shot directly and was still salvageable. Good. Hopefully, he could read it later.

SCENE TRANSITION

…

Whirring.

…

Kaytoo felt himself start up again.

For a moment, he couldn't recall anything. He couldn't even sense anything. It took a moment for his receptors to come online, and even then, they didn't pick up right away. It was as if everything was being installed anew. It was happening again: the slow, achingly dull startup sequence that he was forced to endure the first time he was activated. He was unable to do anything until it was over and his system was booted.

He remained wherever he was, in the void of his inactive chassis, for what felt like an eternity. Various executions ran and then disappeared in the stream of his consciousness. Some of them seemed to be installing drivers for familiar droid functions. Idly, he considered their similarities to the quite foreign and human concept of "dreams." Cassian had introduced him to the idea during their time in the Rebellion.

Cassian. He considered. Why did he have the distinct feeling that Cassian wasn't with him right now?

He tried accessing further memory files, but nothing was available yet. It looked like he'd have to wait before remembering anything. Time passed.

His sensors blipped on, for a moment, then blipped off. What?

They blipped on again. This time, they allowed his vision to focus. The image in front of him was overexposed and blurry. Eventually, his sensors adjusted and the figures in front of him grew sharper, for the most part. He didn't recognize them as any individual humans he'd ever seen. But then again, it's not as if he would be able to recall who they were at the moment, even if he did know them.

Hang on, he thought. Is this some sort of diagnostics test? Are these people testing me for something?

Had his vocalizer been operational, he would've audibly complained. He would have also let loose a barrage of questions, partly because he would've very much liked to know what was going on, and partly just to be an annoyance.

Instead, Kaytoo stood motionless, in silence, while the diagnostics were run. Slow and deliberate limb movements were tested, though his motor functions were still beyond his control. The limbs moved smoother than what he was used to, he noticed. As one of the arms rose steadily into his field of vision, he was able to examine the model number on the arm of his chassis. It was different from his original, higher even. He was in a new body.

Then, suddenly, there was something new happening that caused his drivers to whirr harder. An unknown program had begun probing the system. It began a thorough scan of every system file and every bit of code in Kaytoo's programming. He could feel it rifle through everything. Wonderful. This process could take hours.

Click.

… It was done?

The program completed its task and retreated. He couldn't believe how quickly Imperial technologies were advancing. It would've taken a rebel programmer ages to scan him.

The men in front of him seemed satisfied.

"All right, I've got everything." One of them spoke, hands at work on a nearby console. "Have the techies in Sector 7 close that loophole. Shut this one down. Put in an immediate order for the disposal crew to scrap it." He indicated in Kaytoo's direction.

I'm sorry… Scrap?

The other officer nodded in affirmation and moved toward the controls that would deactivate him.

Quickly, desperately, Kaytoo tried a function, any function, that would prevent his complete shutdown.

He frantically opened something. He didn't even check to see what it was. But as the switch was pulled and everything went dark, the A.I. remained awake in his shell with the faint buzz of the single execution he had opened running in the background.

Thank goodness.

He waited for a few minutes. He had no way of knowing how soon those glorified garbage men would be here to do him in. Which was why it was time to leave. Immediately.

He activated his other sensors. As far as he could tell, he was alone in the room. He took the risk and turned on his visual receptors as well, his eye-lights glowing once again.

It appeared as though he were being held in a droid repair shop. All manner of Imperial droids stood, motionless, and arranged according to model and type of damage. Some were so torn that their disconnected parts had to be held together by bulky external rigs. Parts and tools of every kind lay carefully arranged on tables and shelves. For the time being, nothing was active and he was alone.

The doors, he noticed, were closed but unlocked. He could potentially slip out of the bay and blend in with the bustle of the… wherever he was. Certainly he was still on Scarif. But once they noticed that the rogue security droid they had intended to scrap was missing, which would only take a matter a minutes, every K-2SO unit in the whole place would be scanned until they found him out which one was him. Perhaps he would still have enough time to make it out of here. Or perhaps there was a better escape entirely.

He rotated his head to get a better look at the place. It looked as if he was kept separate from the other droids. There was a cluster of K-2SOs on the opposite end of the room. An idea began to form. He began to walk toward them, but found that he could not yet move his legs. It was only now that he realized that he himself had been held in place by a rig. Thankfully, it was very easy to undo the fasteners keeping him there.

Once free, he quickly made his way to the other K-2s. With his upgraded body, it was surprisingly easy to lift one and place it where he had formerly stood. He re-closed the fasteners and positioned the vacant bot so that no one could tell it wasn't him. He then quickly moved to take the droids old place among the others. He shut off his eye lamps.

And now he waited.

He noticed that the droids surrounding him seemed… undamaged. Or at least repaired. Perhaps they were ready to be reassigned. He hoped that was the case. He'd do anything to get out of this particular Imperial territory right now.

Sure, it was familiar, but ever since his reprogramming, all things Imperial had seemed so hostile and foreign to him. Which felt incredibly strange juxtaposed with his earlier allegiance to the Empire. Now they were just… too automated and warmongering. He had always wondered how much of his ideology was his and how much of it was planted there by his adopted Rebel comrades. He doubted that any of it was truly developed within his circuitry. Did it bother him? Not enough for him to dwell on. Either way, it was fine. Probably. He could live with it. It's not like he had the option not to.

The wait was concerningly short. The disposal team arrived within minutes, making K2 grateful to himself for acting when he did. The small team promptly detached the imposter droid and deposited it into a large hovering dumping bin, to be crushed and recycled later. Before he knew it, they were gone, leaving him to the hum and buzz of the shop's ambience. The close call had him sick to his circuits.

He wasn't sure when he'd be retrieved from this place. And he had even less of an idea of where he would end up. All he could do at the moment was wait. That was fine, he supposed. At the moment, he didn't feel like doing much moving anyway.