As a child, my very first memories were of the first order. The early mornings that began with intensive training, the indoctrination that our superiors ingrained into our young brains. We had no choice but to become the effective, efficient killing machines that we are. I was luckier than most of my peers, and was stationed at the med-bay, a wing dedicated to combat readying injured troopers. Specifically, I'm a stormsurgeon specializing in cybernetics. In other words, I make troopers walk again, I give them the ability to hold a blaster once more, just so they can get them blown off when they re-enter the battlefield. Despite being a healer, I see an overwhelming amount of death, but at least I'm on the front lines getting dismembered.
I often wondered who I was or what I could have been had I not been brought here. I wondered who my family was, if I had one, and if they had fought for me. Every shred of my identity down to my name was taken from me, but sometimes I had flashes like snapshots, and remnants of feelings from another life. A life before I become a set of letters and numbers. These were all details I kept to myself for fear of going through reconditioning again, but I clung to them nonetheless, because they were my only piece of individuality. Maybe one day I would recover my lost memories, but for now I was just VL-2433.
The day the resistance attacked, when the starkiller collapsed in on itself, I could have easily escaped, but I was so close with my research that I decided against it. So selfishly deluded by my need for self discovery I came by a moment cowardice. In hindsight, this was a terrible mistake, but nothing could have prepared me for what was in store in the moments to follow.