1 BBY:
It was going to be my first drop as a stormtrooper, meaning my first time in battle as one. And, truth be told, I shook in my armor at the prospect. I got kinda frozen up and listened like ice to the scenic sound of ship-wide broadcasts sounding in and out, in and out of the ceiling with people straining to hear what was said as work was loud all around, and I was all shaky in my white boots and armor so I probably looked just as green as I felt.
All around me were stormtroopers getting ready to ship out for war, and within the hangar was the pitter patter of soldier feet on armored black floor. I was part of it, the hurried chaos, and they me. We were all united, almost like clones, and to many, we were that, the same. We were an elite corp, our own army; a single fighting force that stood alone and isolated from the regular, more traditional, army organization. We were more than just individual soldiers; we were better, which was why we were feared like we were violent warriors, marauders not saviors. We represented an idea, a symbol, a persona: a stormtrooper, and no one could beat a martyr.
As were one, we were no longer individuals; no individuality, it wasn't needed now-days. We were deeply integrated into the machine: resources and tools to be used by whomever on the call, and part of it we were, like the gears locked within a droid; the Imperial War Machine, which was as glorious as one could get. We all gave up our humanity, our existence, for it (voluntarily, of course), as it wasn't needed, as only duty and loyalty and service mattered, and we had learnt that rather well. One mind dedicated to bringing honor and victory to the Empire.
I was a stormtrooper, one among more-than-billion, a number that one couldn't even count to. We were the Empire's vanguards in battle, its elite shock troopers; truly, we were its best soldiers, as I would help to prove by destroying all enemies of the Empire for peace and order.
I have, since training, traded my name for a number, my skin for armor, and have given my heart to the Empire and my body to the Emperor; to be a stormtrooper, of course. After a full year of training, at what had been my nearest Stormtrooper Academy, I went from being a mere cadet, near the top of my class, to being a trained soldier with a certificate and documents and all; assigned to Jackal Squad of the Five-O-One Legion to replace a number that they had lost, that had got dead while destroying enemies of the Empire, a death most others had not as sweet.
I was in, as they say, a real trained soldier, what had been my life's ambition to be. I was ready as could be, as they say, and was cleared for combat by the ship's psychiatrist and doctor. I've been given my injections that would give me courage and endurance in battle, that would make it impossible for me to feel fear ("never retreat, never surrender, only advance and conquer" was on squadron's tag); I've also taken the medicine that made me do kilos, thousands, of microsleeps for the past twelve hours of the day to keep my form from getting sleep deprivation during combat, but, of course, combat drops never tended to last that long; and I've eaten a full set of calories and nutrients and supplements in my last hundred meals to prepare my body as best it could be naturally for this moment, not mentioning the physical prowess that the academy and training put me through. It stands to reason that I was as prepared, ready, as any soldier could be for battle. I was happy, no blissful, at the opportunity to fight in combat and to serve his Royal Majesty, the Emperor.
I stood with the other seven troopers of my squadron, delegates of Imperial justice, in the red-lit drop room, the mission preparation room, in my suit: great, white stormtrooper armor, as our corporal and sergeant went over our battle plans, or at least all we, as privates and private-first-classes, needed to know. We looked to be tall, slender forms in the narrow confine. I stood in my armor, "warming it", as I played with the different displays shining all over my face, changing its color as I changed through settings, and giving me its bright, warm glare.
Our sergeant was talking, but his voice reverberated all over the small room, so I didn't need to focus on him to hear him. I stood at attention anyway, though, after having fastened my armament - a BlasTech E-11 blaster rifle - and spare ammo aside my designated seat on the dropship. I didn't know what the other troopers were doing behind their helmets, whether they were making faces at me or staring stoic at the sergeant, I don't know; it didn't really matter to guess, as no one could tell what went behind the permanent stares of the blind-white, skull-like soldier-helmets, or neither mine.
At nine fifty-eight left till mission start, our sergeant inspected us, after having mustered us from either our bunks, sentry-duties, or work-outs, and giving us exactly the standard time to change into our battle armor from our casual wear. We all rendezvoused at the drop room, the shuttle bay for soldiers shipping out. Our handsome, manly sergeant stood in his armor with its iridescent painted pale-yellow stripes on the arms and shoulder pieces (it was painted with a compound that made light get reflected when viewed from in front, looking white, but otherwise reflected white-yellow back in all other directions: to let his own troopers know who's boss and not the enemy, as we would always be behind him and enemies not, as sergeants always led their squadron from in front), unhelmeted for the moment he talked to us, so I could stare at his bright blue eyes and his clean, shaved, and white face; however, I disapproved of his attire, judging him like I was some quean, as he should have already locked his helmet on. To me, it was like building a ship without thrusters; sure, you could put sails on it and make it float, but you were stuck on water. I don't know, as I was just a private, but if the sergeant wanted off ship, he needed to don his helmet: for precaution, for the mantra.
Other than that, he was the same as us; another soldier, as he would drop with us and fight, doing it all while leading us and giving orders, which showed his strength and career expertise. Our sergeant was from Taris same as me, but don't let that fool you, he paid as much attention to the fact or to me as you would expect; he thought of me like the equipment or boots; unimportant, but you still brought it along, as I was still yet un-combated, so nobody knew what to think of me. I still hadn't made a drop, having just been shipped from training.
The sergeant gave a quick look at each our armors, taking a quick time as he could to check how tight our armor was and tightening it even more and more for mine alone. After down-checking me, and leaving me blushing, embarrassing me in front of the others, he evidently figured no one of the other troops could make a mistake like I, for he stepped out in the middle of the loose lines we made and nodded, giving us pride and excitement and heat that we were ready, or at least I thought, I didn't know for sure what the others had thought, the helmets.
Our sergeant spoke, "Attention, baseborn, you bucks, gents and drab, form your lines!" He said contumely and ordered.
And we all snapped into perfect lines, so close in the small, red room that the sergeant had to walk parallel to us for him to get through.
"Get into your function, soldiers!" He growled and rolled out his words, "Are you worthy to serve the Empire? Lord Vader, in combat? I think not, not with the soldiers I have here, a bunch of rancors; all muscle and the latest gear, but no intelligence! Get into function!"
He said as he marched through our lines, making my spine shiver and my legs tremble and my face flush with nervous fear and panicked excitement, and we stood as still as statues, marble sculptures like what they had displayed in art galleries in the Upper City of my home, but not as fragile, of course.
"We deploy on the planet Thyferra, a planet which the middies in the Navy have kindly blinded for us, taking out its orbital sensors and equipment. We will give them thanks by blasting yellow-red explosions all over the planet that Navy can look at in awe from behind their glass windows while sipping hot imported beverages on furnished leather seats. However, unlike the snobs, we will actually get our boots dirty and fight on the ground; fight until we sick out blood and blast away till our trigger fingers need to get replaced by cybernetics. Command left the complicated part of the Lord Vader's objective to us, the Stormtrooper Corp, dropping in and taking on a hundred of various objectives on the planet to secure a tactical advantage. Of course, as usual, these objectives made Army faint, so we'll be going in alone, stormtroopers!"
He stopped when he got to the head of our formation and turned around, facing us and being pumped with angry energy from the injections. His arms clenched into fists and hang dangerously down and slightly out from his body as he braced his shoulders like a kath hound towards us. His chin was slightly angled down as he yelled at us, as if expecting one of us to come out and attack him, him being ready to rip us wookie-like in half. His face was getting red like mine (but not from womanly blush) as he continued his fanciful, polished speech.
"You're already supposed to know the mission outline, as you were supposed to read it this morning before coming here. However, I will reiterate, as you troopers got minds like bathna poodoo; this outfit, Jackal Squad, has been given the privilege of getting its boots dirty while completing one of the objectives: the maiming of a blockhouse guarding the right flank of the enemy's main citadel, Lord Vader's main objective. Needless to say, it's a very important assignment; one which we will complete. We are a feint, a diversion, of course, while the Lord Vader completes his main objective; we will stick to his schedule; we leave when he leaves, be it in an hour, ten minutes, or a year. We are to complete our objective before he's done with his, no matter what, stormtroopers, as goes the same for all other squadrons dropping in on the planet, which, if every squadron completes their assignment, will eliminate the cancer infesting this planet and prep it for Army to take care of. Am I clear, soldiers?" He finished barking.
"Yes, sir!" We roared, all filling the energizing effects of the drugs.
"For the Empire. For the galaxy. For his Emperor. We are his fists!" The sergeant immortalized into my mind.
With that, we clambered into the troop transport that would take us to the planet, a Sentinel-class landing craft, and sat in our seats, fastened each by a heavy harness. As I sat in the small room of parallel benches for troops, breathing heavy through my helmet from endless energy, I watched impatiently as the mission time on my helmet display clicked to zero, then restarted, counting up (mission time), and overhead lights went off as the hatch closed and the shuttle fired bright thrusters in loud fire and we felt the acceleration out of the hangar bay as we sunk into the backs of our seats. Then nothing, no sound, except the sound inside the craft; it was quiet as we sailed through space. The only sound being the breathing of each other through our comm-links, which I found rather tranquil, hypothesizing like enfants, behind the impalpable "frown" of our white helmets as we sat in our plastoid white armor. Our transport flew smoothly through space, but that would change soon, of course; decoy transmissions and missiles and other heavy ordnance fired from within the hull and from the turrets on the Star Destroyer we called home, and we made our presence on the planet known.
Our transport's pilot was Army, but don't let that fool you, we stormtroopers aren't Army nor Navy; we are our own body, the Stormtrooper Corp. We operated under our own command, Stormtrooper Command, and got deployed in situations ruled too difficult for regular Army troops. We get deployed where the fire is too hot, the mission objectives staggering, and all drops are "complicated situations" with suicidal odds and a short time limit. We were rapid deployment troopers, shock troopers, hence "stormtroopers", expected to clear out and storm bunkers, destroy shields, AD towers, and fortified positions, to soften, "butter" the enemy up for the Army to later deal with.
While on paper and news we didn't get the glory of having our squadron's name being listed on the front-feed for having captured the last enemy position, we didn't mind, as, in our hearts, we knew we captured the king; the general of said army, and our reputation grew every battle by the carnage we left behind and by what others saw. While the Army got the credit for having caused the enemy to retreat or for having dealt the final shot of their complete annihilation, we stormtroopers knew we were the ones who got deployed first, who got the Army's main force landed on the ground, safely, with rubble from all obstacles that would've been in their way burning in pieces all around them; and we landed them right next door to the enemy's weak spot: a flank or tactical advantage, with the main opposition they would've faced being crippled or destroyed by us. We didn't mind, of course, not taking credit, it's in the mission prerogative; all we cared for was completing our objective, serving his Emperor. We were the destroyers, while Army was the occupational and cleanup force.
We all bounced in our white armor as the shuttle hit clouds and cut through ozone of the upper atmosphere. The outside of the craft was burning red-orange fire, but we didn't notice; there were no windows, we only felt the shakes. The room was dark, dim-lit, as we hit atmosphere; the lights coming on red to tell us to ready up for a quick release and to hang on tight. All around us, decoy flares were firing from our shuttle and all sensor frequencies were being jammed: radar, sonar, thermal, and even more that one would need to read some manual to know what. It brought confusion to our enemy, who didn't know where to shoot in the sky, and caused their own troops to panic as their instruments counted thousands of troop-transports landing, while the real ones suddenly landed all over without detection. All around, giant ground-to-air blasters, lasers, and missiles were firing colors and blowing up all over the sky, being directed at us; the sky being painted black smoke and fire of war. Our Star Destroyer exchanged tactical orbital-bombardments with the planet, laying down firing solutions on the planet to hit heavy pockets and hot landing zones. While we were a separate corp, both the Army and Navy helped us in battle, as is the military, as was the might of the Empire.
"You will hear my thunder, And see, my lightning hence, Hark, and think, she wanted storms. A flash, and fire, and deafening sound!" A children's rhyme I used to sing as a brat.
In atmosphere, of course, there was sound, loud cracks and pops and detonations of ordnance all around, 360 degrees in both latitude and longitude. Our pilots in front, in the cockpit, could be heard clicking buttons and flipping switches, talking on comms while we sat silent in the back, our sergeant starting to seal on his helmet, being almost too late. Imperial pilots were good, of course, and we didn't need to worry about being deployed off our target zone nor did we have to worry about being shot down. The pilots were skilled and trained to avoid most types of damage, but it was luck that would see us through; no one could prepare nor have skill to avoid the most random of bursts of fire and laser-guided defenses. If we were to get shot down, then we would, and as stormtroopers we would pull ourselves from the rubble and carry on, bringing death to the mission schedule. If we weren't to get shot down, same thing, death to the enemies of the Empire, but it made it much more efficient and convenient to land inside the target zone, as command had its reasons; we would be closer to the enemy and have less opposition to artillery fire, traps, and other such infantry nightmares.
Our sergeant's voice clicking on, "We get dropped a klick away from our target. We move double time to it before the enemy knows we landed." Then clicked off with slight static; finally coming out in the monotonous, generic male voice from his white helmet.
He stood standing up off his seat in his stiff white stormtrooper armor, gripping fabric handles on top the shuttle as he shouted his lungs full, and rocked back and forth with the shuttle and sky. We had been silent ever since we left the drop room, our helmets impalpable as they stared directly at what was in front of us, looking like we had all powered off and took a quick bunktime on the bench before battle; however, despite it, we were much alive under our armor, and no matter how we looked, we were always alert and listening for orders and keeping our eyes and ears open to the enemy. As soldiers, we had to be quiet, not chatter, as they say. Only the NCOs would talk, giving orders in combat and radioing Command and else, and we all were very good soldiers, so very quiet, as we were stormtroopers.
"It's just us, Jackal Squad, so stay mobile. We have access to call bombers on site as soon as Rancor Squad takes out an AD tower harassing overhead our position. We're guarding our own backs here till then, soldiers, and aside from that, we've no flanks, nor reserves, no backup. I will repeat, our mission is to keep this blockhouse from reinforcing any other positions on the planet, so we will keep them bogged down and dead. We go in; we go out. We kill the enemy outpost quick as possible and leave it for the Army to come in and hold. Splicers, a tech team, will be shuttled in once we take control of the outpost. Their protection is top priority till the retrieval boat comes to pick us up. Am I clear, soldiers?"
"Yes, sir!" We shouted.
"Drop in twenty seconds! Number eight," that is me, "Stick close to either myself or to number Two, the corporal. This is your first drop, no medals nor heroics, watch how we do things today, drab, and earn both later."
"Yes, sir!" I shouted alone, all quiet-sounding and thankful, but coming out in a bland, synthesized male voice.
"The rest of you, thou stay alert, thou stay alive. We are in this together, we do this by the carefully and by the book. Keep your ears on and your triggers pressed!"
The shuttle shook when it landed, coming down hard, fast enough to put a crater forest ground. It shook us awake, those who had fallen asleep. Red lights turned green, hatch hissed open, harnesses on seat flew up, and we grabbed our blasters and started to mobilize out the shuttle.
"Out out out!" Our sergeant ordered as we piled past him out the door.
We made a very loose formation as we bounced towards mission objective. White trees were all around, giving us and our enemies cover to hide from each other in. Overhead, in the colorful, bright sky, air defences were firing nonstop nonstop and enemy had scrambled some fighters to try and take out our shuttles with. It was all too much for the enemy to do in a short time, which meant that they knew we were coming, but whether it was from information bought or from the Navies making a mistake, I don't know. It didn't really matter, we were already on the ground and mobile. And I could hear the moaning of shuttles in the sky as they came in supersonic through the sky and had already broken the sound barrier on this planet, which meant more soldiers were going to land despite the enemy knowing to expect us, so they would die regardless for that mistake and lack of rigor.
My comm flared noise in my ear, our sergeant, "Spread out, straighten our line, equalize space. We advance staggering on my mark - odds and evens - odds first, once we get to the target. Suppressive fire for them from evens with designated marksmen counting kills. Keep on the move and help each other out; keep eyes open all around you."
My helmet gave me feed: a direct link with information from Command and from my suit's equipment as long as my heart beat, as if its beating pulse was what powered the suit. IFF tags were lit up all over, my helmet lighted up what were white on white ID tags on each stormtrooper's suit, so I could tell who was who in battle, or whenever else we wore our identical suits and helmet.
An E-11 blaster rifle was a novel weapon, the latest technology, which carried power that far surpassed the weapons that any of our enemies possessed. Intel was vague, so I didn't know who we were specifically fighting today: pirates, traitors, rebels; it didn't matter, of course; they were all enemies of the Empire and deserved a stormtrooper's judgment, death. What truly made the E-11 great was its flexibility, how it could perform a multitude of functions (just like a stormtrooper itself), being accurate, long ranged, and powerful; the E-11 had two firing modes: rapid-fire (less accurate, but more chances to hit) and focused, singular fire (dealing more damage with an increased charge per bolt ratio and much more accurate, but less frequent). For this mission, I was told I was using rapid-fire, meaning I was in charge of doing suppressive fire and quick assaults and boxing tunnels while our designated marksmen focused on finding specific marks. Normally, in operation, we wouldn't bother with the different modes, and everybody would aim to kill in precision mode (why waste charge-packs?), but this mission was much more assault and invasion than worrying about individual targets.
We ran at a jog, a fast jog in comparison to other infantry, who didn't have our endurance, our physical prowess. I was eight-man, so I went behind everybody else, sergeants always lead in front, and I was the farthest rank and seniority away. I saw our squadron's white, slender bodies marching through bush and briar and creeks; clean, white armor developing small brown patches of dirt and mud. Thyferra was a forest world, at least in our battlefield it was; it was lightly forested with many natural abatis, ferns, and bushes that we had to really march through and shove at to get past.
"Target sighted." Our Corporal, the second-man, said to us over our squadron's shared comm.
Target was a small, gray bunker-looking place. It was thin and short, but long, coming prepared to handle tanks and artillery while serving as a station to muster a garrison of troops in a hurry. Across cut grass, there were a few casements with heavy repeating blasters and cannon emplacements all over the curtain wall of the blockhouse. Our marksmen would hit them first as we charged, aiming for the heavy repeating blasters, their turret operators, as the guns were anti-infantry. Three enemies stood sentry in the grass, open in the field amongst tank barriers and supply crates, looking in all directions for what were us, knowing we were here (on the planet), by not knowing that we were on top of them.
"Mark! Odds move forth! Evens hold and guard!" One-man, our sergeant, said.
Soldiers One, Three, Five, and Seven ran forward firing, as blasters returned fire and the guns within the casements began to swivel towards them, where they would sprint three hundred meters before stopping, being led by our sergeant in front (moving about halfway to the blockhouse from our spot in wooded forest cover, before we evens began to advance, being led by the corporal). Us evens would shoot at defenses on our way when we advanced, as everybody moved towards a door that led into the outpost, while the odds took their turn covering us. We would blow the door and enter the base, with odds peppering blaster-fire through the cracks and open areas along the curtain wall of the blockhouse before joining us, at least that was our plan.
The three sentries that stood unaware in the open area were quickly cut down, being blasted by a plethora of red bolts by the four in our squadron, the odds, who first advanced. I stopped and fired towards a casement so that whatever men or ghost peeking from it would be kept from firing or his death. Then short seconds later, it was my turn to advance, and I had, needed to make it all the way to the door, five hundred meters through blaster fire. Bolts flew around me as I shot rapid-fire mode towards a hole in a wall that was a casement, my slender white legs and armored form running all the way as the world spun and my head swooning as red bolts and explosions blew up around me, as was chaos. I stared death at it, the base, the permanent stare of my helmet. My white composite armor shining blind-white through clouds of smoke and dirt and noise.
A man, an enemy, be it alien, I don't know, stuck his maw out a casement and I fired countless bolts into the fool that blasted his body char from black and he hit the ground dead, my first kill.
As I was lost in warrior-frenzy, firing nonstop nonstop, my armored body ran straight into the wall of the blockhouse by the door really hard, as I was sprinting double time, rattling my brain as bolts of red and green and yellow flew all over the open field. An orange tank - a T2-B repulsor tank - lifted off the ground with repulsorlifts as someone began to operate it, and fire erupted all over our position, missing us so far but causing large clouds of black dirt and smoke and sharp rocks to kick up.
"All fire on that tank!" The sergeant yelled.
We all broke from our former rhythm and fought the tank together while hunched and crouched, guns straight ahead, keeping our heads down. I fired my blaster close to my visor, my helmet linking up with its scope, till the blaster's tip got red-hot, and I never let go of the trigger. I aimed for the tank's glass cockpit, but the tank was shielded and flickered a blue-orange glow as my red bolts cracked against it, being absorbed and the tank undamaged.
"Eight, four, three, throw grenades on it!" Our sergeant yelled as the tank blasted a soldier off his feet, missing him, and his suit's vitals still read green; he was alive, dazed, but slowly coming up a bit jarred.
My body moved to follow the sergeant's orders without my mind's full consent, which was soldier-instinct and part of what the injections did. I reached to my belt, by my crotch, and gripped a grenade, an LXR-6 concussion grenade, "lit it", and threw it at the tank, so did two other orbs land by it. The LXR-6 concussion grenades were equipped with powerful magnets that caused them to quickly fly from the ground to clink loudly against the bottom of the tank. A loud noise, and concussion force erupted up and punched massive holes into the armor of the tank, bypassing its shields as they were energy shields, they didn't have the technology to protect against physical attacks in addition to blaster bolts (which were Imperial luxuries); the tank fell to the ground as its repulsorlifts got knocked out and blew up, and its shielding-units and engine got hit too, causing them to go unstable; and fire, thermal force erupted up and blinded our visors orange for a split second, our helmets worked to filter out the intense light, and the explosion caused heat to wash over our armor.
Then we moved on, in fast bouncing, to our former and main objective; we lined up on either wall adjacent to the door, while a lone soldier placed a charge on it. An explosion and we were in, the door blew open. As soon as the door had a hole, a soldier to the left side of the door threw another concussion grenade inside, which wasn't particularly effective against infantry, but the close confines within the base would maximize its damage to any enemies, and within the close confines, our E-11 could be used to great effect, full bare; after it went off, the soldiers closest to the door, our sergeant and corporal, charged inside rapid-fire mode (the only soldiers being allowed to switch between different firing modes in battle).
I was last in, guarding the rear, rearguard, which was glamorous in a larger-scale battles, but useless when you knew for sure you wiped out all opposition behind you. The hallways were narrow as we marched in, being designed that way so the enemies could funnel blaster-bolts at us. The enemy had mustered in front of us, not bothering to stagger their lines within the base, putting all the pressure they could on our position as feasible, to keep us from gaining a position, a foothold, inside their base. They took a few casualties from the grenade, but it only put a dent in their immediate numbers.
Bolts cracked and crackled and resonated all over the narrow corridor. Bolts reflected off the polished floor (not being polished by the enemy, as was clever design). Deadly energy flew around us, causing black spots to appear all over our white armor at random, so far, only a direct hit to our vitals - head, torso - would get us dead, kill us, if that was a thing, all others would only wound us.
Some of the elite Stormtroopers actually had energy shields on their armor. While we didn't have those, we had the next best thing: blast energy sinks; that were all over our armor to absorb energy from blaster bolts and "redirect" their energy to other regions of the armor, other energy sinks, spreading out the energy from the blast to have small damage all over and not big damage in one spot (the full force and energy of a direct blast could penetrate our plastoid-ceramic, composite armor, and kill us). Overall, the sinks significantly reduced the damage done to us by blaster bolts, a notoriety few could afford without Imperial technology and funding. It was rather cheap (the Empire's wealth was infinite) and very good way to give amazing protection (for the standard rank-and-file soldier), which contributed to our propagated immortality in battle; however, because they weren't shields, a blast to our black body-glove or visor could either kill or severely wound us.
Our squadron came in through the door with lines swinging, meaning as One and Two came in, they moved to the sides, so the soldiers that came in behind them had a place to shoot forward. I was in the center when came my time to shoot, and the battle was almost over. It was because the rebels, or whatever they were, didn't wear what could be considered real, effective, armor, and our E-11s were effectively mowing them down and blasting craters all over the walls around them. It was another thing that separated Stormtroopers from other armies in the galaxy: we went in armored. It gave us a huge advantage against other armies, as, if they couldn't get us dead in one shot, we would get them, it was a guarantee. I fired at an enemy and killed him for sure, for sure it was my kill, as my bolt blew off his head. A dozen bodies laid on the ground, while half a dozen still fought. Rebels and pirates don't wear armor as effective as ours, and, even if they did, there's no armor nor energy-sinks that can stop a bolt from an E-11. It was why a squadron of eight Stormtroopers got assigned by Command to take a blockhouse out all by themselves without armor or additional support, as it was well within what one squadron of Stormtroopers could do.
In the halls, the enemy were falling dead fast. They were losing morale. All they saw were the white uniform soldiers of the Empire: same-faced, moved the same, like machines coming nonstop nonstop through the open cut in the wall like a flood. Our stare was implacable, it showed no fear, no hostility, (aside from the red bolts erupting from black barrels), no compassion as we fought, and whatever they fired at us only turned to black spots on our armor, and we still kept coming, making us seem invincible, which we effectively were. We gave the appearance of shells, machines being directed by some linked-control, which was a cruel sight to behold.
Our white armor was polished like steel, like we were real machines, which made it so "weak", or low setting, blaster bolts, such as stun bolts or glancing bolts, got reflected, or deflected depending on who you were, off of us, which added to the red warmth glowing all over the slender hallway.
It was over in seconds, and nineteen bodies lay on the floor blown to smithereens. The eight of us spread out from our shape of a general line, moving into a block formation as we quickly advanced. I stood behind my armor, breathing heavily from exertion and tension of danger. I had dealt death; I was a destroyer.
"Units advance; break into fire-teams: One Eight, Two Seven, Three Six, and Four Five, we break where hallways split." Our sergeant's synthesized voice clicked on and off.
So we went throughout the base, our eight soldiers broke off into fractals when each hallway split as we explored the base to kill anyone inside. Eventually, it was just me and the sergeant. I was behind him, so I could see his pale-yellow strips; it helped me know it was him.
Blaster-fire erupted from the next corridor we walked through. Three unarmored men shot at us with their blasters, which were military-grade, normally unprocurable for the public, which meant the enemy had connections with some criminal organization.
I had immediately got hit directly twice in the upper thigh and once on the belly, but the thigh pieces had special, reinforced plated ridges that allowed soldiers to brace themselves against it if they were injured; it served as extra protection, in this case, and the damage from the bolts at my thigh were effectively softened, but I would be limping.
I fired top-heavy on my slender, white armored form, my blaster laying down rapid-fire coverage all over the hall from my breast. I killed one and the sergeant killed one, then he took a blaster bolt to the chest. A red bolt turned into a black spot as it hit his armor directly, then immediately turned to orange as it burnt through the plastoid armor. The sergeant tumbled down, and I lined and fired a shot to the enemy, charring his chest and head bloody and dead, but still intact, a corpse.
I knelt down awkwardly due to my stiff armor and clasped the armor of the sergeant with my fingers, clinking plastic on plastic, as I pulled his form onto my lap. My helmet resonated with his suit's sensors, telling me he was alive, breathing heavily, perspiring, and conscious, and I think he was in pain. I couldn't remove his helmet, as it was against mission prerogative. I raised him up off the ground, his form deadweight and heavy, as I supported him until he could stay on his own and move about. I kept him on his feet as he stood, quiet to me, but my suit explained he was making radio-calls.
"Eight, tech team is landing, I'm leaving you to meet them. The base should be secured by now, but continue to look around, be careful and kill any enemy you see." He said as if nothing had happened and left limping.
I moved away with a slight limp myself as I went to follow his orders. I kept my blaster ready in front of me as I opened doors and looked inside and navigated through the various corridors of the base. When I passed by other soldiers of my squadron, I knew that the base was secured, all enemies were terminated.
Then the comm flared volume, "Retrieval boat landing, all of Jackal Squad, move to it." The sergeant said.
And we exited the base jogging and loaded up on the retrieval boat as other landing crafts were bringing in more tech teams (to splice into their computers) and Army to be garrisoned for a while in the base and to hold it in the stray chance of a counterattack by the enemy. Our boat flew through planet air as it headed back to our home in space. This time, the lights were white in the shuttle and I could see that the once bright white armor of my entire squadron was covered in black spots and grime, but like before, we stayed quiet, as was mission prerogative.
Much was the same as before, other than the filth, but I could feel a sense of acceptance coming from the squadron. They sat opened up more to me and some even nodded towards me behind their bobbing helmets, as I was now officially a Stormtrooper like them, as I had proved I had the skills to commit to battle and protect and work with them; I proved to them I was able and effective, what you needed to have from a squadmate.
And everything passed in a blur, a soldier-high, once the boat landed back in the Star Destroyer Revanchist, that was from the injections not being meant to be used for anything outside of combat. We stormtroopers were ushered off the retrieval boat, a Sentinel-class landing craft, that, although a different shuttle than the one that took us to the planet, was the main type of shuttle used to bring us to and from different missions. We were happy, blissful, and thrilled on the way back to the ship, as we had just successfully completed our mission, of course; all with praises from our platoon's lieutenant shining in our ears of "mission completed", "no casualties", that was all a private could hope to hear.
We stripped our armor off in the hangar, once we had gotten orders to disembark. We put the eighteen separate pieces of white armor for each soldier and helmets into a carriage being operated by staff, where it would be taken to be sterilized, re-polished, and repaired by droids in some quarantine room in some quarantine procedure, to avoid carrying pathogens onto the ship. We were left wearing our black meshes, body gloves, that we wore underneath our armor. We then went to the refreshers, ladies and men together, where we washed ourselves and got changed to casual dress wear, which was complete with nice black boots, tall black socks, black underwear, black trousers, black belt, and a black tunic (the meshes being then taken to be sterilized as well after). It was identical to what our officers wore, aside from their bright, colorful rank squares and cylinders that they wore on their breast and lower back, respectively. I found the sharp squares beautiful and wanted them; needless to say, I was gunning for a promotion because of them.
We stood shivering in our dress-wear as our bodies came down from the high. We rested in the refresher, talking about the battle and number of kills.
"Four confirmed kills." I said to a man naked in the shower next to me.
"Seven, but not bad for your first drop, brat. My first drop, I got one, but I massacred a wall."
We had killed a total of forty-seven soldiers and completed our mission; it was a great day to be alive, to serve his Emperor; we did his duty, dealt his judgement. I wished I could contact my mother.
The soldiers in the squadron begun to call me by my name, which was a luxury only combated Stormtroopers got. We all shook and trembled from unnatural adrenaline and whatever drugs else, I don't know, as we cooled down in cold showers and washed away sweat and blood. All of us were covered in bruises and cuts and burns. It was easy to not notice your own injuries in battle, and the full-body armor didn't help; we would all go to the infirmary to take a mandatory check up, where medical droids would treat us and, if needed, assign us medical leave (while on the ship, of course) or put us on the light-duty list, if our injuries constituted such.
In the refreshers, a three-inch mirror in front of me: skin pale-white due to the shadows from the slums of what was my former home in the Lower City of Taris (the Lower City was beneath the Upper City, and, so, no sunlight ever reached it; not to mention, there was no solar-light on a starship); brown-violet hair cut short, as was the style common among Tarisian girls; my brown-violet hair was slicked back behind my head and long strands of it fringed forward off my ears and forehead; and what were my eyes, pale-brown disks, looked in the mirror all over, looking nervous and shaky. Polished glass would "light up" my reflection, making it hard for me to stare at myself, as I was shy, as the bright-white, industrial light was not too kind to my pale complexion.
There's no point in me explaining my life in the Stormtrooper Corps in any detail before my first drop, as, needless to say, I was seen still as a recruit, a replacement for the soldier before me, one who had lived and breathed and fought and defended his squadron and the other soldiers in it for many drops. I wasn't hazed for it, or anything like that, Stormtroopers were much too disciplined of soldiers; no, I was given gentle treatment and simply left alone to polish my boots and cal in lonely solitude.
I was called the "eighth-man" (the eight member of the squad, the lowest of the low), and wasn't even called by my name, or my number until what was today.
My first day, I was shuttled to the Star Destroyer when it was getting refitted, resupplied, and repaired, and squadrons were getting lost members replaced. The Star Destroyer was called the Revanchist, and I first saw it through the viewport on my shuttle. Of course, I already knew what it looked like, as everybody had seen Star Destroyers in propaganda and films at least once, and, of course, every Star Destroyer looked the same.
I went in the hangar, off the shuttle, standing in my white armor, with my frowning helmet under arm. Around my back and shoulders was a pack and bag with my personal stuff (stuff I was allowed to bring) and whatever else wasn't the standard supply I would be given and I what could bring. I waited at the bottom of the ramp of the shuttle until it departed and I was left alone. So I stood, self-conscious and nervous, as I was lost and had no idea what to do.
Then, eventually, after what felt like entirety, a Navy officer approached me. His rank was that of a second lieutenant, so I saluted and said loud "Sir!", and he cringed and said.
"Soldier, you're as green as they come, aren't you, a new replacement? Go, find your squadron," He ordered, and I left, blushing and embarrassed.
I wandered the halls as other stormtroopers in the corridors stared mean at me and made fun of me and laughed. I stared shyly and sad at the ground, as I realized I was lost and would have to endure being mocked for a while longer.
"You're lost, newbie?"
"You cut your hair short to look like your mother!"
"Fresh fodder for the cannons."
"Boo!"
"Dancing at the Cantina tonight, devotchka?"
It was every recruit's nightmare, but it was inevitable; soldiers were mean and didn't tend to act nice to other people outside their squadron. As I wandered the hallways alone, I bumped into another soldier, as I was keeping my head down. I looked up and stared at him; he didn't wear his helmet; his solid white armor told me he was either a private or PFC. He carried a handheld and didn't see me until I jarred him, ran into him; however, I was the one that bounced off him, actually recoiling off strength of the veteran.
"Sorry." I shyly mumbled and looked down, debating whether or not to ask him for directions.
He looked at his handheld then looked up at me, and I saw from his haircut that he was probably from Taris, a sharp-looking haircut that told me he was from the Upper City; he was an elite of Tarisian society, who thought that people from the Lower City, myself, were vermin and criminals. I saw he looked at me in recognition, and I knew he would beat me or taunt me; it was a common pastime for Upper City citizens, it was their right to be able to hurt us, and we couldn't fight back, but that was social cleavages, they had no place in a galactic military, as I would soon learn.
"You're CS-7715, Daria Pavlova?"
"Yes." I said surprised, happily, as my fear subsided, knowing that he must be a member of my new squadron.
"I'm Sergeant CS-3478, Valek Drayven, of Jackal Squad. Welcome to the Jackals." He said gruffly in sarcastic pleasure.
And I snapped a salute and ignorantly said, "Sir! Thank you, sir!" All too loud.
And I was a fool, for I had only just realized, all too late, that I was looking at him straight on, meaning I couldn't have seen any rank colors when I first saw him, which wasn't a mistake because I was green, any trooper could do it, but because I was green, it meant that I would be thought more harshly of for making the mistake (my helmet would have told me his rank via IFF tag, if I had worn it).
He glared at me, seeming to disapprove of me, then said, "Let's show you to your new squadron."
He led me to where our squadron was barracked. When we were at the door, he linked his handheld with my armor, taped away, and the door opens.
"Your suit's resonator can now open any door on the Revanchist that Command has granted our squadron access to. I'll also give you a set of keys, a portable resonator, which you will keep on you when you don't wear your armor."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," I loudly exclaimed.
The sergeant shook his head at me, at the formality of a recruit, as the door hissed open and my heart dropped in timid fear as I was met with six other tough-looking and massive soldiers staring at me. I was the only one in my armor amongst them, and looking to be less than half their size. They all others wore their black, off-duty clothes, which I had not yet been given. They were all men, that is stormtroopers: two meters tall and built like rancors (as a woman, I was much shorter than them). They were all hard-eyed and battle tested and looked at me indecently, for I was a woman, female, which was odd.
The sergeant shoved impatiently past me, since I didn't move into the room or out of his way, throwing me slightly off balance as he said, sarcastically, loud and proud, "These are my Jackals, call these slovs my pride and joy."
While the troopers sat on their bunks, against the wall, or on their footlockers, the sergeant moved to behind them like their king and stood. He continued, as he started to remove his armor piece by piece, "Welcome to Jackal Squad, commanded by me, Valek Drayven, CS-3478, a sergeant, and CS-4221, our corporal, Hamal Athan. Three other squadrons make up Third platoon, our platoon, of course, commanded by our lieutenant Fenn Volkov, CS-3013, and sergeant-major CS-3942. We are part of Company D, led by Captain CS-2048, and are part of Battalion 9, led by Major CS-2011. We are a part of Regiment 37, led by lieutenant-colonel CS-0501, and part of the 501st Legion, commanded by the Lord Vader, of course."
I stared at him, slightly overwhelmed and reciting each part over and over in my pale mind to memorize it in case he asked me to recite it later.
"That makes you the new addition to ten thousand others; makes you feel insignificant, doesn't it? You are, of course, newbie, as far as I'm concerned. In our small piece of Imperial property, Jackal Squad, aside from our squad's NCOs, whom I've already named, we've got: CS-2034, Kir Deova, CS-3004, Remus-Qui Bask, CS-3007, Tej Driet, CS-3278, Loreck Ziracch, and CS-3313, Volo Foreman." he recited.
"Squad, newbie." He introduced me in obvious contempt.
Everybody seemed to ignore me after that, going back to whatever they were doing before I had walked in as if I hadn't walked in. I felt like a stranger and was, of course, being treated as such, like an intruder. I turned to the nearest soldier, Bask, a man whose eyes looked to have a lazy completion and he looked the most relaxed and most likely to talk.
"My name's Daria, CS-7715," I said proper.
He turned away from me and went back to what he was doing, playing with spare components to an E-11 (we weren't allowed to have actual guns while off-duty, for safety reasons, and our squadron's weapons were sealed in our squad's private armory right outside our door.
I went to the sergeant, as no one else even bothered to look at me. He looked at me, his green marble eyes looked glass into mine. His hair fashionable among the places of my childhood (at the academy, everybody kept short, boring hair), so I found his nice to look at.
"What's his problem," I said, as I was offended, and pointed with my armored hand behind my back towards Bask.
"He won't bother learning your name until after your first battle. You know the survival rate of troopers on their first drop?"
"No, sir." I said.
"Don't call me "sir" while we're off duty, relax; you're driving me mad." My heart dropped, as it was clear I wasn't liked nor "put up with".
"Sorry," I said.
"Forty percent on average."
"Sorry, sir?" The sergeant frowned again at me.
"That's the survival rate; why should someone bother to learn your name until there's better odds? You a gambler, Daira?"
"Why?"
"Troopers have put together a pool. Deova's got you down for a week, which happens to be when we drop next, others have got a week and three minutes, a week and five minutes, a week and ten minutes, and a week and twelve minutes. The rest are more generous."
"You've put a pool for how long you think I'll live?"
A soldier from a bunk spoke, Ziracch, "Sure, five credits a slot, closest time gets the whole pot."
"Put me down for three weeks," I said and threw him the creds, looking him tough in the eye, deciding to try and act more aggressive.
All the soldiers laughed around me.
"An optimist, realist, or idiot?" One asked.
"I was near the top of my regiment in training," I announced.
"So was I; I'm in the 501st." Another said.
"Put your armor in the armory outside the door." The sergeant ordered.
And I went outside to the armory, and with a swooning head, undid my armor and put it in a locker marked "CS-7715".
I was now a regular trooper after the drop, only having to put up with the occasional strange look in the refresher or rec-room, me being a woman (and male soldiers not seeing a woman too often; I've heard some don't even think we exist anymore). It was okay, as we were all soldiers, they would get used to it, me, eventually, as is life.
After being checked out by the doctors in the infirmary, each of us donning plenty of bacta-patches, the sergeant ordered us off-duty to eat and rest while he and the corporal attended debriefing with the other officers, while NCOs, a sergeant and a corporal were considered command positions within the Stormtrooper Corp, so, while they were not technically commissioned as officers (they hadn't gone to an academy), they were still treated like every other officer on the ship in dress and duty and obligations.
We ate in mess, and I was invited to sit with the Jackals, as I was now their squadmate. Us stormtroopers had our own barracks, as we didn't tend to fraternize with soldiers outside the Stormtrooper Corp, and, even then, rarely with soldiers outside our own squadron. Each of us was given a tray of food. The size and type of our meals varied throughout our days of service. However, whatever was on the schedule, we were given tablets that we could mix in our food or put in our drink (I don't recommend taking it alone). Inside the pill, was full of vitamin supplements that the ship's doctors prescribed for us, which changed every so often as they gave us check ups a lot and changed our supplements just as frequently. It could be as simple as a shot of vitamin D to counter the lack of sun on a starship to as complex as regulatory pills for women like me to pills for some disease or sickness.
Today, the meal was exceptionally good, and not just because we were starving (we were starving), but because they put in large quantities of sugar in the meal for every trooper, to readjust our system and to get us a boost of energy that we needed after combat. We were given a lot of food too, as combat can be energy intensive and made you hungry.
By the time we had mess, the debriefing was still going on, which my fellow troopers explained was normal, as the Lord Vader ran the debriefing and usually had a lot of information and complex battle plans to give out. He presided our everything, which was why the Five-O-One was the best legion, the best fighting force, in the galaxy.
I've only seen the Lord Vader on one occasion so far. It was during an on-ship training session. We run many simulated drills and training on the ship in special rooms that could be adapted to train us for specific situations conditions; it helped prepare us for a mission. After a particular simulation (I forget which), he stood and talked to our sergeant (the lucky one) while we watched in collected amazement.
He was giant, towering over every stormtroopers in our squadron. He wore his black armor all the time, or at least on duty, I don't know. They say he was a general during the Clone Wars, and that he suffered injuries that he needed to get extensive cybernetics to replace some parts; it was common. I think it was why he needed a filtered breathing apparatus and why his joints seemed stiff to the observant viewer.
We made our way back to our barracks after we ate, to calm down and rest after our drop. It was rumored we would drop again soon, as was life in the Five-O-One; Vader tended to keep busy, installing Imperial justice regularly, and his Fists went where he went.
I laid on my bunk, listening to soldiers talk: insults, bets, complaints, usual, and perhaps often repeated, conversations that helped pass time. I laid in my bed in my dress-wear, wrinkling it, but I didn't mind. My pale-brown eyes were fluttering, hovering between sleep and wake. Our sergeant came in at one point. He called us all to attention, and, I'll be honest, I was so tired I had to force myself up (the soldier-high officially over).
"Nice work today, rancors, Command is pleased. And Daria has officially earned her place in our squad, may she lose her bet and live more than the next two weeks. After first drop, survival rate increases to seventy percent; her odds are 7:3, anybody want to make a new bet?"
He joked, but was then serious, "Command has determined that the enemy we faced were sympathizers of a high-ranking Imperial traitor that the Lord Vader has been tracking. This traitor has been selling Imperial secrets and has been giving funding to terrorists; we expect them to be more heavily armed next time we face them. While the traitor was not present on the Thyferra, computers within their bases indicate that the planet Fondor may be one of the traitor's main base of operations; we will hit it next. As of today, terrorists on that planet has risen up in violent protests, giving away their location. Fondor is our next target. We land tomorrow, get some sleep until then." He said and turned off our light, then left, perhaps to go get food.
In the embarkment station, much was the same as before. I've been given the injections and the else and, while I still shook from the battle yesterday, I was ready to go again. I stood in my armor, shaking, but more stoic than before, less nervous, as I knew I could function it, combat, as I was a stormtrooper.
Our embankment station was bigger this time, today, as the battle was going to be much bigger. The embankment station was that of a real hangar, and black armored TIE pilots and technicians could be seen running around, getting ready for a large fight that had the full commitment of the Army, Navy, and stormtroopers. The entire Third Platoon was in the hangar, thirty-two white armored Stormtroopers. And this time, it wasn't our sergeant who got us hyped for battle, but the lieutenant himself, the leader of our platoon.
His white armor had light-blue stripes, which were painted with the same compound as our sergeants. And like our sergeant, he would fight with us, leading at the very front of what would be our platoon's formation in battle. He was a real, commissioned officer, meaning he had been through officer training at some Imperial academy, and his knowledge and experience would see us through the battle with minimal casualties. While I couldn't see what he looked like behind his stormtrooper helmet, I imagined he looked gold-haired and bright-blue eyed like the men on propaganda, as he certainly radiated the feeling.
He spoke with his helmet on, which I approved of, as I stood and listened with my ears set and ready, myself blending in with the other white bodies far away from that of the lieutenant. His voice came out in the same voice we all shared, a voice I heard speak in my dreams; the one that came out the helmet of every stormtrooper in the galaxy. The lieutenant pressed a button, and a projected display lit up, showing a spinning hologram of the planet Fondor and a zoomed-in picture beside it of a map of some city that would be our battlefield.
"Armed protests have erupted all over the planet Fondor, whose leaders have effectively routed local, Imperial garrisons and have sabotaged our facilities on the planet. These rebels are suspected to be linked with the Imperial traitor that Lord Vader is currently hunting, and Command suspects they have received funding and supplies directly from him. They have already taken control of various settlements, which we will take back today. Stormtroopers will land first as vanguards, ten minutes in the Army will land as well and deploy artillery batteries and land walkers to support us. We are to suppress this rebellion before it carries to other parts of the planet or out of the system."
On the hologram, green circles were lit up in various spots on the map, which were inside large, red circles that represented areas under rebel control.
"We will retake these areas lost. Our division will land at Zone Aurek. Once on the ground, our platoon will take an avenue and go forward on it till we reach enemy headquarters. We are to attack any hostiles: civilians, rebels; they are all the same. We will be supported by bombers and by AT-STs, if needed; however, we need to stay mobile, as we will be significantly outnumbered till Army lands, so our attack will be supported by four 2-M Saber-class repulsor tanks. Listen to your sergeant in battle and follow his orders; I will relay my orders directly to them. Third Platoon, board your shuttles!"
And we marched forward into our designated shuttles. Much like before: lights turned off, hatch closed, harnesses locked, and thrusters fired. We launched out of the hangar with hundreds of shuttles and transports flying very fast towards the planet. Green turbolasers fired nonstop nonstop from the Revanchist, flinging kilotons of ordnance-power onto the planet, destroying anything not yet shielded that was perceived as strategic significance to the enemy.
A Star Destroyer comes stocked with seventeen battalions of stormtroopers, that's nine thousand seven hundred soldiers, a fighting power that can make your head spin. A fourth of that number was being deployed to the planet, which Command thought as more than sufficient to quell the uprising and to deal sufficient damage to deter the Fondorians from ever rising up again.
This was to be my first major offensive for the Empire. I was a bit awed by the scope of it. It required extensive logistics, tactical planning, and lots of big guns and armor to support a force as large as ours in battle. But, then again, the Empire's wealth and resources were infinite.
Air defenses lit up grids in the sky as we came down into atmosphere. Comm noise flared in our ears as we heard reports of ships being hit and errors and worry and screams from pilots in different shuttles whose systems got blasted. Our pilots sat in front, in the cockpit, while we, as infantry, sat in the back. I could hear clicking buttons and flipping switches through the silence of the shuttle, the only other sound being explosions outside. Our sergeant stood up in his armor unhelmeted and bounced and rocked. He was near the front of the shuttle, peering over the shoulders of the pilots to look at the planet through cockpit-glass.
He turned to face us, and said, "Alright you bunch of rancors, get into function! We land on sight Aurek in fifteen minutes! We coming in loud and proud, soldiers; fast and hard like your mothers! Fuck that virgin, our mother's the Empire and the Emperor is our father, and each stormtrooper is your brother or sister. Time to make your families proud! Time to obliterate every rebel on the planet to dust! We land hot, troopers, Saber 3 will be covering us, so keep it in sight at all times. We expect heavy fire from the enemy; shoot anyone you see, everyone there is enemy. Enemy has built us nice, straight lines for roads that even you rancors can't get turned around on, so keep to it; keep your gun forward!"
And we got hit by a massive explosion that caused our shuttle to translate a hundred meters up in the sky in a nanosecond and turned lights red and blinking-lights yellow as systems broke. I gasped very loudly in my helmet all over the comms as our sergeant screamed noise in fear all over our comms. We sunk back into our seats and harnesses, them being designed to save us from such situations, but my face compressed from the force, as my body tried to stay back a hundred meters in its former position.
Loud, rapid tones sounded from the pilot's instruments - beep beep beep beep beep - one hundred twenty times in thirty seconds. We were all thrown around, but we felt nothing when the harnesses cut into our armor, our armor giving perfect protection. However, the sergeant, who was standing, flew forward into the cockpit and cracked his naked head against the glass. I quickly undid my harness, as did the corporal, moving in heat and fear, and we moved to grab the sergeant so the pilots could clearly see. He was dead, of course, his head cracked open and blood spilling all over; he should have worn his helmet.
We didn't mourn him, that would come later, we only became increasingly nervous as we all realized we were now down a man, which was a dangerous thing in battle. Our visors said his vitals still read green, meaning he was still alive, but the sergeant was as good as dead. We all stared at him for awhile while he beeped critical, then his vitals died red behind our helmets and his suit let out a flat, even tone out loud that told us he was really dead, his heart had stopped beating.
Of corporal called it in, of course; he called the sergeant-major, the sergeant's immediate, former superior, "Sir, this is Corporal CS-4221 of Jackal Squad, our sergeant got dead."
What he said was spoken, broadcasted into the earpieces of all our helmets within the squadron, "Corporal, you're being brevetted to sergeant, you're to continue with your mission assignment."
"Yes, sir!"
I was now number seven in the squad.
One of the few past times on a Naval ship was training, as there was only so much a soldier could do to stay free from boredom. Sleeping was one and was one of my favorites (eight hours of sleep made me very happy), but command tended to disapprove of sleeping for more than that; they wanted us to stay busy.
Our sergeant was a great supporter of us doing training in our spare time, and he would often go in with us. In a training room that could be setup to simulate different combat scenarios. We had broken into two, four man teams, effectively cutting our squadron in half as we fought each other on opposite teams. We wore special training armor with different colored stripes on the armor of each separate team - like red and blue, for example. The armor was designed to "lock up" after being "hit" by a blaster, which was fake, of course, as the locking only simulated actually being shot and any lost limbs you might take home.
My team was led by our corporal, in the standard splitting of odd numbers and even. Our corporal led us past and through large white blocks that carried up to the ceiling, trying to act as buildings in an urban combat training scenario. We carried on moving as a team, guarding all sides at once as we moved forward to try and find our enemy, the other half of our squadron.
As we rounded a corner, blaster fire erupted (false, but certainly real-looking, lights, and sound, of course, but not ones that could actually harm us). We hunched and moved towards the lone soldier and fired, causing him to retreat.
"Eight, follow him!" I was ordered.
I sprinted double-time after him as he fled into an open area being cloistered by white blocks. It was a trap, of course, one that I foolishly walked into. The soldier must have known that his firing would've alerted his squadron from his blaster fire, and he ran back towards them leading me on.
I was met alone in the open without cover by four barrages coming from the four soldiers. Needless to say, I was hit all over and fell to the ground as my suit contracted, unable to move, signifying my death.
Colonel Ren Harkas: Imperial Security Bureau. To General
CS-7715, Daria Pavlova, has performed rather poorly today in training; and it would seem that she has become marginalized within her squadron (veterans of the 501st) as subpar, aside from what her decent performance and marks in a stormtrooper academy on Taris would have one believe. While being a natural soldier (it would seem based on her dossier), having above-average accuracy, strength, and intelligence; she has been documented to possess less-than-mediocre: combat awareness, tactical thought, and creative thinking. It is in writing this report, that I, in an abstract, do not recommend a clone line based on stormtrooper CS-7715, despite her percentile percentage.
Aside from her obvious defects in which will not grant her a clone line, and may see her never rising above the rank of corporal, she possess inept talent in her own physical prowess, despite how critical this report may seem in pointing out negative aspects of Stormtrooper CS-7715. It was recorded, and can be testified by a number of quartermasters, that, although being "blasted" twenty times in a training simulation, her suit still recorded that she was still well alive (miraculously) and would have recovered with only minor cybernetics (everything presented in this report has already been error checked by the droids within our local ISB's computer mainframe).
It is my personal conclusion, that based on data collected by systems within Daria's suit, that after having been hit by the initial barrage, say three bolts hitting her at once, she subconsciously began to arch her body away from the fire, letting the bolts hit the more heavily armored sections of her armor, then rolled her torso so they would hit non-vital spots. If done willingly by the soldier, and can be done at will by her, then it begs close attention and I implore you to authorize my request to monitor the soldier more closely.