On The Ground

by BakaGrappler

As the great war rages, the fiercest fighting will always be where enemies can look each other in the eyes as they try to kill each other. Follow the Troopers fighting the isolated battles in a war that continues to devastate a galaxy.

4. Rock Bottom

Chapter 4 - Rock Bottom

The sound of shouting and the thudding of feet is everywhere inside Delta Company's camp as troopers run around like a disturbed anthill. The armory has a line of fully armored troopers running past it, grabbing rifles thrown to them, digging grenades out of boxes, snatching up fully loaded service backpacks, and stowing them all at a pace of twenty seconds each. Light personnel transports are filled in less than a minute, a double pound on a bulkhead signaling the driver to blaze his way out of the camp and make room for the next transport to load. A heavy duty treaded vehicle ready for retirement but the only thing capable of handling the weight is getting loaded with food supplies in the form of MREs and portable soup, a nasty condensed glue that can be diluted into a fluid as nourishing as it is pungent.

As a daisy chain of four sets of two troopers toss the vile crates of portable soup up and into position, Sergeant Major Dillon Gauss turns the corner of the storage unit and hails the trooper overseeing the operation. "Duds! Status!"

Turning sharply, the trooper from Green Squad salutes and gives his report. If he wasn't wearing his helmet, Dillon would have been able to see the lazy eye of Corporal Melnek, nicknamed Duds for his skill, and luck, in defusing explosives in the field. "We'll have the Crawler fully loaded and on her way in a couple minutes, Sir! But I don't know if we can make our way through the forest."

Dillon digs into a large belt pack and brings out a set of trophy lightsabers he'd claimed from Sith he'd personally defeated and puts them into Duds' hands, saying, "Cut down anything that gets in your way." Dillon turns to go almost before he reminds the trooper that he'll be wanting his trophies back later, and then busts out into a run.

Dillon sprints past some troopers in Yellow Squad piling into a transport and comes to a half stop when he hears Sergeant Kil Sammek's voice shout, "This is the last of my boys, Dillon! Make sure you catch up with us!" Replying with only a wave to the gangly leader of the brash, destructive, and reliable Yellow Squad, Dillon ramps up his dashing speed again even as Kil's transport kicks up dirt with its initiating hover engine to speed out of the camp heading east.

Ducking into the motor pool, Dillon sees the last of the heavy ordinance and ammo dropped into position by freight lifts onto the back of the camp's second crawler and getting securely clamped into position. As Dillon is giving the scene a quick once over to make sure there is no chaos, he hears the engine of the food laden crawler trundling past the motor pool's entrance. As if on cue, the driver of the ordinance crawler presses the horn hard, filling the building with the deep resonating bellow. The driver pops her beefy and stern looking face out of the drivers side, showing it's Corporal Lanchet at the wheel. Having worked as a planetside cargo hauler, she's perfectly used to carrying freight and driving heavy machinery of any variety. With a bellow that is almost as loud as the crawler's horn, she cries her message, dropping entire syllables for the sake of volume. "Aaaaa'ight boys! We're moooovi' ouuuuu!"

The Crawler's heavy engine lets out a blast of noise and Lanchet pulls out of the motor pool and in line behind the food hauler, the noise almost canceling out Lanchet's howling cackle of laughter, the joy of contolling a heavy duty engine overcoming her scant discipline.

As Dillon nears the sergeant in command of Green Squad, a chocolate skinned man with an asymmetric face by the name of Tomas Zere, Dillon stops dead in his tracks as he picks up the piercing whine of an Imperial fighter. Dashing back to the entrance of the motor pool's warehouse sized building, Dillon pokes his head out just in time to see the spacecraft fly over the encampment and the turrets of the crawlers opening fire. Despite Dillon's burning, unuttered pleas to fate, only a few of the bolts strike the scouting fighter and it is able to escape the range of deadly effect with only a trail of smoke emitted by a lightly damaged engine. The pilot has all the time in the world to relay Delta Company's position. With that dread distraction gone, Dillon dashes back to Tomas.

"How much longer do you need here?"

Without looking up from his work, plugging a hardline data jack into anti-vehicle mines and using an inserted typing routine in his inhumanly quickly typing prosthetic right hand, Tomas replies. "This is the last stack."

"And the other surprises?"

Dillon is referring to the half a dozen large crates that are being loosely resealed, and the crates of explosives being secured to the back of a group of speeders. "All ready to go."

"Good. The remaining half of Red Squad will be pulling out with what Green troopers are left. You'll be heading out with the speeder bikes? …Good. Set up the playing field, the away team may be arriving soon."

Dillon turns and walks away even as a line of Green Squad troopers grabs up the anti-vehicle mines and hurries out to set them up. Released from his task, everything in the camp he was charged with complete, Tomas jogs over to a vacant speeder bike and joins the four man formation led by Corporal Zilas of Yellow Squad, a Mirialan woman that grew up on a nature preserve, which helped serve as a foundation for her becoming the best scout Delta Company has seen in Dillon's eight years as a trooper. With a rippling shudder of sound, the bikes fire up and pull out of the motor pool to meet up with the rest of Delta. Dillon and the remaining twenty four troopers in the camp are stuck until the light transports have dropped off their current cargo of troopers and made their circuit back to the camp.

The next several minutes are excruciating. The pressure of waiting, not knowing how long it will take until a strike team of Imperials show up, and they will show, is so suffocating that Dillon feels the need to remove his helmet to get some clean air. Dillon's dark blond hair, dark to the point of almost being considered brown, has grown out in the last year to the point where he needs to comb it to be presentable in public. As a trooper he ordinarily would have it cut closer, but his girlfriend Lein bothered him enough about it to get Dillon to grow it out. What bothers Lein, though, is the shrapnel scar on Dillon's right cheek that runs to his ear and the streak of white from blaster damaged follicles on Dillon's left temple, Lein always dreading the idea of Dillon being hurt in combat.

Dillon stands with the remaining fifteen Red Squad troopers inside the base as the nine members of Green Squad finish setting up the welcoming party for the Imperials. Straining his ears for any hint of the sound of engines, friendly or otherwise, Dillon hears the heavy thud of another mine being magnetically locked into place. It's been less than an hour since the invasion fleet popped out of hyperspace in orbit and began tearing through the planetary defenses, forcing Delta to act quickly. It was obvious there was no way to stop the invasion, so Delta either had to run or put up a last stand over their own little plot of dirt. It took a total of two minutes for the Lieutenant and the staff of four sergeants to come up with their plan, but an ordered evacuation takes time.

Time.

The seconds tick by.

The minutes grind past.

And Dillon can do nothing but pace back and forth in front of the lined up troopers. He's walking slowly, but his heart is pounding madly and his breathing is fast and deep with the exertion of remaining calm in front of his troopers. But the anxiety coming off Dillon is affecting his troopers as well. Dillon even sees Private Danobe, a farm raised boy like himself that idolizes Dillon for some reason, tremble slightly for a few moments before getting a hold of himself. If Dillon were a little more calm he could give a speech to lift their spirits, but he's not. Dillon can't stand standing around like this, for all intents and purposes, being helpless.

Dillon's heart actually skips a beat as he hears the light transports roar through the camp entrance, and he puts his helmet on again to try and mask his relief over it being a Republic manufactured engine he'd heard. As the three vehicles pull up, Dillon assigns eight troopers per transport and jumps in the passenger seat for the last, making sure no trooper has been left behind.

Feeling the vibrations of the engine through the passenger seat, Dillon starts to feel some relief despite the omni-present knot in his chest. No matter how well things are going Dillon can't shake his bad feeling. After entertaining the idea a little, Dillon decides to distract himself with the transport's driver.

"You're Private Corden, right? I've never spoken with you before. You were, what, forty when you enlisted? Why become a trooper that late?"

A little startled by the attention, the man hesitates to answer. "Well… I had my own shop, a speeder repair shop, not that long ago. But, well, the Hydian blockade happened and I couldn't get any materials. I lost the business and, well, being a trooper was the only work I could find."

The man is obviously embarrassed by this fact, what with being surrounded by troopers with a drive for what they do, and here he is treating it like a job. "Well, don't worry about it, Corden. We appreciate having you with us. There's a lot of men not brave enough to do this job, and I'm glad to have you-"

The whine is faint, but it's there, tickling Dillon's ears over the sound of the transport's engine. Dillon almost pulls himself halfway out the window on the side of the transport and starts looking at the sky until he sees it. A flight of three Imperial fighters screaming towards the transports from the south on an intersecting course. Dillon pulls himself back inside the cabin and masters a panicky desire to order Private Corden to drive faster, since he and all the other drivers had been going as fast as possible since the evacuation began. Instead, Dillon opens a channel to all the drivers and does something useful.

"Sergeant Gauss to transport team, we have incoming Imperials from the south. Ready countermeasures on my mark."

Dillon stares at the inbound fighters as if he could will them to explode. Watching their movements carefully, watching for a sign. A strafing run? Missiles? Bombs? Whatever it is will require different timing if he wants anyone in the transport train to survive. As he watches, his breathing echoing inside his helmet, the fighters point themselves directly at the convoy instead of tipping down to bring guns to bear, or up to skirt a bomb blast. That leaves…

The flare of ignition and contrail of smoke from the concussion missiles appear at the same time as Dillon begins giving his instructions. "Maintain course and speed! Ready! …Mark!"

The concussion missiles are altering their trajectory on their own, so Dillon is staring at the nose of a rocket powered bomb with his name on it until he gives his signal. A faint thud emanates from the roof and a sharp crack sounds from the space above the transport, then the entire world around Dillon is shrouded in smoke. The transport's only defensive equipment, a low grade smoke screen that blocks sight and scrambles emissions. But Dillon sees it is enough as the concussion missile aimed for his transport flies overhead, its thruster flaring bright through the dense smoke, and three explosions are heard coming from the left of the convoy, the north side, evidence that not one of the missiles hit their mark.

But the speed at which the transports are moving will quickly take them out of the screen's effective radius. "Transport team, ready second-"

The random shots of the strafing Imperials explode throughout the smoke drenched area, and one lucky shot strikes home as Dillon's world explodes in noise, fire, and a shockwave that presses through him, forcing all the air from Dillon's lungs as his vision goes black. The only reason Dillon knows time has not passed is that as soon as he shakes his head to clear the cobwebs, he hears the screaming whine of the Imperial fighters passing overhead through one ear, the other producing only a high pitched squeal. The air is still filled with the smoke from the screen, but it's thinner and much was blown away by the explosion and the displacement of the fighters buzzing overhead. Taking stock of the situation as quickly as his mind allows, Dillon sees that the transport's front end, it's engine, has been destroyed by the strafing fire of the fighters. The transport is resting right side up on the ground, so it was most likely a sliding impact as opposed to a disastrous rolling crash. And a limp Private Corden has what appears to be a drive shaft impaled through his chest. After a soft expletive, Dillon shoulder slams his door open to half tumble out of the ruined transport and hurries to the loading access in the back.

Turning the corner, Dillon sees Corporal Renten sorting out the chaos and getting the troopers on the move. Renten is a young woman who's entire family ran a thrift shop until they abandoned their homeworld just before it fell to the Sith a couple years ago. Instead of becoming refugees, every one of the twelve member extended family chose to enlist in military service. Today's violence must be bringing the past back to mind for her, but she's showing her determination by having already gotten the back of the transport into order.

"Report!"

With an informal salute, Carla Renten gives her report. "Prescal is dead, sir, Green Squad's Forcrest seems to be unconscious, but breathing…" Renten's report is punctuated by the sound of two troopers heaving a slab of metal off the unconscious Forcrest while a third drags him out. "And Halvrett says he can't move his arm."

Dillon sees Private Halvrett, the one time bakery clerk being supported by a female trooper, his arm dangling but not in an unnatural way. If it's a dislocation or a simple fracture, the field medics should be able to patch him up on the fly. "The driver is dead, Renten, and the transport is useless. We're running for the tree line. Get everyone moving, fast."

"You all heard the Sergeant! Davies, you're carrying Forcrest! Everybody, move!"

The designated trooper, a human built like a Gamorrean and with a face to match, lays the unconscious man over his shoulders and grabs the arm while pinning the leg in place to form a secure yoke before standing up as if he were carrying a sack of rice. In a widely spread body, the troopers begin their mad dash to the relative safety of the large forest ahead, Halvrett gripping his hanging right arm to prevent it being jostled by the run. The entirety of existence for the troopers dissolves into the sound of their own heavily laden steps and their labored breathing as they struggle desperately to make their way to cover about three hundred meters away. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dillon happily recognizes that none of the other transports were hit by the strafing run, but that also means that Dillon's transport group are the only targets on the wide open plains.

Dillon's heart plummets as he hears the distant whine once again, and a quick look over his left shoulder shows the Imperial fighters have finished their turn and are making a second pass over the field.

"Keep running! Don't stop for anything!"

The red bolts the size of a man's thigh strike the ground, over and over again, making the earth erupt like a dozen geysers. Each impact drowns out all other sound and the shock wave of the energy released leaves Dillon and the other troopers feeling like they are being battered by storm winds on all sides. Ahead of him, Dillon sees Davies stumble and fall, rolling along the ground with his charge, before he rolls back onto his feet, snatches up the man he was carrying, throws him over his shoulder, and begins running again with a noticeable limp and grunting heavily with every pace.

As the fighters scream past and the world ceases to explode, Dillon risks turning his head around to look at the damages, prepared to run back to check on anyone who isn't on their feet and running. Thankfully, space fighters are not designed for accuracy against ground forces as small as individual troopers, and there appear to be no casualties from this last run. Thank the Force for small favors.

Reaching the tree line at last, Dillon and the rest of his troopers come to a panting halt in its shade. Corporal Zilas quickly winds through the forest, half decayed leaves from the previous year's autumn being kicked up by the speeder bike, and comes to a halt in front of Dillon. "S-Sergeant Major, Sir," says Zilas, who is universally nervous when speaking to other people. "The Lieutenant says everything is ready, and h-he's just waiting for you to take position. I'm here to help. With the wounded, that is… Sir."

Dillon quickly calls Davies over. As the bulldog of a man places the unconscious Forcrest on the back of the speeder bike, Dillon tells him, "You too, Davies." Against the man's one syllable protest, Dillon continues. "It's an order, Davies. I'm not risking your leg." With obvious difficulty, the man sits himself on the back of the speeder, his depression over being left out of a battle obvious even as he is hurried away, Halvrett jogging to keep up. Dillon is sorry to bench Davies, as he's a damn fine trooper. Hard to handle sometimes, but damn scary in battle. But Dillon needs his troopers to have solid legs today, as Red Squad will be acting as the rear guard and will need to keep highly mobile.

Slowly pacing the grounds towards the chosen position, Dillon sees some troopers of Green Squad pounding the ground with their collapsible spades, and then shuffling the ground cover to blend the recently turned earth in with the rest of the field. Looks like the party favors are in place. And further on, Dillon sees the targets he and his squad are here to protect. The two Crawlers with their heavy loads, food and ammunition, that the company will need if they're going to do anything in the days to come. Even with the effort of all of Green Squad working together, they are only making a slow but definitive progress through the forest, knocking some trees down on their own, and driving over other trees cut down with Dillon's lightsabers. But there is no way they'll be out of harms way if any Imperial ground forces arrive.

When Kil had heard the initial plan he had been surprised by the delay inherent in the entire operation. Cutting a road through woodlands while on the run seemed like madness to him. But Lieutenant Zic had explained it as an investment where we pay now and profit later. If we can successfully pull off getting so many supplies from our base now, we'll be able to stash it all in isolated supply dumps we can access later while we fight a guerilla style war against the invading Imperials. We'll have food and explosives long after we'd normally be reduced to eating our leatheris belts and tree bark.

But that bright future depends on the hard work of these troopers right now. The best outcome would be if the Imperials decided to ignore the men and women of the 1081st, but hope won't stop a blaster bolt. Opening the comm. channel in his helmet, Dillon hails the command staff of Delta Company. "This is Gauss, I'm setting up the rear guard. How about everyone else?"

Sergeant Lyra Rand in charge of Blue Squad responds first. "I have my people dug in with the clearest firing lines we can get. If we see any heads, they'll be busted."

Tomas gets on the channel next. "All the explosives are primed and ready, including the ones we hooked into the transports. Any Imperials that try using them for cover will get a nasty surprise."

Amongst the sergeants, Kil joins the conversation last. "My kids are standings ready for whatever comes our way. You just hold the center tight, Dillon. And by the way, that was a nice run out there. Some of us were afraid you weren't going to make it," says Kil suggestively, in a mocking half sob.

"Kil, you do realize I can see your head from here," comes Lyra's quick, calm response, to which Kil snickers into the live feed

"Calm down, everyone. Don't force daddy to get the belt." Lieutenant Pyrr Zic's deep, manly voice rumbles over the radio channel. Lt. Zic is the kind of man you want to hate but you can't. Born from a vacation resort planet, the absurdly handsome blond and blue eyed man is representative of his entire gene pool. Every man in the company has to pretend they don't notice the women's eyes tracking him everywhere Lt. Zic goes, but since he's such a humble and likable guy there isn't a trooper that can hate him, despite their best efforts. His nickname in the company is Captain Republic.

With all the squads reporting their status, Dillon sees to spreading the defensive lines and getting everything ready. It only takes a few minutes, and Dillon soon heads over to his chosen point in the defensive formation, putting his back against an old growth tree for cover, and waits.

The seconds tick by and the minutes slip past. But this time, Dillon is calm. This is a situation where he has control over the outcome, no matter what happens. Good or bad, life or death, Dillon will have some control. Just that slight difference changes everything, and when Dillon hears the grinding roar of the heavy Imperial troop shuttles overhead, he feels a surge of excitement atop the adrenaline.

A lookout from Yellow Squad reports the numbers over the radio. Two heavy shuttles landing inside the abandoned camp and another two diverting towards the tree line, where the fighters saw the light transports enter. As the heavy transport shuttles touch down just outside the limits of the trees, Dillon whispers the word "steady" over the radio to his troopers, some ludicrous instinct telling him he needs to be as quiet as possible even with his head sealed in an armored jar. This entire operation requires surprise. And it'll be delicious to let these Imperials taste some of their own medicine.

As the Imperial Troopers file out of their transports, one full squad per shuttle plus their Sith taskmasters, Dillon finds himself relishing the passing moments, waiting for the surprise to be sprung.

# # # # #

The Imperial heavy transport shuttle settles on the ground in the camp hard, the joints of the landing legs almost bending double as they absorb the momentum. Almost at the moment of touchdown, the back hatch releases and falls hard into the turf creating a ramp. Well practiced at fast entries, a team of Imperial troopers surge down the ramp with their weapons up and searching. The same occurs for the second shuttle that landed ten meters away, and neither finds themselves facing resistance of any kind. Satisfied against a surprise for the moment, the Pureblooded Sith in charge of this landing steps out of the first shuttle, two Sith Shock troops, Force users capable of battle but not skilled to the point of being lifted to the ranks of true Sith, flanking her on each side.

The red fleshed young woman in the padded clothes of purple and black strides the field for a few moments, her long legs kicking the length of her skirt enough to make it look like a living being. After completing her search with the Force, the woman concludes that there should not be any living sentients in the area aside from her own forces, but one must never be lax on the battlefield, and she gives her orders.

"Spread out and execute any living being you find. Your priority is to take any food, medicine, fuel, or droids present to support our marching armies. Destroy the rest. Move!"

The sixty odd troopers and the half a dozen Shock troops jump to action, ten or so staying behind to keep the shuttles secure, and several of those habitually keeping an eye on their master, Lord Sabra. Some out of worry for their personal safety, but at least one entranced by her form and her features. The red swollen lumps on the face and the almost blade like protruding slices of flesh below the jaw that most species in the universe would find disturbing tend to form the basis of true beauty in the Sith Empire, and leaves Lord Sabra with a cadre of admirers. None that would dare approach her though, as only madmen would try and approach a living deity.

The troopers only have a minute to admire their better, as there is a hail of blaster fire inside the large canopied building, a hanger of some kind, and the shouts of troopers inside. Several troopers can be seen back peddling with all their might while firing, one managing to shout something about an ambush from crates, before being cut down by green blaster fire. Afterwards, at least two dozen forms emerge from the mouth of the building, a squad of combat droids that had been activated before the Republic troopers had fled the post. With a few beeps, the de facto leader of the synthetic squad says in it's hollow voice, "More enemy units found. Proceeding to eliminate."

The robotic warriors lift their rifles and open fire as Lord Sabra shouts, "Rally and destroy!"

Sabra ignites her lightsaber, the blade burning purple like her robes, and deflects a series of bolts, one returning to disable a droid. The sparse amount of troopers still at the landing zone immediately move to form a human shield in front of their Lord, knowing that their purpose is to die in her place until the rest of the landing force can arrive to protect their master.

# # # # #

"The droids in the camp have had their proximity detectors tripped. Should be chaos there for a while," cackles Tomas' voice over the radio.

"Good," responds Lt. Zic over the airwaves. "Yellow Squad, strike 'em hard."

From the tallest trees as far into the forest as possible and still having line of sight, the troopers of Yellow Squad in full climbing rigs and secured above the canopy fire on their targets. Two sets of three armor piercing shoulder mounted rockets scream from the treetops and strike the two unaware heavy transport shuttles. One of them explodes from the blasts almost immediately, the momentary delay showing the vehicle's form bend unnaturally from the impacts. The second one just barely survives the assault, and immediately takes to the air to try and escape, leaving the troopers on the ground behind. The shuttle makes it maybe fifty meters on its one good engine before two rockets from the swiftly reloading Yellow Squad specialists catch up and blow the craft to pieces in the sky.

Most of the Imperial troopers on the ground were far enough from the first explosion to get by with only mild discomfort from the shockwave, as they had been heading into the trees from the beginning. But all of their attention was caught by the annihilation of the shuttles, leaving them with their backs turned. Dillon doesn't let this chance go by as he shouts through the radio, "Red Squad go!"

In a moment all twenty seven of the men and women under Dillon's direct command step out of hiding and begin firing on the Imperials and their six Sith taskmasters, all but one of them being the anonymous sort the troopers of the 1081st have taken to calling "Sithlings" for the expendable nature they are deployed when compared to true Sith. The one without the helmet is obviously in charge of this detachment, a red skinned Zabrak that appears to be naturally bald and clothed in heavy black armor with a similar cape trailing down his back.

The initial volley of bolts only strikes down a few Imperials, considering the long range at which they were fired, but that was never the point. The entire idea was to make the Imperials angry and show them that Dillon has a smaller number of troopers compared to the Imperials. The entire point is to get the Imperials to charge.

Shouting, shooting at random into the forest near where the Republic trooper fire is coming from, and running at full speed, the Imperials dash into the treeline to close the gap and find cover while moving forward. Just after reaching the shade of the trees, Tomas' calming baritone leisurely says over the radio, "Fire in the hole."

In a deep bass chorus, the remote triggered field of explosives detonate with the leading Sithlings and front wave of Imperial troopers dead in the center of the blast field. Somehow the Zabrak Sith had noticed something ahead of time and leapt clear at a height of half a dozen meters, but all the others were struck full blast. The Imperials are still charging as the detonated sod falls and lines of sight become clearer showing the approximate death toll, almost a dozen troopers and four of the five Sithlings on the ground, the fifth picking himself up. He was just about to force himself up from one knee when a yellow tinted blaster bolt strikes him square in the face, knocking his body back like a puppet. A definite fatality considering the stopping power of Lyra's personally modified rifle.

Almost like that one shot was the cue, the rest of Blue Squad, the company's marksmen, begin firing from their carefully chosen positions to make the previous accuracy of Red Company look like a group of kids with pop-guns. Imperials are getting cut down left and right, their body armor exploding in smoldering sparks. Dillon smiles as he continues to fire uninterrupted at the advancing Imperials. It's nice to be on the giving end once in a while.

The Imperials are quickly being pinned down, the individual troopers finding cover that they don't want to move from. An excellent bit of luck, as the entire group will be little more than target practice once the planned flanking operation goes into action. Two squads of Imperials will be wiped out in the matter of minutes with little wear and tear on the company. Not bad for a day's work.

The sounds of the battle are suddenly altered with a cascade of sharp, high pitched cracks, and dense smoke obscures the field, spreading wide and thick. The Imperials had smoke grenades. Dillon wastes no time ordering his troopers to fall back. The Imperials are doubtlessly advancing, and Dillon doesn't want to risk any close combat with that Sith leading them.

Back peddling up the gentle slope, the troopers of Red Squad are reduced to firing blindly into the smoke screen, all visibility lost and with no clue where to aim since the Imperials are not giving a suggested location by checking their fire. Just as vague movements might be able to be made out, another salvo of smoke grenades explode covering the field once again, this time reaching almost to the position that Red Squad had been holding at the start of the battle. Like a swarm, the black and grey armored troopers rip out of the cloud, wafts of the smoke sticking to their bodies as they emerge firing. The initial breach only numbers a few, many being blasted quickly, but moments after the initial breach, the rest of the Imperial troopers appear en mass, all guns blazing.

Getting Red Squad the extra distance prevented their being overrun, but they had to leave their cover and the blaster fire quickly becomes intense. Dillon sees Corporal Renten fall from a blaster bolt out of the corner of his eye, even as he drops an Imperial himself. Sweeping the field for a prime shot, Dillon sees a figure explode out of the upper billows of the screen, his entire form black as if it were an incarnation of living smoke. A trooper right in its path of travel raises her blaster to fire, but a moment too late as the red lightsaber blade bisects the rifle and her breastplate in one sweep, the deadly cut still glowing after the fact.

Many blasters change their target immediately, looking to take out the sneering Zabrak Sith as quickly as possible, but the man just starts running towards his next target while lightly swinging his lightsaber. Bolt after bolt is deflected, and any that penetrate the defensive swings of the lightsaber do little more than graze his heavy body armor. Even Lyra's precise shot at the head is deflected into a nearby Republic trooper, striking him square in the chest.

Dillon has never really liked thinking things through, preferring gut reaction whenever possible. And right now Dillon follows his gut feeling, breaking into a dash, charging the Zabrak Sith that is charging one of his own Red Squad troopers, and calls out over the radio, "Leave the Sith to me, take out those troopers!"

Lyra tries to protest, saying she can get a shot, but Lt. Zic cuts her off saying, "I'm making it an order. The battle will end faster if we finish the Imperials and then concentrate on the Sith. Make the troopers priority targets!"

Dillon doesn't hear any of the radio chatter, his heart pounding in his ears and the rest of the battle fading into sounds completely unrelated to him. Even the glancing blow from an Imperial rifle on his leg doesn't cause Dillon to give more than a twitch of his muscles as the distance to the Sith closes. Dillon can't aim a weapon as he's pumping his limbs so hard for the sake of speed, which may be why the Sith's perception through the Force doesn't recognize Dillon as a danger until he is body checked by Dillon's shoulder, the Zabrak's arm lifted to slice through the trooper in front of him. As Dillon goes flying by, his momentum overcoming his balance, Dillon faintly feels a bit of relief to see that the trooper hasn't been cut in half. By the time Dillon and the Sith are rolling on the ground, the moment has passed and all Dillon can think about is getting his rifle pointed in time to kill his opponent.

Stopping his forward roll with a knee, Dillon twists his body to bring his rifle to bear on the Sith, who is also on one knee just outside the range of being able to swing his lightsaber and holding it in the right hand, the one facing away from Dillon. The moment of grim satisfaction is killed as the red and black faced Zabrak gracefully dips his head forward letting the lethal barrage pass overhead, skimming the shoulders, and the simultaneously extended left hand emits a ripple that distorts the light around it and strikes Dillon in the chest like a battering ram.

Dillon feels the moment of weightlessness followed by the impact of the old growth tree against his back. His vision spotty, Dillon is only intuitively aware of being flung several meters as his training and instinct scream at him to get moving. The hand that had unconsciously moved towards the hurting chest is put into action, and Dillon pushes himself off and rolls away from the tree as the lightsaber of the leaping Sith cuts through a frightening amount of the plant's circumference. The Zabrak turns to look at Dillon in satisfaction, knowing that the trooper can't get his feet back under him before the finishing blow is dealt.

The Sith doesn't see Dillon's look of satisfaction through the helmet as the timed explosive charge that Dillon had slapped onto the trunk of the tree while simultaneously pushing off against it beeps rapidly before detonation. The blast rips a frightening amount of the tree's trunk apart, sending needle sharp splinters of wood flying, some the length and breadth of a forearm. The blast strikes the Sith unaware, tearing the cape to tatters, leaving a deep bleeding slash across the face, and knocking the Zabrak off balance. It takes Dillon about the same amount of time as the Sith to get his bearing back, though Dillon had gotten enough distance to begin safely shooting at the Sith again. Flicking on the full auto setting, Dillon opens fire.

The Zabrak moves like a track runner, pushing off from a crouched position and moving a circular path around Dillon to affect the accuracy of the bolts as much as possible, swiftly deflecting as many as he can. Passing by a covering tree, the horn headed Zabrak does a pirouetting leap, throwing his lightsaber at Dillon in a glowing arc. More by intuition than reason, Dillon knows that if he doesn't get out of the way he'll be scythed in half, and the best way is down. Throwing himself backwards, Dillon sees the lightsaber swing right over his head as his back strikes the soft forest floor and uses his momentum to perform a backroll, putting force into his shoulders to speed the movement.

Coming back up and over from the roll, Dillon brings his rifle up to bear down on the charging Zabrak, only a few steps away thanks to the momentary window of opportunity. Opening fire, Dillon sees two bolts miss completely, one striking a shoulder guard, and another absorbed by the Sith's outstretched left palm dealing no damage before the Zabrak catches his lightsaber in his hand again and is deflecting blaster shots once more with ease. The Zabrak is going in for the kill, but Dillon has seen his killing stroke wind up three times before, used twice against troopers and once against the tree. Trusting blind bravado, Dillon counter charges the Sith to throw off his timing and create a window for himself.

Stepping in, Dillon forces the Zabrak to swing early, throwing off his tempo, and Dillon once more collapses himself downward. Folding the left leg and bracing his right, Dillon slips his head and body towards his left, the Sith's right handed diagonal swing skimming over Dillon's shoulder after having dropped his height to less than half that while standing. Putting strength into the same muscles he uses for his quick uppercut, Dillon lifts up from the ground like a rocket to strike the Sith in the gut with the stock of his rifle instead of a bare fist, causing the Sith to double over while the missed swing has him off balance. Taking advantage of the opening, Dillon grabs his combat knife in his left hand in a stabbing grip and swings at the unprotected neck.

Dillon loses his grip on the combat knife, which flies from his hand harmlessly, as the pommel of the Zabrak's lightsaber strikes Dillon in the side of the head from a backhanded swing, leaving a circle of gouges in the armored helmet from the series of decorative spikes. The Sith made the one move he could from such a disadvantageous position, and it has sent Dillon reeling back a step, far enough for the now grinning Sith to perform an overhead swing to finish Dillon off.

While it's a powerful attack, it's also predictable. Pushing forward once again with a planted foot, Dillon has his left arm up and intercepts the swing, forearm striking forearm. The instant the attack is halted, Dillon turns his hand a hundred and eighty degrees, grabs the Sith's forearm with it, and twists to force the blade of the lightsaber out and away from himself, just like in basic training's hand-to-hand combat. The Sith has to step in closer to avoid having his arm broken, throwing him off balance as well, leaving Dillon an opening to bring his rifle up and open fire at point blank range.

Unbelievably, the shots go wide as the Zabrak decides that instead of trying to break free and get back to middle ranged melee combat, he pulls in closer to Dillon, chest to chest, leaving the barrel of the rifle poking out past the Sith's armpit. Securing his clinch, the Zabrak gives Dillon a savage head butt, the horn on his forehead leaving a dent in Dillon's helmet. Dillon momentarily staggers from the impact, his knees bending, before throwing his strength into righting himself with enough force to head butt the Zabrak right back.

After dealing with the recoil, the Zabrak audibly says, "Oooh," as if Dillon had just said something, and then head butts Dillon once more, which Dillon then returns in what has suddenly become a testosterone contest. Around the fifth repetition of this cycle, a passing Imperial trooper pauses to do a double take. He is quickly rewarded with a yellow bolt to the head for his stunned inquisitiveness. Around the twelfth repetition, Dillon's helmet twisted and his forehead bleeding from the misshapen metal and the Zabrak bloody from a broken nose and a cut eyebrow, the two men hear a twisting creak and sharp cracks much different from any previously heard in the battle. Both men turn their heads to look in unison.

The old growth tree that had suffered the devastating combination of being hacked by a lightsaber and detonated by explosives seems to be the source of the noise, judging by the fact that it is now leaning unnaturally. Further and further the towering tree bends, the fibers of the trunk twisting, snapping, and breaking, right at Dillon and the Zabrak, who are currently immobilized by clinching one another.

Turning their heads in unison once more, the two men look each other in the eye, possible to do now that the lens in Dillon's helmet is shattered. Seeing the knowledge of what is coming in each other's eye, they move to release each other in order to get out of the way of the falling tree. At least, the Zabrak does. Dillon on the other hand grabs the Sith harder as he tries to escape and leverages his back to pull the Zabrak closer in, into the path of the now quickly falling tree. The symphony of cracking and snapping is punctuated by the crescendo of the tree crashing into the earth, tons of wood dropping with enough velocity to crush an armored vehicle.

After the felled tree comes to a rest, Dillon finds he's aching across his entire body. The shock of the impact almost knocked him unconscious, it being heavier and harder than the kinetic blow the Sith had used on him, and perhaps Dillon had indeed blacked out as he finds he has to open his eyes. What greets him is the sight of the Zabrak Sith, laying right on top of him. Dillon reflexively moves his right hand to try and punch the man in the face, attack being the best form of defense, but his arm doesn't move. This prompts Dillon to look around quickly, showing why both men are in such an unlikely position. Dillon and the Sith had both narrowly avoided being crushed by the trunk of the great tree, but had been struck by, and pinned under, a large bough. Who knows how much debris the two of them are stuck under, but the only certainty is that they are stuck. After some quick wriggling, Dillon finds that only his left hand is not completely snared at the moment. But the wriggling grabs the attention of the Sith, who had also been seeing what he could still move. Dillon and the Sith lock eyes once again, and the Zabrak immediately grabs Dillon by the throat with his free left hand, the leatheris glove creaking as the grip tightens. Dillon cocks an eyebrow and says with his own voice, the modulator broken by all the headbutting, "Hey, that tubing around my neck is armor, too. You won't accomplish anything that w-aack!"

Dillon suddenly feels a heavy compression around his throat, the airways stifled and the life being choked out of him. But Dillon can't feel the press of any armor around his neck. It's the Force! The Sith is trying to strangle him to death with the Force, and it's working! Dillon can see the satisfaction in the Sith's bloody, pummeled, slashed up face, gleeful at the prospect of this immediate victory despite his overall situation, and Dillon knows that if nothing changes, he's dead. Working furiously, Dillon frees his left hand, and punches the Sith repeatedly in the head and face, but in such an awkward position, Dillon can't bring anything more than the strength of his arm to bear.

The world is starting to flicker black and purple, and Dillon can tell he's moments away from passing out. Punches alone aren't doing anything, Dillon needs something harder! With his left hand, Dillon begins blindly groping the ground nearby looking for anything. His rifle, the dropped knife, a rock, anything! Dillon's hand comes across something long, hard, and round. It has to be the Sith's lightsaber, and Dillon recalls well just how hard an impact he suffered from the spikes on the pommel of the weapon. Acting on desperation, Dillon slams the weapon home.

The impact feels different than how Dillon had thought it would feel, but the pressure on Dillon's neck suddenly seems to lessen and disappear. Breathing free again, Dillon's eye sight washes bright with colors for a moment before real vision fades into existence.

Dillon's first sight is the face of the Zabrak Sith glaring him in the eyes, filled with ecstatic hate.

Not really prepared for that, Dillon tenses and tries going for another strike with the lightsaber's pommel, pulling the hilt to swing again. For some reason, Dillon can't bring the lightsaber back, but in Dillon's exertions, he does notice the Sith's head wobble unnaturally and in the same pattern as his own attempted movements.

Huh.

Taking a closer look at his left hand, Dillon finally sees what he's holding. It's one of the razor sharp splinters of hardwood that had been blasted out of the tree earlier, and a long stretch of it is stuck inside the Zabrak's head. The Sith appears to have died instantly from being stabbed in the brain, and now Dillon's grip on the splinter is the only thing keeping the head from flopping down into Dillon's face. Dillon then has to force his mind to stop trying to think of a joke having to do with dead weight, luggage, and the splinter taking the place of a handle as he tries listening for the sounds of the battle. Not for the lack of taste the comment would have, but because it feels awkward coming up with a joke while the corpse is staring at him. Besides, Dillon doesn't have much skill when it comes to wit, so instead he puts his attention to the sound of the combat around him.

After a few moments the innumerable blaster shots begin to give Dillon an idea of the battle as it stands. The difference in tone between Imperial and Republic blasters and the number of shots fired and from how far away. The punctuations of the heavy rifles belonging to Blue Squad fired in the distance and the tramping sounds of troopers moving. Soon Dillon hears more movement, branches and plants crushed and trampled upon from a new direction, and the sound of rapid fire heavy weapons makes Dillon smile. That would be Kil and his squad moving on the Imperial's flank. With this, the Imperials should be herded to the next ambush point where the rest of Blue Squad will be waiting to put any stragglers down. And then the sound of an explosion mutes the battle as one of the rigged transports is remotely detonated by Tomas. It's all over but for the shouting. A complete rout.

# # # # #

The crackling of the lightning fired from Lord Sabra's left hand fades as the last droid falls inert onto the ground. It had been a difficult situation, the droids striking while the landing forces were dispersed, and one group of returning troopers led by a Sith Shock troop had to sacrifice themselves to take pressure off Darth Sabra, the Force user and all perishing for their patriotism, but Sabra had won with little damage to herself aside from a single scorch on her robes. An executable offense except for the fact that those who had performed the act were not alive in the first place. Well, prisoners of war are acceptable substitutes.

Running a hand through her shoulder length dull red hair, an act that makes a few of her admirers amongst the reassembled troops swallow hard to stifle their imaginations, Darth Sabra proceeds to get matters back on track.

"Well, now that that little bit of trickery is out of the way, we can get back to our original task. As before, gather all vital supplies and destroy the rest."

With a universal salute, the troopers and the Sith Shock troops move out, spreading through the camp to finish their search or to return to the caches of goods they had had to leave behind before. One of the troopers, Private Searn, looks over his shoulder wistfully as he enters the armory with the rest of his detachment. "Gorgeous. And so dignified. What I wouldn't do to earn her favor…"

"If you don't get your head out of the clouds, you'll earn her disfavor," quips Private Dahl, Searn's old friend, much to his chagrin. "Now help me haul this crate of grenades."

"Don't you have a sense for beauty, Dahl?"

"Nope," says the man immediately, "I was born with a sense for self-preservation instead. Now grab the other end of this."

Searn takes up half the burden, but can't fight the urge to tilt his head back, dreams of what could be filling his mind. He then tilts his head sideways while holding the handle of the heavy crate of explosives and asks, "Hey, Dahl, what's that on the ceiling?"

Looking up, Dahl sees a large flat disk solidly attached to the roof of the armory. Panic in his voice, Dahl says, "By the Sith. That's a Repub-"

Dahl's voice is annihilated by the initial explosion, setting off the chain reaction in the munitions, all of which accompany the detonation of all the mines hidden in each building throughout the camp. The entirety of the grounds becoming one giant firestorm.

# # # # #

From the sound of things, Tomas has just detonated the explosives Green Squad had laid out in the camp. That should teach the Imperials to try and pinch Republic supplies. But Dillon can't take part in any kind of celebration for a job well done, yet. Dillon has had to wait patiently under the weight of the tree, wedged firmly and securely under his dead Sith. His earlier attempts to contact someone over his radio yielded nothing but static, his comm. unit undoubtedly broken in the head butting competition. But Dillon is sure he'll be found soon. Delta Company has breathing room and they're sure to do a battlefield sweep for survivors, so Dillon just has to stay frosty until then.

But still, it's pretty creepy having the dead Sith stare at him, all scowls and whatnot.

Staring back, Dillon finally says what's been on his mind all this time. "You know, this is exactly why troopers wear helmets. I don't get why you Sith and Jedi are always running around battlefields without them."

With that said, Dillon goes ahead and enjoys the silence for a bit, before the desire to tell off the Sith grows again. "And another thing, what's with that over the top rage you guys have. I mean, fighting can be pretty fun, yeah, but you guys take it over the top. Is it something they feed you in the Empire? Are you guys all stimmed out all the time?"

At about the time Dillon finds himself feeling the urge to bob the dead Zabrak's head around and speak for it like a ventriloquism act, a reply concerning "compensating for something" forming in his mind, Dillon hears some people calling out.

"Sergeant!"

"Sergeant Major! Are you there?"

"Dillon! Can you hear us?"

"Sarge!"

"I'm in here! And I won!"

There is a pause in the calling and in the sound of movement, followed by one of the searching voices asking, "He won?" The sound of combat knives hacking through foliage redoubles with excitement, Dillon catching the sound of someone saying, "I knew he'd pull it off!" With a heave, a crack, snap, and a sudden influx of light, one of the more heavily leafed branches is pulled aside and Dillon sees the lumbering form of Davies, his helmet off and showcasing the truncated nose in the center of his weather beaten face, the man having been a blue seas fisher before his enlistment. Davies calls out his find in that slurring deep voice of his saying he'd found the Sarge!

Private Ruse Danobe hops into view, ducking under the branch that Davies is thrashing out of the way and says, "I knew you'd win, Sergeant! How'd you do- oh."

The sight of the mangled helmet, the impaled Zabrak head, and the slowly spreading blood stains knocks the exuberance right out of the kid, causing his cheerful pink face to twist into unnatural seriousness for his soft features. As Davies finally wrenches the tree branch clear, a third trooper steps into the space and says, "Don't just stand there, Private. Get the Sergeant free. Sir, are you injured?"

As the trooper kneels down to remove Dillon's helmet and inspect his injuries, Dillon responds by saying, "I should be asking you that, Corporal. I saw you get blasted."

As his helmet is removed, opening his field of vision wider, Dillon looks Carla Renten over. The young woman has pure black hair tied in a single thick braid that is currently hanging over her shoulder, dark eyes, and dusky skin, but her shade is a few tones paler right now with sweat beading on her face. She says she only took a glancing blow, which the carbon scoring pattern on her abdomen shows, but it's pretty obvious the bolt has burned through the armor and some measure of flesh, so she shouldn't be exerting herself. Upon bluntly telling Renten that, Dillon hears another voice from beyond the hollowed out region of foliage answer him. "She's already been checked out by a field medic, Dillon. Just let your troopers help you for a change."

Tilting his head up, Dillon is just barely able to see the face of Lyra Burnett, Sergeant of Blue Squad and her shoulder length scarlet red hair. She's removed her helmet for the time being, and the deep coloration of her wavy locks are catching and reflecting the sparse light that is breaching the forest canopy. Slung over one shoulder she has her leg length personally customized blaster rifle, completely ruining any majesty the image may have contained, even without the help of the full body trooper armor. "Lyra?" asks Dillon, "What are you doing here while there's still fighting go- agh!"

Dillon cuts himself off more from surprise than anything, as Corporal Renten suddenly begins cleaning off Dillon's forehead and applies some kolto salve to the lacerations caused by the crushed helmet. Answering Dillon's unfinished question, Lyra coolly says that Kil is in charge of cleaning up the Imperials, and that she volunteered to sweep the field for injured troopers. Having said what she wanted, Lyra turns and leaves the area as Davies and Danobe come to the audible conclusion that there is no way to move the thick branch directly connected to the tree trunk that is pinning Dillon and the Sith corpse down. They came to the conclusion only after the forth attempt at lifting it off of their commanding officer.

Cutting off the discussion on how long it will take to cut through the branch with combat knives as it was beginning to veer towards the use of explosives, Dillon says, "The Sith should have dropped his lightsaber somewhere near here, try and find it before you resort to using grenades!"

Renten has enough time to finish the kolto application and bandaging on Dillon's head as the other troopers fumble around looking for the dropped lightsaber, and longer. During the wait, Renten also has the time to take over the duty of holding up the Sith's head off of Dillon's face so he can rest his arm, saying, "So you killed the Zabrak by putting another spike in his head. Kind of appropriate." As Davies expels his low chuckle, Dillon nearly kicks himself. Why hadn't he thought of that joke when he was putting together his ventriloquism act?

Danobe is the one that eventually finds the lightsaber and wastes no time in turning it on to see if it still works, nearly impaling Renten in the tight confines of the cut out hollow of the felled tree. Renten actually had to fall backward, letting go of the Sith's head to avoid a fatal wound, the head dropping right into Dillon's chin with a dull thud and a sharp expletive. Dillon quickly corrects Danobe's actions, not without a little venom in his words, and directs the youth into using the lightsaber correctly.

"Remember, never point the end of that lightsaber at anything you don't want dead, just like a blaster. Leave it off and get over to the base of the branch- my hand! You're stepping on it! No, I'm fine, just get into position. Now press and hold the button that should be on the side. Alright, now just press the blade into the wood using constant gentle pressure, letting the lightsaber do the cutting for you. As soon as you see the tree starting to shift, let go of the button and-watch it!"

As the last uncut fibers of the branch twist and snap, the tree's trunk resettles, narrowly avoiding Danobe's foot. Dillon immediately feels the pressure on his chest slacken and can finally take full deep breaths again. Standing with a stretch, Dillon says, "Thank you for the help. I'm going to go check in with Lt. Zic, so let me know if you find my rifle."

"Sir, wait."

Despite himself, Dillon stops as if commanded, an odd and slightly desperate tone in Danobe's voice. Dillon turns and sees the young trooper holding out the Sith's lightsaber as he softly says, "This is yours."

All three of the troopers look at Dillon with somber expectation, completely different from their candid happiness before. Dillon feels the change in the atmosphere as well, causing him to seriously study the lightsaber in Danobe's outstretched hand. The grip is designed with a simple twisting pattern, with the shroud around the emitter, the part the blade comes out of, cut at a decorative forty five degree slant. And the pommel has a ring of curved spikes reaching out like the tips of a bladed crown, eight of these wicked pointed prongs in all. It's simple, streamlined, and predatory. An excellent trophy.

"Yes. It is," says Dillon matter of factly.

As Dillon takes hold of the lightsaber, it seems the faces of his troopers soften with satisfaction. Dillon turns on his heel and leaves unceremoniously to find Lt. Zic, but as he goes, Dillon hears the troopers talking. Danobe's admiring voice answered by Davies' deep rumble.

"A tree fell on him while he was fighting a Sith, and he walks away with a few scratches."

"That's a real man right there."

Dillon quickly strides through the battered forest, exchanging a smile and a nod with Lyra, and then later with Tomas as Dillon reaches the crest of a wooded hill aspiring to be a small mountain, the spot Lt. Zic chose for him to have the best view of the battlefield beforehand. Off a little ways by himself is one of the three corporals of Red Squad, Corporal Neel Anzela, a kind hearted but disciplined Alderaan trooper, is sitting on a rock with his head cupped in his hands.

Approaching Lt. Zic, Dillon salutes and speaks in the required loud and impersonal tone of an underling. "Sergeant Major Gauss, reporting, Sir."

Lt. Zic turns from the sitting corporal, his long blond hair catching the light as if sunshine had been invented only for him and a smile of genuine kindness on his handsome face that could melt any heart. Dillon masters the momentary urge to punch Lt. Zic in the face as his commanding officer welcomes him. "I'm really glad to see you alive, Gauss. Not too badly thrashed about? Good, good. I'd thought you'd bit off more than you can chew this time, but taking out a Sith in a brawl, my that will be good for morale. …We're going to need it."

This momentary air of depression is completely unnatural around Lt. Zic, causing Dillon to ask, "Sir?"

"Nevermind, nevermind. You came here for a debrief? Giving or receiving information?"

Dillon nods at Corporal Anzela, the second in command of Red Squad under Dillon. "I'm assuming you have already been given more information than I can provide, so I'm here to ask how we stand. How the Crawlers made out, casualty count, and our next objective. I assume we're still planning to head for the forest's edge near the city of Mylaa as we'd planned earlier?"

That momentary discordance in Lt. Zic's attitude returns, and is as quickly replaced with his upbeat nature again. Is he forcing himself? And what's that sound Dillon can hear in the background? "No Gauss, we won't be heading to Mylaa, or anywhere near a settlement. We're going to be making our base camps in the deep woods and striking from there."

This is a rather great divergence from what Dillon and Lt. Zic had discussed beforehand. The idea of heading to Mylaa was to make contact with civilians and try to get an underground network going, possibly even an organized resistance and provide partisan groups with weaponry. Spread the fight as much as possible. "Why the change in plans, Sir?"

"Well, step over here, Gauss," says Lt. Zic as he leads Dillon around Corporal Anzela, "And look over that way. Do you see that?"

Dillon squints a little at the distance, and then pulls out his telescopic scope. With the scope pressed to his eye, Dillon works the zoom and focus until the distant indistinct blackness on the horizon comes into shape causing his heart to fall into his boots.

"That is all that is left of Mylaa, Gauss. It seems the city was bombarded from orbit. As much as I'd like to search for survivors, with the Sith as they are we'd just be tempting another bombardment. That is why we're going to stay away from all civilian targets."

Dillon had been on worlds that were in the middle of being conquered, often being among the last to be evacuated before the defenses fell. He'd seen occupation, the subversion of governments and the freedoms of the people on those worlds. The ruthless and brutal efficiency of the Imperial conquerors. But that was not this. This is genocide, pure and simple. And all at once Dillon understands what is happening today. The Sith Empire has not come to conquer Alderaan, they have come to defile it. And in that moment of shock, despair, and burning hatred, Dillon finally recognizes the almost inaudible sound at the corner of his hearing.

It is the sobbing of Corporal Anzela, mourning the death of his world.

# # # # #

The atmosphere in the bridge of the Imperial warship Dissonance is dark and foreboding, but it is not caused by the dim lighting designed to draw as little power from the ship's military systems as possible. The heavy atmosphere comes from the presence of Lord Venos, a powerful and honored Sith standing patiently at the center of the command floor. The red highlights of the various consoles seem to tint the entire area with the man's foul mood.

Lord Venos had once been well known for his wild flights of passion and love of violence, the common Imperial servicemen are good at keeping track of such Sith, but in recent years since his return to duty the Lord had become more even tempered, though no less dangerous. It is well known aboard the warship permanently placed under his purview that Lord Venos detests being made subordinate to Lord Malgus' plan, and that the Sith's temper is on edge today. What's more, there seems to be something else bothering Lord Venos as he keeps making that horrible grimace that only a man without a lower lip can make for no apparent reason. It is no wonder that Captain Rache takes a long steeling breath before approaching the tall Sith Lord in his heavy black armor with the hooded cloak.

"Lord Venos, we have confirmed the complete loss of contact with every man in Lord Malagh's detachment. From Lord Sabra's report of the traps laid in the Republic camp, it is likely Lord Malagh's detachment has been wiped out."

Captain Rache pauses, but the pause becomes a silence as he waits for permission to speak again. Finally, Lord Venos speaks, his esses hissing slightly through the permanently exposed lower teeth. "And what are your thoughts on the matter, Captain?"

Captain Rache inhales deeply, trying to compose his next line in the most unassuming manner he can while giving sound military advice. Licking his lips despite himself, the pencil thin black mustache tickling slightly, the commissioned officer speaks with a discipline that masks his fear of being made an example of. "We have the coordinates where Lord Malagh landed. We could easily blanket the area with fire from our current station here in orbit. It would certainly eliminate whatever force defeated him."

Lord Venos smiles, the natural pearl of his teeth looking yellowed against the pale white flesh of his face. "You forget, Captain, that we only presume Malagh to be dead. He may simply be injured or beyond communicating with us, marooned on the planet below. Would you really be willing to assume the responsibility of murdering a Lord of the Sith?"

Captain Rache feels the edge in the words as keenly as a knife. It is common knowledge that Lord Venos had been away from active service not for personal matters, but because he had been stranded on a barren world for years, lost in the shuffle of battle. It's the reason the Lord no longer has earlobes, having lost them to frostbite, though the lower lip had been burnt off by an explosion, searing away the flesh from the mouth to the chin and leaving the living bone visible. And Rache feels his life in danger from the question concerning his comfort in killing a Sith, his rightful masters. Deprecatingly, Captain Rache says, "No, my Lord, I would never presume to undertake such a task under my own judgment."

Lord Venos' one lipped smile is as unnerving as his grimaces, though in this case it is made in satisfaction. "Do not worry too much, Captain. I know you are a loyal subject to our great Empire. As for orders, you are to do nothing."

"Sir?"

"Our current orders from… Malgus are to stand by and destroy any ships trying to leave the planet, to keep the world bottled up. Whatever happens on the ground is Malgus' concern. I for one would not like to risk a ship sneaking past us while we are busy bombarding the surface. Now, I will be leaving the bridge in your care, Captain Rache. Contact me should any new matter arise."

Captain Rache snaps a salute as he properly acknowledges the order, warily blissful of the Sith Lord's departure, and that of the slight slip of a girl that is the Lord's apprentice as she follows after Venos' billowing cloak. The entire bridge breaths in relief as the doors of the turbolift close. Lord Venos on the other hand is still on edge.

"You have questions for me, Fyurai?"

Lord Venos did not move a centimeter from his position of pointing himself towards the lift's doors. He simply felt his apprentice's unease.

"Yes, Master," says the girl without any hint of intimidation. "Why did you feign deference to Lord Malgus' orders? As far as I understand, you-"

"Do not presume to understand me, or my motives, Fyurai."

"Yes, Master. I am sorry. I should never have questioned you."

"No, Fyurai, you must question me, otherwise you will never learn. You wonder what I gain by carrying through with my orders to the letter, when it is most assuredly to our advantage to eliminate Alderaan's defenders. You wonder at my adherence to the orders of one such as Malgus when I serve him only through a direct order from the Council."

"…Yes, Master."

"Simple. Alderaan has fallen, and Malgus need simply strut around and play with his plundered toys. He has achieved his objective, but at what cost? Even if a warlord wins a battle, if he loses enough of his military it is the same as defeat. For such a warlord only ruin and dishonor await. Whoever was in charge of those Republic soldiers is a man capable of swiftly eliminating a large number of Sith led troops in a matter of minutes. While it is true that letting them run around unhindered will lead to trouble, the ones who will experience it is Malgus and the forces under his direct control."

"I see," says Fyurai, who dips her head forward in thought, allowing the stray platinum blond hairs not secured in her black steel clasp to fall in front of her eyes.

"Now you do. In the future, you must understand without explanations, or you will not survive as a Sith."

"Yes master," replies the girl that can't be more than fourteen years old. "But what about Darth Malagh?"

"What about him?"

"Do you-"

Fyurai silences herself as the turbolift doors open and Lord Venos steps off. Fyurai is not to question her master in public. There are few people in the wide hallway, but all of them stop and salute the two passing Sith as if they were in a regimental review. As the two reach the quarters that had been created for them, the two Imperial marines guarding the doorway stomp, salute, and maintain their stance as their masters pass through the door. In private once again, Fyurai finishes her question.

"You spoke of Darth Malagh before. Do you really think he is alive?"

"There is no chance of it," rumbles Venos as he sits in a chair, grimacing once more.

"Then… do you feel no need to avenge his death? To make his killers suffer?"

"I feel no sympathy for those who volunteer for a meaningless chase, just so they can experience the momentary satisfaction of violence. Malagh and Sabra are both fools, and Malgus is little better."

Stunned, Fyurai asks why.

"What is the most important rule for a successful invasion?"

Not expecting the quiz, Fyurai stumbles over her answer. "To… attack quickly and without warning? To destroy any resistance thoroughly?"

"Those are general rules that should be followed in any battle. For an invasion to be successful you must capture the resources held by your enemy and put them to use sustaining your own army. Be it weapons, food, fuel, or materials, by taking it for yourself you grow stronger while the enemy weakens. It is the most fundamental rule of sustaining any conquest of any length when you have no reliable supply lines, like we lack here in the heart of Republic space."

Fyurai now gathers that her Master believes that Malgus has completely overextended his reach, and that that may be the main reason her Master chafes under his role of support. Venos continues on without allowing his apprentice to speak however.

"But conversely, any officer that is familiar with that rule can inflict an enormous number of casualties by intentionally destroying the contested resources along with those trying to capture them. Sabra is proof of that. Following that rule, your attacks become predictable and are easily countered."

"But wouldn't destroying the resources deprive the Republic of their use as well? They would just be making themselves weaker on purpose."

Venos chuckles as he reaches out with the Force to pour a glass of cold water from a pitcher. "If you are going to lose the resources anyway, why not destroy them? Especially if you are pushed to desperation. Yes, the instant the scouting fighter reported that the target camp was being evacuated, I knew what to expect."

"Then why did you not stop Lords Malagh and Sabra?"

"I told them that a few bombers would be sufficient, but those two chose to engage the Republic's forces on the ground. So I said no more and let them continue with their folly. They were not my underlings, and never were, so what do their fates matter to me?"

The two ill fated Sith had interpreted Malgus' orders to mean thoroughly seeking out opposition and destroying them entirely. And Sabra had thought to take whatever goods remained in the Republic camp as spoils to support the marches of the ground forces and gain favor for her own advancement. To have it all blow up in her face like that is a wonderful joke. Quite literally in her face. Lord Venos chuckles once more despite his foul mood.

"I see," says the apprentice, bowing her head forward again in thought before asking, "But why did you leave the bridge? You usually like to stay during the length of an operation. What happened?"

Venos is silent for a few long seconds, his grip tightening around the floating glass of water he had taken into his right hand. Then he slowly draws back the hood of his cloak with the left. As the hood falls back, a thick belt of leatheris can be seen wrapping around Venos' head as a blindfold, a trophy pulled from the Republic Special Forces trooper that had taken his right eye many years ago and bearing the insignia of his unit. But now it covers both eyes, wrapped horizontally around the head instead of the slant when Venos still had at least half his sight. "It is because my eye had begun to pain me enough that I may have executed someone out of sheer annoyance. I would prefer not to lose a capable officer who has not yet earned their death."

"The eye you lost on Hoth?"

Venos absently rubs the scarred cheek beneath the left eye he'd had vaporized by the nameless trooper on the ice planet, blasted in the face while knocked unconscious by a grenade. When Venos had awoken, he'd found himself totally blind, his ship destroyed, and himself stranded in an icy wasteland. He'd been barely able to keep himself alive those first days, let alone try and contact anyone for a rescue. Even after he'd learned to see through the Force, Venos had had no way of finding escape as he lived in the shelter the Republic cruiser he'd collapsed next to had provided. Living off melted snow, preserved rations, and whatever wild and often carnivorous beasts he slew on the planet's surface, Venos had become convinced he would spend his last days on that blasted planet. Until the illegal salvagers had shown up on his doorstep. That day, Venos had regained his freedom by escaping the planet, and obtained a new apprentice to replace the one he'd lost.

Thinking back to his foolish, rash, impulsive decision to charge those cornered Republic refugees makes Venos' eye ache once more. He knew he had brought the situation on himself through his own hubris, and he saw the trooper that had struck him down, the last sight he'd ever see with his own sight, as a messenger of the Force. The ordeal on Hoth had been painful, the loss of everything he'd built, but it had made him stronger and given him even more than he'd lost. Venos both loves and despises the trooper that had struck him down. As Venos dismisses his apprentice to practice her combat skills, Venos reclines in his chair and meditates over what he'd do to that trooper if he ever met him again for what may be the thousandth time.

# # # # #

Dillon can smell his own stink, and the odor of the tightly confined camp presses in around him. The surviving members of the 1081st's Delta company are in the middle of dinner, lined up to get a measure of portable soup from Corporal Lanchet, who has been keeping an eagle eye on supplies since the Crawlers were dumped, and her helpers, a rescued family of minor Alderaanian nobles. The troopers who already have their bowls are reluctantly eating, forcing it down in order to keep their strength up. Those who have finished eating and are not returning to duty head over to the knife throwing range. Being horribly low tech, it's just a round slice of tree trunk suspended for people to throw their combat knives at. Not as training, but as one of the few forms of leisure the company can afford at the moment and one of the few methods the troopers have of taking their minds off their current situation.

Over a quarter of Delta are dead, and many who remain are walking wounded who don't have the luxury of laying on their backs and enjoying medical attention. Duds died a couple of days ago, intentionally setting off a detonite sabotage charge to take out a Sithling that was trying to break through the flank, and his replacement is still choking on his promotion, even as he listens to Danobe's repeated story.

"…So Sergeant Gauss just headbutts the Sith right back! And before I know it, the two of them are butting heads over, and over again! I damn near peed myself laughing!"

Troopers in general get training in withstanding long term pressure situations such as being cut off behind enemy lines, but Danobe is doing a good job holding up under the constant pressure. Several other troopers are holding up equally well, some of them being former farmers as well. Dillon can only assume that the farming life of long hours of hard work, little rest, no vacations, and mind numbingly repetitive labor makes a good foundation for being a trooper. The first week of his own basic training aside, Dillon took to being a trooper like a Selkath to water. Dillon is still leery of being an officer though. Of being a role model and having to put out a constant aura of confidence to keep his troopers at ease.

As Dillon paces through the camp chewing on some jerky made from an unidentified woodland critter, Dillon starts looking over the small huddles of people, going over the dead and injured in his mind. Forcrest had never woken up from the injury he'd sustained on the first day of Alderaan's occupation. Blue Squad had lost Corporal Melanen and his team of four when a Sith appeared behind them, almost like he'd materialized out of thin air, during a raid on an Imperial supply dump. Corporal Zilas is sitting in a corner all by herself, her arm in a sling, sadly eyeing her speeder bike that had barely survived being horribly wrecked. She had planted a shaped charge on a fully loaded Imperial troop transport and evaded most of the Imperial's blaster fire. The bolt that had struck Zilas' speeder had sent it careening out of control, and but for the woman's skill in handling the craft she would have suffered injuries far worse than a broken arm. Unfortunately, the break is so severe that the field medic thinks the arm may have to come off in the next few days if nothing changes. Private Halvrett had recovered from his injury quickly, a severe dislocation and pinched nerves, but had stopped a bolt in the next fight he was involved in, returning to battle just in time to lose his life.

Red Squad's command structure has been suffering too, reflects Dillon as he catches Corporal Renten out of the corner of his eye, pale and sweating. The stomach wound on her had turned bad and developed an infection. She spent two days fighting off a fever until the field medic reluctantly allowed her to return to duty. Even now, Renten is fighting a light fever. While uninjured, Corporal Neel Anzela is no better. The constant sadness of seeing what the Sith have done to his homeworld is weighing on him like a stone whenever he's not in battle. Before the invasion, Anzela was the first to suggest amicably accommodating Imperial prisoners of war. Now he's the first in line to execute any Imperials that are captured.

Dillon sighs, and the stink of his own body fills his nose once again. Delta has had to be on alert for a long time, Imperials having located their camp once before. There is no ability to say "we're safe enough to relax" and put aside time for bathing, and so most troopers have gone days without cleaning themselves, or even removing their armor as a partial safeguard against heat scanners. Dillon even sleeps wearing the helmet he's inherited from an ill fortuned trooper, the helmet's size and the securement clasps attaching it to Dillon's body armor being just barely off to make wearing it stifling and inconvenient.

But there is one thing that's a real boost to the troopers. The trophies.

Dillon's newest lightsaber is now the second trophy hanging from his belt, there being no more room in his packs for them. Having been obtained a few days ago, it is sleek around the emitter with a decorative inlay carved from bone of some kind, and ending at the pommel with a decorative twist. Dillon had taken it from a moderately armored human Sith with half his face reconstructed by cybernetics. Dillon had tried to keep the fight at a distance, but those Sith are good at closing gaps. Dillon had had no choice but to detonate the charging station next to him which released enough electricity to stun the Sith, Dillon's heavy armor absorbed enough of the released electricity to prevent his own electrocution, and turn the tides. Dillon had taken the chance to bodily throw the Sith through the window of a building Tomas' boys had rigged to blow and gave the word. Just enough of the Sith had been left to confirm the kill, though the severed hand around the lightsaber had kept damage to the trophy to a minimum.

It's not just Dillon that has taken to trophy hunting though. Since the first day with the Zabrak Sith, the troopers of Delta have been claiming the lightsabers of the Sith they killed and now have taken to displaying them on their belts. At first it seemed like a somewhat crude manner of copying Dillon, or of trying to mock the Imperials, but now Dillon sees it as a way for his troopers to hold onto their dignity and spirit in these pressing circumstances. A way for them to show each other that while the Sith are strong enough to kill them, they can still be killed right back. That it's an even playing field.

Being found in possession of a Sith's lightsaber is an instantly executable offense, though, but there isn't a trooper in Delta that would rather live as a prisoner of war than die while taking even one more of those Imperials down with them. And so there are now a couple dozen lightsabers taken from Sith and Sithling alike hanging from the belts of troopers, a display of their defiance. Dillon smiles a little despite himself, and sits down on a felled log with a Datapad.

Dillon has less than a minute alone before Kil shows up next to him and starts an unwanted conversation. "Writing letters again?"

Kil sits down on the log as Dillon sighs and confirms. "That's, what, the fifth one you've written since we went guerilla? You know you can't send any of them while the Imperials are blocking communications."

"Not the point, Kil."

"It kinda is, Dillon. See, letters are meant to be read. So who are they for, anyway."

"Well, one is for my family on the homeworlds." Dillon doesn't see Kil roll his eyes at the continued usage of the word, 'homeworlds.' "And the others are for Lein. We've been sending letters to each other for so long that I've found that writing to her helps keep me grounded. And besides, it'd be nice to have something that can be sent to Lein if I die here on Alderaan."

"That's kinda morbid, Dillon. But I get your point."

"What about you, Kil, have you written to your wife?" Dillon was pretty surprised when Kil came back from his last full leave wearing a wedding ring. It turned out that his teenage sweetheart considered him the one that got away and they tied the knot a few days before Kil had to report for duty again. Dillon had noticed from the wedding pictures that Teena, the bride, is tall and thin, just like Kil, Kil's family, and Teena's family as well. Seems those proportions that make Kil seem so lanky, even with the muscles of a veteran trooper, are the norm on Wren. Maybe it's their gravity or their diet?

"Nah," says Kil dismissively, "We talk to each other with Vids. Costs a little more to send them, but we prefer hearing each other's voices. Besides, I'm a lot better at using my mouth than at using words." Kil pulls himself out of the conversation, his eyes darting sideways as he mentally checks over what he'd just said to see if it made sense. Deciding that it did, he jumps back into the conversation. "Speaking of marriage, when are you and Lein gonna make things official?"

Dillon's typing finger slips, leaving a line of gibberish in the flow of his letter. "Marriage?!"

"Yeah, you two have been seeing each other for five years already. It's about time you guys made a commitment." Hearing these words come from Kil's mouth is about as inexplicable to Dillon as seeing a Jawa singing an opera.

"Lein and I are both on active service. Planning a battle is easier than getting our leave time lined up to see each other. We don't have the time to make a marriage work."

"That didn't stop me," says Kil, who continues on before Dillon can think of an objection to that line of thought, "And it certainly doesn't hurt Tomas' marriage. That guy and his wife are as happy as ever."

Sergeant Tomas Zere had been married and became a father before he ever enlisted; in fact, it was his marriage that caused him to become a trooper. His brother in law had been a dockworker at a space station belonging to a planet the Empire decided to take. Even though he was a civilian, it didn't stop the storming Imperials from blasting a hole in his chest. Tomas' decision to go to war was half for consoling his wife, and half for taking revenge for a man he thought of as family. Even after Tomas had lost a hand and had half his face pulverized by a Sith, Mrs. Zere had respected her husband's decision to keep fighting and has been supportive from the start.

"Even so," says Dillon, waving a hand dismissively, "what's right for one person may not be right for another. I don't even know if Lein would want me for a husband. I mean, she's from some pretty good family after all."

Rolling his eyes once again, Kil begins correcting Dillon. "Look, the two of you are too lovey dovey for her to not like you, and she's not the kind of person that thinks breeding is important. If you popped the question, she'd probably squeal like a little girl and tackle you."

Before Dillon could think up another excuse, the conversation is interrupted by Corporal Ta'say Tilah of Blue Squad with the lightsaber formerly belonging to the Sith that killed Corporal Melanen hanging from her belt. "Sergeant Sammek, Sergeant Major Gauss, Lieutenant Zic is asking for you." The Echani trooper with her pure white hair tied in a complicated ponytail hesitates for a moment, her excitement overcoming her discipline, before whispering, "It seems the Lieutenant has just finished communicating with Havok Squad."

With a quick look at each other, Dillon and Kil hop to their feet and head straight for their commanding officer. Upon finding him standing in the most secluded spot the base camp could allow with Tomas and Lyra, the Lieutenant smiles and says, "We're all here now? Good. Because we're going to be getting on the move soon. It's time for the Republic to strike back."