Chapter Seven: Purpose

A/N: Ten internet points to whomever knows what I'm talking about. I do not own what I am talking about, sadly.

Two B-2 model super battle droids were standing at their post, bored as usual. Nothing ever happened in the depot they were stationed in, but as everyone knew droids were programmed to obey orders, not think. As the rules of the galaxy stated, no droid could be allowed to achieve sentience, or else it might undermine the rule of sentient beings and lead to a droid uprising the likes of which had never been seen. Therefore, with their limited programming and neural inhibitors, droids of all kinds were labeled as subservient and rather unexciting.

These two proved to be an exception to the general rule: well, they were rather stupid.

"Hey," one said, a red marking signifying him as a designated S.I.M.M.O.N.S. - a Standard Issue Multi-Munitions Ordering Non-civilian Silicoid. His frame was a bit taller than a normal B2, as he carried a grenade launcher in an arm.

"Yeah?" the other replied, the orange paint on his chassis designating him as a G.R.I.F. – a General Resistance and Infantry Fighter. He was a bit larger than the normal model, allegedly for extra ammo capacity. Truth was, all the other droids called his series 'fat' and half the time he was loaded with less than the standard amount of ammo.

"You ever wonder why we're here?" the red one said, who shall now be referred to as Simmons. He was the more thoughtful of the two, though as far as droids went, he was exceptionally obedient.

The other one, who shall be now referred to as Grif, looked at his comrade. "Have you been watching that show on the Holonet again? I told you its Republic propaganda: you could be deactivated for watching it." Grif was the laziest excuse for a droid on the whole planet, if that was even possible: he routinely took long oil baths, almost never showed up on time, and half of his orders were misinterpreted or forgotten. A vising Separatist general had almost died when an over-turned can of oil left by Grif had been set alight and then exploded.

"Just answer the question," Simmons replied, a note of irritation edging into his voice processor. If droids were equipped with a larynx and other throat features, it would have sounded like a growl.

"I don't know," Grif replied, looking down his sights. "Who am I to question orders? We were stationed on Ord Janon to protect the supplies. Here we are, as always, patrolling a sector of the perimeter while the rest of the droid army fights the Republic on all fronts. I didn't sign up for this: I signed up to fight the Republic scum, not watch supplies!"

"You didn't sign up for anything, you metal head!" Simmons replied, looking at the other droid. "We were created by the Confederacy to fight wars: there was no signing up!"

"Well, when the elections come around, I'm gonna vote for someone who would put us on the front lines," Grif replied. "Shooting the Republic clones would be so much more fun than standing guard at a place of almost no importance." He received a quick smack upside the back of his neck-less head.

"Elections? Droids can't even vote you moron!" Simmons said, pointing at him with his blaster-infused arm like it was a finger. "Since when can the Separatist Council be elected, anyway? I thought they were the founding members and could only be removed if they turned traitor."

"Whatever," Grif replied, his droid voice sounding bored, even though droids were supposed to be incapable of such actions. The droid looked up to see a distant figure jumping over the wall. "I wonder who that is?" he asked, pointing.

"Probably nobody: you're seeing things again," said Simmons, who looked in the other direction. "Sometimes I swear you're the most idiotic droid I've served with. Turn away for two seconds and I find you setting blaster cartridges on fire to see what happens."

"Hey, that was fun and you can't deny it," Grif replied. Suddenly the base's power went offline and blaster fire rang out all across the depot. The two droids looked around in confusion as explosions lit up everywhere. From the trees and shrubs, clone troopers poured into the breached base from all sides.

The two droids looked dumbly at each other for a second. "Grif?" Simmons said as a thermal detonator stuck to his chest right underneath his chest.

"Yeah?" Grif replied as a blaster bolt struck his shoulder joint, rendering his built-in blaster arm useless: not like he had been using it anyway.

"I hate my job," Simmons said. Within a second the detonator exploded, disintegrating the droid duo. Two clones sifted through their debris.

"Look captain! I found a donut!" one said, picking up a piece of metal.

"No Caboose, that's a gear," said the captain with an annoyed voice. "Seriously, I swear you're the dumbest clone in the legion."

"I like you too, captain," the clone said, completely oblivious to the insult. He stepped on a droid's arm, causing the blaster to go off and hit the captain in the foot.

"DAMMIT CABOOSE!"