When you lived out on the edge of space, with your nearest neighbor fifty miles away and the nearest starport ten times that, self-reliance wasn't a matter of pride—it was a fact of life. As Torin stood in that crowded compartment, fingering his rifle and blinking the sweat from his eyes, one thought passed through his mind:
Gods, help me. Someone help me.
The compartment trembled and creaked, a low roar audible through the metal bulkheads. A faint orange glow filtered in through the slatted windows situated on the upper quarter of each wall, waxing and waning in intensity as they passed through the clouds. Sometimes the change would be accompanied by a violent rocking of the transport, a sign that some bomb or munition had nearly come close enough to punch a hole in the side and suck them all out into the stratosphere.
One—breathe in.
Two—breathe out.
Torin looked to his left, then his right. Dozens of soldiers stood on either side of him in tightly packed rows, shoulder to shoulder in the cramped metal box. Soldiers may have been a generous term—they were wearing plasteel armor and cradling blaster rifles in their shaking arms, but that hardly made a soldier. Not that Torin was any different. Before a week ago, he had never touched a blaster. As for the armor? It should have been comforting, but the weight of the breastplate hung over his shoulders only seemed to remind him how out of his element he really was.
He ran a hand over the smooth surface of the plate covering his chest, feeling the scratches and blast marks that it had incurred protecting whatever poor bastard had worn it last. Would some other young man be handed this and marched onto a troop transport after it was scavenged off of Torin's corpse? Or maybe when they landed it would be incinerated with Torin in a rain of orbital laser fire, and that would be the end of that little saga.
"Landfall in five minutes!" The commander at the front of the transport walked back and forth at the front of the troop formation, holding onto a railing to steady himself as he repeated the announcement up and down the line. Would he be charging off of the transport with them?
Of course not.
One look at his armor marked him as a naval officer. When they'd put Torin and the others on here, there was no briefing, no real mission. They weren't soldiers—they were cannon fodder. Their job was to bury the empire in a human wave while Republic military did the real work—capturing comm centers, destroying forward operating bases, disabling anti-craft emplacements. All that the men here were expected to do was die.
"Can't wait to kill some Imps!"
An elbow jostling him in the side prompted Torin to swivel his head to the right. The man next to him wore a strained smile, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead before dripping off of his brow. Torin took a moment to process his words, then tried to force a grin that would project some degree of confidence. He couldn't see his own face, but the man's reaction told him that all he exhibited was sheer terror at what was to come. The man swallowed, and both turned back to face forward towards that ominous door spanning the entire forward wall of the transport.
The man to his left bumped into him, and Torin stumbled slightly as the transport rocked. The man was shaking like a leaf, and in Torin's attempts to steady himself he felt a soft slap as his boot hit wetness on the floor.
Lovely.
The transport shook, and he had to push off of the soldier in front of him to steady himself. The dull, constant roar outside the ship changed in tone, signaling that the rockets had kicked in to slow their descent—they were almost there.
He may have been crammed into a box like livestock with a hundred other poor souls, standing in someone else's piss, and sweating bullets from the heat and stale air—but he wanted nothing more than for those bay doors at the front of the transport to stay shut.
The transport rocked a final time, heralding their arrival with a loud roar as the landing jets used up the last of their fuel.
"Weapons at the ready!"
The officer up front moved to a corner beside the door, and Torin finger his weapon anxiously—no matter how many times he played with it, it never felt quite right.
A harsh whine echoed around the compartment, and sunlight shone through a thin gap running across the center of the bay door. Sunlight, yes, but not like it was supposed to be—it was red.
The door fell open, slamming to the ground and sending up a cloud of yellow dust in front of the transport. The red light filtered through the dust, filling the transport with an alien orange glow.
"Go, go, go!" The officer yelled, waving his hand forcefully. Sirens within the transport blared, herding the soldiers out—out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Torin ran through the cloud of dust the transport had kicked up, boots beating on metal, then stone as his eyes seeked out any clue as to the direction of the rally point. That was all they'd given them—a strategic location to reach and hold. They'd never make it, of course—he knew better than that. Their only purpose was to sow some disarray in the enemy lines before they inevitably got annihilated by better trained, better equipped troops.
Coughing and rubbing his eyes with his free hand, he breached the cloud and looked ahead.
Not into the frying pan. Into hell.
The sky was on fire, a pastel painting of red, yellow, and orange as far as the eye could see. Aerial fighters flew over the battered ruins of a city that had been turned into a skeleton, dog fighting while a battle raged far overhead in space. Flashes of light pierced the clouds here and there, each one heralding the destruction of a vessel and the deaths of thousands of souls.
Swallowing, he cast his gaze downward and focused on what was in front of him, doing his best to block out the titanic battle raging overhead. He couldn't do anything about that—all he could do now was try to survive.
A group of soldiers ran past him, and Torin felt himself being carried forward by the sheer momentum of the group. There was safety in numbers, surely? Or would that just attract the attention of some keen-eyed artillery emplacement?
The squad funneled in between two multi-storied beige buildings, going two in a row to fit in the narrow alley. The battle had scarred the structures deeply, and one look upward had him wondering how long they would last.
The characteristic screech of a Sith fighter sounded out overhead, and the men leading the line stopped at the front of the alley. They could feel that cacophonous roar in their bones. Torin could only guess that the Sith designed them that way—like whistling arrows wrapped up in millions of credits worth of technology and destruction.
Tentatively, the two pairs of soldiers in front stepped out of the alley and onto a thoroughfare running in front of it. It must have looked lovely before all this. Fountains and trees lined islands in the center of the road lanes, though the fountains ran dry and the burnt-out trees smoldered faintly.
Another roar, then a crash—a fighter slid in front of the alley at an angle, killing four of the men immediately and striking the corner of one of the buildings. Debris shot up from the crash, falling onto the group as they shielded themselves. The building on the left started to shake, and more debris rained down from overhead.
Torin turned around, looking back down the long alley—it was too far to go back. Looking around wildly, his eyes landed on a small hole in the wall to his right, just large enough for someone to fit through.
"Through here!" He yelled, gesturing at the hole. None of the men moved a muscle, still frozen in shock at the sudden death of their four fellows. Torin grabbed the shoulder of the man directly in front of him and swiveled him about, then pointed at the hole. "Through here!" He yelled again, and pushed the man towards it. He stumbled, then ducked through the hole while he shouted at the rest of them to do the same. The group filtered through single file, pushing each other onward as the husk of a building finally collapsed, filling the alley with rubble and plugging the hole behind them.
Torin wanted to wait—to rest—but there was no respite here. The entire front facade of the building they'd fled into was sheared off, leaving the group exposed to the plaza ahead of them. Half a dozen empire soldiers were moving across the plaza parallel to them, alternately taking cover and firing at some unseen foe as they moved from barrier to barrier, navigating broken stonework structures and wrecked vehicles.
"Let's get em, boys!" Torin watched in horror as one of the men charged towards the imperials, beckoning the other conscripts forward. They shouted as they spilled forth from the building, sprinting across open ground to assault the hunkered-down imperial troops.
He wanted to yell out to them, to call them back, but it was too late. The imperials took cover behind whatever cover was nearest and began to pick off the reckless conscripts, only stopping when a dust cloud dense enough to obscure their line of sight drifted through the square. More men fell to the ground mid-charge, blaster holes sizzling in their chests. Each one was like a punch in the gut for Torin, and eventually he couldn't watch anymore. Clutching his rifle tightly, he ran down a pile of debris and out onto the plaza, joining the other conscripts.
If he was going to die, it was going to mean something. It might not be a good death, but it'd be good enough.
His voice was hoarse from the dry air and dehydration but he yelled anyway, though he could hardly hear himself over the blaster fire filling the square and the constant roar of fighters overhead.
Stopping to kneel down, he leveled his rifle at an imperial soldier and took aim as best he could despite his shaking arms. He squeezed the trigger and the rifle discharged, and through the sights he saw the man collapse behind the speeder he had been using for cover. Had he actually hit someone? He couldn't help but grin madly with a feverish exuberance that was quickly tempered with the realization that he'd just killed a man. Still kneeling, he swiveled about to find new targets and fired at the soldiers, some of the shots coming close enough to force them to stay in cover.
The Republic soldiers charged with renewed vigor, bearing down on the imperial soldiers. They leapt over cover and what was once a suicidal charge turned into a close-quarters melee. No longer able to get a clear shot, Torin watched as the numerous conscripts overwhelmed the Imperials. The sounds of battle grew silent—on the ground, at least—and the Republic soldiers looked around at each other, bewildered. Had they won?
One of the men laughed, followed by another, then more. The laughter turned to a cheer while the men gathered and began walking towards a broad set of stairs leading away from the plaza and towards an intact-looking government building. Torin wasn't sure if he was relieved or if he had simply gone insane, but he was grinning from ear to ear—he couldn't help but get caught up in the feeling of triumph. They had faced impossible odds, and they'd beat them. What if they could do it again, and then again, and then again? Could he actually live through this?
That's when Torin saw him.
He had told himself that he was in hell, but he had forgotten that hell had demons.
The Republic soldiers stopped at the bottom of the steps. At the top stood an imposing figure clad in a metallic battle suit of gray and black, face shadowed by the light behind him. Two gauntlets terminated in clawed fingers, and in one hand he clutched something small—a blaster?
With a flick of the wrist, a luminous red blade shot forth from the object. The soldiers at the bottom of the steps gasped and braced themselves, guns raised—but they didn't dare fire. The figure waited a moment, observing the cowed masses below him.
"Fire!" One of the men yelled, firing his blaster. The Sith leapt down the steps through the hail of blaster fire, blade moving about in front of him with a practiced ease that deflected the incoming projectiles. Two of the soldiers collapsed to the ground, killed by their own blaster fire. The rest stumbled backwards as the Sith landed at the bottom of the steps, shaking the ground with the immense weight of his suit.
Mouth agape and rifle held limply in front of him, Torin watched in awe as soldier after soldier fell to the ground, the Sith's blade making short work of plasteel and flesh alike. As the group thinned and the man turned, Torin caught a glimpse of the Sith's face. At first he thought he was seeing things—maybe the red sky and orange dust was playing tricks with the light—but there was no mistaking it. His skin was a deep shade of crimson, redder even than the blasted skies above.
Only a few soldiers remained, and the Sith turned away from Torin. Had he seen him? He could still run—away from all this.
To what, though? Into another squad of imperials? Another Sith?
Teeth clenched, he steeled himself and began running as fast as his tired legs would carry him—towards hell.
Close enough now to see that demonic face clearly, Torin slid to a stop in front of a collapsed column. Had he managed to acquire some tactical instincts in the single week of training they'd pushed him through? Probably not—cover wasn't going to stop a lightsaber, after all.
Hands shaking madly, he propped his rifle on top of the stone slab before him and looked through the sights. Between the Sith moving about like some possessed twi'lek and his own trembling body, he couldn't even keep his target in his sights.
One—breathe in.
Two—breathe out.
Amazingly, the gun steadied in his hands. He ignored his surprise to focus on his target. A week ago he'd never fired a gun before. An hour ago, he'd never killed someone before—now he was staring down the barrel of a blaster rifle, preparing to take down a Sith warrior. Torin let out a nervous chuckle, the gun shaking slightly in his hands again. With one final inhalation he filled his lungs, then held the air and braced his core as he centered the sights on the crimson-skinned alien that had finally come to a stop, standing in the miniature graveyard of Republic soldiers that he had made.
With a simple squeeze of the trigger his rifle discharged, and the green bolt of plasma sailed towards the Sith. There was a flash of light, and Torin instinctively flinched. The bolt shot back towards him, singing the stone blocks he was hunkered behind. Had he missed? Had the Sith deflected it? He hadn't even been looking in the right direction!
Heart beating through his chest, he stood to his feet and brought his gun to bear on the Sith's position. As he stood, he saw that his target was still in front of him—although now a mere two feet stood between the pair. Torin gasped and squeezed his rifle trigger, his reaction time beaten by that of the Sith. The lightsaber swung upward, slicing the rifle's barrel off at the moment of its discharge. The plasma that had built up within the rifle's core vented explosively, sending Torin sprawling backwards onto the ground and the Sith bringing his arms up to his exposed face protectively.
Ears ringing and eyes burning as he lay staring upward at the scorched sky, Torin saw a figure leap into his field of vision and fall from overhead. He scurried backward in a panic, narrowly avoiding a lightsaber through the abdomen. The Sith knelt in front of him for a moment, turning his face upward in what seemed like slow motion.
Her face.
It had been impossible to tell that the person contained in the battlesuit was a woman, but even through his hazy vision he could clearly make out that alien—but very feminine—face staring him down with a terrible intensity. Short, fleshy tendrils hung off of her jaw and chin, some of them adorned with golden jewelry. Her ridged, hairless eyebrows were lowered threateningly, shadowing two yellow eyes that burned like miniature suns in dark sockets.
She stood up, withdrawing her lightsaber from the cobbled ground. Torin shuffled backwards, and she extended a gauntlet-clad hand, as if beckoning him back towards her. She grew closer, and he realized that he wasn't moving backwards any more—she was pulling him towards her. He kept kicking his hands and feet in a desperate attempt to get away, but it was useless. How could he have hoped to kill someone like this? It was foolish, stupid—sacrilegious, almost. He was just a man—but this? This was something else entirely.
The woman raised her right hand and brought her elbow backwards, the tip of her lightsaber pointed at Torin's face as she dragged him towards it with some invisible force. Unable to gain any traction on the dusty ground, he flipped over and began scrambling on his side, fingers digging into any nook or cranny they could find. The pulling stopped, and he looked up to see the lightsaber held high above his head, poised to strike.
He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his hands up in front of his face—as if that were any protection. He waited... and waited, but death did not come. Easing open first one eye, then the other, he saw the glowing blade held mere inches from his outstretched palms. Had she taken pity on him?
No, that wouldn't be very Sith-like. More likely she didn't want to kill him without being able to watch the life drain from his eyes as she did so.
Forcing himself to look that fearsome, otherworldly woman in the eyes, he didn't find rage, or sadistic pleasure. He saw... surprise.
Confused, Torin followed her gaze downwards and looked at his open palms. The air rippled with force on all sides of his hands, barely perceptible save for the wisps of battle-born dust that drifted through the eddies of air. As they both stood there frozen, he began to become aware of a subtle vibration that traveled up his forearms and terminated in his fingertips, pulsing in time with the air before him. Was he doing that?
The woman withdrew a short distance, her naked surprise turning to cold calculation. She flipped the saber in her hand so that the blade pointed back away from Torin, then strode back towards him. Torin thrust his hands towards her, but whatever miracle had once saved him wouldn't work a second time. The Sith drove the pommel of her saber through his hands and into his forehead, sending him sprawling back onto the ground.
And everything was black.