Beware the Frozen Heart

The thick bandages enrobing his knee do little to dull the searing pain of the blaster wound beneath them. The knee joint of his leg armour is missing entirely—popped right off when the blaster bolt hit. And command insists these plastoid suits are still state-of-the-art. What a joke.

He curses the girl, curses her damned cloak for concealing the blaster. If she'd just aimed a little higher, she might have gotten him for good.

The other stormtroopers sit in rows around him, strapped tightly into the bare-metal barracks, the clack of their armour plates echoing every jolt of the hull. Despite his best efforts, his eyes are drawn to the empty seats—seats that were occupied when they first arrived on Sakiya.

The angry hum of the Jedi's lightsaber echoes in his ears. He shudders. Today really isn't his day.

The opaque grey walls of the transport shuttle begin to rattle, a sense of vertigo tickling his spine as he feels the ship decelerate. They must be coming up on the star destroyer now. Tensing his shoulders, he steels himself as he hears the whine of the extending landing gear. The floor lurches as the shuttle touches down.

The other stormtroopers unclip their harnesses in unison, standing stiffly at attention as the egress ramp shudders open. As he struggles with the straps on his own harness, he's struck roughly on the shoulder from behind. He staggers, barely avoiding being knocked clean to the floor.

"On your feet, TK-6325," a gravelly voice orders.

Finally slipping out of his harness, he props himself up on his rifle like it's a cane. His breath quickens as the black-clad Purge Trooper strides past him. A sigh of relief slips past his lips when the man takes no further notice of him. Limping into line with the rest of the troopers, he grits his teeth against the piercing ache in his leg.

"Line up outside for inspection," the Purge Trooper orders before turning and striding out of the shuttle.

The stormtroopers begin to file down the ramp in two parallel lines. Sweat fogs the eyepieces of TK-6325's visor as he stumbles down the steep incline, doing his best to balance his weight on his good leg. He can see the silhouette of the awaiting superior officer reflected off the polished black floor of the hangar ahead.

The mud-stained enamel boots of the trooper in front of him come to a halt. He straightens up as much as possible, leaning heavily on his blaster rifle as he tries to catch his breath.

Only then does he realize, that's no ordinary officer.

A woman stands facing them at the head of the line of stormtroopers, flanked by two more Purge Troopers wielding gleaming marksman rifles. She's clad in a tight-fitting uniform of heavy matte fabric, complete with two black capes that extend down from beneath each of the wide epaulettes covering her shoulders. Her face is concealed behind an angular mask of dark, mirror-polished metal ending at her forehead, her white-blonde hair sweeping over the left side of her uniform in a thick braid.

He doesn't need to read the plaque beneath it to know who this woman is. The semi-circular lightsaber hilt at her belt is more than enough clarification.

"This is all that's left?"

The Inquisitor's voice is surprisingly delicate, even through the granular chorus of the mask's voice modulator.

"Yes, Twelfth Sister," the original Purge Trooper states curtly. "We were able to neutralize the Force-sensitive child."

"Yet I see you were unable to apprehend the Jedi."

The woman's tone is polite, almost conversational, but the words make the hairs on TK-6325's neck stand up. The narrow slit of the Inquisitor's visor sweeps across the assembled troops, finally coming to land squarely on him. He swallows nervously under his helmet.

The Inquisitor walks forward until she's barely two paces away from him. Her mask tilts down to regard his bandaged leg.

"You're injured."

He's too terrified to even breathe. His arm trembles over the stock of his blaster-cane as he fights to keep his posture straight. The Inquisitor takes another step closer.

"Did the Jedi do this to you?" Her voice is soft, almost sympathetic.

"No… no, I was shot. By the Jedi's accomplice."

"Accomplice?" The Inquisitor gives a quizzical tilt of her head. "Who was this accomplice?"

"A girl, some street rat, by the look of her."

"Is that so?"

The Inquisitor regards him for a moment longer before pivoting and striding back to the center of the floor between the parallel lines of stormtroopers.

"Is this the best the Empire has to offer?" she intones coldly. "A full platoon of trained soldiers, bested by a street rat?"

For several long seconds, nobody says a word. Then, a voice speaks out, hushed and hurried.

"I don't think that's a fair assessment, ma'am."

It's as if everyone in the hangar stops breathing.

The Inquisitor's head twitches in the direction of the voice with lightning speed. One of the stormtroopers toward the end of the line opposite TK-6325 shifts nervously. The Inquisitor walks slowly down the column until she is face to face with the trooper who spoke.

"Trooper, what is your operating number?"

"TK-3571, ma'am."

"TK-3571. Please, explain the error in my assessment."

The stormtrooper trembles visibly.

"Well… it wasn't the girl that we couldn't handle. It was the Jedi. We're just no match for him! Our blasters can't touch him, our grenades he throws right back at us. Maybe it's time you joined the fight instead of sending us out to die… ma'am."

As the stormtrooper speaks, the Inquisitor pulls the gloves off of her hands with slow, purposeful motions. When TK-3571 finishes, she tilts her head at him, her gloves held draped in the palm of her right hand.

"Is that so." For the first time, there is undeniable malice behind the Inquisitor's words.

The next breath that TK-3571 takes plumes in the air. The Inquisitor closes the distance between them with one final step, touching her pale, slender fingers to the stormtrooper's chest.

For an instant, the only sound in the hangar is the TK-3571's panicked breathing. Then, he crumples to his knees and lets out a blood-curdling scream. It's a ragged cry of pure agony, echoing sharply off the distant walls of the hangar. The stormtrooper grabs uselessly at his chest plate as veins of frost blossom outward from the point of contact with the soft crackle of freezing ice.

"Your ignorance insults me," the Inquisitor states flatly.

As she pulls back her arm, the cape hanging from her left shoulder sweeps aside, briefly revealing the hilts of three more lightsabers strapped to her uniform above the waist.

Trophies.

"Tell me, soldier. How many Jedi have you killed?"

At her feet, TK-3571's struggles slow as his cries cut off in choked gurgles. Soon, he stops moving altogether. Slipping her gloves back on with ginger care, the Inquisitor sweeps her gaze over the remaining soldiers.

"Find Cal Kestis. Do not disappoint me again."

With a swish of her capes, she whirls and strides away down the hangar. Her Purge Troopers follow wordlessly, their heavy footsteps fading away in a sharp unison staccato.

TK-6325 watches as the gleaming coat of frost continues to thicken over the other stormtrooper's stiff, kneeling form. His injured leg finally gives out under him and he topples, his blaster clattering to the mirrorlike floor.

None of the other troopers say a thing.