Disclaimer: I don't have anything with Star Wars or George Lucas or whatever else is intellectual property of his. I'm just an overly creative person that needs an outlet to write and well, this kind of came out.

Background: This idea came to me about 2 o'clock in the morning, but that's when I usually get all my best ideas for stories. I guess that's when my muse feels inclined to bless me with her presence. Does anyone know where I can get a new muse? :-D Anyway, this is just Star Wars told from the point of view of a Storm Trooper who was unwillingly pressed into service. It's based on some historical truth. In the 18th and 19th centuries the English Navy would get young men drunk and then they'd wake up on the ship of an English frigate, having been "drafted" into the services of the King. Sometimes they were just forced aboard. It's called being "pressed" into service. This same idea applies to the Empire in this story. Rated PG for mild language and violence.

Please RR as this is my first fic. Thanks!

Chapter One: Flat Feet, Asthma, and Corellian Rum

Dear Diary,

I am bored as hell of having no one to talk to so decided to keep a diary. At least this is someplace where I can jot down my thoughts without being ridiculed by my associates.

Guess what?! The planet's been taken over by the Empire! And if that's not bad enough they've slapped recruitment posters up all over the place promising everything from sign-up bonuses, to girls, to the joy of killing the "Rebel Scum", as they call it. The problem is that no one is signing up and even I'm not dumb enough to fall for the lack of the Empire's line of expendable soldiers. I have much more important things to do, like finish my degree in Quantum Cellular Microastronomy.

Must dash as I am attending lecture tonight on String Theory vs. Theoretical Reverse Mechanics. Ms. Physics herself, Dr. Sinclair, is giving the lecture. She is so hot!

Dear Diary,

No one has signed up for the Imperial Army and so the Empire, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to institute a draft. As my luck would have it, my number got called up. I had no choice but to show up at the Imperial Induction Center this morning for a physical and an intelligence test. I wasn't worried, though, because with my flat feet and asthma I knew they weren't going to take me. I also failed the intelligence test (I scored too high and was deemed too intelligent for the Storm Troopers). Well, what do you expect when the questions go like this: "Please choose a species to shoot at blindly with your blaster: A. Jawa B. Twi'lek C. Wookie D. All of the above"? Double-negative.

On the other hand, Dr. Sinclair declined my request for tutoring after class ever since I wrote that paper on wanting to check out her black hole. What I really wanted to know was her opinion on black holes, but I sort of forgot to mention that and it all came out wrong. She is so beautiful that when I'm around her I get all sweaty and stupid things come out of my mouth. She is threatening to fail me if I don't start behaving. I am considering changing my major to theater as have always enjoyed those traveling theater troupes that sometimes visit, except those ones from Geonosis. Their insect wings creep me out and I have trouble understanding all that clicking and buzzing.

Dear Diary,

If you can believe it, the recruiting situation has gotten even WORSE! It seems that 99.9 of the planet's population is too intelligent for the infantry. I have no clue what the Empire is going to do, but I've got problems of my own. Dr. Sinclair is threatening to swear out a restraining order against me ever since I asked if I "could see you in your office to discuss my neutrino emissions." What I meant to say was, "could I see you in your office to discuss my paper about neutrino emissions" but I got all flustered again and it just came out wrong. I wonder if acting pays well?

Dear Diary,

Help! I've been kidnapped by the Empire and pressed into service! I guess the shortage is worse than anyone imagined. It all started innocently enough. Dr. Sinclair had given me another failing grade. I guess she didn't like my paper on the Mating Habits of the Residents of Penal Colony Shlongus. Some people have no sense of humor. Really, I'm failing that class anyway so I thought I might as well go out with a bang. I went to the bar down the street to drink my worries away and I got to talking to this guy about all of my problems with Dr. Sinclair. He seemed awfully sympathetic and kept buying me Corellian rum drinks. And that's the last thing I remember.

The next thing I knew I was laying on the deck of a Star Destroyer with a hangover that would kill a bantha and the dude from the bar, who apparently was a Recruitment Storm Trooper, was leaning against the wall and laughing at me. "Where am I?" I croaked.

"You're in the Imperial infantry now, boy," he snarled. "Did you enjoy your rum drink, smartass?"

"But I can't be in the infantry!" I moaned, alternatively trying not puking all over his pristine white armor and passing out again. "I've got asthma!"

"Asthma's not a problem," he replied. "And if you have objections to serving the Empire then Lord Vader himself will be glad to listen to them."

"No, that won't be necessary," I moaned. "I'll be happy to serve the Empire." As if I had a choice, anyway. Lord Vader! And I thought my asthma was bad. I wonder what kind of inhaler he uses?