The Situation
Original Posted: September 2020?
Revised: March 28th, 2021
There was only silence in the dark world he found himself in.
Was he dead? Is this the afterlife? Becoming one with the force or joining the oversoul?
These speculations would soon be proven false as he was thrust back to consciousness, and a surge of pain pulsating throughout the entirety of his body was all he could sense. He let out a gasp of pain as his arms tensed up towards his chest. Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, he did his best to endure the pain.
Soon the near blinding lights of his helmet's heads up display activated, filling up his vision with blue. He knew his visor was attempting to tell him how long he had been incapacitated, but through the near debilitating pain, he could not tell what was on the display.
"Need… Bacta…" Using his left hand, he shakily reached for his right shoulder, on it was two bacta tubes strapped.
Managing to free it from its strap, he used whatever remaining strength he had left, slamming it into his chest plate, the electrical charge dispersing the bacta charge into him.
Rapidly, the pain dulled as his vision became clearer., and his mind less occupied by the pain.
"Thank whoever… invented bacta processing... implants." His breathing steadied as he relaxed.
With his sight partially restored, he could see the many indicators that were displayed on the H.U.D.
For starters, his vitals were reading quite terribly, the quick-read bars indicating two bars remaining in the red. If not for his quick actions, he would certainly have found himself face to face with whatever governed the afterlife.
His armor seemed to be in peak condition, the shuttle having protected him. The bar that indicated his armor's built-in deflector shield slowly went up, signifying that his armor's energy cell had yet to be depleted.
He would need to check it later, and recharge it via the shuttles energy ports if need be.
Once most of the pain had passed, he activated the low light setting on his visor. With a click, the darkness of the shuttle's passenger bay became much more visible to his eye, the sight somewhat surprising him.
In the seats around him, around two dozen clones sat motionless. As his eyes landed on each clone, the helmet quickly checked for their vitals, which none were found.
The commando could only guess the most likely cause of death. Most of them must've died from the impact of the crash, perhaps their necks had been broken or the seals of their suits gave out?
Damn it. He supposed whatever killed them didn't matter, after all this was an all too common occurrence in this forsaken war. As he sat there, he collected his memories before his state of unconsciousness.
He first remembered the mission to Cossul III and the exfiltration from said planet, right after the mission had been completed. Second was that evasive maneuver to avoid what he believed to be turbo-laser fire from an incoming vessel, which had entered the system before their jump. Third was the inability to turn off the hyperdrive, the panicked screams of the pilot coming to mind. Finally was the brief memory of the hyperspace jump, and his eventual blackout.
With a sigh, he looked around, seeing two tubes of bacta on the back part of the shuttle. First bacta, then evaluate the current situation.
He began by pushing up the seat's safety harness. Once free from its protective grasp, he tried to get up, only to nearly collapse as he stood to full height.
As he did so, his vision went blurry again as a light pain throbbed in his legs, nearly collapsing to the ground.
Leaning on the knees of the dead clone next to him.
"Must've been out longer than I initially anticipated." He said to himself as he once again raised himself onto the safety harnesses of the clones around him.
With a grunt, he moved his rather battered body towards the bacta tubes in the back of the shuttle. It was not long before he took his position in front of the bacta tubes, and in response, the prongs folded outwards.
He soon felt the all too familiar and welcome warmth of bacta being directly administered to his body, any and all pain previously felt before now a memory of yesterday. Once his helmet had identified that his vitals were now at one-hundred percent, he lifted his right hand towards the right side of his helmet, he pushed a sequence of buttons, soon a message appeared before his eyes
[RC-2105 CURRENT VITAL SIGNS: NOMINAL]
[PREVIOUS RC-2105 VITAL SIGNS: INCAPACITATED]
-TIME ELAPSED: 33 HOURS-
Stiffening at the readout, he tried to see if the helmet had been able to record anything while unconscious. His hand clicking another sequence, he quickly learned that there was no recording during those thirty-three hours.
Realizing the direness of the situation, he began to move. I need to get back to The Horizon. '05 told himself. It is a priority to see if this shuttle is still operational.
The shuttle had landed at a slight angle, but after a few steps, he reached the door to the cockpit. There he pushed the button which opened the door, a good sign by all accounts, for the door was not jammed stuck and that power was still coursing through the wiring of the spacecraft.
Moving towards another set of buttons, he lowered the pilot's seats, to see both pilots slumped over. Checking their vitals, he was unsurprised to find that they too were dead.
He sighed as he moved the now dead pilots out of their seat, soon taking his position in that very seat and rose to the cockpit. As the seat took him up, he began to check the status of the ship.
"Port wing attached, but inoperable… starboard wing missing." He said aloud as he turned his head to another set of panels and displays to check other systems. "Life support is working… The main power cell is functioning at half efficiency… the back up power cell is undamaged… The sensor array is down… communications are heavily damaged… Engines are inoperable… Hyperdrive is non-responsive."
He was no starship engineer, so there would be no way he himself would be able to repair this vessel. Perhaps there were civilized people on this planet or nearby who could?
"Let's check to see what's in the storage compartments…" He continued to use the console, his best bet to see what was in the ship's overall kit.
His eyes widened once he accessed the logs. Apparently, there were spare parts in there. Enough to get the battery working at full, and maybe build another one, packaged nice and neat in sealed canisters.
But to his unfortunate luck, it seemed that the violent nature of the crash managed to damage the compartments locking mechanism and most of the compartments were scattered, in areas now unknown.
This also meant that the commando droid was also lost.
I don't have time to search for it. He gritted his teeth. He had enough problems already. I am just going to need to hope that it burned up or is mangled beyond repair.
'05 let out a frustrated grunt and began his attempt to connect to any Galactic Republic Communication Array. There was silence, no static or garbled transmissions, only silence. Even the civilian and smuggler channels of communication were dead. When he attempted to connect to a Separatist Communication Array out of desperation, he received a similar response. His frustration got the better of him as he punched the control terminal.
Looking at his fist, he took a moment to collect himself, letting out a breath. Anger leads to irrational thoughts, and that will get me killed.
Looking up, he noticed the cracked windshield of the cockpit. Using this opportunity to get an idea of the outside terrain, he first noticed that it was night on this planet, the dual moons high above. His eyes scanned around like a probe looking for any useful information, he noticed that the area he could see was indeed dense forest.
Turning off the low light mode on his helmet, he quickly noticed the vastly different hues of red and green each moon, and the many stars that litter the sky
Soon a muffled low growl caught his attention and he reached for his DC-15, only stopping when he realized where the source was; himself.
In the midst of everything from the destruction of the one droid factory and his landing here, he had not eaten in some time now, and it seemed that his body was only now registering it.
Reaching over his shoulder and into his bag he pulled out a ration bar, a loud hiss coming from the environmentally sealed backpack as it opened.
Putting it on the terminal, he soon took off his helmet, a quieter hiss coming from it as he set it off to the side. Now opening the ration bar, he took a bite of the near tasteless stick of nutrition. Although he never complained about the taste, he knew many of his fellow soldiers did not have much love for it, but one could not disprove the practicality and importance of food that did not rot in the field.
Troopers are dead. Currently stranded on this planet. The communications array is damaged… but not shot. He evaluated the situation between bites. Quickly finishing up his ration bar, he put his helmet back on.
I need to get more intel first, and then I'll set a distress signal at the end of the week. Right now… I need to take inventory of whatever I can use to ensure my survival.
After a couple of hours of counting weaponry, utilities, rations, and munitions. He came to a final count of the following:
Whichever Kaminoan created the reconfigurable Survival Pack knew what troops needed. He silently thanked the inventor of the item stated as he began to rummage through his kit.
Aside from things already accounted for such as his armor, his DC-17m, and two DC-15m, his knuckle vibroblade, and the Vibro-Saber, his kit included varied supplies.
A replacement power cell for his armor, surgical implements for field operations, two cans of bacta spray, a Bacta Jumpstarter unit, an electro-binocular, a holoprojector, five thermal detonators, five concussion grenades, a month's worth of ration bars, twenty sniper cartridges, ten anti-armor shells, and twelve sixty-shot blaster rifle cartridges for his DC-17m, excluding the slightly depleted cartridge currently in the blaster
Forty-eight shots left. He checked his current power pack. From the fifteen he had, two of which were already depleted from the previous mission.
Shame I can't gas them back up. He grumbled, putting them to the side. But it shouldn't be too much of an issue.
Moving onto the weaponry found lain about the floor of the shuttle, he found Nine DC-15A's (three of which had grenade launcher attachments), two Z-6 Rotary Blaster Cannons (nothing a bit of maintenance could not fix), two DC-15x's, and two DC-17 commando pistols.
For explosives and one-use items, there were sixteen thermal detonators, fifteen concussion grenades, ten stun grenades, and three droid poppers.
They had even packed two RPS-6's, a total of twelve rockets.
They went through a hassle to requisition all of this gear. He looked over the munitions. They were ready to charge into the factory itself to get me if need be.
In terms of medical supplies found within the shuttle, two field medical bags, twenty-six standard issue field medicine packs (which were undoubtedly more useful in his hands than that of his brethren), a handful of sanitary wipes, and the bacta-dispenser within the shuttle.
Finally, onto rations and various other utilities, he found around thirty days' worth of rations bars, several grappling hooks, fifteen multi-tools, a set of emergency repair tools (Meant to keep the ship environmentally sealed from the vacuum of space), and a flare gun, with three flares (pulsating red for droids, blue for friendlies, and a yellow for distress).
He 1ooked now at his dead brothers. Many of them are still seated in the seats they died in. He couldn't in good conscience let them lay here and rot, and that their bodies should be disposed of with a shred of dignity.
A giant funeral pyre will have to do. He told himself, sighing with disappointment at the loss of life. Although not an official lesson from his Cuy'val Dar instructors, he knew that not saving equipment would catch their ire if one were standing with him right now. I will need to remove their armor when I do give them a proper farewell, plastoid does not burn well.
By the time he was done organizing the interior of this wreckage, he finally took a step outside, and daybreak was here.
Looking at the wreck from the outside made it seem much worse than the ship diagnostics stated it. The left-wing was indeed still attached but mangled beyond repair, the right-wing was nothing more than shrapnel stuck in the many trees cut down by it. The dorsal fin was bent oddly, and the armor plate of the vessel was bent in many ways and much of the armor plating had been torn asunder.
Looking at the pieces of shrapnel lodged into many trees and deep into the ground, attempting to evaluate its use. Without a proper ship foundry, much of this is as useful as salvaged metal. He went around, picking some pieces of shrapnel. Maybe I could fashion some crude tools? Maybe find a way to reforge it… His head looked towards the trail made from the rough landing. The mass funeral pyre might be easier to arrange than he previously thought, with trees uprooted and split into smaller pieces by the force of something crashing from orbit.
Of course, that would have to wait, for he needed a better lay of the land.
Using the tactical mode of his H.U.D. he set a waypoint to his shuttle. All his gear sorted, Vibro-saber attached his bag, he began his recon of the area. '05 immediately noticed that this planet was the definition of an 'M-Class Planet', meaning that the surface was most likely safe to breathe.
Just because a planet's surface is oxygenated does not mean that the air isn't filled with particles or harmful microbes that won't eat out my lungs the moment I take off this helmet. He half-joked to himself, thankful for the filtration system built into his helmet.
While traveling through the dense forest, his helmet picked up much movement in the form of simple non-hostile creatures, his helmet feeding him the information of the living fauna he saw. Deer? Rabbits? He remembered the many days he was forced to study Galactic Republic history, he knew that Coruscant had fauna like this in its ancient days before they became extinct, Coruscant being a much more temperate planet in those days than the ecumenopolis that it was today.
His stillness in thought garnered the attention of one of these 'deer'. The animal slowly approached him, sniffing the end of the barrel of his DC-17m.
"Shoo." He used his free hand to repel the deer. As if it understood his words, it began to walk away from him, not without giving him one last look before prancing away. A grin formed at the corner of his mouth. Friendlier than most fauna I've met on other worlds. His mind wandered to times where large birds tried to pick up his fellow squad mates, or when the ground would open up to eat a man whole.
He wondered how large this forest was? Was this just a small patch, or did it cover the entirety of the planet's surface? Was this just how the planet was?
He often found his eyes looking up at the sky, the lack of starships above really was a diametric change of scenery, only relatively small fauna took to the skies, birds of all kinds. The world around seemed untouched by any sentient species
How come this world is seemingly untouched? How come no space-faring civilization has sprouted from such a planet? Or better yet, why hasn't a space fairing nation claimed it as its own? He didn't delve too deeply into the politics of the war that he was involved in, but he knew that a world like this would make a fine addition to whichever side owned it. Shaking his head, he admonished himself. Keep your focus '05, you need to find a source of water or civilization.
Setting his mind to the objective he put forth, he continued to travel through the dense forest, coming across a variety of things, such as more fauna, a small stream, and by following the stream, he eventually came across a stone bridge.
It was ancient and relatively overgrown, but a good marker of civilization. Connecting to it was a road.
Well, calling it a road is a generous term in his mind, it was more like a dirt paved path, but a paved path like this was not likely to be a natural occurrence and a good indicator of intelligent life however primitive it might be, after all, deer and rabbits don't often make roads.
Slowly approaching the road, he crouched down, his helmet giving him the most recent footprints. He could easily distinguish humanoid footprints. A pair of footprints… a day or two… recent. He looked at the newer of the pair. Not droid footprints… Boots… if human… male? It's a bit deeper than the older footprints on here. Under this assumption, he could assume that either this individual was heavy, or wore some form of armor.
Slowly rising, he considered his options. If I follow the footprints, it is most likely a guaranteed meeting with another intelligent being… but all roads lead to civilization. Using the tactical waypoint set at the shuttle to gauge how far he was from it, it was surprising to find out that the footprints that came towards this point led in a direction closer to his shuttle than where he currently was. Deciding to go to where the footprints originated, he began his trek there, staying hidden a short distance away from said road.
Traveling for a few more hours along the dirt path, he managed to make it to the edge of the woods. Thick shrubbery lined the edges here and necessitated the need for higher ground. Pulling out a grappling hook, he spun it for but a moment before deftly looping it around a branch. Once he was sure that it was properly anchored, he climbed up as quickly as possible.
Once perched steadily on that branch, his bag opened whilst his arm reached over his shoulder, soon pulling out his electro-binoculars.
A town. Walled off. He immediately took note of the wall of at least fifteen feet in height, made of finely cut stone bricks. Slowly, his head turned to the town's most direct entrance. Gatehouse. Two guards. Primitively armed. Humanoid in build. He took note of this, for their closed helmets made it difficult to tell if they were like the many humans on many of the worlds, or if they were merely similar in body. Soon scanning the rooftops of the buildings that towered over the walls, he could not see any form of communication array or technology. In fact, he didn't even see any banners waving in the highest points that would signify their allegiance to the Galactic Republic or Separatists. Not even a banner of Non-Alignment Neutrality.
Focusing on the gate again, he noticed a variety of individuals entering and leaving the town, caravans of people, some that looked similar to youthful soldiers, others of scholarly background. It seemed here that humans were the dominant species, but a variety of human mutations had occurred from what he could see. Some humanoids were youthful and boasted long ears; others seemed to have animal characteristics, such as the ears, tails, and paws of a feline. To him that was mildly unsettling, after all in his experience there were only a handful of ways for those characteristics to be introduced into a gene pool, and he hoped that they weren't introduced the way he was thinking.
Almost every individual entering and leaving this town is armed, albeit primitively. He put down his binocs.
A feudal planet. He surmised, his eyes still focused on the individuals in armor sets.
True he boasted the superior technology, however even there was a limit to what his armors deflector shield and duraplast plating could protect him from. Using the electro-binoculars to mark down the town he once again thought to himself. I need more intel before attempting to go in. Putting away the electro-binoculars, he began to climb down. I should return to the shuttle, my brothers are waiting for me.
Doubling back to the downed shuttle, he met no resistance through the forest, leaving him perplexed at the lack of hostile wildlife. It was beginning to unnerve him, really. Perhaps that was his years of commando training kicking in both from the Killing House and in the experience gained from nearing three years of field experience. The Cuy'val Dar always insisted that no matter how good one of their members was, there always was one that would best them, one of the reasons his armor was called 'Katarn', for he was to be the apex predator on the battlefield full of prey.
Surely a planet wouldn't be all sunshine and bacta, now would it? If so, what was the need for all the armed individuals entering and leaving the town? Were they at war, or was there something he had yet to encounter?
Suppose I'll find out soon enough. He repelled down, and once more was on the move.
Arriving back to the downed shuttle just as the sun was dipping below the tree line, he began to gather as much splintered wood as possible, his genetically superior strength aiding him the movement of heavier logs. The task was not hard nor was it exciting, but it was something that needed to be done
Removing the armor and black undersuit of each fallen brother, one by one, he made a mental note of what he now had in his possession. Over the span of another hour, he neatly laid his fallen brothers as carefully and with the respect they deserved. Their identification numbers committed to mind, perhaps once he was reunited with the rest of his team, he would take the time to look into the deeds of these now-deceased clones.
The pyres themselves were nothing special, primarily consisting of sturdy branches to lay them on, kindling underneath the bed of branches, the larger logs meant to sustain the flames once they begin. However, he knew this was a more respectful farewell than they would receive on any other planet.
After that, he siphoned a bit of Rhydonium fuel from the shuttle, sprinkling it over the many funerary pyres that lay before him. He knew that the fuel was volatile in large quantities, but from some of the many ramblings of '02, he had learned that it would make a good fire starter on its own. Besides, it's not like the ship would be needing it much anymore.
Utilizing the splicing sparks to start a flame, he raises a makeshift torch towards the pyres.
"I was never one for words." He looked to the pyres, his brothers laying motionless. "Your fight is over. May you find peace wherever our souls may go." He looked down at the sergeant's body, his head soon scanning over the many clones, the torchlight shining on him, the only differencing features between the two of them are the many markings such as scars and tattoos.
Ceremoniously lowering the torch, he put it under where the sergeant laid, the pyre catching fire immediately. He repeated the lowering of the torch as he moved along the line, the bare lifeless bodies soon being engulfed in flames.
As the crackling of flames consumed his fallen brothers, the dual moons began their rise, one after the other. Silently he recited the numbers of the fallen clones, those that would never get to see their squadrons again, their battalions again, to see the vast oceans of Kamino. How long had they been in this war? Were they a part of the first batch that fought on Geonosis? Or were they shinies shipped out too soon?
This was all too common in this grueling war.
Slowly turning away from the flames, he began to ponder what his next move should be. He knew he should get some rest for the next day, but he had been unconscious for the past day and a half, and the Kaminoan gene wrights ensured he didn't need the standard seven hours that normal clones needed. Turning on the tactical waypoints, he looked in the directions of the road and the town. Knowing more of the terrain would be beneficial to him in the long run and thus, he decided would do some night recon, perhaps get a definitive idea of how far this forest spans.
As the fires died out, he decided it is best to begin setting up some rudimentary fortifications and then to rest.
The next couple of days went by quickly as a mixed workload of scouting and making his position more defensible.
He had set up what he believed to be adequate defenses, the use of makeshift tools from the varying pieces of wreckage aiding him with the felling of trees and the shaping of pikes around the perimeter.
He spent some time repairing the weapons and rearranging what he dubbed a 'weapons storage' chest in his hobble in the shuttle.
Deep within though, stirred strange feelings. Longing was as close he could get to describing it properly.
He couldn't say what it was for sure that made him feel this way, perhaps it was the lack of hostiles that made him uneasy, although he knew most of his brothers would be relieved for some time away from the front. Or maybe it was because, for a Republic Commando such as himself, he was never used to being posted in one place since his departure from Kamino, always traveling from one front to the next.
During his daily reconnaissance operations, he had discovered more about the surrounding region.
First and foremost, he had found a crossroad with several signs pointing in several directions. This was only important to him for he learned that the signs were inscribed in Aurebesh, albeit a slightly different dialect, but nothing undecipherable.
The town he had crashed nearby had been named 'Frontier Town', which meant he was most likely on the fringes of what would amount to the 'civil world'.
Second most important thing he learned was several locations around this town. Following the outskirts of this forest led him to a farm with livestock and a little homestead on the top. Another road led him to a shack near a stream that had been long since abandoned. There were empty glass bottles around the area, and few scraps of paper left, which piqued his interest, for some of them were undoubtedly in the Aurebesh script, although most of it was too aged or faded to read properly.
Finally, he had discovered that this 'Frontier Town' was not as densely populated as he was first led to believe. Sure it was a high traffic area, but for this town, it seemed that those that were permanent residents tended to be those with an affinity for trade or weapons.
During the night, however, he spent the time not sleeping scavenging the electronics and other pieces from the shuttle's torn wings. He knew that it would simply be better to save whatever he could, for he was unsure if he would be able to replace them anytime soon.
Day seven. He told himself whilst etching another line down as the sun was falling.
Time to activate the beacon.
Entering the shuttle's cockpit, he was raised up to its consoles. After a few sequences of buttons, he maximized its range despite its current level of damage.
"Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. Clone Identification RC-2105 requesting immediate aid, I repeat." '05 repeated the second part of the message three more times before continuing. "My position is located at the origin point of this message. My shuttle is rendered inoperable and need transport off this planet. If any members of The Galactic Republic or its allies can hear this message, please respond." He looked up at the sky now. "Setting this message to repeat."
After setting the message to repeat, he could only hope that a fragment of this message would reach the ears of some space-faring individual, either for his aid or for him to neutralize and repurpose a hostile strike craft. Ideally, his potential saviors would arrive soon, however, he must be prepared to survive for as long as it takes for aid to arrive.
Once that was done he had decided that he would spend this night scavenging pieces from his wreckage again.
Although he was the team's designated heavy and field medic, he oftentimes took the opportunity to learn new skills whenever he could. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. He thought to the archaic saying that was still around hundreds of thousands of years later.
The night ambiance of the forest made the world around him seem calmer, none the local fauna having shown itself, most likely sleeping in the brushes or wherever those animals choose to reside, and whenever he heard anything, he could easily tell if something was truly there. The only light being the twin moons that hovered over high, he was lucky that his helmet provided him with an enhanced night mode.
A distant sound could be heard. He wasn't sure what it was, but in his experience, it sounded close to an explosion. Halting his salvaging operation, he picked up his DC-17m, and slowly went in the direction of the sound, soon being able to follow a sound that was picked up by the augmented senses of the helmet. He turned to see where the sound originated.
A quick tactical readout tells him that around four or five entities were moving in one direction. The first one picked up seemed to be farther ahead of the four trailing it. Interested, he decided that he would trail it.
His helmet picked up on a trail of blood on the ground, and the trail of footsteps seemed to get more uncoordinated the longer he followed. Now jogging after the source of the sound, he knew he was quickly closing in on the entities.
First, he heard what sounded like four garbled creatures, chattering in some tribal language, for the helmet unable to translate the language. From more sounds,'05 could only assume it to be the sounds of laughter.
"Get back!" A panicked and exhausted voice yelled out. The helmet's quick analysis of the sound identified 78% chance that the speaker was female, 20% chance that it was male, and a 2% error margin for non-human species.
What surprised him was that there was no need for translation, for the speaker was already speaking in galactic basic.
Moving in quickly, he was met with the sight of four little creatures accosting what appeared to be a young lady, keeping her pinned down, with great difficulty at that, what appeared to be a rapier tossed to the side.
However, he was quick to notice the wound on her head, a nasty one at that. Did these little green men do that to her? Tribals? Barbaric creatures.
Technically speaking, protocols of interfering with unaligned primitives prevent members of the Grand Army of the Republic from intervening in their lives, meaning he should just let this run its course.
Soon she kicked one of them to the ground straight on its bum. As amusing as it was to its companions, the offending creature did not take being kicked down well. Angered, the little green man forcefully removed the victim's breastplate revealing the white ruffled shirt, filthy with blood of her enemies, and undoubtedly an easier target to harm. Pulling a knife from its waistband with malicious intent, it prepared to stab her straight in the abdomen.
However, as Clone Commando of the Special Operations Brigade within the Grand Army of the Republic, under some vague and surely antiquated statute, it is completely within his authority to override protocols that would lead to the cruel and unnecessary suffering of sentient beings.
With a proper justification to intervene formulated, '05 aimed his DC-17m, and with deadly precision, took the shot.
