Willful Ignorance

32 BBY

Theed Plaza

Note to self: slamming your fist against durasteel-reinforced armor plating hurts. It hurts really, really, bad.

I heard from this guy in a Cantina awhile ago that one good punch to a B1 battle droid's chest-mounted cognitive module is enough to put them out of commission. Evidently, that guy was lying.

The droid tilts its beady head to acknowledge me instead, my outstretched fist still painting its chest with blood. Swallowing hard, my gaze shoots past my target and out at the half dozen battle droids backing it up, their bony forms just as curious, and just as well-armed.

They all just kinda stand there for a second, staring at me. Probably computing whether it's a better idea to kill me now, or after they drag me in for interrogation.

I don't really give them a choice.

Before their computer systems can come to the same conclusion I am, my S-5 blaster pistol is lighting the alleyway up with laserfire. If I had an extra second to spare I'd admire the two emerald streaks knocking their marks clean off their mechanical feet, but I don't. Instead, I'm diving away, using one of the Plaza's exorbitant hedgerows as cover as the droid's simultaneously come to the conclusion that disintegrating me is in their best interest.

Slamming another charge pack into my pistol, it's hard not to cringe as return fire rings overhead. Still, I can't help but give my blaster the once-over, it's got this nice wood finish, two scope attachments - pretty nifty. I nicked it off this security officer that these same battle droid's mutilated near the Palace grounds a couple days ago. Poor guy. I can't help but figure he was apart of one of the resistance cells, they've sprouted up all over the place since the Trade Federation's blockade started a couple weeks back.

That's all it was at first. I remind myself as plasma chews through the shrubbery. A blockade.

Had to go and shut the whole planet down because of some kriffing trade dispute. No big deal though, right? Nobody outside of the palace wall's was really all that concerned at first. Surely the Neimodians with their weird headdresses and big doughnut-shaped ships would get bored and leave eventually - us Naboo weren't all that interesting on our own, definitely not threatening. But then the landing craft started coming, and they haven't stopped. Their blockade became an invasion, and they started weeding out the populace, starving us all out.

Then they decide to kidnap my brother and his baby girl.

That punch I threw earlier? That wasn't just me being a moron. That was my way of tempting fate, trying to see if the galaxy still thought I was worth its time.

If I don't work fast though, it's not really going to matter. The thumps of laserfire keep getting closer, a friendly reminder that I already blew the element of surprise (damn Cantina rumors), and that I better start moving if I don't want to blow my life away too.

So I weigh my options.

For one, it helps that we're in a slum district. As close as Naboo can get to one, atleast. Theed's flawless architecture manages to shine through somehow, but there's no hiding the garbage around here, a lot of construction and half-finished buildings that investor's dropped when they realized the big bad Federation was knocking on our doorstep. Stuff that'd be useless if you weren't a guy in my situation - still hunched over a shrub, and still questioning my life choices. Case in point: there's a fire escape further down the street, it rings around the back of one of the tenements, stretches up a good twenty meters.

It makes for a good vantage point, and, more importantly, is the closest thing I have to an escape route right now.

Getting from point A to point B is the tricky part - it's a fifty meter dash without any cover, leaving me liable to get shot in the back - probably multiple times if I'm lucky. When you've already tempted fate once, what's a second time? I'm up and running without a second thought, blasterfire nipping at my heels.

For the first time in my life I feel sorry for going out hunting with my pals - this must be what a womp rat feels like when some farmboy think he's hot stuff and starts bull's-eyeing it with their T-16 skyhopper.

By the time I cross the street I'm sweating buckets and there's a knot forming in my chest, but there's no laser-sized holes poking through my body. So I've got that going for me.

The clank of a half dozen drones marching in unison dampens the celebration. There's no need to tell me twice, I'm already shimmying up the fire escape.

The tenement's windows are caked with dust and blood, but they can't hide my hazel gaze. What little reflection it offers isn't doing any favors for the whole bald and scraggly look I'm trying to go for either. Coupled with an oversized jacket and a jumpsuit that's tattered in more than one place, I'm not quelling anybody's suspicions about me being a homeless person. Give me a break, the only family I've got was kidnapped three days ago and is probably lying in pieces in a concentration camp somewhere.

It doesn't take the droids half as long to round the corner, spot my ass dangling on the fire escape, and reason that they're fully in their rights to start opening fire. Now there's beams of death flailing all over the place, bouncing off the stairway and notching holes through the tenement's windows. I'm not even halfway up when I feel the ground start to shake.

"Kriff, kriff, kriff!"

In hindsight, it was kind of a given that the fire escape was going to collapse at some point. Something about searing plasma and a man worth his weight in kaadu burgers just doesn't set well with rusted support beams. One second I'm cowering on a stairway fifteen meters high, the next I'm sprawled on the ground, the crunch of metal and busted circuits beneath me. If you would've told me ten minutes ago that I'd survive by crushing the group of droids with a fire escape, I'd... actually probably believe you.

I'm no slouch, but a drop from that high probably should've been enough to kill me. A quick once-over is enough to put that notion to rest. By some will of the Force there's no noticeably broken bones, just cuts, bruises, and several shards of durasteel caking my leg. No big deal.

Still, I think my body's earned a well-deserved second to wither about.

Once that's finished I force myself up to my feet and admire my handiwork. I mean, not everybody can say they took out a patrol of battle droids singlehandedly. I may just have a knack for this kind of thing.

That's when I hear a blaster's safety clicking off behind me.

On second thought, I might be better off just blowing my own brains out - why give this single droid the pleasure, right? Still, I force myself to turn around, bringing my gaze up to meet the slits it calls eyes. They're as empty and soulless as you'd expect - the kind of monstrosity only a corporate warmonger could dream up.

In retrospect, it figures that one of the droids would've been smart enough to keep its distance from the fire escape. With the hive mind I imagine they're all connected to, one of them would have finally had the reasoning capacity to realize that that was a bad idea. Droids are funny like that, they can be every bit as resourceful as humans if they really want to, but let a bit of dust get jammed in the wrong servo and they'll shut themselves down for weeks. While its friends were of the latter group, this one was definitely not. There's not even a scratch on it.

So that's where we are right now. Me clutching the pistol at my side, and it with a blaster rifle trained at my face. The sort of standoff I'd expect to find in one of my dad's police holodramas.

One man, one droid. Sentient against machine. Instinct against programming. Logic would argue I'm at a severe disadvantage, but it's not like I've ever let that stop me before.

Slow reflexes can, though. The droid's pulled the trigger before I can even unholster my blaster.

I wince as the shot goes wide, the streak of crimson flaring past my shoulder. I'm not getting another chance.

No more bumbling with the holster. I draw and unload the entire charge pack on its metal chassis - Black Sun style.

Next moment, the battle droid's down for the count, its carcass making this nice thumping echo in the surrounding courtyard. That's all he and its pals are now, broken metal and smoking circuitry.

I take one good look at it all, give myself one more round of applause for my handiwork. Then I turn around and start sprinting in the opposite direction. Best to get out of here before another patrol shows up.

My name's Dak. I'm thirty three-years old and work at a plasma refinery. I enjoy long walks on the beach, grilling Kaadu burgers, and spending time with my niece and nephew - none of which I've been able to do since the invasion force booted me from my house a couple weeks ago. I wasn't necessarily planning on punching and blasting my way through those same invaders today, but now that I have, what's stopping me from going for the head?

Frak the Trade Federation and frak their droids. This invasion's gone on three weeks too long. I'm going to end it and save a world that's too kriffing scared to save itself.

End