Chapter Two - Troopers

High Orbit of Jakku

Resurgent Class Star Destroyer Ravager

"This is not a drill," the intercoms barked again, "I say again, this is not a drill. We are engaging the enemy. All combat companies, please report to your designated areas."

FN-2187 watched the passing Troopers, the rank and file in their heavy armor indistinguishable from one another save for differences in their height and body weight, plus the additional gear strapped to their chests. He could only shake his head at the ever growing feeling riding in his stomach. He wasn't sure what to call it. It wasn't exactly fear or worry. No, he wasn't afraid, at least not for himself.

He pressed his lean but powerful frame against the bulk-way. Even his body felt utterly tense; the red hue of the alarms painting sharply against his dark skin. Many had often compared his physical traits to that of a Jungle Panther in a hunt, and at the moment he felt it. He felt ready. After all, this was what they'd been training their whole lives to eventually do, but yet something felt… off.

"So," a soft voice full of apprehension sounding behind his back only added to his thoughts and gave them a sense of vindication, "this is it, huh?"

He turned around, staring at the speaker in question. Now he understood what he was feeling. He wasn't worried for himself. He was worried for them. For his fireteam.

"I suppose it is," he nodded knowingly, his voice low and heavy like a perpetual growl, "how are you feeling, Slip?"

FN-2003's eyes darted to the floor, his thin and wiry face somehow becoming even more hollow. He looked more like a scared boy than a battle hardened soldier. "I don't know, I just… don't know."

"Ah don't tell me you're scared now, Slippy!" a boisterous, almost barking voice roared from behind them, causing Slip to flinch and whip around with his hands ready to fight. FN-2199, or Nines, had that effect on most people. He shifted his large frame over, running his hand through his red hair as he set his sharp blue eyes on Slip.

"Tell you what, if things get so bad out there, I'll make a use outta you! I'll use your corpse as a shield!"

"Go sod yourself, Nines."

"Ooh, what do we have here, eh? Finally growing some guts, you wimpy little-"

A resounding crack suddenly echoed in the room. Nines dropped to the ground, massaging his shoulder gingerly as he growled at his attacker.

"Damnit, Zeros! Why'd you-"

"Silence!"

FN-2000 glared down at the fallen Nines, his owlish eyes putting him into still silence. He then spoke, his words short, harsh, and to the point. "You talk too much."

"Really? Just noticed that, Mr. By-the-Book with a stick up your-"

"Bloody buffoon," he snarled, his avian features exemplifying his rage, "perhaps I should knock some discipline into your skull."

"I'd like to see you try!"

Nines rose faster than his deceptive physique suggested, and was dogging Zeros nose to nose in the span of a blink. He grinned wryly at him, his eyes casually inviting their unspoken challenge. Zeros wasn't one to back down from it either, and was just willing to throw down with his rival like they had many times over. This however ended as it always did.

"Enough!" Eighty-Seven bellowed. Nines and Zeros quickly backed away, and along with Slip, stiffened to attention.

"Thank you," he nodded simply before marching over to his bunk to acquire his helmet and rifle before smartly about-facing, "this is not a training mission on Parnassos. Do you all understand?"

They all nodded.

"We're not fighting against some savages with sticks. This is real. We do not have the luxury of making mistakes," he eyed them deeply, softening his tone as he continued, "but this? This is what we've been training is what we were born to do. We are the best of the best, so let's go act like it."

"Now that sounds like a plan!" Nines grinned rather manically, "Sooner we get down there and pound us some Rebs, the happier I'll be!"

"For once, Nines," Zeros admitted somberly, "I agree with you."

Eighty-Seven nodded curtly, and they quickly went about finishing their gearing up process. He watched them silently at work, musing rather randomly at the contradiction of his men. They may fight like children at times, but they were brothers and fought together like brothers. This was to be their first true deployment, he knew, but he was confident in them. He meant it when he said they were the best.

Surprisingly, Slip was the first to finish out of the bunch. He set aside his helmet and went to work quickly checking his F-11e Blaster Rifle, effortlessly and methodically disassembling it and inspecting the various parts then just as quickly putting them back together. Then he did it again, and again. Eighty-Seven shook his head and took the man by his armored pauldron. Slip flinched, then stiffened again; his eyes looking out into nothing in particular.

"Are you okay, Slip?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but he just as quickly shut it.

"Speak, Slip. What's on your mind?"

"I…" he began, staring down at the rifle in his hands, "I don't want to let you down, Eighty-Seven."

"You're not going to. But I want you to stay close to me. Do you understand?"

Slip nodded rather subdued. Eighty-Seven patted him on the back, his hand echoing off the armor plate. "You're going to do fine, Slip. I know it."

Nines was next to finish, which was again surprising. As their heavy weapons specialist, Nines had the privilege and burden of carrying his issued FWMB-10 Heavy Repeating Blaster, or as he called it, the Mega. It was a big bulky weapon with a long black barrel shroud and a heavy tripod for stationary, defensive fire. But he carried it around well enough, and along with multitude of power-packs strapped to his chest and back via the black harness vest. He quickly shouldered his weapon, and actually trotted over to Zeros bunk; handing him his helmet.

Zeros looked at him suspiciously, and Nines again gestured with the helmet. This exchange, however, did not surprise Eighty-Seven. The moment The Mega was in Nines' arms, he was almost a different man. Their training took over. When their helmets were donned and only the hollow black eyes gave any indication of the men underneath, they became almost machine in their function.

They were soldiers raised in the art of killing. It was all that they knew. And it was what they were born to do. Suddenly, the intercom blared again. "Aurek Company, report to the Hangar Bay for debriefing. I repeat, Aurek Company, report to the Hangar Bay."

"That's us," Eighty-Seven replied as he finally donned his helmet, leading his men out into the hall to join the rest of his company. They were going to war.

She heard them long before they entered the hangar bay. Sixty-four pairs of footfalls thundering through the tightly constructed bulkheads and blast-shields as they marched in thorough, well kempt columns. Officers and Non-com's bellowed out commands, and they were executed perfectly. Wheels were performed, and the individual platoons filed off in organized patterns with squads standing shoulder to shoulder at full attention. An officer then bellowed the order to present arms, and the slaps of their weapons against their armor plating sounded out in a synchronized fashion.

FN-0001, Captain Phasma to her fellow officers, smiled behind her chrome-steel helmet. Pride in its purest form ran through her mind as she looked them over from a distance. She marched about them, towering above all in her aged chrome-plated armor and her black velvet cape flowing behind her wake. She inspected them in their full state of readiness, and her smile grew even wider. They were marvelous, perfectly disciplined, and in their armor they looked like the finest of masonry.

The individual Troopers stared at her behind their helmets with the same level of pride, and in some ways apprehension of her approval. She stopped in mid-stride, and ordered rather softly, "Take your seats, Troopers."

As they clambered to the floor, she stared out at them once more, and as per tradition, removed her helmet with a hiss. Phasma, unlike the men and women sitting before her, was not born into the militarized arms of the First Order. Rather, she'd hailed as the sole survivor of her tribe from the nuclear ravaged world of Parnassos where exposure to the chemical charged sandstorms would be enough to melt the skin off anyone not wearing proper protection. Her pale white skin and almost golden hair were stark indications of a woman who hadn't seen the sun past the visor of her helmet. She was hardy in her appearance; a warrior forged of the finest of steel.

But her icy eyes were utterly soft when she beheld her children. As the crook of her arm brought her helmet to her hip, the company swiftly removed theirs in the purest sign of respect. She nodded at the close shaven men and women staring up at her. At the woman many of them considered to be their mother.

"My sons. My daughters," she began with a voice as motherly as her status allowed, pacing slowly between the columns, "how wonderful you look."

There was subdued laughter amongst the ranks. She allowed it with a subtle smile.

"It has been my honor, and my pleasure to train you. To raise you, into the finest warriors the First Order, and the galaxy, could ask for," she then paused in her approach, adding with a small, quickened smile, "I will not lie. You all make me very proud of myself for having produced such handsome looking killers."

Another laugh. Another smile.

"Now, on the planet below lies an enemy force. Proxies fighting on behalf of the New Republic," she said the name with absolute disgust, "the remnants of the Jedi's private army. The Antarian Rangers."

The faces before her grew hard with determination, respect… but also seething, controlled hatred. They knew well of the enemy's history. Men and women, human and alien, who had volunteered to fight alongside the Jedi at the times when the galaxy itself turned its back on them. Their reputation as warriors of unflinching courage commanded well their own apprehension.

"Many of these men have been fighting since before you were born. Some of them, as our esteemed intel boys tell me, fought at Endor and Jakku thirty years ago."

The mere mention of those names set them back to their days in the classroom, remembering the places of shame that had brought down the Empire of old. The places etched firmly in the minds of every soldier, every citizen within the enclaves of the First Order.

"These men are tough. They are determined. But they are also old. Past their fighting primes as warriors. You, my beautiful children, shall crush them into the desert floor like the scum that they are!"

"Ura!" the company chanted with fervor. Phasma nodded in pure satisfaction. She had come a long way from the single surviving child who had helped the First Order gain a foothold upon her scorched world. It was a place where only the strongest could survive, and the perfect ground to create the perfect soldier. After exacting vengeance upon the savage rivals who had taken away her family, Phasma was determined to form a new tribe. A stronger tribe; one that would take the galaxy back from those who had abandoned her people generations before.

One to take her revenge.

"Now, I must remind you that these men are merely Proxies. As such, we are not yet at war with the ones who command them, and so our presence here must remain an absolute secret. We shall show no quarter. We shall show no mercy. We shall descend upon them, and we shall exterminate all who stand in our way."

Once more, the company roared in approval. All except for two. Eighty-Seven had mimicked the appearance of shouting, but no words had come from his mouth. His eyes darted sideways, and he noticed that Slip was doing the same. Their eyes met for the briefest, yet most meaningful of moments.

A silent conversation played out between them. A wariness of the jingoism chanting around them, and yet the urging to do their duty the best they could. They took no pleasure in the prospect of slaughtering all who stood in their way. But they knew as soldiers, their responsibility dictated that they were to follow the orders of their superiors and complete the mission before them. As brothers, however, their greater responsibility was to each other, and the promise to get the other out alive.

Eighty-Seven's was more pressing than this, however. His mission, his own personal command ordered him to get all of his men through this in one piece to fight another day. He would do his duty. But he would not fall prey to fanaticism. His men mattered far too much for him to ever fall into that trap.

Phasma then procured a holonet display of a weathered man deep within his old age, waving it in her hands.

"Our mission is to capture this man, Lor San Tekka. Lor San is an archeologist. A man who digs up old bones and ruins. And apparently, he has found something that my superiors have taken a great fancy to. We shall secure him, and whatever it is he has discovered. Once both are in our possession, and any witnesses have been silenced, we shall extract and leave this system before the New Republic comes knocking. Any questions?"

Nines rose and bellowed, "When will we finally get to kill us some proper Rebs, ma'am?"

Phasma smiled, "Soon, FN-2199. Soon, we will get to kill us some proper Rebs! But what about the rest of you? Are you going to let this boy do all the work?"

The company rose in unison, shouting, "We want to kill us some proper Rebs, ma'am!"

"Ooh. You've made this old lass very happy," she laughed, "now, your Platoon Commanders will fill you in on the rest of your battlefield notes. I will see you on the ground."

She then put her helmet back on, the seals locking in with a hiss. Her voice thundered through her filter voice comms, "Dis-MISSED!"

The company rose to their feet; donning their helmets as they replied, "Aye-Aye, Ma'am!"

As they about faced, the platoons filed off at a running pace. Lights went off, voice intercoms barked. Their footfalls thundered their approach as they boarded their dropships. This was it. The culmination of defeats, reorganizing and preparation. It had all led to this.

War was just a few minutes away.