DISCLAIMER: STAR WARS, THE CHARACTERS OF, AND ALL OTHER RELATED SUBJECTS AND MEDIA ARE THE PROPERTY OF LUCAS ARTS AND THE WALT DISNEY CORPORATION. THE ONLY THING I OWN IS THE SCENARIO. PLEASE DON'T SUE ME. THANK YOU.
WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS GOING TO BE GETTING LITTLE…NO THAT WOULD BE A LIE, ITS GOING TO BE GETTING VERY, VERY KILLY. ALLOT OF PEOPLE ARE ABOUT TO DIE. AND IT'S NOT GOING TO BE PRETTY DEATH EITHER. IT'S GOING TO BE FAIRLY REALISTIC, GRITTY DEATH. HOWEVER, PERHAPS WHEN YOU CAME TO THIS FIC, YOU NOTISED THIS LITTLE "T" DOWN IN THE DESCRIPTION. THIS MEANS THAT IF YOUR ARE UNDER 13 (OR 14, I DON'T KNOW) YEARS OF AGE, YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE READING THIS. LIKELY FOR GOOD REASON. NOW AS FOR THE REST OF YOU, I TRUST THAT YOU'VE PROBABL HEARD A GOOD DEAL OF LANGUAGE BEFORE, AND HAVE SCENE AT LEAST ONE RATED 'R' MOVIE, SO I BELIEVE A "T" AUDIENCE CAN PROBABLY HANDLE THIS. AFTER ALL, IT'S NOT LIKE MUCH TIME IS SPENT ON THE DETAILS.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: ANYWHO, I'M REALLY GLAD THAT THE FIRST CHAPTER GOT SO MUCH ATTENTION. I'M SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG TO GET THIS NEXT CHAPTER UP, BUT GOOD WRITING TAKES TIME, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU'RE WRITING ACITON. ANYWAY, I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS CHAPTER. TOODLE-LOO.
Chapter 2: Having A Bad Time
Luke sat on a metal bench in the Imperial Shuttle's passenger hold. It appeared that it had once been used for hauling cargo, but since then, had been transformed into a kind of rudimentary passenger-carrying craft. The room was long and barren, with the only features being the single locked door that Luke supposed lead to the cockpit, two long metal benches set opposite along the walls, and the large walkway/door/hatch at the back through which he had boarded the shuttle. He had been the only recruit from Anchorhead on this round, so he had the hold all to himself.
An alarm began to ring loud, and the hatch began to close, scrapping along and smothering all light from the room as it did so. At last the door was closed, and all was dark. Luke couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. Then, a deafening roar, like a great explosion. The shuttle began to shake ferociously. Luke was jolted from his seat as the craft lifted off of the ground. The shaking continued, becoming rougher and rougher as the shuttle ascended out of the atmosphere. Luke scrambled from the floor, and clung to the bench for dear life. Finally the shaking stopped, and the shuttle's speed slowed to a crawl. The sudden slow threw him again, leaving him sprawled out in the middle of the room. A single red light switched on from the center of the ceiling. Luke, breathing heavily, staggered to his feet, and made his way back to his seat on the bench. Though now, he maintained a vice like grip on the edge of the thing.
A voice came on over the overhead.
"Greetings, recruits, and welcome to the beginning of your new life." It spoke.
Luke rolled his eyes, "Lovely." He said, "Another pre-recorded message."
The message continued to go on, but Luke didn't pay it any attention. He had heard so much prerecorded bantha sith over the past day that he really didn't care what it had to say. Heck, it could tell him that the Emperor himself would be present at just where ever it was he was heading, and he still wouldn't care.
The overhead crackled and the recording was cut to a stop. Replaced by a new voice.
"Attention." It spoke, "This is your pilot speaking."
Luke jumped up from his seat, and walked a little in the direction of the cockpit door.
"We're going to be making the jump to Hyper-Space in about," there was a pause and some muffled talking that Luke couldn't make out, "In about ten seconds, so find a secure object to grab onto, and hold on tight."
Luke ran up to the door and began to bang on it with his fists clenched.
"HEY! THERE'S NOTHING TO HOLD ONTO BACK HERE!" he yelled as he continued to pound on the door.
"YOU'VE GOT TO LISTEN TO ME! THERES NOTHING TO HOLD ONTO!" he cried out as loud as he could and the ship came to a stop.
He put down his fists, and breathed a sigh of relief. They must have heard him, after all. Then came the humming. It started out low, but very quickly grew to be quite loud.
"Oh you've got to be kreffing kidding me."
"Alright, Lenny, let's get ready for light speed." The pilot said to his copilot.
"Sure thing, George." The copilot said as he began to flip a series of switches on the shuttle's control board.
George flipped a switch and pulled down a microphone.
"Attention." He said, "This is the pilot speaking. We're going to make the jump to Hyper-Space in about," George turned away from the microphone, "Hey, Lenny?" he asked.
"Yeah, George?"
"How long until we make light speed?"
"Oh, I'd give it about ten seconds."
George nodded, and turned back to the microphone, "In about ten seconds, so find a secure object to grab onto, and hold on tight."
George flipped the switch he had previously hit and released the microphone, which shot back upwards to its place on the ceiling.
"George don't you think you should give him some kind of countdown, or anything else? Like a five second warning?" Lenny asked.
"Nah, you go to be at least 14 to be here in the first place. I'm pretty sure the kid is old enough to count. Besides, ten seconds is already up." George replied, buckling up his light speed belt, "Alright, Len. Let's make the jump."
"Making the jump." Lenny replied, buckling up his own belt, and pulling a big red lever.
The all too familiar white lines began to appear before the ship, and suddenly, it picked up unimaginable speed as it rocketed into Hyper Space.
Lenny perked his head up a little. He heard a strange noise coming from behind him. Kind of like a faint kind of screaming.
"Hey, George?" Lenny asked, confused.
"Yeah, Lenny?" George replied.
"Do you hear that noise, George?" Lenny asked further.
"Noise?" George asked, confused by his partners question, "What's it sound like?"
"It sounds kinda like if there were a very tiny person screaming real loud. Like, loud it him, but real quiet like to us." Lenny explained.
"Nah, I don't hear anything then." George said shaking his head, "It's probably just that damn over-active imagination of yours again."
The noise had stopped by now anyway.
"Yeah," Lenny said, "You're probably right."
The transport shook as it entered Nar Shadda's atmosphere, and not one of its passengers spoke a single word. Stormtroopers. About 100 of them. Though the carrier was large, it was cramped, packed, and tight. Like being in a can of sardines. For 17 year-old Stormtrooper Art Hulix, this was to be his first battle. The case was the same for many other troopers onboard. Some of the older more experienced soldiers had told him that the first transport drop was always the worst one, and he prayed to whatever it was that listened that they were right. Many soldiers clung to the wall. Some tottered around. The transport wasn't conditioned, and the cramped space made the heat even more unbearable. One of the other soldiers, about two rows ahead of him, yanked off his helmet, and vomited on the metallic floor.
There were three lights located above the drop door. A red light, a yellow light, and a green light. The red light meant that they were enroute to their destination. The yellow light meant that they had five minutes until touchdown. The green light, which was always accompanied by a boisterously loud alarm bell, meant that the drop door was opening, and that it was time to go.
There was a buzz, and the yellow light ignited. An officer in a black and red uniform climbed up on an elevated platform in the back. He was an Imperial Moral Overseer. They were, more or less, propaganda officers. Trained in the Imperial Bureau of Loyalty, they acted as representatives of the will of the Emperor, or in the case of the 501st, Darth Vader, himself. They gave the Stormtroopers their orders, directed them in battle, and shouted out the Empire without end. Currently these officers were standing up and reading out the same thing all at the same time on every one of the 501st transport shuttles.
He took out a holopad and began to read it aloud, "Stormtroopers of the 501st Legion!" He shouted, having to get his voice over all the others, the shaking of turbulence, and the roar of the engines, "At 0200 hours this morning, the Imperial TIE Fighter Production Facility on Nar Shadda was seized by the odious forces of the Rebel Alliance, led by the Jedi rat, Rahm Kota! You have been given the most honorable duty of retaking this vital organ of the Imperial body! We shall smash the rebellion! We shall smash the Jedi! Show them the might of justice, and take not even a glance backwards!"
A bell began to ring out, and there was a rocking shake as the transport touched down on the surface.
"GLORY TO THE EMPIRE!" the officer shouted.
The drop door fell open, and they were immediately met with a hail of blaster fire, and everyone in the first five or six rows had been cut to pieces in the blink of an eye. They all charged forward none the less, after all, they couldn't hit all of them. Art had just made it down the ramp, when a loud whizzing noise came in from overhead. Next thing he knew, the transport exploded in a ball of flame. Art was thrown into one of the many, many natural trenches that covered the moon's rocky, barren surface.
The soldiers that had been in there behind him came barreling out of the fire, the flames running over and consuming them. They screamed but Art couldn't hear them. Matter of fact, he couldn't hear anything. He looked about the scene before him. From every direction Stormtroopers barreled out of their transports, and from every direction they were shot down. One trooper was lumbering around looking for an arm that was presently detached from his body.
The sky was a dull kind of grey, and giant columns of thick, black smoke towered into the clouds from all around. Blaster fire hailed down like pouring rain from the countless machine gun nests that dotted the battlement like walls of the factory, which stood ahead of them now like a terrible iron fortress. In every direction, the earth was razed by the exploding shells of factory's artillery defenses. There was a ringing in his ear that he just couldn't shake.
He came to his sense, and climbed out of the trench. He ran forward, in search of a safer, more secure location. He ducked behind a pair of other troopers, who were mowed down as he ran by. He hid behind a large rock. Blood had been splattered across his helmet and torso armor. He breathed heavily. In and out. In and out. In and out. He turned to make a run, but a shell landed and went off just near the rock, forcing him back behind. In and out. In and out.
He looked out briefly, popping his head back behind cover after every split second. There was another trench, where several other troopers were hiding. That's where he was heading. In and out. In and out. He bolted. Blaster bolts tore into the dirt all around him, as well as a cannon shell or two. In and out. In and out. A line of about 5 advancing troopers behind him weren't so lucky. In and out. In and out. He at last made it to the trench, and he practically dived in.
The captain, who could be told from his orange shoulder plate, turned to him.
"What's your unit, son!?" he asked, shouting over the battle.
"308th, sir!" Art yelled.
"It's about kreffing time y'all got here!" one of the others shouted.
"Alright, eh, what's your name!?" The captain shouted.
"Hulix, sir! Art Hulix!" Art replied.
"Alright...Packard!" he shouted to one of the other troopers.
The Stormtrooper that Art presumed to be Packard turned his attention to his captain, but before he could say anything, his helmet was ripped into by a blaster bolt, and he was sent toppling to the ground.
"KREFF!" one of the others shouted, as they all ducked down low.
Another wave of bolts shredded into the ground above, and into the wall of the trench opposite them.
"Kreffing Hell…SKINS!" The captain shouted.
"Sir!?" Stormtrooper named Skins answered.
"Get on Packard's transmitter!" the captain yelled, "I want to know where those damn AT-AT's are, and I want to know now!"
"Yes Sir!" Skins shouted back, as he crawled on his belly over to Packard's corpse. He turned over the body, and removed the clunky transmitting device. He began to relay the message.
Another shell came down, only about 3 yards away, nearly burying them in dirt.
"Damn it! Alright, men!" The captain shouted, "If we stay here any longer, we're gonna die! Now, there's another trench up about 50 yards from here! If we make it there, we should at least be safe from these kreffing plasma hoses! Am I clear!?"
"Yes sir!" the rest of the unit shouted.
They leapt out of their hiding hole and charged forward. The captain was the first to go down. His orange shoulder plate made him stick out like a sore thumb. Skins, and an unknown went down next. Art just kept on running. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. A shell exploded. In and out. In and out. In and out. A blaster bold grazed his arm. In and out. In and out. He made it to the trench. He hid behind a pile of rock that stuck up above it. A few other units had made it this far but not many.
The sound of cheering came from behind him. Art whipped his head backwards. There in the distance, walked forward a wall of AT-AT's. At last, there was some hope for the offensive. The AT-AT guns fired off a few rounds. One of their shells landed on a battery atop the wall just above Art's position. Crumbles of rock, iron, and dust rained down. The body of what used to be a rebel soldier landed next to him with a loud thump. Art pulled away from it. Another shell whizzed inbound. This time it hit the base of a near-by battlement tower, which cam crumbling down. A great cloud of dust, dirt, and debris exploded outward from it, engulfing Art and anyone else near it. This was his chance.
Art leaped out from hiding, and advanced on the opening. He fumbled his rifle into a firing position. Soon the shadows of a rebel soldier appeared, and he opened fire on it. The shadow jerked back, and landed hard on the ground. Soon there was another, and another, and another. Art opened fire on all, along with his fellow Stormtroopers. There had been one he hadn't seen though, and the soldier hit him hard on the side of the face with the butt of his rifle. Art, fell to the ground. He rolled over just in time to block another smash from the thing. The two wrestled about intensely for what felt to Art like an eternity. Eventually however, the rebel was able to knock the rifle out of his hands. The rebel pulled up and prepared to shoot. This was it. This was the end, he was sure of it. He shut his eyes hard in anticipation. But the killing shot never came. Rather there was an unearthly buzz, and a shriek. His eyes shot open. A red beam of light protruded from the enemy's chest. It pulled out, and the soldier collapsed. There stood behind him a young man. Only a few years Art's senior. He had close cut black hair, and he wore a rugged black attire. Not armor, but more than just clothes. He stuck a hand out to help him up. Art took hold of it, and was practically ripped from the ground.
"Grab your rifle, soldier!' The man shouted.
Art did exactly that. The man used his blade to deflect several blasts back to their shooters. If Art knew his officers, this was commander Starkiller. The second-hand-man of Lord Vader himself. The de facto field commander of the 501st. Art had only ever seen him when he accompanied Vader to address the legion.
"What's your name, boy!?" he asked.
"Hulix, sir! Art Hulix! I'm with the 308th!" Art replied.
"Never mind, that!" Starkiller shouted, "I need a replacement man, you're being drafted into Black Squadron!"
Holy hell. Black Squadron. Art could hardly think with everything that was going on.
"Well, are you just going to stand there!?" Starkiller shouted, "Let's move!"
Art came back to himself.
"Yes sir!" he shouted back.
"Good, now fall in!" Starkiller ordered.
Art ran up ahead of him, joining the others troops. Starkiller joined them and they entered the factory.
They moved down through the halls, chopping through any futile resistance in their way. They reached a service elevator at the end of the fourth hallway. They walked into it, and Starkiller used the force to pull the lever to take them to the bottom floor.
"Wait." Art interjected, "What about the rest of the facility?"
"That's not our job." Explained one of the others, "Our job is taking care of the Jedi."
"A Jedi…" Art mumbled swallowing hard.
This was not going to be good.
The 501st poured into the factory through crumbled walls and fallen towers. Several of the AT-AT's had been knocked out by Rebel artillery, so the remainder focused their fire there.
Alarms blared, red lights flashing, as Stormtroopers moved through the halls of the factory and its battlements. Rebels hid behind doorways and boxes, popping up to fire their weapons at their incurring enemy. In the nests and bunkers, Rebel soldiers still sprayed their deadly rain down upon the seemingly endless waves of Imperial soldiers.
One, a pill box on the Eastern Wall, held off a sizeable force. Spraying in waves. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Move up a row. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Move down a row. So on and so on. In the hall behind it, the defenses crumbled. At last the door became an open target, and a Flame-Trooper, accompanied by two guards, rushed to the side of the door. He counted to three, and jumped into the clearing, pulling the trigger. The bunker filled with flames, and the fire poured out as the flammable plasma ignited under the heat. As the Rebel soldiers through themselves out the slit like window, in a last ditch effort to escape the inferno, several Stormtroopers rose form their cover and began to shoot. Their Captain jumped up and held his hand up.
"Hold your fire!" he shouted, "Let 'em burn! Don't waste your ammo!"
On the factory floor, war waged hot between the two forces. Stormtroopers ducked behind the conveyer belts and partially assembled TIE fighters one side of the room, while the rebels had two machine gun nests, and a small artillery turret on the other. There was a firefight all along the catwalks. More often than not it was a melee, though. Soldiers on both sides fell from the high up walk was, a few smashed into the hulls of the TIEs. The Imperials were pushing forward all the time, and the Rebels could not hold the catwalks for long. The nests that kept the floor offensive pinned didn't last long either, as a thermal launcher was brought up to the cat walk, and blew the guns, and the turret, to smithereens.
Soon the day would be won.
The shuttle slowed, exiting hyper space. George brought the microphone back to his mouth,
"This is your pilot again," he said, "I'm pleased to tell you that we've exited hyperspace, and that the Imperial Flight Academy is within range. We'll be landing in a couple of minutes, so get ready to go."
"I always do love bringing these kids in on their first day." Said Lenny.
"Yes," George said, "I'm sure you do."
"Really, George." Lenny said, "It's always nice to see them all excited to join the army, and learn how to fly."
Lenny continued to babble on about it, George just sighed and pretended to be listening.
Soon enough came the time to land, and the ship turned gracefully into position, landing with care and precision. Steam shot out as the landing pads extended down from the hull, and made contact with the iron landing platform.
Other ships were landing as well, doors open, recruits from all over walked down the ramps and into the grand doorway that had a big banner reading "Welcome Future Pilots!" written on it. Of course, most of those ships were allot nicer than the ride that the Tatooinian offices could afford, and their enlisters got much better rides. An officer waited by the shuttle's entrance. There was one assigned to each planet. The one assigned to Tatooine was a Corporal Dix.
As the shuttle's drop door slowly opened with a steaming hiss, Dix found himself shocked to the sight before him. There, on the middle of the floor, lay an unconscious boy. Dix walked up and shook him a little. The boy didn't respond. There was a large bruise on his forehead, and he could see another one hidden under the boy's hair on the back of his head, and running down his neck. Dix growled, ad marched up to the cockpit door, banging upon it hard with his fist.
"Open up!" he yelled, "Open up, you…you imbeciles!"
The door opened, and the two came out. George first, angered by the insult, and Lenny second.
"Who're you calling imbecile, bud!?" He asked, pointing stiff finger up at the officer.
"You, that's who!" he replied, "How do you explain this!?" he demanded, pointing in the collapsed Luke's direction.
George paled, staring at the boy. Lenny looked around the hold before turning his attention back to George.
"Hey George." He said.
"Yeah?" George replied.
"When we went into hyperspace," said Lenny, "I don't think he had anything to hold onto, George."
George turned his head to his friend, eyes lidded with sarcasm, "No shit, Len."
AUTHOR'S NOTE: WELL, NOW THAT THAT IS OVER WITH…WHY DON'T WE ALL TAKE A FIVE MINUTE BREAK? YEAH, THAT SOUNDS GOOD. SMOKE IF YOU GOT 'EM.