Classified Imperial Base
Admiral Rampart Office
Daro
LST: 09:06:34 // DAY: 13
RC-5570
Captain Mech stands in a dark office. He adjusts his grip on his helmet against his hip, watching the blinking communications light on the desk in front of him. Admiral Rampart was out of office— had been for a few days— his attention was needed on Ryloth. Mech taps his foot glancing at the cold durasteel walls devoid of decor: Imperial standard. Not even Imperial banners lined the walls.
Against one wall is a small side table with an empty cafmachine. A stack of pastries looks untouched since they were layered into a pyramid. The only color in the room is the maroon jelly in the center of the puffy dough.
He sighs missing the flare of the Republic, the colored armor or the gunships with Twi'lek pinups. The Wolfpack had once painted trooper helmets next to General Koon's face on every one of their larty hulls. "Plo's Bros" was stenciled over it. He misses the wild designs on anything the GAR soldiers could get their hands on.
Individually in a group of identical soldiers wasn't encouraged at first but as the war drew on, people— mostly the Jedi Generals and Commanders— realized the GAR clones were and are people with personalities and preferences, not preprogrammed robots. The blue of the 501st with the infamous General Skywalker leading the siege. The grey comrades of the 104th ripping clankers to pieces like a wild pack of lothwolves. General Kenobi's 212th in yellow swooping in just in the knick of time. Or the flashy green of 41st Elite Corps led by lady General Unduli with scalpel precision. Although he has his reservations about the Jedi, it was always a sight to behold.
So much life and yet so much death. And what was it worth? To be stationed on an uninhabited planet in the outer rim instructing replacements for an Empire no one ever intended to fight for.
Mech's frown turns into a little smile recalling Tapcaf's cursing under his breath as he made sure the yellow stripes on his Kataran armor never had a scratch on them. Having spent a significant amount of time with the different legions, they painted their armor in commemoration of the troopers lost in each company.
Sparkstick and Hardcopy's blue, bold, and unique stripe designs on their plates told everyone they held the 501st reputation. Cardshark had the brightest green accent marks. A clanker could spot his double stripped helmet half a klick away. I'm surprised you hadn't been sniped. Mech thinks as the melancholy memories almost manifest into pain. Cardshark's death still surprises him from time to time like a bruise you didn't know you had until you hit it against something and it radiates through the damaged tissue.
The grey on his own armor had been chipped and the maroon outlines needed a touch-up when their gear was swapped out for this stark white new Imperial bantha fodder. A bunch of newbie white jobs is what we look like.
A loud beep pulls Mech out of his thoughts.
"Captain IC-Five-Five-Seven-Zero." A transparent blue hologram of Admiral Rampart flickers on the desk. It displays only his head and upper torso.
Mech snaps a salute, "Admiral."
He waves a dismissive hand. "I'm a little busy at the moment so do get on with it Captain."
"Yes, sir," says Mech straightening his shoulders, "Squad Specialist TK-Seven-Sixty has requested to speak to you directly."
"Seven-Six-Zero...," says Rampart tapping his chin with his finger. The hologram ripples and then stabilizes. "Ah, yes. The recruit, a former gladiator, who unintentionally killed a couple of troopers on her first day of training."
"Yes, sir. And also the recruit who is undergoing special processing," the Captain says adding emphasis on the word 'special.'
"Yes, how is that going?"
YOU ARE READING
THE RECRUIT
FanfictionBOOK 01 They were all fighters, but what distinguishes a warrior from a killer is what they fight for. Bred for combat. Built for war. Republic Commandos braved the impossible. So, when they were ordered to turn their sights to the Jedi, most did wi...
