Bantha Poodoo, The Lot of You

[Shaydae Desmaris]

Location: Military District of Avalonia
Between the Invasions of Mustafar and Skor II


”Private Landis, if you don’t stop moving, I’m going to shove your blaster so far up your karking arse, you’ll spit plasma for a month.”

”Sir, yes sir.”

The cheerful response undermined the otherwise agreeable response, even as the private switched from one foot to another, successfully avoiding yet another attempt to clip the ivory pauldron onto the almost complete armor suit situated on his body.

”Come on, Des, you know this is challenge mode.”

A snort, the sound of two gloved palms meeting, and a series of grunts followed in rapid succession, a sharp kick to the shins sending both soldiers stumbling. Standing with one hand cocked on her hip, an eyebrow raised in derision, Shaydae DesMaris surveyed the pair as they regained their footing and snapped to attention in short time, ire and respect in their eyes.

Their six-foot frames dwarfed her 5’4” figure, even with her company issued boots adding an inch or two. Chestnut hair was pulled back into a messy bun, one lock refusing to stay put, the offending chunk constantly falling into her eyes. For now, she ignored the stray pieces and glared at the two men, copper eyes shining in the blue neon lights scattered through the back armory.

”Bantha poodoo, both of you.” Stepping forward, she snapped the ivory Duraplast to the torso unit, an echoing click as metallic clasps met and sealed, Private Landis wincing at the harsh sound close to his ear. A hand smacked against the durable armor, checking it’s stability as well as further throwing the private off balance. ”And it’s Staff Sergeant to you two chuckle-heads.”

The pair exchanged glances, mischievous smiles growing as she snapped the second pauldron onto his left shoulder from behind, adjusting the clasp slightly to ensure a perfect fit. Anticipating another game of catch-the-trooper, Des ducked between the two, one hand slamming into an armored chest before deftly affixing two matching pauldrons onto the second of the pair. A defeated glare and pouted lower lip met her pleased smile.

”You have to be faster than that, Gutierrez. If you both keep this childish behavior up, I’ll have to report you to your superiors. Oh wait, that would be me. Keep pestering and you’ll go out to fight in nothing but your skivvies.”

She supposed insubordination could be the theme of the day, but with a small squad that had fought together for years, hazing was hardly unexpected.

”Yes, Staff Sergeant DesMaris.” The sarcasm dripped heavily, as Landis wandered over and set a gloved hand on top of her head. ”We only really need you around for our happy straps, anyways.” The suggestive comment was followed up by a wink, the crude nickname for the Armourweave strap that connected the codpiece to the butt plate a common joke among the veteran units.

Ducking under the heavy hand in a deft move, Des spun and surveyed the two complete suits with a keen eye, noting any piece that did not fit perfectly, snaps that needed adjusting later, or unusually large gaps between Duraplast plates. Satisfied with her inspection, she raised an eyebrow and offered the twins a poodoo-eating grin.

”Then I’ll assume you can undress yourselves without my help as well.”

Spinning on one heel, she made her way out of the back storage room, into the blinding neon lights of the main armory amidst a chorus of amused and slightly apologetic shouts. They’d stumble around a bit before finally agreeing to assist each other, she’d just have to hope the precious armor would survive their bumbling attempts at removal. A small price to pay for a lesson well learned. Her second in command glanced up from the front counter, booted feet propped on the glass case, much to her disdain. A stormy look in his direction was met instantly with a straightened spine and feet slamming onto the floor, a wry smile tugging up the corner of her lips in response.

Her eyes cast around the room, pausing briefly on a pile of battle-worn armor, a cemetery of bones in her business, a low groan wrung from her throat. Hands raised in the air to ward off the look of vitriol shot at anyone in her range of vision, Specialist Lynd busied himself in shuffling paperwork in preparation for a pair of First Order Operatives in search of customized armor.

”E chu ta! Karking lazerbrains can’t even survive one lousy scouting mission without turning their armor into Gonza Cheese.” Grabbing the once pristine chest plate and cradling it as one would a particularly prized youngling, she moved past the front counter, tossing a key to the armory onto the counter. Without another thought, she rushed out the door, past the two bewildered and amused operatives, a string of expletives and violent threats against the soldiers responsible for the damage trailing in her wake.

Dodging through the crowds of milling citizens, she stormed her way towards the hulking Capitol building, barely pausing to pass through the layers of security and briefing check points between her and her Commanding Officer’s Office.

First Legion, Fortan's Fist
Eighth Assault Company
Captain Gardenar

The plaque on the door told her she was in the right place, a young secretary looking on in astonishment as the sergeant stormed past the small waiting space, bursting into the office beyond without waiting for so much as an open invitation.

”You set me up for failure with these dwang ludos pretending at being soldiers! One scouting mission and it’s riddled with blaster shots and scuff marks! You’d think they could handle something as simple as that, but no, they have to go and make karking targets of themselves with no regards to the time and effort it takes to repair thi-“

The older gentleman behind the desk stared at her with a blank expression, fingers steepled under his chin, eye twitching slightly in amusement at her tirade. The words cut off as she tossed the offending piece of armor onto his desk, scattering the few papers present. The satisfying clunk of plastic hitting metal nearly sated her anger, eyes brimming with fire as she imaged a similar sound when she finally bashed the responsible parties’ heads together.

Opening her mouth to add to the string of insults, she stopped as another presence in the room finally brought her to attention.

“I was just about to request a meeting, what fortuitous timing. Staff Sergeant DesMaris, may I introduce Sergeant Pierce.”

[member="Torian Pierce"]

 

[LT-137]

Inaction cloaked the Stormtrooper Sergeant like an ill-fitting suit. His hands twitched with the sudden surge of anticipation, eager to find themselves wrapped around the shaft of his mighty weapon, or curled across the surface of his favoured rifle. War was his bread, and the chaotic whirlwind of combat was his butter. Without either to sustain him, the soldier would find himself slowly, and painfully wasting away. He was addicted to the tumult, where one’s skill with a blade meant little - and the fickle tides of chance were all that kept a soldier on the shores of life, or cast screaming into the depths of the afterlife. He relished the notion that every battle could very well be his last, that someone out there would be there when his luck ran out, to claim his life and send him to hell. When he had been pulled away from the ever-expanding frontlines in the Order’s war against the treacherous Alliance and their lackeys, the Stormtrooper had to be forcibly disarmed and escorted away. Something that he had admittedly wished didn’t need to occur - but when the clarion call of battle sounded, it was something he couldn’t refuse.

The man remembered when the order came in, and the several troopers that had come to subdue him during one of his… episodes. Torian himself ended up with some broken bones and ended up spending several days, during the trip back to Dosuun, to set the fractures and expedite the healing process. The other Troopers were worse off, and while normally he would’ve been executed for striking a superior officer and several of his squad mates - they knew what the man was capable of. The Captain of the Sergeant’s assigned Company had ensured that High Command never received any of the after-action reports that had incriminated the Bakuran-Born's improper battlefield behaviour. Instead, he had ensured that the Sergeant would never rise above his station and that he would find himself rotating squads until others of a similar, almost unstable, mindset were found. They believed that keeping him as a Sergeant would beat in the tenants of responsibility, and eventually groom him for a command of his own. With how he had acted upon the battlefield, and how he was unable to pull himself away from the crucible of war - it was a surprise that he wasn’t busted down into the ranks of the Auxiliary.

It was perhaps why they had ensured that he was placed within the most aggressive company of warriors that saw the highest casualty ratings in whatever theatre they were deployed in. He fit right in - yet stood apart from the pack. Sergeant Pierce was the Lone wolf prowling amongst the Hounds.

Nevertheless, due to his aberrant behaviour and unwillingness to bond with those of the Eight Company, Sergeant Pierce had found himself summoned back to the training fields of Avalonia, where he would submit himself to his Commanding Officer and endure whatever form of disciplinary punishment the man had seen fit to administer. He expected that he would be lashed in the centre of the training fields in front of his brothers and sisters in arms, to serve as an example of how the First Order, and their Stormtrooper Corps thereafter, treat those that break too far away from the mold. He figured that they’d submit him to the Re-Education branch of the Security Bureau, and have his errant behaviour corrected in favour of something more suitable for an Elite Soldier. What he didn’t expect, as the polished door silently slid back into its housing, revealing the spartan chamber beyond, was that his punishment was a pair of assignments. One that would test his limits as a Soldier off the battlefield, as well as a mission that would gratify and reward his prowess as a Warrior.

Coming to a halt before his Captain’s desk, the Stormtrooper Sergeant offered a crisp salute and held his pose until his superior had roused his gaze from the desk before him and returned the gesture in kind. When the terse moment had passed, and the Bakuran-born stood at the position of attention for what seemed like ages, Captain Gardenar spoke. His words were soft and supple, which contrasted with the wounds of war stitched across his face. It gave them a menacing edge, as Torian watched the puckered scar tissue around the Captain’s lips glisten and stretch with purpose. “Do you know why you’re here?” He said, with his glimmering hazel orbs boring through the false visage of discipline that the Sergeant wore. “No, sir.” His words were hoarse and sounded like the Stormtrooper had spent a proverbial age deprived of water. His throat was parched. He wasn’t good with the small talk. “You’re here, for two reasons.” Gardenar paused, and withdrew two dataslates from his desk and tossed them towards his subordinate with casual grace. They skidded to a halt scant inches away from the desk’s edge, and had - by fortune’s favour - spun with the displayed image atop their crystalline surface, righted as if they were placed there on purpose. All with the intent of Sergeant Pierce viewing them without having to remove them from his Captain’s desk.

“The first is that you have a particular set of skills that the Bureau requires. They need you and your squad for a mission, deep behind enemy lines. It seems one of their assets has somehow made it into enemy hands, and they’d like you - along with several of our Supreme Leader’s Knights and the newly minted Supreme Commander himself - to breakthrough the enemy forces and retrieve whatever it is they lost.” The Captain’s scarred lips pulled into a wounded smile, as he directed the Stormtrooper’s attention towards the first and more prominent data slate. “Also, you’ll be tasked with protecting a Pilot pulled from the Starfighter Corps. He’ll be your mission commander, and subservient to the Supreme Commander himself.” Gardenar paused yet again, but this time it was to lean further back into his chair’s embrace. The man was starting to become soft. Despite his inflicted wounds, and the subtle cybernetics weaved into his ailing frame. The man was becoming weak. He needed this war just like anyone else within the Stormtrooper corps. “It’s not an honour, nor will anyone ever know what you’ve done for the Order. If you die in orbit around Skor II - you will be nothing more than a painful memory for those that you’ve left behind. If you survive, we will reconsider your next session with the Re-education branch, so that you may retain what’s left of your Humanity in the coming days.”

“So you can still be useful to the Order, and help us bring about the stability that this Galaxy sorely needs. By doing your duty, you will form a portion of the foundation for what’s to come. We will restore the Imperial Truth to prominence. It’s up to you to decide if your bone’s supplied the mortar of what’s to come, or if you stand atop the plinth of your achievements.”

It was when the captain had begun to direct Sergeant Pierce’s attention to the second data slate, that the door behind the both of them slid open, retracting with an uncommon swiftness into the housing set in the wall. Through the violated opening, stormed a woman - fair haired and bristling as if wholly insulted. She was clad in her duty fatigues and bore before her person a piece of the Stormtrooper’s venerated war gear. From what Torian could see, it wasn’t in the best shape - well - at least for parade standards. Trying to stifle a smile as the woman opened her mouth and erupted into a venomous tirade, he felt an odd sense of familiarity creep into his addled mind. The way she looked, the way she talked. He could’ve sworn he had seen her before somewhere. Then, as her eyes tore away from their superior officer, everything clicked into place. He had seen her once before, though they had never truly met before this moment. She had beaten him in a race, that he didn’t know they were running, up a mountain with ease. It was painfully evident that she relished the sensation of climbing through the layers of elevation, either to keep herself in shape for whatever eventuality would come her way or - perhaps that what she enjoyed in her off-time.

Had Torian not been subjected to such horrors when he was a child, perhaps their paths would’ve been similar. Where he would’ve taken the time to enjoy the sights of nature, and all the wonders it brought - especially on a civilized world such as Dosuun.

“I was just about to request a meeting, what fortuitous timing. Staff Sergeant DesMaris, may I introduce Sergeant Pierce.”​

Though his mind was somewhere else, his body reacted accordingly. This woman was his superior officer, and as he had done with the Captain before her, Torian offered this woman a crisp, and sharp salute. His arm would remain erect, with his gauntleted hand hovering two-fingers above his brow until the gesture was returned. It was a matter of respect, and even though they had just met - such respect for their superior officers was deeply ingrained within every soldier of the militant branches of the First Order. That being said, there were always those that seemed to go against the grain and reacting in opposition to the intensive training regime that followed after those that wore the Uniform of the Stormtroopers. They were few and far between, but - whenever they had made themselves known - they always left a lasting impression. The woman that stood before him? Torian felt like this woman would be one of the few that would be seared into his memories for time immemorial.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ma’am!” The Stormtrooper Sergeant said, clicking his armoured boots together with an audible clatter of warplate.

As she had burst into the office speaking of carbon scoring and scuffed plate, Sergeant Pierce had determined that she was either the Company’s newest Quartermaster or some poor enlisted soul that was bequeathed the honour of filling their old provisioner's spot. Either way, the man hoped that she wouldn’t come close to his person, or have cybernetic enhancements to see that his battle armour was the furthest thing away from ceremonial standards. This was an assault company, and it was more than likely that they’d be coming under heavy enemy fire. If they spent more time worrying about the presentation of their armour, they’d be nothing but corpses littering the battlefield. To many within the Eight Company, aptly named the ‘Hounds of Sieger,’ restoring and repairing their armour was second only to Victory and combat. It’s not like their vaunted foe would care that they took to the field all shiny, and glimmering with polished armour. No matter the condition of the warplate, every soldier died the same.

Pushing aside the darkened thoughts of death and the inevitable, the Sergeant remained still - and waited to see what would come of this first and possibly influential meeting between two of his superiors.

=| [member="Shaydae Desmaris"] |=​