Evander Thule
Cybernetic Horror
Scarif, Uninhabited Island
"Frak's sakes." Snarled the cyborg, withdrawing one mechanical hand from the starship's sparking innards. There were times when he regretted adding pain sensors to his artificial limbs; this was one of those times.
While initially no engineer, Thule had been forced to pick up the basics: the simple necessity of keeping himself alive ensured that. The hideous life-support shell that sustained his existence required almost constant work, and he didn't have a state's resources to draw on for that anymore. Nothing inspired ingenuity and a desire to learn quite like survival.
Still, some skill with tinkering did not a starship mechanic make, and it certainly showed now. He hammered a clenched fist against the fighter's hull in frustration, striking with enough force to buckle the reinforced metal.
Fixing this thing was a lost cause. Unless a salvage freighter happened by, he was well and truly screwed.
The trooper disentangled himself from the smoking remains of the fighter, staring at it with an undisguised hatred that, as far as he could tell, was heartily mutual. Giving it one last kick, he wandered away a short distance, studying the crash site.
Well, there were certainly worse places to be trapped, as far as scenery went. It was warm, humid, and populated by palm trees and a scenic beach a few dozen yards away. This place was an island paradise, and the island in question seemed mostly uninhabited. If no help came, he'd have to start looking for food and water soon.
Thule suppressed his annoyance and forced himself to think. He'd been trained for this, however long ago. There had to be a solution, or at least a way to avert starvation until relief came.
He had been putting off turning on the fighter's distress beacon. Doing so was like ringing a dinner bell in a dark forest at night; whatever emerged from the undergrowth might not be friendly.
His atrocities on Lothal with the short-lived Imperial Reclamation Authority, and other places, had seen some modest holonet coverage; gore-slicked mechanical killing machines tended to generate social media engagement numbers. Dependent on who passed by, he might not be looked at favorably. Still, a stay in a cell beat potential months sitting in the rain, picking sand out of his joints.
Turning back around, he trudged reluctantly back to the fighter, climbing nimbly into the half-crumpled cockpit. A few minutes' work at least restored emergency power, enough to send out a repeating SOS.
Thule loathed starfighters. Back in the day, they had always been the province of someone else. Thoughts of that someone else brought an all-too-human icepick of pain in the pit of his stomach, as it always did. Memories of opportunities botched, things left unsaid, and old regrets aplenty. Those, however, would not get him off this rock. Best to stay on-task.
It would be wisest to avoid identifying as Imperial, even if that status was in question. Whoever landed would figure that out in moments from the mere sight of him, and the crashed late-model TIE he rested in, but he could cross that bridge when he came to it. He didn't know what or who he was anymore, in truth. Too many disappointments had weathered his soul down to nothing, and he suppressed a touch of bitter anger. That, too, wouldn't help get him offworld. As it stood, he'd be happy to see literally anyone, regardless of the consequences.
"This is Evander Thule, ID 664-29-723." His hollow rasp of a voice filled the cockpit. "I have crash-landed, coordinates attached. Terrain... tropical, surprisingly pleasant. Supplies minimal, chances of survival... modest. Would appreciate a rescue, or at least a ration bar, if anyone hears this. This message will repeat." He set the message, and leaned back.
Stormclouds loomed on the horizon, and dusk was drudging onward. This was going to be a long night.
