Cresh (CT-9801)
A clone out of time
As the hiss of the locking mechanism ceased and the hatch slid open, Cresh fell out of the pod to the cold floor below. Coughing, he lay propped up on his bare elbows for a moment while he caught his breath again. Then he found the strength to lift himself up to his feet, pain coursing through his body as he did so. He could barely see anything with the lights out. It was dark, it was freezing, and the air felt stale. Where am I?
The thawing process coming out of cryo-cycle stasis had taken a toll on the man, something he wished to never experience again. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around his body for warmth and staggered his way over to the nearby sink, focusing his eyes on the reflection in the mirror, steading himself by gripping the basin. He brushed his unruly hair out of his face, then poked around at the scars on his cheek. These were new scars he’d not seen before, but they looked years healed already. His brow furrowed, confused, he wondered how this was possible.
A blurred flash of memory came back to him. His squad headed into battle. He led the charge. Blaster fire. Lightsabers. An explosion. He shook his head and blinked the memory away. I was injured. But that still didn’t explain things. How did he get here? Where even was here? He winced as a sharp pain shot up his side. Twisting his body, he checked his back in the mirror. Another new scar. He let out a heavy sigh, then turned to get a better look at his surroundings now that his eyes had adjusted to the low light.
The door was to his right, the cryo-cycle pod to his left and next to that was a powered down medical droid. Opposite him was a cot, an undersuit neatly folded at the foot of it. He slowly stumbled his way across the room to retrieve the clothing. Just that short distance made him queasy and short of breath. He took a moment to catch his breath, then slowly and painfully worked to put the undersuit on. It helped with the cold for now, but he knew this relief wouldn’t last long. Cresh scanned the room, but couldn’t find the rest of his gear anywhere. Must be somewhere else. He took a deep breath, knowing that exploring the area would take a great toll on him, then headed out the door.
Cresh found his way to the cockpit. Great, I’m in space. Although in his own head, his tone was laced with sarcasm. He’d never much cared for space travel, but it was always a necessary part of his job so he was used to it. Still struggling with movement, he made his way to the controls, bracing himself on the back of the pilot seat. He scanned the console, and pressed a few buttons. Well, the ship's dead. That explained the cold. Blinking lights on one of the controls suggested backup generators were feeding low power to the life support system only. But there was no way for him to tell how long the backup power had been on for, nor how much longer it would last.
There was only one course of action he could take. Cresh heaved another sigh, then programmed a distress beacon, feeding the derelict ship’s co-ordinates out to all nearby vessels. A risky move as he knew this could attract the unwanted attention of pirates, but there was no other way for him to survive. He hoped with all his strength that a good samaritan would be the first to get to him, preferably someone from the Republic, his brothers maybe. Oh, how he missed his brothers. I’ll be home again soon, boys. He reassured himself.
Next, he needed to prepare. He had no idea who or what would respond to the distress signal, so he wanted to be ready. It took some time for him to locate his gear, but when he did he found himself fully stocked with fresh kit. Enough munitions for a hold out should he need it, rations to last a few rotations, and an untouched medkit. His armour looked worse for wear, but he liked it that way, as most clones did. It was a symbol of his fortitude and a memorial to his fallen comrades. Painfully, he donned his armour. As he pulled his helmet over his head he finally felt at home.
With what little strength he had left, Cresh made his way to the airlock. There, out of breath, he propped his back against the wall and slid down to the floor. Legs outstretched, he leant his head on the wall and tried to position himself facing the door. A small cry of pain escaped him as he contorted his body uncomfortably. Then he unholstered his hand blaster and set it on his lap, ready by the trigger if needed. That was all he could do. As he lay in wait for his rescue, he considered for a moment that this may be his final day. He felt his eyes well up. Then he closed his eyes and gave in to the exhaustion.
The thawing process coming out of cryo-cycle stasis had taken a toll on the man, something he wished to never experience again. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around his body for warmth and staggered his way over to the nearby sink, focusing his eyes on the reflection in the mirror, steading himself by gripping the basin. He brushed his unruly hair out of his face, then poked around at the scars on his cheek. These were new scars he’d not seen before, but they looked years healed already. His brow furrowed, confused, he wondered how this was possible.
A blurred flash of memory came back to him. His squad headed into battle. He led the charge. Blaster fire. Lightsabers. An explosion. He shook his head and blinked the memory away. I was injured. But that still didn’t explain things. How did he get here? Where even was here? He winced as a sharp pain shot up his side. Twisting his body, he checked his back in the mirror. Another new scar. He let out a heavy sigh, then turned to get a better look at his surroundings now that his eyes had adjusted to the low light.
The door was to his right, the cryo-cycle pod to his left and next to that was a powered down medical droid. Opposite him was a cot, an undersuit neatly folded at the foot of it. He slowly stumbled his way across the room to retrieve the clothing. Just that short distance made him queasy and short of breath. He took a moment to catch his breath, then slowly and painfully worked to put the undersuit on. It helped with the cold for now, but he knew this relief wouldn’t last long. Cresh scanned the room, but couldn’t find the rest of his gear anywhere. Must be somewhere else. He took a deep breath, knowing that exploring the area would take a great toll on him, then headed out the door.
Cresh found his way to the cockpit. Great, I’m in space. Although in his own head, his tone was laced with sarcasm. He’d never much cared for space travel, but it was always a necessary part of his job so he was used to it. Still struggling with movement, he made his way to the controls, bracing himself on the back of the pilot seat. He scanned the console, and pressed a few buttons. Well, the ship's dead. That explained the cold. Blinking lights on one of the controls suggested backup generators were feeding low power to the life support system only. But there was no way for him to tell how long the backup power had been on for, nor how much longer it would last.
There was only one course of action he could take. Cresh heaved another sigh, then programmed a distress beacon, feeding the derelict ship’s co-ordinates out to all nearby vessels. A risky move as he knew this could attract the unwanted attention of pirates, but there was no other way for him to survive. He hoped with all his strength that a good samaritan would be the first to get to him, preferably someone from the Republic, his brothers maybe. Oh, how he missed his brothers. I’ll be home again soon, boys. He reassured himself.
DISTRESS BEACON ACTIVATED
Next, he needed to prepare. He had no idea who or what would respond to the distress signal, so he wanted to be ready. It took some time for him to locate his gear, but when he did he found himself fully stocked with fresh kit. Enough munitions for a hold out should he need it, rations to last a few rotations, and an untouched medkit. His armour looked worse for wear, but he liked it that way, as most clones did. It was a symbol of his fortitude and a memorial to his fallen comrades. Painfully, he donned his armour. As he pulled his helmet over his head he finally felt at home.
With what little strength he had left, Cresh made his way to the airlock. There, out of breath, he propped his back against the wall and slid down to the floor. Legs outstretched, he leant his head on the wall and tried to position himself facing the door. A small cry of pain escaped him as he contorted his body uncomfortably. Then he unholstered his hand blaster and set it on his lap, ready by the trigger if needed. That was all he could do. As he lay in wait for his rescue, he considered for a moment that this may be his final day. He felt his eyes well up. Then he closed his eyes and gave in to the exhaustion.
