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Ketaris burned on the surface as riots engulfed the streets, dragging innocents along with the wave of revolutionaries seeking to retake their freedom they deemed wrongfully taken away from them. Stolen, by a council of cowardly, wealthy representatives who lost the way of their planet, and by process selling them off to the New Imperial Order without so much as a fight.
This was their fight that they craved so much. The fight for liberation.
The fight for Ketaris.
While the New Imperial Order scrambled to deploy peacekeeping forces on the ground, more sinister machinations brewed under the city, where the wastes flowed ankle high.
The rioters stood no chance against military hardware, even with homemade petrol bombs or the odd hunting blaster. For smugglers and gun runners, civil unrest was a chance to make money, and Ketaris had plenty to spend with no qualms on morality. Their enemy had no reservations about it, to begin with.
Their torches cast an eerie glow that cut through the murky waters and dark shadows that clung to every surface stubbornly. The insurgents, bearing insignias of the planetary militia proudly on their sleeves, traveled cautiously but with haste; they carried weapons pilfered from the garrison armories. Yet a few of them lugged around bulky, plastic crates that slowed their march.
Their leader, a bearded man in his mid-thirties in militia attire but painted red, stopped abruptly at a ladder leading up to a manhole cover. The group quietly formed a semi circle, as one of them thumbed a code into one of the plastic crate's keypad. It popped open with a hiss. Breathing heavily, she picked up an item covered in brown paper and carried it with her as she man-handled the ladder.
Light briefly poured into the sewer as a disheveled face peered down. The female insurgent handed the object through the manhole, silently cursing. From below, their leader prompted for the group to quickly reassembled. "With regards from Mom." spoke the woman to the man. "Handle with care, yeah?"
He nodded, and covered the manhole as soon as she slid down the ladder.
The group continued along their path, their breathes leaving a trail of mist behind. The tunnels shook violently to the muffled roar of an explosion above them. Some of the insurgents paused and looked upwards, concerned. Perhaps they had second thoughts. Too late. They shook their heads and ran to catch up with the group.
They continued their delivery, ladder after ladder. Sometimes they took longer than usual, handing over more items where the surface noise was loudest. Soon, they had no more cargo to deliver. The surface riots roared louder and louder, each delivery sparking another violent explosion or creating a staccato of automated blaster fire. Their job was done, and the insurgents faces were red from exhaustion. Their task went undetected by the police force, and more importantly, but the Imperial peacekeepers. Yet it was too soon for applause and pats on the back. They had to reach their final destination.
One last porthole to crawl out of, and they were free. Their march was no longer cautious- they were anxious to leave, no doubt to continue their resistance on the surface. They ran, weapons aimed everywhere wildly. The light at the end of the tunnel was so close, a large chamber where sewer water flowed into from above, and but for a single, rickety ladder leading up to the surface, would have been the last place they wanted to be.
Their leader was first to enter the chamber, pointing at the ladder and urging his fellow patriots on- on! There was one last straggler behind them, his breath oddly muffled. The idiot must have chosen to wear his respirator, even when he had told them not to. It was cheap stuff, and only made breathing difficult, even if it filtered the foul stench. Revolution demanded sacrifice from everyone's part, including olfactory senses. He dropped his weapon to his side, exasperated at the latecomer's idiocy.
Slowly, as the footsteps drew closer and closer, he noticed something was wrong with the person's silhouette. It was larger than he remembered any one of his crew to be, and appeared to be dressed in armor. Planetary militia armor didn't look like that-
Blaster fire ripped through the insurgent leader, gouging chunks of flesh and cloth from his body. He danced as if controlled by an invisible puppeteer, and only fell when the neon red bolts arced towards the clumped up group of insurgents. They attempted to return fire, but were cut down from their platform. One woman tried to climb to safety, screaming for her life. Her hand reached up for the last bar only for the rapid fire blaster to amputate her hand from the elbow.
She fell down, screaming in agony into a clump of bodies and blood. Smoke and painful moans filled the room, drowned out by the noise of the city's waste pouring into the vast pipe in the center of the chamber. Only when no one remained standing, did the last figure enter into the light.
The storm trooper slowly lowered his weapon, smoke leaving the red hot barrel. His armor painted black, his emotionless visage surveyed the destruction he had wrought.
A wet, gurgled cough brought his attention to the pile of bodies. He walked over, pausing to finish off an insurgent reaching for his weapon.
She stared at him, a Twi'lek coughing blood as tears welled up. Her life's essence stained her shirt, her guts mulched into pulp. Yet her chest heaved, struggling to keep her alive. The stormtrooper slung his weapon on his back and knelt down, staring into her eyes. "You. . . " she struggled to form her words. ". . .you're too late. We've already delivered all the weapons. . .I hope they killed a lot of you."
He kept quiet for a brief moment, before taking off his helmet. Daros' human eyes stared back at the dying Twi'lek, a glint of mischief sparkled. "Oh I hope they did."
She laughed, bemused by his reply. "What's this? An Imperial who hates other Imperials?" She winced. "We should have called you to do our job."
"No, I think there's been a misunderstanding." His reply was quiet, but his satisfaction figuratively dripped from his words. "You've been very helpful to our cause. You see, it was very hard to persuade your government to allow us to deploy actual military personnel on the ground."
Her eyes widened.
"But when rioters fire upon peacekeepers with explosives and automatic fire. . . well."
She clenched her teeth and struggled to reach his neck with her hands, drenched in the blood of her dying cause. He batted her hands away, chuckling. "I don't think anyone will complain if we start putting down violent terrorists with, ah, proper methods.."
Daros stood back up, slipping back into his helmet. "Oh and- well, I don't think this will apply to you any more but- I'd be careful with who I buy weapons from the next time." She saw the smoking end of the barrel right before he squeezed the trigger.
All he felt was the slight push back of recoil.
