Character
The settler outpost wasn't much—barely more than a cluster of prefabs, a landing pad, and a supply shack built out of scavenged durasteel. Dust rode the wind in thin waves, scraping across the duracrete walkways and rattling loose shutters on homes that had seen better days. Farmers and traders moved about their business with the tired gait of people used to scraping by under Republic protection that didn't always arrive on time.
Through their midst walked a soldier. White and navy armor scarred and scorched, visor blank and unyielding. He drew glances from settlers, but none dared speak first. Soldiers were not rare here—but one who kept his helmet on even while off duty, who carried himself like the battlefield still clung to him, was unsettling.
He pushed open the creaking door of the supply shack, the scent of dust and machine oil heavy inside. Crates of ration bars, replacement filters, scrap parts, and blaster packs were stacked unevenly against the walls. The settler running the place glanced up, squinting.
The trooper's voice carried through his helmet's modulator, low and tired, yet firm.
"Looking for field supplies. Filters. Ammunition if you've got it. Not charity. I'll pay."
He stood there, unmoving, the weight of his armor filling the small room. Outside, children peeked through the dusty windows, whispering about the armored figure like he was a specter of war come to walk among farmers.
Behind the blank visor, his thoughts stayed with the dead.
The lucky ones rest. I walk through hell for them still.
Through their midst walked a soldier. White and navy armor scarred and scorched, visor blank and unyielding. He drew glances from settlers, but none dared speak first. Soldiers were not rare here—but one who kept his helmet on even while off duty, who carried himself like the battlefield still clung to him, was unsettling.
He pushed open the creaking door of the supply shack, the scent of dust and machine oil heavy inside. Crates of ration bars, replacement filters, scrap parts, and blaster packs were stacked unevenly against the walls. The settler running the place glanced up, squinting.
The trooper's voice carried through his helmet's modulator, low and tired, yet firm.
"Looking for field supplies. Filters. Ammunition if you've got it. Not charity. I'll pay."
He stood there, unmoving, the weight of his armor filling the small room. Outside, children peeked through the dusty windows, whispering about the armored figure like he was a specter of war come to walk among farmers.
Behind the blank visor, his thoughts stayed with the dead.
The lucky ones rest. I walk through hell for them still.