Faction [Tarkin Initiative] Like the Back of Your Hand - Army Training on Oristrom

[Abraxas Colt]

LIKE THE BACK OF YOUR HAND

"At this rate, you might as well pack your chit and head for Coruscant. Perhaps the Sith can make half-decent slaves out of you." The drill sergeant's voice was rocky and deep, much like the craggy canyons that crisscrossed the Oristrom’s blackened surface. Basalt outcroppings, sooty beaches, and sheets of volcanic glass would make one think the planet was a sauna world—chosen to make the Initiative’s recruits sweat out their imperfections at Facility 141-B.

Instead, it was a chilly world where warmth was only found deep in the valleys. Thanks to lava tubes beneath the surface, the site had a consistent source of natural heating. But the the recruits that were being reamed failed the course again, the entire platoon would be sent topside to clear the landing pads of black snow.

Abraxas leaned against a duracrete pillar and lit a cigarra—one of the small comforts afforded a trooper of his rank and longevity.

“Sergeant’s gonna blow a power converter,” a fellow scout warned with a grin. “Think the recruits’ll figure out how to move in a stack this time?” Just as he asked, a green trooper in the distance stepped on his squadmate’s heel.

Brax sighed and took a drag of his cigarra.

“Fething new guys,” he admonished.

His team had already completed the course, though why, he had little idea. Abraxas was in command of the historic Inferno Squad, a small and concise strike team in the larger Imperial Expeditionary Corps. Even if the Initiative did deploy troops to carry out the exact mission this course was preparing them for—storming the Diarchy’s Chacellorate—Inferno and the rest of Tombstone would be deployed elsewhere.

But that didn’t stop the nagging feeling that Brax and the other elites were going to run the course again at the drill sergeant’s pleasure.

Show them how it’s done.

TAGS: OPEN
​

​

 

[The Arkanian]

LIKE THE BACK OF YOUR HAND

​

An Arkanian in purge trooper armor strolled up to Abraxas Colt . He held his helmet under one hand and his caf in another. His weapon hung from his body by a two-point sling. A stun baton dangled from his hip and he had a full bandolier of non-lethal grenades across his chest.

The Arkanian looked unbothered by the commotion of the training grounds. He eyed the Inferno Squad, his eyes an unsettling blank-white.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the Inferno crew. Having fun playing toy soldiers?"

He slurped loudly on his caf.

"I'm sure all of this will be very useful when a Sith decides to chain lightning your whole squad."

He snickered.

 

[Tavian Rhyse]

LIKE THE BACK OF YOUR HAND

"Thats enough." The instructor said, bewildered. Astonishment was written across his face as he approached the DT-219 while he addressed his squad. They light seemed to sink into the slick, black plates of their armor as they stood like living shadows, in stark contrast to the various army colors of other training groups. The Death Troopers arrived early, and they'd been on the course for hours now. Every variation, each run harsher and more unpredictable than the last. The only words that broke free of their demonic scrambled encryption came from Graves to the instructor.

Again. Again. Again. Again.

Each run was similar to the last one that preceded it. A debrief at the end of what went right, what went wrong and the methods to correct their mistakes. They grew smaller and smaller, but each mistake was enough to force another run through the course. Good enough wasn't good. They chased perfection at every inch of the course; it even came down to the time it took them to clear through areas. They didn't operate much in the same way most squads did, there was a certain cold, calculation, a ruthless precision that edged each movement. They moved with mechanical precision, ceaseless and silent, each run sharper than the last.

"Not enough. Another run."

"Sergeant. Take five. I need to prepare the course for your next run, and I need a break. We haven't stopped for hours." The instructor reasoned. It was the best attempt to get them to step off, they wouldn't do it for rest alone. There needed to be some reason behind it, or they'd simply refuse and continue.

It worked.

"Fine. Notify me when it's ready." Graves turned and waved his squad over. They all walked to a gray steel table positioned outside the course they'd been using. It had the supplies they brought for the day. Graves walked over to the table, his blaster slung across his chest "Make ready for the next run. Full check on all gear." He slid the rifle from his chest and placed it carefully on the table. Then he broke the helmet seal. The pressure locks parted with a hiss as the Arkanian removed it and set it beside his weapon, allowing the cold air to brush across pale, flawless skin. He could feel eyes lingering on them as his team began their checks, replacing power cells and running through checks with precision. They were used to it.

Let them watch.

Abraxas Colt | The Arkanian​

 

[Adrienne Halver Fel]

LIKE THE BACK OF YOUR HAND

Two women -- it was always two women. Two women at a table in the corner of the mess. Two women walking along the colonnade. Two women cloistered in quiet conversation. Usually supervised -- or guarded, or surveilled, or escorted, pick your favorite verb -- by a guard of some extraction. Not that they were going to be harassed. The elder woman, all sharp bobbed hair and pointed blue eyes, understood why. The younger -- just as blonde but softer -- didn't ask why.

Adrienne didn't know whether it was because Marion didn't notice, or because she didn't care, or because she already knew the answer.

The women were puzzle pieces. Their place in the larger picture was, as yet, unclear. But puzzle pieces that could be useful, puzzle pieces that could be important, puzzle pieces that could form the part of the puzzle that might draw eyes -- they couldn't be allowed to wander off back to Chandrila, where they could do God knows what. And so it was always two women. And some soldier types.

The two women stood not far from the training ground, each in a dark coat. The older woman's dark coat covered what would have looked like a trim black uniform that was not unlike the one she had worn during her days with Imperial intelligence. The only thing missing were her rank badge and code cylinder. The younger woman's dark coat covered a simple black dress, not black because it was Imperial, but because the young woman was still in mourning. They were there, ostensibly to review troops -- in what capacity and to what end it was not clear.

"...and that's the difference between a Stormtrooper, a Death Trooper, and a Purge Trooper -- or it was back in my day," Adrienne concluded in a quiet aside to her granddaughter. "We'll have to see whether this lot does it the same way. Honestly, didn't they teach you anything in school?"

Abraxas Colt | Tavian Rhyse | The Arkanian​

 

[Malcolm Sularen]

LIKE THE BACK OF YOUR HAND

TK-7713
​

Malcolm moved along the black basalt paths of Facility 141-B, the weight of his stormtrooper armor pressing against him as he hauled another crate of durasteel barricades to the next obstacle. TK-7713, as he was known here, had been assigned course reset duty. Everyone knew what that meant. You weren't trusted to complete the course properly. You were stuck fixing it for the others. It was hard work, monotonous, and utterly humiliating...or at least it looked that way.

The valley was warmer than the frozen landing pads above. Heat from the lava tubes under the ground rose in waves, making the air easier to breathe and keeping the snow from forming inside the basin. But the cold was always close. One wrong assignment and someone could end up out there on the black snow, shivering and slow. Malcolm adjusted the crate under his gloves and walked past Abraxas Colt leaning against a duracrete pillar, smoking a cigarra. He gave a small nod, careful to look tired and frustrated like the others. The instructor barked at him from across the course, and he hurried on, exaggerating the effort just enough to seem like he belonged in this lowly role. A few meters away, an The Arkanian ,a purge trooper stood conversing with Colt. Malcolm's eyes flicked to him for a moment, and he gave the tiniest tilt of his helmet, almost like a greeting. No words. He didn't have time. He moved on, carrying the crates and ropes, walking past the obstacle course where Tavian Rhyse and the Death Troopers had just finished another run. The instructors shouted orders, and Malcolm obeyed, adding energy to his steps to match the instructor's commands. He dropped a barricade with a loud clang, then went on to reset the next station.

He passed Adrienne Halver Fel and her companion as they walked along the mess colonnade. He gave them a tiny nod as he carried a stack of course markers to the next obstacle. Around him, the other stormtroopers muttered and joked about the course, the instructors, and the rise and fall of the Empire. Malcolm joined in with quiet agreement and small laughs, making himself seem like just another tired, frustrated soldier. Everything he did seemed like punishment, but to Malcolm it wasn't. Every heavy step, every crate lifted, every obstacle rebuilt was service. Service to the Emperor. Service to the Imperial structure. Service to the Tarkin Initiative. Nothing he did could be beneath him as long as he did not fail. Failure alone was beneath him, and he did not fail.

As he moved from one station to the next, resetting obstacles, reassembling target modules, and ferrying crates, Malcolm felt the grounding simplicity of his work. Stripped of politics, intrigue, and personal consequence. Here, he was no one and everyone. Just a grunt. Just TK-7713. He walked the walk and talked the talk. And yet, in every step, every crate moved, every observation made, he was still a Imperial Sovereign Protector first. Every stride through the facility, every turn of the course, every whisper overheard fed his understanding of the facility, the instructors, the troops, and the flows of command. It was the perfect assignment: punishment to some, service to him; monotonous labor to many, comprehensive observation to the one who served above all.

 

[Abraxas Colt]

LIKE THE BACK OF YOUR HAND

The lieutenant scoffed at the purge trooper, amused by his choice of a hot beverage over something with a bit more style. He eyed The Arkanian with a look of loathing mixed with pity.

"It's a shame the Inquisitorius are nothing but a buncha washed up Jedi." One of Abraxas' men spoke up before he could, but Brax wasted no time tagging himself into the exchange.

"Washed up Jedi with red lightsabers. Now who does that sound like..."

It was no secret that many in the Empire had it out for the Inquisitors—at least among those who even knew they existed. Even in an organization as inherently secretive as the Tarkin Initiative, there were still a great many programs that were kept close to chest. It was bad enough tolerating the Knights. Throw Dark Siders in the mix, too? It's a recipe for disaster, if you ask Brax. Maybe dealing with that disaster was the reason the Initiative needed purge troopers. Hell, maybe the ghastly bastard standing before Inferno would die when the two orders came to blows.

The thought brought a hateful smirk to Brax's face, which likely looked out of place to Malcolm Sularen as the commando returned the trooper's nod in passing. Another new guy, he assumed, judging by the gleam on the duraplast that encased him.

Brax took a defiant drag and blew the smoke lazily between himself and the Arkanian.

"What's a purge trooper doing here, anyway? Need a refresher on fighting something scarier than a teenager with a glowstick?"

TAGS: Adrienne Halver Fel | The Arkanian | Malcolm Sularen | Tavian Rhyse
​