Kreel: Vader's Gladiator

1: Road Ahead

The sterile air of Scarif felt like it was trying to suffocate me. Sweat trickled down my brow, stinging my eyes beneath my helmet. My name belonged to the farm boy who used to spend his days knee-deep in Chagar mud, dreaming of piloting starships. Here, amidst the harsh fluorescent glare of the training facility, I was just another cog in the Imperial war machine.

My grip tightened on the blaster rifle, the weapon an awkward extension of my clammy hands. My squadmates moved through the simulated urban environment with practiced efficiency, their white armor gleaming under the harsh lights. Me? I felt like a Hutt trying to tap dance. Every shot I fired seemed to veer wildly off course, the blaster bolts screaming their dissent into the metallic walls.

Shame burned in my chest. I wasn't built for this sterile battlefield, for the suffocating grip of regulations that strangled any individuality I once possessed. I longed for the feel of cool mud squelching between my toes, the rhythmic whoosh of our family's wind paddlers skimming the surface of our lake back on Chagar IX. But Chagar, like my name, was a relic of a bygone era. Here, I was a nameless trooper, destined for a life of unquestioning obedience.

Drill Sergeant Harsh loomed over me, a woman carved from durasteel with a voice that could curdle bantha milk. "Fire faster, maggot! Or are you waiting for the rebels to offer you tea and crumpets before you engage them?"

I gritted my teeth. Harsh wasn't wrong. I yearned to prove myself, to embody the cold efficiency they were drilling into us. Yet, amidst the endless drills and the mind-numbing Imperial propaganda, a tiny ember of defiance flickered to life within me. Was this truly all there was? Was I doomed to be a nameless cog, forever lost in the vast, impersonal war machine of the Empire?

My defiant thought was cut short by the screech of metal scraping against metal. Drill Sergeant Harsh stood mere inches from me, her shadow engulfing me. The acrid scent of ozone filled the air, a constant reminder of the stun baton strapped to her hip. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum solo against the sterile hum of the training facility.

"You call that shooting, maggot?" Her voice was a gravelly rasp, each word a tiny hammer blow to my already fractured confidence. "That blast bolt wouldn't hit a bantha broadside in a sandstorm!"

I opened my mouth to stammer out an apology, but the words wouldn't come. Harsh was a master at reducing grown men to blubbering children. Her stare alone could melt durasteel.
"You want to be a Stormtrooper, boy?" Her voice held a sardonic edge. "Well, Stormtroopers don't miss. They don't hesitate. They are the unwavering arm of the Emperor's justice!"

Shame burned my cheeks hotter than a Tatooine sunset. The other trainees, their movements precise and deadly, seemed light years ahead of me. I was a liability, a blemish on their pristine white ranks.

"Drop and give me twenty, maggot!" Harsh roared, her words echoing through the simulated cityscape. "And make them count! Twenty perfect push-ups, or I swear by the Emperor, you'll be scrubbing latrines with a toothbrush until your arms fall off!"

Gritting my teeth, I slammed my blaster onto the ground and dropped to the unforgiving metal floor. The pain lanced through my palms as I began the push-ups, each one a tiny act of rebellion against my own ineptitude. My breaths came in ragged gasps, the sterile air filling my lungs like ash.

With each agonizing push-up, a new wave of defiance surged within me. This wasn't who I was supposed to be. I wasn't built for blind obedience and mindless brutality. I was a pit fighter from Chagar. But for now, at least, I was trapped. Trapped in a white armor that felt more like a prison than a badge of honor, an honour I thought was magnificent.

As I completed the final push-up, bone-deep exhaustion clawing at me, I stole a glance at the other trainees. Their faces, hidden behind their visors, were unreadable. Were they any happier than me? Did any of them yearn for a life beyond the monotonous drudgery of Stormtrooper training?