Kreel: Vader's Gladiator

2: Burning Heart

Days bled into each other, a monotonous blur of hyperspace travel and hushed whispers. The news of Scarif's destruction, the Rebellion's daring raid and the Empire's ruthless retaliation, echoed through the sterile corridors of the Star Destroyer like a morbid lullaby. But for me, it was a war drum, a relentless beat fueling the fire of hatred that now burned in my gut.

1919's lifeless face haunted my dreams, a constant reminder of the price of rebellion. DT's heroic sacrifice, a desperate act against an overwhelming tide, twisted the guilt in my gut into a knot of cold resolve.  These Rebels, with their ideals and their blasters, had taken everything from me. They were the enemy, a cancer that needed to be eradicated.

Today, however, the oppressive silence was shattered. We, the ragged survivors of Scarif, a mere seven of us from a squad that once numbered a dozen, were herded into a sterile hallway aboard the Devastator. Here, bathed in the harsh fluorescent glare, we stood at attention, a testament to the tenacity, or perhaps the sheer luck, that had kept us alive.

A tall figure, his black cape billowing dramatically, emerged from the shadows. Captain Shaef Corssin, a man whose voice normally boomed with Imperial authority, seemed subdued in the presence of this imposing newcomer.

"Troopers," Corssin began, his voice tight with a strange mix of reverence and apprehension. "You are the few, the fortunate, the survivors of Scarif. You have faced the rebellion head-on and emerged, battered but unbroken."

A murmur of assent rippled through the ranks. I, however, remained silent.  Unbroken? Perhaps. But a part of me, a vital part, had been shattered on that ravaged landing platform.

Corssin cleared his throat, his gaze darting nervously towards the cloaked figure beside him. "Lord Vader himself has acknowledged your bravery. He wishes to… commend you personally."

A collective gasp escaped the troopers around me. Lord Vader, the Emperor's enforcer, a living legend whispered about in hushed tones, was here, to honor us? A flicker of something akin to pride sparked within me, quickly extinguished by the all-consuming hatred.

Vader, his mechanical breathing a constant reminder of his power, moved down the line, his gloved hand gesturing for each trooper to step forward.  One by one, they did, their faces pale with a mixture of fear and awe, their voices trembling as they stammered out their names and homeworlds.

Finally, it was my turn. I took a hesitant step forward, the weight of Vader's unseen gaze heavy upon me.

"TK-421," I rasped, my voice barely audible.
Vader tilted his head ever so slightly. "And where are you from, soldier?"

"Chagar IX," I replied, the name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

A flicker of recognition, or perhaps amusement, seemed to pass through the dark visor. "Ah, Chagar IX. A world liberated by the Empire, isn't that right?"

"Yes, Lord Vader," I affirmed, the memory of the brutal fighting pits, the senseless violence that had plagued my home before the Empire's arrival, souring my response.

Vader paused, as if considering my words. Then, in a voice that sent shivers down my spine, he spoke.

"Kreel," he rumbled, the single word not a question but a pronouncement. "From this day forward, you shall be known as Kreel."

Confusion clouded my mind. Kreel? Why the sudden change? But before I could voice my question, Vader moved on to the next trooper, leaving me with a new name and a churning sense of unease.

Kreel. A name that held no weight, no history, no connection to the life I once knew. Yet, in that sterile hallway, amidst the ghosts of fallen comrades and the specter of a ruthless war, it felt strangely fitting. This was a new beginning, a baptism of fire. I was Kreel now, a stormtrooper reborn in the ashes of Scarif. And I would serve the Empire, crush the rebellion, and fulfill the vow I had made under the burning sky of a fallen moon.