Kreel: Vader's Gladiator

4: Sunspot Prison

A new chapter in my service to the Empire had begun.  Sergeant Kreel, of the elite SCAR Squadron no less.  The weight of the promotion settled heavily on my shoulders, a mix of pride and apprehension.

The briefing room buzzed with activity as I entered.  Zuke, my gruff yet dependable squadmate, glanced up from a datapad, a sardonic grin splitting his heavily tattooed face.  "Took your long enough, Kreel," he drawled, his voice thick with Corellian drawl.  "Heard you were having tea with the big man himself."

"More like a performance review," I muttered, tossing the datapad with the mission briefing onto the table.  The rest of the squad – Jyn, the sardonic slicer with a nose ring that glittered like a captured star, and Biggs, the ever-optimistic demolitions expert with a wild mop of brown hair – were already gathered around a holographic display.  It flickered with the image of Sunspot Prison, a desolate asteroid carved into a labyrinthine detention facility, pulsing with a sickly yellow glow. A red marker blinked on the map, pinpointing a specific cell block.

"Alright, listen up, maggots!" a voice boomed.  Lieutenant Ronan, our usual squad leader, entered the room, his face grim.  "New mission.  Rebel sympathizer, Kolar Ludd, has been MIA since the recent prison riot at Sunspot.  Intel suggests he's still on the station, planning something.  We're going in, retrieving him for interrogation, and making sure he spills his sorry guts before extraction."

A low murmur of discontent rippled through the squad.  Retrieving "trash" like escaped prisoners wasn't exactly the high-stakes operation SCAR Squadron was known for.  But me? fueled by the lingering power of Vader's words, felt a spark of grim purpose ignite within him.  This was his chance to prove myself, to wield the lightsaber hilt not as a symbol, but as a tool of the Empire's ruthless efficiency.

"Target neutralized," I said, his voice surprisingly steady for a recent inductee.  "No unnecessary casualties."

Lieutenant Ronan grunted in approval, his gaze lingering on the green glow emanating from my hand.  "You sure about that, rookie?  These rebels get… desperate when cornered."
I met his gaze, the memory of Vader's respirator rasping in his mind.  "We'll be ready, Lieutenant."

The mission briefing continued, the details of the infiltration and exfiltration plan unfolding.  Zuke rolled his eyes, muttering about "glorified guard duty."  Jyn tapped away on her datapad, likely planning some way to breach the prison's security grid.  Biggs, ever the optimist, sketched demolition charges on a spare datapad, whistling a jaunty tune. I listened intently, his mind already calculating the most efficient way to complete the mission, the weight of the lightsaber hilt a constant reminder of his new purpose.

As the briefing ended, and the squad prepared for deployment, I found himself alone with Zuke.  His old friend's gaze was uncharacteristically serious.

"New promotion, huh?" Zuke said, his voice low.  "Heard whispers about your little chat with Vader.  Don't let it get to your head, Kreel.  We're a team out there.  And that fancy glowstick you're carrying?  It ain't gonna save you if things go south."

I stared at the hilt, his fingers tightening around the worn metal.  "I know, Zuke," I said finally.  "But maybe… maybe it's a symbol of what we can achieve.  For the Empire."

Zuke snorted, a flicker of something resembling respect in his eyes.  "Just don't get yourself killed showing off, rookie."

I smiled, a grim echo of the optimism he saw in Biggs.  "Wouldn't dream of it."

The hiss of the ignited lightsaber filled my ears, drowning out the nervous gasps from the stormtroopers behind us. The crimson blade cast an eerie glow on the grimy walls, revealing chipped paint and hastily scrawled messages. The smell of ozone filled my nostrils, a metallic tang that sent a jolt of anticipation through me.
Jyn let out a triumphant whoop. "Security grid's down! Free passage to Cell Block C."