5: Ghost Moon

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My knuckles were white-hot around the control yoke of the repurposed Lambda-class shuttle.  The cramped cockpit buzzed with nervous energy, a stark contrast to the desolate rock of Ghost Moon looming ominously ahead.

"Still no rebel activity, Sergeant," Misty rasped from the back, her voice muffled by the thick, hooded cloak that was her trademark.  "Sensors are picking up faint energy readings, but nothing concrete."

"Keep scanning," I muttered, forcing my voice to remain steady.  Back on the Star Destroyer, Jyn and Biggs were likely neck-deep in explaining our unauthorized departure.  While trust was a luxury we couldn't afford right now, I hoped they'd understand the urgency that had propelled us into this rebellion.

"Incoming transmission, Sergeant," Mic, our resident tech whiz, announced from his station beside Aero.  "Seems to be originating from the surface of Ghost Moon."

A jolt of adrenaline shot through me. Could this be Verette? Or a trap?  "Patch it through, Mic."
A distorted voice, laced with amusement, crackled over the comms.  "Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to join the party."

It wasn't Verette.  The voice belonged to Taron, the smug rebel from Sunspot Prison.  Fury flared in my gut, hot and bitter.  This was all his doing, a masterfully orchestrated plan that had painted us as traitors and left us scrambling like fools.
"Taron," I growled, voice tight with anger.  "What's your game?"

"Oh, Sergeant Kreel," Taron chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down my spine.  "You're just a pawn in a much larger game.  And let me tell you, the Empire's about to get checkmated."

His words were cryptic, but the underlying threat was clear.  "Where's Verette?" Cav demanded, his voice gruff as ever.

Taron laughed again, a grating sound that echoed in the cramped cockpit.  "Not here, playing soldier," he replied.  "He's got bigger plans in motion.  But let's just say your little interrogation droid malfunction exposed a little more than you bargained for."

He was right. The droid malfunction, a setup from the beginning.  A wave of shame washed over me.  We'd been played, manipulated like puppets on a string.

"What do you want, Taron?" Cav's voice cut through my internal turmoil.

"Just a little chaos, Sergeant," Taron replied.  "A little disruption to distract the Empire while the real play unfolds elsewhere.  Consider it a parting gift."

The transmission abruptly ended, leaving us hanging in a tense silence.  Ghost Moon, once a desolate rock on the galactic map, now loomed as a symbol of our failure, a testament to Taron's cunning.

"So, what now, Kreel?" Aero asked, his voice devoid of its usual bravado.

I looked around at the faces of my squad, each etched with a mix of anger, frustration, and a flicker of fear.  We were rogue troopers, branded as traitors by the Empire we swore to serve.  But backing down wasn't an option.  Not now.

"We find Verette," I said, my voice firmer than I felt.  "We find out what his real plan is, and we stop it.  Even if it means going rogue all the way."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the cramped cockpit.  Shrap, our resident pyromaniac (though he preferred the term "strategic incendiary specialist"), cracked his knuckles with a manic grin.  Misty adjusted her cloak, her eyes glinting with a steely resolve.  Zuke, his massive frame dwarfing the gunner's seat, simply grunted in agreement.

We were SCAR Squadron, a band of misfits now branded as rebels.  But we had each other, our skills, and a newfound determination to carve our own path in this chaotic galaxy.  Ghost Moon may have been a dead end, but it wouldn't be our last stop.

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