Mistaken Identity || Star Wars Fanfic

The Plan

Alto Stratus stood in the village of Tassan, his birthplace and secret stronghold for years. The mountains surrounding the village, rich in dense minerals, scrambled sensors, making it an ideal hideout. His gaze fixed on the massive construct being built in the centre, resembling an engine. Count Dooku had informed him it was a prototype weather modification device, designed to abate the storms and ensure consistent supply and reinforcement deliveries. This was crucial for subjugating the millions of loyalists, even after the Republic's defeat.

His fingers twitched as they traced the outline of his blaster pistol. Victory was so close, with the Republic forces pushed to their last stronghold. An all-out assault would soon wipe them off the face of the planet. Yet, the thought didn't bring him pleasure or happiness. He knew why. He had traded one collar for another, and the uncertainty of whether this new master would be any better gnawed at him. All he wanted was freedom for his people.

As Alto walked through his base, he entered the medical bay. The sight of Tol Skorr, the Sith Acolyte, lying on the table as a medical droid worked on him, brought a smirk to Alto's face. Tol's lightsaber wound was being sealed, and artificial skin was grafted onto his body. "What a pathetic sight for a supposed superior Force wielder," Alto mocked, making his presence known.

Tol scowled up at him, his eyes burning with a desire to choke the life out of Alto. But he noticed Alto's hand resting on a blaster pistol, ready to fire at any sign of aggression. "What do you want, Stratus?" Tol growled.

"I want to know if you'll be healed by the time we launch our offensive," Alto replied coolly. "You aren't needed, but I don't want any more of my men being slaughtered by the Jedi than necessary."

Tol's anger simmered beneath the surface, his defeat at the hands of the Jedi still fresh in his mind. "I will be fine," he spat, his eyes burning with hatred.

Alto chuckled mockingly. "Good to hear. I'd hate for you to miss the finale of this little war."

As Alto turned to leave the tent, Tol's scowl transformed into a malicious smile. No matter the outcome of the war, this planet was doomed. The weapon Count Dooku had sent would ensure that. The thought of it brought a twisted sense of satisfaction to Tol, even in his wounded state.

Alto Stratus left the medical bay, his mind racing with thoughts of the upcoming battle. He made his way to the armoury, where Colonel Mazzi stood waiting. As Alto entered, Mazzi snapped to attention and saluted.

"Colonel," Alto acknowledged, returning the salute.

"Sir, the special requisition has arrived," Mazzi informed him, gesturing to a large, reinforced crate in the centre of the room.

Alto walked over to the crate and opened it. Inside, nestled in protective foam, were several sleek, black rifles. He reached in and lifted one out, a smile forming on his face as he admired the weapon.

The ST-250 rifle, a slugthrower, is the perfect weapon for dealing with Jedi. Unlike blasters, which Jedi could easily deflect with their lightsabers, slugthrowers fired solid projectiles that could pierce their defences. Alto felt a surge of satisfaction as he hefted the rifle, feeling its weight and balance.

"How many do we have?" Alto asked, his eyes never leaving the weapon.

"We could only get a few hundred," Mazzi replied. "There are more, but they are of much lower quality, and it's doubtful the ammunition they use would withstand the heat generated by a lightsaber."

Alto hummed thoughtfully. "No matter. There can't be more than a dozen Jedi left, most of which are children."

He tossed the rifle to Mazzi, who caught it deftly. "Try to capture some alive. I want to make an example for the whole galaxy to see," Alto said, a malicious smile spreading across his face.