Jon Hojkstra
no rest for the wicked
ONCE LOYAL // Issue 2
Allies: KN-967 TK-818 Thomas Barran Kroeger
Enemies: Ashley Nevermore Gress D'ran (assuming more)
Hubris.
Hubris was the only word that could encapsulate the folly of Sabine Korvan 's decision to go ahead with the uprising, when more than half of the prepared cells had been compromised by the Starbird's spooks. The ISB's reckless gambles and the Corps' unyielding obedience to their directives had woven a tapestry of disaster—we point, you shoot—no questions asked. But when the gamble's wager was due Korvan was nowhere to be seen, nor heard; it was the grunts, the men and women in white, who were to pay with their lives for her hubris.
Under the relentless gaze of a callous sun, the skies above Ziost transformed into a canvas painted with abandonment. The planetary shield had been activated. A shimmering death trap enveloping the heavens above and damning the countless stormtroopers to death. It was a massacre, much like had Ziost had been, a grim reminder of the day the GADF had turned its back on the Imperials, leaving them to die on a foreign world.
Jon's mind drifted back to that fateful day on Ziost, the memory as vivid as if it were yesterday. He had been the sole survivor of his unit, a distinction that haunted him more than honored him. The screams of his comrades, the smell of charred flesh, and the sight of a sky ablaze with betrayal were etched into his very soul. He had seen firsthand the cost of cowardice, the price of failing to do the right thing.
The right thing?
The Empire, his once great nation, had long fallen.
Whose war was this?
As the veteran stood amidst yet another foreign world, the question hammered against his mind. Was it truly his? The nation he had sworn to serve had crumbled into dust, its ideals lost to the winds of change. What loyalty did he owe to a cause that no longer existed? The Dark Empire, claiming to be the same nation he had once served, with its seductive promises of vengeance for his fallen comrades, tempted him with the names of those responsible for his unit's demise.
Kroeger's words rang in his mind:
"Men like you and me don't have much of a place in the Galaxy anymore."
But amidst the cacophony of war, with blaster fire lighting up the twilight and the ground vibrating under the impact of distant explosions, the words of his old comrade were drowned under. The battlefield, with all its chaos and carnage, had a peculiar way of simplifying the world into a dichotomy of survival and death. Surrounded by the tumult of conflict, the earlier musings were forced back into the depths of his mind, washed away by the adrenaline-fueled clarity that came with battle.
Jon Hojkstra was a survivor.
Even if it had been more of a curse rather than a blessing.
Action called, echoing the hundreds of hours of trained muscle memory to act in combat.
Without a second thought, the former stormtrooper burst into the room beyond and mowed down an Alliance forward party with an onslaught of blaster fire. A ruthless double-tap followed for the one that had survived.
"But still...the Galaxy will never lack for killers like us."
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