The men and women of the First Order Stormtrooper Corps are the finest soldiers known to man. Trained from birth, they are a dedicated fighting force of precision professionals capable of delivering lethal, decisive, and strategic effects to the enemy at the time and place of the Supreme Leader's choosing. These are their stories...
72 HOURS EARLIER
THE PLANET DOSUUN
#FIRSTORDERBESTORDER
The major was moving through the regimental headquarters with a purpose. Taking a sharp left, the black uniformed officer presented before the desk of a lieutenant colonel. The sound of his heels clicking together as he snapped sharply to attention echoed inside the commander's office.
Head down, the lieutenant colonel continued working at the datapad in his hand, seemingly oblivious to the major's presence. After a minute had passed, the colonel -- still not looking up -- said aloud, "The battalion hump is going to start at oh-dark-thirty."
With a curt nod of acknowledgment, the major popped off the obligatory, "Sir, yes, sir."
The light colonel paused to peruse the report in his hands. After another minute, he gave an off-handed, "Have your troops draw weapons from the armory at zero-four-hundred."
"Sir, yes, sir," the major answered shortly, before adding, "I'll have all platoons standing fast by zero-three-forty-five, sir."
If he was listening, the lieutenant colonel seemed thoroughly unimpressed. With a dismissive gesture the man said only, "Dismissed."
The click of the major's boot sole was heard as he man executed an about-face and promptly marched out of the regimental commander's office.
Stopping at the clerk's desk, the major said, "Corporal, get me Captain..."
"...Proton."
"The troops need to draw weapons at zero-three-forty-five, Captain."
The voice on the other end of the comlink was the battalion commander. Even though it was an audio-only conversation, the stormtrooper captain immediately sat up straighter in his chair.
"I expect you to make it happen."
"Roger that, sir," the captain said. The perfunctory response. Then he tacked on the seemingly obligatory, "We'll have them there at zero-three-thirty."
The call cleared. The other end having terminated the link.
Immediately, the captain was dialing up Bravo Company. "Lieutenant Jax, have your squads draw weapons at zero-three-thirty."
"Yes, sir, we'll have the troops standing by at zero-three-fifteen."
Lieutenant Jax popped his head into the platoon sergeant major's office. "Draw weapons for the ruck march at zero-three-fifteen."
"Hooah," the sergeant major belted out, sitting up at attention behind his desk as he echoed back, "Zero-three-fifteen, draw weapons,
HOOAH!"
"Hooah," Lieutenant Jax echoed, as he ducked back out.
From the desk, the sergeant major was on the comlink. "Sergeant Clutch, this is Sergeant Major," the grizzled stormtrooper uttered in a gravelly voice. "Have the troops form up outside the armory. I want muster on all your troops by zero-three-hundred."
"Hooah, Sergeant Major. Squad will be standing fast at zero-two-forty-five. Hooah?"
"Hooah."
0255 HOURS
ZENITH BASE | DOSUUN
It was
literally before three in the fething morning.
They were standing out in the gorram parking lot. In formation. Staring at the side of a fething building.
They'd
been staring at the side of the fething building for ten fething minutes now. And, judging by the way the platoon sergeants all gaggle-fethed around like not a single gorram one had a single fething gorram clue what the Hutt was supposed to be happening right now was just
one more day in this Supreme Leader's Army.
They had a 10 kilometer road march ahead of them, and
that chit didn't start for another two-and-a-half hours.
In the meantime, they were
here. In the parking lot. Staring at the side of the building.
The young lance corporal was halfway out of uniform, wearing the bottom part of his stormtrooper armor with just the black undershirt. He was disheveled and the light dusting of peach fuzz was indication that he hadn't shaved. At not-even-three-in-the-gorram-morning
the struggle was real. If he looked liked he'd only gotten about two hours of sleep, it's because it was the truth.
"This is some
bantha chit," the teen finally let slip, muttering quietly under his breath.
"Don't worry about it."
It was Snake. MN-1187, callsign Snakefist. Or just Snake, if they weren't being arseholes about it. As the fellow stormtrooper leaned slightly toward the young corporal, he offered, "We got a three day pass after this, and I got a plan."
His name was Snakefist. And he had a plan.
That chit was truly terrifying.
"...look, I met this spacer chick. She's got this ship headed out to this spot, see," Snake offered. Even before he continued any further, Three knew that he should stop him there. Tell him to get back to attention. And not even entertain the notion.
Except it wasn't even three A.M. and he was standing in a parking lot staring at the side of a building. At this point, where he was in life right now, the idea of getting the Hutt off Dosuun was a welcome enough respite that he knew he was going to accept... and he was going to regret it later.
"It's cool, man. It's cool," Snake was rambling on. "Doc's going. Chef's going. We got Clutch. We're good, man. It's
all good, baby."
NOW
LOCATION UNKNOWN
#DUDEWHERESMYFIRSTSERGEANT?
The discordant beats of bad 830's synth-pop echoed inside of the teen's head.
Grey eyes fluttered open, only to squint against the harsh light that greeted them painfully. The feeling of his stomach turning itself inside out would have made a lesser teenager vomit. Aside from which, Three had a rather bitter and distinct taste in his mouth that indicated he'd probably already done that.
And perhaps more than just once this evening.
Lifting his head up, a task which took an uncharacteristic amount of both time and effort, the young corporal surveyed the alien surroundings in which he found himself. It seemed a club of some kind. Not like a bar. A discotheque, maybe?
He wasn't really sure. He didn't really remember getting here.
About the last thing he remembered was 'pre-gaming' with a bottle of whatever Snake's friends with the light freighter had brought with them.
They'd boarded her ship and...
...and then what?
Cradling his head in his hands, the recent stormtrooper academy graduate had a variety of other things dancing through his head at the moment.
There was a very vague recollection of having been out with some of the other enlisted trainees... Had Clutch been out with them?
...and, maybe something about being expected to pick up this Umbaran chick as the group's wingman..? Had that been a thing?
All of those were really good questions. Particularly because he wasn't really into Umbaran chicks.
Bald... no. Just no.
But, as self-awareness started to trickle through the still-half-drunk hangover, the corporal was left with this as the foremost question on his mind:
Why wasn't he wearing any clothes?
