“Good soldiers follow orders.” It was the mantra Horst repeated, ad infinitum. The mantra the clones he’d watched as a boy had instilled into him. The mantra which justified the atrocities committed under his role as a purge trooper, the slaughter he’d committed. The meaningless cycle of death.
The waiting lobby was bustling in the aftermath of the battle of Atollon. Injured officers, stormtroopers, and technicians waited idly to receive medical attention. It was quieter than the emergency bay, at least, whose constant alarms rattled through the Governor’s endless corridors.
Horst anxiously adjusted his black tunic as the lights hummed above. No matter how many times he adjusted his four-tiled badge, he couldn’t set it straight. The blue bar refused to keep still, as did the shaking hand trying to correct it — a lone Officer, a Captain of a hundred men, but with only four blue tiles. Horst could still recall the names of all of those he’d lost, the four blue-striped helmets which denoted his four Lieutenants. The klaxons. The thirty-six suits of plastoid which marched in his platoon. The water. His men. The impact. The one-three-five.
His glove darted from his badge to his face, hooking the leather against the burns that scarred it. The drooling droop of his lip that wouldn’t close, exposed teeth peeking through seared jowls, the pock-ridged marks above his missing ear which refused to grow hair, the brow that never reached his temple. Gloved fingers reached upwards, trying to yank his helmet down, yet only clasped around his cap. Where was his helmet? Kriff. He needed his helmet. A frantic hand dropped to his belt, only to realise that his SE-14 was also lost. The Captain’s eyes quickly darted across the processing bay, across weary, wayward glances from fellow infirms—missing arms, legs, fingers. Non-Combatants. He’d have to protect them without the armour, without a weapon if necessary. That was his duty, after all. Good soldiers followed orders.
The Governor's Head Doctor cautiously regarded the scene before her. The name on the file was clear: Captain Horst, survivor of the Fifth Mon Cala Cruiser incident ten years prior, requiring both mental and physical evaluation before the brass could clear him for command. From the sight, she doubted a formal evaluation was necessary.
“Fear not, loyal people of the Galactic Empire!” Captain Horst stood proudly in the centre of the processing lobby, singular black glove outstretched in an affectionate gesture, “You need not fear any Separatist or rebel agents, for so long as I stand this ship shall not falter!”
Separatists? It seemed the Captain had not yet even recovered from his first crash, never mind the second, as he explained aquatic escape contingencies and barricading methods to a crowd of patients. At least his enthusiasm was easing their boredom.
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