She put a hand on her blaster, not picking it up. It laid in the mud, on the dirt mixed with water. And blood. It poured, the scene changed into damp field filled with death.
Her troopers were either waddling through the mud, or gathering the wounded ones. She never approved that. If you are to weak to stand up by yourself, you shouldn’t be part of her army.
Her fingers, stained by the same dirt her blaster was laying in, slowly closed over it. She won’t be one of the left behind. She never faced ultimate failure. Her skill in surviving was keeping her on legs even if severely wounded.
If she fell, her troops would want to help her, even if this was against her own directives.
And she would refuse. Just to show them, that no one is beyond those directives. Even if she would fear dying. Even if she would later claw her way to safety and do everything to not allow her thread to break.
But today was not one of these days.
Standing up effortfully, she managed. This was difficult battle but not one to make her surrender.
One of the stormtroopers looked at her.
“Get in line soldier” she said. An impersonal voice coming from her helmet wasn’t showing any emotion.
The line was broken, but the trooper followed the others.
Not often they have seen her wounded. But they will never see her fallen. Dead.
This was her own directive. Never allow them to see you fear or feel pain.