The oppressive air of Liphtu II clung to everything, thick and heavy like a physical weight. Dust from the mines swirled ceaselessly, coating every surface with a fine, gritty layer. Even within the confines of the landing zone, the stench of burned fuel, scorched earth, and something else… something acrid and bitter, hung heavy in the air. Nine stood rigidly at attention with the rest of Blade Squad, his helmet sealed, filtering the harsh atmosphere into something breathable, but it could not filter out the underlying sense of dread.
Around them, chaos already simmered. The Imperial outpost was a crude, utilitarian structure, wedged haphazardly between towering mineral processors that belched black smoke and the ramshackle, prefabricated housing units that sprawled across the landscape. It was a fortress of sorts, but one built on a foundation of labor and misery. Its walls were stained with the scars of previous conflicts, a grim testament to the volatile nature of Liphtu II. Inside, a storm of nervous chatter buzzed through the air, a constant, low hum of apprehension.
The local commanding officer, a grizzled veteran named Major Trask, stood on a makeshift platform, his voice amplified by a cracked speaker system. His briefing was curt and laced with frustration. "The miners have gone rogue," Trask barked, his voice rough and weathered. "But it's worse than that. They're harboring rebel cells. We've had two convoys ambushed this week alone. The rebels are hiding among the civilians, blending in. We don't know who's innocent anymore."
Nine shifted his weight slightly, the durasteel of his armor cold against his skin. This wasn't his first riot, not by a long shot, but it was the first one since Tatooine. The memory of Mos Eisley, the whispered name "Obi-Wan Kenobi," and the unsettling realization of the Force still lingered in his mind. Zank stood next to him, an implacable presence. As always, he was silent, his scarred face hidden behind the infamous, scorched mask that had earned him the moniker "The Wraith." It was said the mask hid a terrible wound he received when a rebel cannon blew up near him during a previous battle, but he was alive, he was respected, even feared.
The squad listened intently as Trask continued, though Nine noticed a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch in the fingers of one of the younger troopers, a recruit barely out of the academy. Nervousness. Fear. Nine recognized it; he had felt the same not long ago. They were to be deployed to Sector 3, an open plaza where a large crowd of miners had gathered. The official line was that they were there for negotiations, but everyone knew it was a powder keg waiting to ignite.
As they marched towards Sector 3, the tension in the air grew palpably thicker. The streets were lined with the gaunt faces of miners, their eyes hollow and filled with a mix of resentment and desperation. They watched the Stormtroopers pass with silent, simmering rage. Some spat on the ground. Others muttered curses under their breath. The air reeked of desperation, of hard labor and lives spent toiling in the dirt.
Sector 3 opened into a wide, dusty plaza. The crowd was a sea of faces, rough and weathered by the harsh environment of Liphtu II. Miners shouted angrily, their voices rising in a discordant chorus of discontent. Some waved tools, others brandished clenched fists. Among the crowd, Nine could see women, children, and elderly individuals. The sight was unsettling. It blurred the lines, made things less clear-cut than the neat, sterile battle simulations he had run during training. The tension hung in the air like electricity before a storm, making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
Zank raised a gloved hand, signaling the squad to maintain formation. His movements were precise, economical. He never wasted a motion. Nine scanned the crowd, his pulse quickening beneath the armor. He tried to identify potential threats, to read the faces in the crowd, to distinguish the innocent from the agitators. It was an impossible task. Every face held a story of hardship, every eye held a flicker of defiance. This was not a battlefield. It was a community pushed to the brink, a community on the verge of breaking.
The "negotiations," such as they were, quickly devolved into a shouting match. A burly miner with a thick, calloused hand pointed accusingly at the Imperial representatives. "You take our lives, our labor, our sweat, and give us nothing but scraps!" he roared. "We are not slaves!"
Another voice rose from the crowd, high-pitched and shrill. "They said things would change! They promised us better! Lies! All lies!"
The Imperial negotiator, a pale, nervous bureaucrat, tried to placate the crowd, but his words were drowned out by the growing roar of discontent. The energy in the plaza shifted, becoming more volatile, more dangerous. Nine saw a woman with a gaunt face desperately trying to pull her children back, away from the edge of the crowd. He watched as an elderly man with a long, white beard shook his fist at the soldiers, his eyes blazing with fury.
Then, he saw it.
A glint of metal beneath a miner's worn coat. It was just a flash, a tiny, fleeting reflection, but it was enough.
"Blaster—!" he shouted, his voice amplified by his helmet's comm system.
The world exploded.
Blaster bolts tore through the air, crimson streaks cutting across the dusty plaza. The crowd erupted into chaos. Civilians scattered, screaming, their cries slicing through the atmosphere. The rebels revealed themselves, shedding their disguises like snakes shedding skin. They had been hiding among the crowd, waiting for the moment to strike. Return fire came from rooftops and alleyways, from makeshift barricades and hidden positions. Smoke and terror filled the square, blurring vision and sound into a disorienting mess.
Nine dropped to a knee, firing instinctively. His training kicked in, his movements becoming automatic, precise. A man crumpled, then another. He couldn't tell if they were rebels or innocent bystanders. The crowd blurred into motion, into panic. His training told him to shoot anything that moved. Something inside him rebelled, twisted with every trigger pull.
"Suppress the entire square!" Trask barked over the comms, his voice cold and uncompromising. "No survivors!"
Zank relayed the order without emotion, his voice flat and mechanical. "Wipe them all out."
No hesitation. No questions. Just orders.
Nine hesitated.
He saw a woman crawling, shielding a child with her body. He saw a man dragging a bleeding rebel toward cover. Somewhere, a miner tried to hurl a homemade explosive and was blasted mid-motion. A rebel sniper hit one of their troopers, the young one with the twitching fingers. A direct shot to the throat. His body convulsed before falling limp.
Nine clenched his jaw, forcing himself to push forward, to keep firing. He took cover behind a toppled supply cart, its contents scattered across the ground. He aimed and fired. A rebel fell. Or maybe just another miner. Then, he saw the boy. No older than ten, darting between debris, a satchel bouncing against his side. Nine zoomed in with his helmet's visor. Small, cylindrical shapes. Explosives. His finger hovered over the trigger.
A flash of red. The boy collapsed.
Nine lowered his rifle, stunned. A rebel screamed. Somewhere, a woman wailed. Time slowed, the chaos around him fading into a muffled background hum. He was a child again. A burning village. The Separatist war. Fire in the skies, droids marching through his homeworld. Ash choking the wind. He remembered hiding under the floorboards while screams echoed above. Remembered his mother's hand pressed to his mouth to keep him silent. Remembered surviving. And hating.
Is this what he'd become?
Another blast rocked the square. Someone had struck a fuel line. Flames spilled from a nearby building, licking at the sky.
"Squad Gamma, push north! Clear every building!" Trask shouted. "The rest of you—finish the plaza!"
Bodies littered the ground. Rebels. Civilians. Indistinguishable now. Blood stained the stone, pooling in dark, spreading patches. Smoke curled in the air like specters, blurring the flickering firelight. Nine stepped over a fallen woman, her eyes wide open, still staring. He didn't know if she had fought. He didn't want to know.
"Status?" Zank's voice crackled over the comms.
Nine hesitated again. "Clear. For now."
Zank gave a curt nod, then turned to lead them toward the next zone. His armor and boots were splattered red. Nine looked around the plaza. Firelight flickered on the armor of his squadmates. None of them said a word. He had followed orders. Just like always.
But the screams didn't stop in his ears.