Hi everyone. I'm already finding this character a bit limited and was thinking of making a new one. I have two ideas, one for an ageing clone struggling to come to terms with the fact that he has done nothing but soldiering for his life. The other for a young failed conman, with a quick tongue and quicker feet.
I felt like doing a short story about the background of each of them, i'm eager to hear any opinions on which one I should flesh out!
Story AClone . . . . . . . Old Clone . . . . . . . Stupid Old Clone . . . . . . .The old man sat waiting for the simulation grid to be prepared for his run. His right hand slid under the armor plate and massaged his left shoulder. The shrapnel wound from a Devaron campaign many years ago still ached from time to time, even more so than the rest of his dilapidated body. Looking around him at his fellow examinees, he sighed to himself.
Children; all of them.“Drudge” had been one of the last pure Fett clones created, but with his accelerated growth he was the equivalent of somewhere in the late forties or early fifties. His kind had once been the greatest fighting force the galaxy had ever seen, but that had been a long time ago. There were few of his kind left these days and even fewer in active service.
A warning light signalled that the time was nearly upon them. In the small briefing room the trainees around him got to their feet and started checking their weapons and each others armor. Drudge got to his feet and reached out in a slow, deliberate stretch before putting his helmet on.
The last imperial faction he had been fighting with had imploded a few months previously and he had found himself a free agent. It had been an uncomfortable time for a clone whose ID code was as genetically imprinted on his consciousness as it was on his arm. As soon as an opportunity had presented itself he had signed on with another imperial force, this time the Vast Empire. Instinctively checking his rifle over in a moment he realised he only knew
this. The armor on his shoulders, the rifle in his arms; it was everything to him.
They hadn’t forced him to go through training again, but he had been signed up to a live fire exercise and told – in no uncertain terms – that he would join their ranks at the bottom rung. He had not been created a Clone Commander, or even a squad leader, ARC trooper or commando. Grunt - that was all he was, born and bred. All he could ever be.
Aging joints creaked as he cocked his head to each side. He recalled the training officers treatment of him as he had entered the facility. The young, snot nosed officer had sneered at him incredulously and waved him past. The older drill sergeant had attempted to be more reassuring:
“Don’t worry. I’ve worked with your model before. Best damn soldiers I served beside, this’ll be a cake walk for you,” He knew the sergeant was trying to be nice, but still the comment rankled. A model, that was all he was considered. In his younger days he had considered relatively little in the time between battles, these days he wondered if all he would amount to was a brief spell of soldiering and a swift death. No one would even remember his serial code.
With a buzz the door slid open, the others rushed forwards, some of them shouting motivational cheers and cries. The wide open chamber was supposed to mirror a devastated urban battlefield, obvious pieces of cover strewn around the floor. He struggled to keep pace with the recruits, but as they rushed for the nearest cover he took in the view ahead. On the far side a chamber of droids was opened and they marched forwards, he considered the intervening terrain, possible approach paths and firing arcs.
Live blaster bolts and stun bolts from the recruit and droid blasters respectively flew over head. Drudge crouched behind a three foot high wall with a pair of recruits.
“On three. One, two, three!” the soldiers popped from behind cover. Drudge let loose with a burst of fire that forced one group of droids back into cover and quickly retrained his aim to take out an approaching droid on the other side. Dropping back behind cover, he realised on of the others was a bit over enthusiastic. Sweeping his legs, he dropped the recruit to the floor as a hail of return fire hammered their cover.
“Watch your head lad,” he offered.
The sim carried on for a while longer, eventually reaching a stalemate in the centre of the field. The old clone took a moment to take in the scene once again, carefully noting the movements of the droids opposing them.
“We need to spread out!” he shouted. No response. “They’re moving to catch us in a cross fire.” Again, no response. They didn’t want to hear what the old man had to say. With a swear under his breath he broke cover and dashed to their left, rolling as some droids took aim in his direction, belaying how spry he was for his age. From his new position he laid down a barrage of fire that halted the advance of one half of the droid pincer movement.
Realising the effect one of the recruits rushed to join him, but was clipped by a stun bolt on his way. Without a thought drudge rushed back into the open. Strong hands grasped the recruit’s chest plate and hefted him upwards.
“Move your damn legs,” he shouted. When back in cover he left the recruit to whinge over his shocked arm whilst he carried on laying down fire. A few minutes later and the simulation would be over.
“Impressive stuff,” smiled the drill sergeant after it was all over. He nudged the officer to his side.
“Indeed,” he added.
“I think you might have a lot more fighting left than anyone expected, have you heard of the SCOPE program?”
Story B (didnt have time to quite finish)
“Of course, nothing but the finest for such a distinguished client,” he flattered. The client in question was the fearsome leader of the local protection racket. His spoke little and his eyes seemed to stare widely at everything, making every expression seem more intense. The client was carefully examining a high tech sullustan blaster carbine, one of apparently many in crates around the floor.
“The price is too good,” the gangster replied, passing the rifle to an underling. He crossed his arms and looked hard at the tall and slender youth in front of him.
“I was hoping to set up a more
permanent arrangement. A good initial discount in exchange for further business,” Dicer smiled, the tone of his voice ever smooth, his relaxed stance disarming. Beneath the façade he silently berated himself, he hadn’t meant to undercharge. The good were of course, for the most part, fake. A handful of real product in amongst a shipment of defective knock offs he had picked up for nearly nothing. Just another con for the young man who followed a line of opportunities his luck and charm led him to.
“We will take these, at twenty percent less than you asked. No promises of further business – but, if you come across anything else you come and see me first,”
Dicer made a clearly mock gesture of being offender. “Come on now, you can’t have me making a loss and not even promise further business,”
“I tell you what little man,” the gang leader proclaimed in his thick accent. “Why don’t you stop talking and make another offer,”
“Ten percent off the original price and you can take them right now,” Dicer replied, his gaze hardening, his tone more blunt. He had to seal this deal now and split.
“Done,” the tall and slender youth took the payment from another underling, turned on his heals and headed away from the group. The gangs thugs were all around the disused warehouse, some on the walkways above, most on the ground looking through the cases containing their latest acquisition. Dicer was careful to maintain his pace, his feet wanted to move quicker, but he knew he had to appear calm.
“Wait!” came a shout from behind him. “What’s this??”
“Here we go . . . again” The kid sighed under his breath. He held his position and carefully moved the back containing the credits onto his back, freeing up his arms. He slowly turned to see one of the gang members regarding one of the fake models, shaking it in frustration.
“Bring those credits back here. Now.”
“What seems to be the problem?” he called back across the warehouse floor, checking out the number of men around him and the nearest exits.
“These,” the gang leader shouted, angry veins popping out on his bald head “Are fakes!”
“That is a shame. A shame you had to check the damn crates,” Dicer barely finished the sentence as he burst into action. He drew a pair of blaster pistols and fired shots across the hall, scattering the men. The athletic youth was well used to running, legs pumped as he covered the floor to the nearest cover. Blaster fire started to come his way as he reached what used to be the office section of the old warehouse. There was a scream as he hit the gangster on the walk way above him before he dived through a half smashed window. He rolled across the crushed glass on the other side and continued his wild flight.
