The mothership Imperator's Will hung in the void, a colossal, steel-clad leviathan slicing through the inky blackness of space. It was a ship of war, a symbol of the Empire's iron fist, and within its metal belly, a thousand stories played out in hushed whispers and hurried footsteps. Inside, the corridors buzzed with restless energy. Commands echoed sharply off sterile, durasteel walls. Data screens flickered endlessly with live updates, each a silent witness to the turbulent currents flowing through the galaxy. News of the Death Star's cataclysmic destruction had spread like wildfire, a conflagration of fear and uncertainty that threatened to engulf everything in its path. It was venomous, fast, chaotic, unstoppable.
But the Empire, ever the master of control and deception, tried desperately to smother it. Official channels were flooded with a torrent of carefully crafted propaganda. HoloNet broadcasts beamed across every outpost and colony, each message a calculated attempt to quell the rising tide of panic.
"The Death Star remains a beacon of Imperial might!"
"Rumors of its demise are nothing but rebel lies!"
"A terrorist hoax, fabricated to sow discord and fear!"
Lies.
JM-909, now clean and armored once more, his gear meticulously checked and rechecked, could feel the thick, suffocating tension that permeated the very air of the ship. It had been several days since his arrival aboard the Imperator's Will, days filled with endless drills, maintenance checks, and hushed conversations in the mess hall. Days where the name Obi-Wan Kenobi bounced endlessly inside his head. He could tell that the ship was in a state of high alert. Every trooper, every officer, seemed to carry the weight of the galaxy on their shoulders. Everyone knew. Even if no one dared utter the truth aloud. The destruction of Alderaan, once a distant whisper, now seemed to be a reality confirmed by those with the high ranks. But, like the death star, any information or conversation regarding it, was seen as treason.
"—Squad, form up!" the sharp, commanding voice of Captain Zank echoed through the vast hangar bay, cutting through the underlying murmur like a blade.
His new squad leader was an imposing figure. A towering man with dark skin, whose face was almost entirely obscured by a scorched, war-scarred mask that stretched from the base of his neck to his forehead. The mask was a relic of some past conflict, a testament to Zank's resilience and the brutal reality of war. Its surface was pitted and scarred, the metal discolored and twisted, hinting at the unimaginable trauma it had endured. It was a mask that spoke of pain, survival, and an unwavering commitment to duty.
Rumor had it that he had survived a direct hit from a rebel cannon during the Battle of Derra IV, years ago, a blast that should have vaporized any mortal man. He had been pulled from the wreckage, broken and burned, but somehow, impossibly, still alive. They said he survived through sheer force of will, through an indomitable spirit that refused to yield. The mask was not just a covering, it was a symbol, a reminder of his endurance. Zank was respected by his men. But also feared for his methods. He always completed his missions with an effectiveness that bordered cruelty.
"—Blade Squad, ready!" Zank bellowed, his voice amplified by the hangar's acoustics. His deep-set eyes, the only visible part of his face, scanned his soldiers with a cold, assessing gaze, as if he were measuring their worth, their readiness, their ability to survive the trials to come. "The situation on Liphtu II is… volatile. Strikes, protests, and rebel whispers are becoming something more. The mining population… is restless. And the Empire wants silence."
Liphtu II.
A forgotten world on the fringes of the Outer Rim Territories, a planet deemed valuable solely for its vast mineral wealth. It was a place of exploitation, where lives were measured in tons of ore extracted and shipped away. The entire planet was an open wound, an industrial scar on the face of the galaxy—endless tunnels, deep, gaping pits, and colossal refineries that belched smoke and pollutants into the already-choked atmosphere. The workers were born beneath the oppressive weight of the earth, toiling in the darkness, and most of them died there, their lives consumed by the relentless demands of the mining operations.
But now, they were resisting.
Commander Kheras, the commanding officer of the Imperator's Will, emerged from the bridge, a tall, imposing figure. His dark uniform was immaculate, and his long, flowing cape caught the faint breeze of the recycled air as he moved, lending him an aura of authority and power. He stopped before the assembled troopers, his gaze sweeping over them.
"—Soldiers," he began, his voice resonant and clear. "Your mission is clear: restore order to Liphtu II. This is not a slaughter, though lethal force is authorized if required. Mining operations must not stop. Any spark of rebellion… must be extinguished before it spreads." His words were deliberate, each syllable carrying the weight of command.
Nine felt it deep in his gut. This was not just another routine peacekeeping mission. This was a dirty mission. A mission shrouded in secrecy and fraught with danger. He could sense it in the air, in the tension that crackled around him like static electricity. He knew they were being sent to crush something more than just a simple rebellion, and he could feel inside his gut, something bad was to happen.
The drop transport was prepped with efficient precision. The squad boarded in silence, each trooper lost in their own thoughts, save for Zank's clipped orders and the mechanical clicks and whirs of gear straps being fastened. The silence was heavy, filled with unspoken anxieties and a shared sense of foreboding.
The descent to Liphtu II was rough. Heavy cloud cover and turbulent natural gas storms made the atmosphere thick, volatile, and treacherous. The transport shuddered and bucked as it pierced through the swirling clouds, buffeted by powerful winds and electrical discharges. From above, through the viewport, the planet looked like a wounded beast, its surface scarred by vast craters, rusting rails, and sprawling factory-cities that were blanketed in a thick layer of soot. The very air seemed to writhe with toxic fumes.
They landed in a heavily fortified security zone in Sector 4—a notorious hotspot for desertions, sabotage, and organized resistance. The zone was a grim, utilitarian place, surrounded by high walls and armed watchtowers. As the ramp of the transport hissed open, a dry, harsh wind hit them head-on, carrying with it the stench of burned metal, sweat, and an overwhelming sense of tension. It was a wind that seemed to whisper of desperation and defiance.
Zank led the way down, his black cloak billowing in the acidic wind, his movements precise and purposeful.
"—Target: Mining Administrative Center," he barked into his comm. "Confirm reports of insubordination. Contain. Interrogate. Control." Each word was a command, each sentence a mission objective.
Nine followed silently, his blaster ready, his eyes scanning every shadow, every alleyway, every rooftop. He was acutely aware of the hostile atmosphere, the palpable resentment that hung heavy in the air.
The looks they received from the gaunt faces peering out from the dilapidated buildings nearby were not like those in Mos Eisley. There was no fear here. Only raw, burning anger. Only deep-seated hunger. And something more…
Something dangerous.
Something ready to explode.