Holy stolen wifi, Batman! I'm away currently! But, given the momentous car-trips I've had the pleasure of being exposed to, I've had plenty of time to write, and write I have. This will be the first of a few going up. Wall of text warning!
Captain Ralakan Walker of the 2nd Battalion, 1st Regiment, 1st Imperial Marine Division wrestled with his cufflinks. The small, black buttons seemed to lack either the drive or the ability to slot themselves into the respective incisions on the fabric adorning his wrists, he reflected as his fingers attempted to coerce the little bastards into doing just that. A few seconds later he found purchase, and slid the first of the two renegade buttons into its accompanying hole. Moments later, the button’s sibling followed suit, and any remaining resistance crushed. Campaign ribbons and decorations came afterwards, the brightly coloured fabrics and silvery metals adorning the Miraluka’s chest contrasting sharply to the stark white of his marine dress uniform. Whilst usually loathe to allow the decorations out of their case, stopping them from carrying out their important duty of gathering dust and staying out of mind, tonight was a special occasion.
The black gloves followed soon, slotting themselves onto Ralakan’s hands with expert care. He flexed his fingers, satisfied, the gloves being an appropriately snug fit. It had been months since he’d last donned his dress whites, and yet he carried himself, and them, with an almost weary sense of quiet pride. The Miraluka briefly attempted to flatten his rebellious hair, failed, and simply placed his matching peaked white cap on top of his head. Someone had left a mirror in the Captain’s office, no doubt meaning well. Ralakan took a moment to appreciate the peace and quiet, resting astride his desk. The quiet pattering of the Kaasian rain was the only sound that met his ears, giving him a brief few minutes to collect his thoughts before his date arrived. Of course, date wasn’t necessarily the most accurate of terms, not that it had stopped his fellows from ribbing him mercilessly about it. “Putting the two of them up on a podium and allowing us mere mortals to bask in their glory. Sounds about right.” Lorraine had joked in his usual jovial-yet-sardonic fashion. Despite the deflections with humour, Ralakan was under no illusions that, as per usual, Sergeant Lorraine had been dead on. Why else would the brass have so rigidly requested their attendance?
The chickenshit continues. Ralakan thought dryly.
A knock on the door to his office roused him from his thoughts. He stood, compulsively brushing down the front of his uniform again, a thousand angry comments from veteran drill Sergeants coming back to him. “Enter.” The door swung open quietly, revealing the smartly dressed and smartly postured form of a woman. She bore the same crisp white uniform as Ralakan, adorned with a startling amount of ribbons and decoration, the various colours reflecting a different campaign or achievement. Corellia, Balmorra, Hoth, Oricon, Naval Service and Warfare, and the Crimson Glory with four spearheads, representing an instance in which this woman had been wounded in the field of combat. The bars on her breast designated her as a Captain, and her shoulder bore the gold and black Nexu of the 5th Imperial Marine regiment. However, two things drew the eyes more than any other on this particular woman’s form; the gold, black and red medallion of the Imperial Medal of Valour displayed proudly on her chest, and her piercing yet strangely warm ice-blue eyes.
She crossed her arms as the stood in the doorway, offering Ralakan a smile. “I had heard reports of a blind, ginger eskimo escaping from Hoth and shoring up in CentCom. Quite a bounty on your head. Janitors are raising all manner of cain.” Her voice was posh and proper, high-class Imperial, but warm and fraternal, familiar.
Ralakan offered her a nod, getting to his feet. “Well, you can confirm these rumours as you see fit, although I imagine the brass might get a little upset if I’m taken away by the cleaning staff before we have a chance to make our great public appearance.” Ralakan’s own Republic-based accent, acquired from growing up with all manner of lowborn scum, refugees and deserters on Dromund Fels, couldn’t have been more of a contrast. He extended his hand, which she took firmly. “Pleasure to see you again, Beth.” “You too, Stretch.”
Within minutes, the two were on a turbolift to the ground floor of the building. Outside, the festivities were getting underway for the greatest annual event held in the Empire, the Life Day parades. Partly to boost patriotism, partly to reinforce morale, and mostly as a display of power, the parades were attended by hundreds of thousands of Imperials, both civilians and military, to watch the Imperial war machine flaunt itself in full view of the galaxy, as a reminder, and indeed a promise, of the ruin it was capable of unleashing on the enemies of the Emperor. This year was to be an interesting one. With the disappearance and subsequent less-than-popular reappearance of the Emperor and general shakiness of the war effort, including numerous shake-ups across the military and government, the Ministry of War suddenly found itself in the precarious position of needing to reassure the populace that the war was still a tenable option, and that the Empire’s victory was only a short matter of time away. For the first time ever, alien personnel would be marching alongside their human counterparts, as would the Sith, leading the troops in a display of unity. Ralakan felt a pang of discontent as he descended, Captain Bethany Regus beside him.
Things are far from good out there. Between the Republic, Dread Masters, Hutts and Revanites, it’s a damned miracle any of us are even drawing breath at the end of the year. And yet the ministry continues to broadcast lies to the rest of the Empire under the banner of propaganda, all the while complaining about lack of transparency in the public. In any other scenario, it would have been farcical.
Regus, ever the empath, must have picked up on his internal griping. Or perhaps he was frowning more than usual, as was his habit nowadays. She elbowed him lightly. “Smile, Captain. You’ve got a reputation to uphold and fans to appease.” He snorted. “They’re here to see you just as much as me.” Ever since the Ministry of War had limited the doling out of Imperial Medals of Valour to one per regiment , the recipients had enjoyed, or at least been expected to enjoy, something akin to standing in the limelight of the people. Hence why those who were able to come, baring posthumous awards or other such hamperings, had been cordially “invited” to attend the proceedings.
The people need hope more than ever. Hell, they’ve been through a rough year as it is. There’s still a great deal of the population adjusting to the Alien Initiatives, accepting their service and citizenship, let alone being expected to hail them as heroes. It dawned on him that he’d referred to aliens as “them” again.
We. I’m still as much non-human as they are.After a few minutes, the turbolift’s doors opened to the rainswept streets of Kaas City, cordoned off for the parades. Ralakan was more than happy to follow Bethany’s lead, losing themselves in the vast ocean of men and women in uniform.
The fact that we could get such a turnout is impressive in itself, given the need to prioritise resources. Fighter and bomber craft swooped overhead, leaving fantastic and tantalizing firework displays in their wake. The awe-inspiring and mammoth forms of Imperial Dreadnaughts in low atmosphere dwarfed the displays, showcasing the might of Imperial production, in no due part to the millions, if not billions of slaves kept for the armaments and engineering industries. The grey behemoths coasted silently in the atmosphere, their distinctive jack-knifing front prongs visible through the thick storm clouds that covered the Imperial capital.
Perhaps more impressive was the unmistakable sound of tens of thousands of boots moving in tandem, marching and singing.(Funnily enough, similarly to the tunes of
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GD0FHEXHbc) Entire divisions of Imperial soldiers moved in an endless stream of black and red, punctuated only by the immense, lumbering forms of Hovertanks. They marched with a pride and purpose that was inspiring, flying banners and unit insignia. It was hard not to be caught in the emotion of the moment, the fervour was overwhelming. The crowds roared as the men continued to march, aircraft flying overhead. It was all wonderfully patriotic, and Ralakan was quite sure that the Minister of War would be quite pleased with the turnout. The crowd’s roars turned near hysterical when the first rank of Sith marched past, lightsabers lit and held aloft, the brilliant crimsons and reds of the blades sizzling in the rain. The dark heroes of the Empire. Saviours and conquerors both, wearing thick black robes, armour and masks, everything of the mythical stories told to children.
Ralakan followed Bethany upwards into what appeared to be a booth of sorts, specifically reserved for the use of people such as himself, strategically raised to be in full public view. Heroes of the Empire. A number of other soldiers, admirals and generals were seated already, each one of them bearing the Imperial Medal of Valour. Had it not been for the medal, it would have been a stretch of the imagination to link the men and women present. Nearly all human, but as varied as they came. Old, young, male, female, tall, short, Army, Navy, Marine, Armoured. The two Marines took a seat at the eastern extremity of the booth, watching the parade with passing interest. The final success of the move, Ralakan reflected, was the magnificent Army orchestra that the brass had assembled on a raised platform at the center of the main road. From there, speaker systems broadcast their songs of patriotism and victory to the assembled crowd.
If the boys on the line could see this… He thought, snorting quietly.
After a few minutes of polite small-talk with the other medal-bearers present about how they’d come across their medallions, what a load of bullshit this parade was and the general chickenshit of the military, Beth yawned and looked at Ralakan, who was watching the first of the Navy personnel begin their turn in the limelight, the famous First Fleet marching past. “What a way to spend life day. The Empire is one big, loving, interconnected family, I suppose. I’d still rather be off my face in a bar with the lads, though.” She joked, although Ralakan suspected her phrase held more weight than she let on. He’d know Bethany Regus since Officer Candidacy school, and the two had grown close. She had been one of the few other cadets not to vilify him on sight, recognising him as a competent, if not unsure, prospective officer. This, in itself, was odd. Coupled with the fact that she was the daughter of now Grand Moff Ilyran Regus, a known humanocentrist and a driving force behind the reversal of the Alien Initiatives, it was downright strange.
He snorted. “That’s the idea, yeah. It’s been a rough year for the Empire, but hell if I know how a parade is going to reinforce their morale. Seems to be working though.” Beth nodded, checking that her dark hair was still smartly tied in a bun with a few probing fingers. Satisfied that it was, she replied. “Victories are what the people need, but they seem to be in short supply right at the moment. Corellia was a debacle, we’ve been kicked off of Balmorra, although I suppose things are improving. Oricon and the situation with the Revanites was a joint solution, if not a temporary one, with the ‘Pubs. I suppose we needed to remind the people that we are still a capable military power in our own right.” Ralakan nodded, trailing the series of medals on her chest. She spoke about these campaigns not from stories but from experience. Corellia, the nightmare Stalingrad-esque world of close quarters fighting in rubble had been her home for nearly a year. “And that’s where we come in.” “…And that’s where we come in.” She finished. Living heroes were preferable to martyrs. The Empire was plentiful in martyrs.
The parade continued outside, even as talk had subsided within the medal holder’s booth. “…You never did tell me why you joined the Marines, Beth.” Ralakan inquired, tightening his gloves. “Didn’t I? Oh, how very forgetful of me. Going senile at 27, my word.” She chuckled. Ralakan watched her curiously. “You’re the daughter of one of the brass’s favourite commanders. You could have chosen anywhere to serve, or not at all. You definitely had safer options open to you. I guess I’m just surprised you didn’t follow in your father’s footsteps and join the Navy. With the tuition you could have had at your fingertips, despite your ability to destroy anything you touch, I’m sure you would have made a great Admiral.” Beth’s eyes trailed from him, settling upwards and outwards, looking at one of the Harrower-class Dreadnaughts in low orbit.
“Dad certainly would have liked me too. He pressed hard for it, even forced me at one point. But, you know me. I was having none of it.” She paused. “…I had been on a thousand ships throughout my childhood. Dad would often take me to the bridges and sweep his hands outwards, across the deck, and he would say “This is your birthright, dear daughter.” I would reply “The deck?” He always seemed to take some odd form of enjoyment from my childish…naivetés. He would smile to me, lean down and gesture further, to the windows, and the void of space. “No, my child. The galaxy.” All appropriately pompous, mind you, but it was never his assurances or his crews that made me look forward to my visits to those ships. It was the Marines aboard. They would always give me chocolate or some such when I visited. Often hats or helmets or jackets. And they would always smile.” Her voice softened slightly, growing distant. “Dad’s crews were like droids. Automatic, staring forward, never talking out of turn. Not them. The Marines were…alive. They would laugh and joke and cry, and now I understand why. The rifleman’s curse of mortality is a much less tepid affair than that of the Navy. They knew that every day was a new risk, every day brought new dangers and experiences and brought them closer to the brink. But by the Emperor’s grace, they made the most of what they have. They knew that their time was limited, so they lived. I didn’t want to serve with droids, Ralakan. I wanted a challenge, I wanted some freedom, but most of all, I wanted to serve with them. And now here we are, and I’m still using that story as an excuse to bum my senior NCOs out of grog.” She flashed Ralakan a sly smile and laughed. He could sense the emotion emanating from the woman. He couldn’t see them, but he could tell that her eyes were watering.
He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Certainly kicks the hell out of my story. Was your father upset?” She smiled. “Was he. He raised hell, yelling and threatening, but in the end he saw reason. I suppose he was just glad that I joined the military at all. I can make a mean sculpture, Stretch, I could have made a killing as an architect.” Ralakan laughed quietly, retracting his hand. “I’m sure.” The Marines had come and gone in the march, now it was the turn of the supply troops and rear echelon types. Beth stood, brushing herself down. “I don’t know about you, Captain, but I think I’d prefer to disappear to a cantina than sit around here for another few hours.” Ralakan also stood. “Agreed. Let’s go before we get ourselves arrested for insolence or disruption of a public event or whatever other reasons the MPs could lock us up for.” The two excused themselves, following the stairs down from the booth to re-emerge into the crowds. No-one turned to look at them, which Ralakan was grateful for. He was tired of signing autographs and being forced to peacock around in the Imperial media. The two continued on, walking through the heart of the Imperial city, making a bee-line for the Nexus Room cantina.
Within minutes they were seated at a table in one of the darkened corners of the cantina, sipping on whatever was on tap and remising on the old days. Beth leaned back in her chair, sighing. “We’re too young to be talking like this. I feel like I should have a bunch of kids running around nearby, or a nice house, or something to showcase the fact that I’ve “made it”.” “Well, with the average age of our troops, we’re basically ancient.” Ralakan replied. The average Imperial Marine was a little over 22. Life expectancy was a one in five per operation. Manpower was not a problem that the Empire faced, if it had one thing, it was reserves of patriotic young men and women ready to fight and die. Ralakan had done the maths, hoping it would bring some sort of reassurance. Beth smiled, raising her glass. “The old breed. Happy life-day, Captain Walker.” Ralakan returned the gesture, their glasses meeting with a chink. “Here’s hoping we’re around to see another.”
He decided they would be.
