Maximus Whitesun
Jan 21st, 2014, 11:39:25 AM
They were still there, both of them: the obnoxious twin suns of Tatooine that lashed the barren surface into a desolate wasteland. He found himself checking periodically, peering through the ragged drapes that hung over the sandblasted glass of his windows to watch them rise, hoping against hope that he had somehow materialised on some - any - other world while he had slept.
Once again, a miracle failed to liberate him, and a sigh heaved out from his lungs into the dry air, the almost absent humidity exploiting the brief access to his mouth to tear out what moisture it could. The air didn't have to resort to such tactics of course: every molecule of water steamed away from the surface of the skin, swirling into the atmosphere only to circulate in the hot winds until it was liberated once again by one of the moisture farms, to be consumed and then stolen all over again by and from the people foolish enough to live here.
Why a world such as this remained inhabited, Maximus Whiterun found himself at a loss to say. In antiquity, mining corporations had plundered the planet's surface for every resource they could conceivably find and extract, but a few thousand years on the ore veins had run dry, and the only thing that Tatooine seemed capable of yielding in any abundance was sand, the never-ending supply of salvage that the Jawas seemed to condense from thin air, and a soul-destroying sense of misery that nowhere else in the galaxy seemed able to replicate.
Maximus had escaped, that was the bitter truth of it. He'd lived the dream of so many young men on Tatooine, and had sailed across the stars to the Imperial Academy; embarked upon a career that was supposed to change his life. An officer with the Sandtroopers, a specialised branch of the Stormtrooper Corps was not as removed from home as he had hoped; but it was an escape, into a world where his life had purpose, and that purpose earned him respect.
It had all fallen apart though, more than a decade ago now. With the Desert Sands aboard the Devastator, he had been dragged unwillingly back to Tatooine in pursuit of an errant Senator and a set of stolen plans. Smuggled into two droids, the plans had been launched into the Dune Sea, and the Desert Sands - alongside the local garrison and Vader's own 501st - had been given the oh so simple task of retrieving them.
Find two nondescript droids somewhere on the vast surface of Tatooine. Whitesun had warned them of the nigh impossible task they faced, but listening to logic was not a skill many in the Imperial hierarchy possessed. Their failure had seen the unforgiving Vader cast the entire Desert Sands company aside, leaving them marooned alongside the local garrison for being incapable of miracles. It had caused two dangerous Jedi fugitives to slip through the Empire's hands, made the Battle of Yavin possible and set into motion the slow downfall of the Empire; and amid the casualties and collateral that their desperate efforts towards impossibility had caused was the tragic death of dear, sweet Cousin Beru.
The muscles in Whitesun's jaw bunched. They should have just glassed Tatooine from orbit and had done with it.
The ten years since had been insufferable. Substandard conditions, meagre provisions, no purpose, and no hope of relief or replacement. Many of the Sandtroopers had resigned or retired, spending every credit they had just to be anywhere but here. Some simply abandoned their posts, hiding under the slugtails of the Hutts and their ilk until they too had abandoned this rock. Others resorted to more expedient, less expensive, and fatally drastic ways of escaping damnation. An urban myth amongst the rank and file spoke of men striding out into the wastes and hurling themselves into the Pit of Carkoon as a way out; they had no idea just how close to the truth such fables were.
Where there was a will though, there was a way towards opportunity: and Maximus Whitesun had seized his. News on Tatooine was scarce, but even on this backwater word of The Treaty arrived. The threat of mutual destruction had driven the Galactic Empire out of almost half the galaxy; worlds like Tatooine and it's garrison were abandoned without a second thought. Prefects, senior administrators, and ranking officers managed to have themselves retrieved, but for most of the Imperials here involuntary redundancy had been the order of the day. There was outrage. Despair. A lack of leadership.
Opportunity.
Tugging the loose duster over his repurposed Sandtrooper armour, Commander Whiterun stopped just long enough to regard himself in the cracked mirror bolted to his walls. The combination of cloth and composite reminded him of holostills from his younger days, of Jedi Generals who mixed the armour of Clone Troopers with the robes of their Order to ready themselves for the War. Martial was the word; he summoned a small smile at the irony, before stepping out into the street.
A hot, gentle breeze meandered down the main street of Wayfar, kicking up a haze of dust that assaulted the eyes of those who hadn't learned to blink against it. Antagonised by the airflow, the hand painted sign above Whitesun's door, Marshal, creaked on it's hinges as it swung. A hand idly brushed over the hip of his duster, the glancing pressure making contact with the holstered blaster worn underneath. A flick of the wrist cast off any errant sand as Whitesun settled the fedora onto his head, the brim offering a much appreciated barrier between his eyes and the assault of the sun.
This was Wayfar, he mused, a nigh-forgotten mining town on a nigh-forgotten backwater. This was the depressed, the desperate, the devoid of anywhere else to go.
This was his town.
Once again, a miracle failed to liberate him, and a sigh heaved out from his lungs into the dry air, the almost absent humidity exploiting the brief access to his mouth to tear out what moisture it could. The air didn't have to resort to such tactics of course: every molecule of water steamed away from the surface of the skin, swirling into the atmosphere only to circulate in the hot winds until it was liberated once again by one of the moisture farms, to be consumed and then stolen all over again by and from the people foolish enough to live here.
Why a world such as this remained inhabited, Maximus Whiterun found himself at a loss to say. In antiquity, mining corporations had plundered the planet's surface for every resource they could conceivably find and extract, but a few thousand years on the ore veins had run dry, and the only thing that Tatooine seemed capable of yielding in any abundance was sand, the never-ending supply of salvage that the Jawas seemed to condense from thin air, and a soul-destroying sense of misery that nowhere else in the galaxy seemed able to replicate.
Maximus had escaped, that was the bitter truth of it. He'd lived the dream of so many young men on Tatooine, and had sailed across the stars to the Imperial Academy; embarked upon a career that was supposed to change his life. An officer with the Sandtroopers, a specialised branch of the Stormtrooper Corps was not as removed from home as he had hoped; but it was an escape, into a world where his life had purpose, and that purpose earned him respect.
It had all fallen apart though, more than a decade ago now. With the Desert Sands aboard the Devastator, he had been dragged unwillingly back to Tatooine in pursuit of an errant Senator and a set of stolen plans. Smuggled into two droids, the plans had been launched into the Dune Sea, and the Desert Sands - alongside the local garrison and Vader's own 501st - had been given the oh so simple task of retrieving them.
Find two nondescript droids somewhere on the vast surface of Tatooine. Whitesun had warned them of the nigh impossible task they faced, but listening to logic was not a skill many in the Imperial hierarchy possessed. Their failure had seen the unforgiving Vader cast the entire Desert Sands company aside, leaving them marooned alongside the local garrison for being incapable of miracles. It had caused two dangerous Jedi fugitives to slip through the Empire's hands, made the Battle of Yavin possible and set into motion the slow downfall of the Empire; and amid the casualties and collateral that their desperate efforts towards impossibility had caused was the tragic death of dear, sweet Cousin Beru.
The muscles in Whitesun's jaw bunched. They should have just glassed Tatooine from orbit and had done with it.
The ten years since had been insufferable. Substandard conditions, meagre provisions, no purpose, and no hope of relief or replacement. Many of the Sandtroopers had resigned or retired, spending every credit they had just to be anywhere but here. Some simply abandoned their posts, hiding under the slugtails of the Hutts and their ilk until they too had abandoned this rock. Others resorted to more expedient, less expensive, and fatally drastic ways of escaping damnation. An urban myth amongst the rank and file spoke of men striding out into the wastes and hurling themselves into the Pit of Carkoon as a way out; they had no idea just how close to the truth such fables were.
Where there was a will though, there was a way towards opportunity: and Maximus Whitesun had seized his. News on Tatooine was scarce, but even on this backwater word of The Treaty arrived. The threat of mutual destruction had driven the Galactic Empire out of almost half the galaxy; worlds like Tatooine and it's garrison were abandoned without a second thought. Prefects, senior administrators, and ranking officers managed to have themselves retrieved, but for most of the Imperials here involuntary redundancy had been the order of the day. There was outrage. Despair. A lack of leadership.
Opportunity.
Tugging the loose duster over his repurposed Sandtrooper armour, Commander Whiterun stopped just long enough to regard himself in the cracked mirror bolted to his walls. The combination of cloth and composite reminded him of holostills from his younger days, of Jedi Generals who mixed the armour of Clone Troopers with the robes of their Order to ready themselves for the War. Martial was the word; he summoned a small smile at the irony, before stepping out into the street.
A hot, gentle breeze meandered down the main street of Wayfar, kicking up a haze of dust that assaulted the eyes of those who hadn't learned to blink against it. Antagonised by the airflow, the hand painted sign above Whitesun's door, Marshal, creaked on it's hinges as it swung. A hand idly brushed over the hip of his duster, the glancing pressure making contact with the holstered blaster worn underneath. A flick of the wrist cast off any errant sand as Whitesun settled the fedora onto his head, the brim offering a much appreciated barrier between his eyes and the assault of the sun.
This was Wayfar, he mused, a nigh-forgotten mining town on a nigh-forgotten backwater. This was the depressed, the desperate, the devoid of anywhere else to go.
This was his town.