[i]Triple Nine[/i] wasn't sitting like most of the rooks, the term "shiny" didn't really apply anymore. He was standing, arm hanging onto the railing, rifle held across his torso with it's strap and his right hand holding onto the trigger. He hated these warm planets, Ryloth had to be one of the worst. Yeah sure there weren't bugs like Geonosis or two suns like Tattooine but it was still hot. With the added fact that there would occasionally be fire storms it wasn't exactly a nice place too be, and last time he was here the separatists tried to make a monster eat him.

That didn't make the memories any better. He let go off the handle, feeling the stubble on his face. Kind of missing the beard but [i]Imperial Regulations[/i] prohibited facial hair, at least he wasn't competing for the same face anymore. Everyone was different, completely different. That was one thing he didn't like about the corps. A clone army had quick thinkers, capable of independent thinking but also of working in unison. Able to guess what the guy next to you was about to do and reacting to it. Sure there were exceptions but they often made it to arc trooper. No, the corps was disorganized. Everyone had their own agenda. He let out a sigh, though there was nothing he could do about that now.

He took a couple of magnetic strips out of his pocket and moved over to the makeshift sign that read [i]Days without incident[/i] and changed the number to an eight. He moved back to his original position, pulling his helmet over the face. Hearing it hiss slightly as it sealed. He flicked his tongue over the microphone activation stud checking it worked, and then began pulled out his pistols, giving them the once over.