[center][h1][u]ST-417 "Saint"[/u][/h1]
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ST-417 looked at his armor as he rubbed a cleaning cloth against its hard exterior shell, purging it of any dirt and grim it may have picked up. The Emperor's finest always had to look their part for they carry his will to the galaxy; soldiers they were and so soldiers they had to look to bring justice to those foolish enough to stand against the Empire. In truth however, there were no unclean marks on ST-417's armor and never was at least in between missions. This occasion would mark the ninth time he would have done this extensive cleaning ritual where he would sit in his quarters and scrub and scrub at it for hours on end until it gleamed like polished mirror.    

Finally satisfied with this session of maintain of the chest piece, ST-417 picked up the shoulder guard that had his insignia and designation on it. With a proud finger he traced it as it looped around the letters and numbers and flared out at the ends of the wing. The trooper then reached for a marker and began to freshen up the paint on it and ensuring it was very pronounced and visible so that those who opposed the Emperor would know who shot them first.

Resting the utensil down next to him, the soldier turned his head towards the window to the outside into space. He looked at the black velvet void and its gem-like stars. So many twinkling stars each with their own gathering of systems and planets and people. ST-417 wondered how many of those planets were loyal to the Empire, he automatically assumed all of them were but there were also places just out of the reach of the glorious Empire or those despicable rulers who conspire against it.

Looking back at his shoulder guard, the trooper secured onto his soft armor and picked up the ever so iconic storm trooper helmet; an article of armor that instilled hope for those loyal subjects and fear into the treacherous rebels. With both thumbs, ST-417 followed the visor of the helmet and its brilliantly white curves in an act of pseudo-worship. Resting it upon his knees, ST-417 sat his elbows on the top of the helmet and clasped his hands together as he bowed forward in prayer:

[color=skyblue][i]"The Emperor stand vigilant and we stand eternal. 
He who has granted us so much is to be repaid with service unto death for only in death does service end. 

The Emperor strikes at those unruly and we are his blade. 
He who has shown us fortunate few the light of order will never be forgotten. 

The Emperor protects and we are his shield. 
He who has blessed us lets us live forever more as for every one of us who falls, one hundred more shall take out place.

The Emperor guides us and we are his servants.
He who has told us our most glorious fates unto greater causes for his noble Empire.

The Emperor is strong and so are his soldiers.
For we brave soldiers are the pride of his great Empire."[/i][/color]

The trooper's low and somber voice filled the empty room with lines of faith that only he knew by heart for he was the one who created them. There were few who would match his conviction to the Empire and even fewer with such loyalty as him. ST-417 took a deep breath out and closed his eyes as his hands grasped his helmet and lifted it above his head.

[color=skyblue][i]"And now I don the honorable mantle of the Stormtrooper, the Emperor's finest."[/i][/color] ST-417 slid the helmet on to his shaven head and opened his eyes to watch the internal computers flicker to life. The helmet's systems came online and ran diagnostics until it finally gave its wearer the okay sign at which point ST-417 stood up and donned his jump pack and blaster. Both of them were locked on safety as per regulations, didn't want a gun going off in the middle of a crowed hall or a jump pack exploding in an elevator.

With boots firmly planted on the ground, ST-417 snapped to attention at the nonexistent orders of an imaginary drill sergeant and shouldered his blaster. With perfect strides, the trooper walked out of his room and into the hall, watching as a line of mouse droids squeaked on by. Such small things but yet so important, truly nothing was not useful to the Emperor's cause on this ship. Turning on his heels, ST-417 began to walk towards the firing range to practice his aim. Practice makes perfect as they say. And the Emperor always demands perfection from his finest soldiers.
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