Cutter did actually like the Empire. Or at least life in the Imperial army. It was a lot better than life back on Taris. Granted it didn’t always seem like he enjoyed it. Often at odds with superior officers he deemed too stupid and incompetent to bother obeying. During his first year with the empire he scrubbed more toilets and shower rooms that probably any other soldier in the history of the Storm trooper corps. But those officers quickly learned that if they gave him a long leash and let him out into the wilderness where interactions with him could be limited to the bare minimum, he was actually a pretty good soldier. Surprisingly loyal to the Empire, which he viewed as offering him a way out of that otherwise pointless existence he was doomed to lead. And he enjoyed doing what he did. He could actually travel and see new sights beyond the dull florescent lit under hives of the planet city he was born on. Actual vegetation and plants that were real and not fake plastoid moulds. Stone that wasn’t mass produced concrete. Pair that with a free bed, three meals a day and a reason to get up every day and actually have a purpose. It was a pretty damned good deal to him.  And the strict routine wasn’t as annoying as he assumed it would be. There was something about the regimentation that was appealing. It quickly became comfortable, reliable. He took to it better than he thought.
 
Still there were problems. Well not problems in the sense that Cutter thought they were problems. Besides. When he wasn't in the field his record was prone to swell with minor infractions. Today alone he was given two. One for not having his armour up to official, mirror polish standard (It was just going to get dirty again anyway. Besides he always made sure he got the worst off.) and the other for who knows what. Something about mild insubordination. He hardly remembered how many people he could potentially tell off on a given day. 

Right now he was off in a secluded corner of the ship. Stripping down his long blaster with a well smoked cigar in his mouth. Another thing that, strictly speaking. He wasn't allowed to do on board the ship. Hence why he chose to find a less travelled area of the ship to clean his rifle. Unlike his armour plates, his gun was meticulously cleaned and scrubbed. Not a spec of dust from the tip of the muzzle to the butt of the stock and all parts in between. One of the few things he could never be blamed for neglecting. 

The officers of his Tarisian battalion had learned to cut him and other ex-gangers a little leeway in certain situations. But as long as he was on board this super destroyer he was surrounded by literal hordes of officers who were not from his battalion and not as understanding of those troopers more unique viewpoints on academy trained fops who thought themselves hot shit because a few years of supposed 'higher education' spent in the soft confines of imperial academy well away from any front line gave them some authority. Well his service record would most likely continue to swell with infractions. 

He drew a long drag of the cigar and snuffed it out on the cargo crate he was sitting on. Tossing the remaining stub into a dark corner for the maintenance droids to sweep up later. Breathing out the smoke through his nostrils he ready-checked his weapon one last time before he decided he was satisfied it was as clean as it could possibly be. His wrist chrono beeped to remind him he had a punishment duty to fulfill from telling that lieutenant to shove his collar pips up his ass this morning. 

“Fuck me.....”