[i]The screams of the wounded and the dying seemed to be all around him. They all seemed to call out at him, screaming his name, pleading desperately for help. Yet he couldn’t do anything. He stood where he was, his feet feeling as if they were a part of the ground that they stood on. He couldn’t make a move. He couldn’t help. And the voices begged for him to help him from every direction.

Corpses stretched as far as the eye could see. There was a vast variety of the bodies, not one exactly the same as its neighbor. There were Mon Cals and Zabraks, Bothans and of course humans, all dressed in the dark greens and greys of the Rebel Alliance. Even the uniform white armor of the Imperial Stormtroopers that were littered between the Rebel dead had variations, as some were covered in black scars from where blaster fire had burned in them, while others were missing limbs from where a thermal detonator had exploded. It was a scene of gruesome destruction, a hellish nightmare of death and pain and suffering.

Then the bodies began to move. They began to slowly stumble to their feet, their limbs stiff from the rictus mortem that had already set in. They shuffled and they limped, moving in agonizingly slow strides. As one, they rose to their feet approaching him, their arms outstretched, their eyes vacant and lifeless, their mouths open as they pleaded for him, begged for him to help them, to help, help, help, help…[/i]

	 
Orren Yar awoke with a start. Gasping for breath, he bolted into an upright sitting position and bumped his head into the ceiling that was only a few feet above his bunk. His cot was the third one, a makeshift addition to the original two in order to squeeze as many soldiers into as little a space as possible. Swearing to himself and rubbing where he had hit his head, Orren swung his feet over the side of the bed and felt himself drop to the ground, landing neatly, if a bit painfully, on the ground below. The nightmare that had been plaguing Orren’s sleep just a few moments before was already beginning to fade, only a faint feeling of disgust and helplessness remaining.

Those dreams had been finding its way into Orren’s sleep ever since Anaxes. That had been his first real battle and it had been haunting him ever since. Sure, he had fought in a number of skirmishes and engagements on Corellia, but that was mere child's play compared to what he had seen in his first engagement with the Rebel Alliance. He had never seen so much death and carnage in one spot before. Obviously, it had left its mark on him.

He had performed surprisingly well, though, despite it being his first operation and the horrifying experience that it had been. Orren had been able to gather himself even despite the overwhelming feeling of fear and disgust that had been filling through him and had been able to play his own role in the battle. He had picked off a number of bucketheads with his E-17d sniper rifle, keeping enough of them at bay to help allow the forces of Rancor company to escape. He could tell that he had earned at least a little bit of respect from his squad-mates, including his CO, Lieutenant Ves. Now, even the members of his squad that completely hated him at least knew that he had what it took to fight.

“Well, look heresssss. The little princesssss isssss finally awake.” Ssasamin Stigg, a Trandoshan and the weapons specialist of Shabuir Section, said. Unfortunately, she was one of the members of Shabuir that still hated Orren. There were very few humans in the entire Chakaar Detachment, and even less in Shabuir. Sergeant Shestu Yankem was the only other human in the section, and for some reason Ssasamin Stigg, along with the second-in-command, a Rodian by the name of Stog Bra and the demoltions expert, Sabra Toqot, a Zabrak, hated humans. Yankem at least had the luck of being with Shabuir long enough for the three to not hate him that much. Orren was not that lucky.

“Oh shut up, Ssasamin. You just woke up a minute ago.” Ta’Lani, a Twilek, said, coming to Orren’s rescue. Orren smiled to her, grateful for the support, though somewhat embarrased. Since joining Rancor Company, Ta’Lani had taken to mothering Orren almost as a child. Orren certaintly didn’t want her fighting his battles against bullies like Ssasmin. Before Orren could say anything, though, Ves, the Durese leader of Shabuir Section began to speak.

“Alright Shabuir, let’s get moving. It’s time for deployment. We got some bucketheads that need bashing in.” 

				    *****

Orren stood in the bed of the LAAT, hanging on tight to the handgrip provided from the ceiling above. The hangar crew had reassured them that the old Clone War-era ships were still in peak condition and capable of flying, yet that didn’t make Orren feel any more comfortable when the ship randomly shook violently or let out a mysterious groaning sound.

An A280 blaster rifle hung slung over his right shoulder. He was slightly upset that he had to leave his E-17d back aboard the Keep, as it would be far too close quarters aboard the Majestic for the sniper rifle to do much good. However, the comfortable feeling of his DH-17 at his hip and the knife in its sheath made Orren feel at least a little bit better.

As Orren and the rest of Chakaar Detachment flew towards their target inside of the LAAT’s, he couldn’t help but stare at the figure ahead of him. She was older than Orren by a number of years, but still not old and quite pretty. She was tall, as tall as Orren himself, and lean as well. However, it wasn’t her appearance that was the reason for him staring. It was the object that hung from her belt. It was barely visible in the dark light of the LAAT bed, yet he still knew that it was there. It seemed to have an aura to it, a presence more powerful than any simple object he had ever known. It emanated power and danger, promising that it was more than just lethal, yet it also had a symbolic presence to it, one that was reminiscent of a past, forgotten time of peace and tranquility, when the object was as much a symbol as it was a weapon. 

Orren couldn’t take his eyes off of the woman. He couldn’t believe that he was actually about to fight alongside a Jedi. His father had long ago told him stories of the Jedi, recounting the tales of those he had served alongside during the Clone Wars. He had told Orren that they were good people, dedicated to saving lives as much as taking them. He had once told Orren that they were “warriors out of necessity, not out of choice. They fought because they had to, not because they wanted to. And that, my son, is what makes a true warrior.”

Yet all his life, the Jedi had only been stories to him, mere tales of a time that had long since been lost. To not only see one with his very own eyes, but to fight alongside one? Orren simply couldn’t believe it. It represented the very reason why he was fighting. He was fighting to restore what had been lost, what had been ripped away by so many people. He was fighting to give back the lives that had been lost throughout the entire galaxy.

Orren’s silent reminiscing was suddenly brought to an end when he felt the LAAT gently set down against the hangar floor of the Majestic. The ship’s engine died, leaving the Rebels in an utter silence that seemed to consume them and stretch on forever. That silence was sudden broken by a knock along the side of the LAAT and someone outside yelling into them, their voice muffled and barely distinguishable through the heavy plating of the LAAT’s side. Orren swung the A280 over his shoulder and into his hands, priming the weapon. It was showtime.