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Löptr: Forget it
"Inspire security in your people as fear in your rival. To your country as to all its values you will forever remain loyal. Help your neighbor and watch over justice. For peace and life you will go to the torture. Under your wing one day good will triumph. But in the disastrous return of vice you will be there. And when death strikes you in the heart you will die patriotic. For you will have done your duty and saved your beautiful Republic."
- Currency of Chaos -
[An 4 ATC / -3649 BBY]
Letter to General Elin Garza
Senate of the Republic
Coruscan
General Garza,
I write to you today in the grip of deep desolation. As you may know, I am the delegate in charge of order outside the ranks at Camp Élibor. My job, in addition to my Military Academic Training, is to monitor, report and sometimes intervene in the event of excess behavior of my colleagues. Ordinarily I do not have to write a report concerning a particular event or comrade - I know that is taken care of by the higher ranks - but the recent episodes and the almost total absence of procedure compel me to act in person.
The subject of this action request concerns a recent recruit. Serial number 59916072, private named Barvat, Jenth-2 class, admitted to training last year. Since her arrival in our ranks, this young mirialan has repeatedly proven the instability of her character. His impulsive, violent and generally unpleasant behavior is the source of many incidents on a monthly if not weekly basis. Regular fights, name-calling, and disrespect for higher authority are just the warning signs of a bad soldier in our great Army. Just last week, she was responsible for a serious altercation with a classmate in the dining hall. Management claims self-defense after the comrade gave "a smack on Barvat's posterior," but still... he emerged with second-degree oil burns on his face.
With this soldier in our ranks, we are headed for disaster. This is why, General, I ask for reparation. I don't know how such a specimen managed to escape the consequences of his actions (corruption, bribery or connections), but if nothing is done for his imminent dismissal, I fear that this letter will duce act as a letter of resignation from me.
Good for you,
Private 1st Class Aric Jorgan (CFSSR-VI)
[An 10 ATC / -3643 BBY]
It is said that the speed of an Empire shell fragment is 1400 meters per second. In other words, the shrapnel has time to shred our mouths four times before the detonation bursts our eardrums. We die like idiots, without even understanding why. Training may help, skills, muscles, tactics… but in times like these… you can only count on luck. Running between the craters of a hole like Ord Mantell is just plain stupid. It's playing nikto roulette. The Sepulchral Lottery.
" …Sixty seconds… »
Here we go. There's the mower's timer again… Shit, in a minute, at least one of them is going to die. It won't be me. But one day it might.
The walls are shaking too. The lights panic. Already we can hear the screaming and crying outside. What a real ghost train. Some pray, others did this morning. Frankly, what do they expect ? We're not jedi. We're not protected by their gadgets and their bullshit beliefs. Here we fart very high, and we die with our mouths open. If for that they pay us must say.
" …Fifty seconds… »
Fuck…
We are 25 in the back of this infernal machine. Tonight we'll be little 5. And again, I'm optimistic. And here is Skagar who loses his means. No but look at it. He taps his foot, he's shaking like a vibroblade, he's already out of breath with panic. He was much prouder in hyperspace. Now all he hopes is that he'll be the only survivor in the end, so no one can tell that he wet his armor before he even got out. Tsss… he may have put on a diaper. I'm sure he's thought about it. All that bullshit up there was to reassure himself. He's a far-sighted guy. Wouldn't be here otherwise.
" …Forty seconds… »
Damn the amount of ammo we have to lug around, it's crazy. The droids are going to target the freight elevator, that's for sure, it's slow like my grandma. And how much is it, 600 meters ? It's really going to rain death. 12 caissons, 3 machine guns and 10 mines on a flying plow. The slightest bad bump and boom. You're only talking about mounds, there are more craters here than on an asteroid in Thrugii.
Ah… look… The boxes come from us, it seems. Above it is marked roughly "REGIMENT D - CAMP ÉLIBOR". Glad it's all over. I was what… 18 years old when I enlisted ? It's been 7 years already ? And I'm still there… Guess I need it. Need to kill... Nah, need for violence. To destroy, to let off steam, to smash my head. Chu-ta, I'm really waiting for this next delivery of Ellein'ï.
" …Thirty… »
…REGIMENT D - CAMP ÉLIBOR… …D - CAMP É… …Get out… Damn even the ammunition tells us to get the hell out.
Come on my beautiful, you're going to have fun today. Guys are all wrong. Size matters… Say you're heavy… Six, seven, eight full cartridges. OK. We're going to make a killing.
Tsk. That's it, here I am talking to my weapon now. Like the other crazy... Not even in a dream, don't think about it, forget about it... not here.
" …Twenty… »
Hmm… Stuff really doesn't matter much in life. Without the Braise I would never have been able to meet this moron. Without this job, I would never have had the Braise. Without Zora, I would never have had this job… And with the other moron, bah I forget Zora… For a while…
Better and better, I'm in psycho-philo mode today…
" …Eighteen… »
" Inspire security in your people as fear in your rival !… »
Damn no ! Here they are again who start yelling in heart… serious there… Blah blah blah fair, blah blah blah justice... What do they know about justice ?
I am who I am. Life does what it has to do, and with me it didn't know what to do. Tsk…Justice. Born in the mud, stay in the mud. Between the exploded father and the alcoholic mother, you speak, I was spoiled. Nah, it's not Balmorra, it's not Alderaan, or even the vinasse... It's all because of her. Her and the whole fucking class that followed her. And this professor Munn who did nothing and left. I thought I was going to die that day. At the time, or after, with all the blows in the stomach that I gave myself. But after that, never again. Before I lived as I could, since then I survive without ever dying...
Zorah…
" …Fifteen… »
" …And when death strikes you in the heart you will die patriotic !… »
Ugh... Please... I heard the Empire was serving the same bullshit. Better written I hope. They all piss me off. Hypocrites, liars, cowards, corrupt to the core. And I'm not even talking about racism. Well, it's always better than the enemy... Sometimes I wonder.
" …Ten… »
Good. Come on, we're ready. My armor, I have. Stretching is good… I have my “Five Creshs” ?... Canon, check. Knife, check. Balls, check. Messy hair, check. Shitty comrades… check. Tsk… No, but look at them, I swear. And it's you bunch of chickens that I'm supposed to cover ? Wha... They got some... We got grenades ??
" …A… »
Oh and then shit !
-------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- ----------------
----------------------SPECIAL-FORCES-REPORT--------------------- -MISSION-ESCORT---------------------DATE-:-30-05-10-ATC-------------- -------------------------------------------------- -------------------------
FOR-ATTENTION-OF-:-ELIN-GARZA-----------------------------/------- -----------------------CC-:-DORIAN-JANARUS
TRANSMITTER-:-CAPITAINE-DUCOURNAU--------------- -----------------------------------
SYSTEM-:-ORD-MANTEL------------------------------------------- ------------------OBJECT-:-MISSION-REPORT
-------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- --------
NOTE-:- Drama : the mission is a resounding success, and we owe the victory to the exceptional fierceness of our soldiers. However, please remind your Mirialan units to wait for the dropship door to open before starting to fire bursts.
-------------------------------------------------ASSIGNMENT -=-SUCCESS----------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------- END-OF-REPORT---------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- --------
[An 11 ATC / -3642 BBY]
His world is burning. He chokes her with his black smoke and roasts her like a shatual in an oven. The air, like a beast encircled by the flames of hell, stings, claws and snatches, before dying forever consumed. The floor, the walls, the furniture, the slightest aspect still visible begins to glow and whiten under the heat, retracting on itself, struck down by the wrath of the golden pyre. Everything is falling apart, little by little. His world is burning, but this time it's not Balmorra. This time, it's really her home.
In the middle of the furnace, as the last panicked customers rush outside to extinguish their immolated coats, Löptr Barvat, sergeant of the Republic by day and cantina manager by night, searches for a way out. At his side, a young child with purple skin and yellow eyes. She looks for her father in the middle of the fire, but it is already too late. The mirialan grabs her by the arm, and zigzags to reach the stairs. She tries to reassure the child, to talk to him, but the little alien is not talkative : its language is based on smells. And here, all olfactory connection perishes. Not even the strongest alcohols, spreading the rash on the bar, spread any scent. She is as foreign to this world as her savior is outside.
The ground is muddy, the ceiling is collapsing, and the 26-year-old is now carrying the child over her shoulder like a common potato sack. She climbs the stairs, three by three, breaks down the door and heads straight for the exit before the loud roar of an explosion echoes beneath her feet, one floor below. The Ember is dying.
Barely outside, the purple-skinned mother picks up her child, panicked, barely looking at her heroic savior. But then another nightmarish sound rips the sergeant's eardrums. Another victim is trapped by the flames. Quick, there she is again flying like an arrow, hair in the wind and face full of soot, straight into the mouth of the demon. It's his job after all. Nope ?
Amid the searing chaos, Löptr loses his bearings. Trusting only her hearing and her instincts, she tries to find the poor lost soul among the fiery harpies. She calls, she screams, but cannot distinguish where these cries come from, at the same time tearful, dolent, but also ghostly and lulling.
She closes her eyes, draws on what remains of her serenity, and concentrates...
A glass shatters, a beam crackles, a pipe explodes... a body burns... a speeder melts... bottles boil... But this cry... this cry, terrified... comes from...
His personal quarters… his bedroom !
Without another thought, Löptr leaps towards the automatic door, which is already gone, and finds himself in the middle of a hellish vision of his apartments. Here, it's worse than anything. She feels that if she stays a few seconds too long, her skin will cook, her hair will catch fire, her eyes will melt. She no longer recognizes her room. The bed is a bonfire, his table a grill, even the large bay window sags in the heat. The black poison smoke disturbs his eyesight, and irritates his lungs. She blocks her mouth with her arm, and steps carefully into the cage of fire.
Nobody…
At the center of the hell ride, the little green woman can't find anyone to save. a hallucination ? an auditory mirage ? Or maybe she just went crazy ? And this is where her madness led her. Towards a death in flames and oblivion.
The stove collapses part of the roof, the lamps on the ceiling explode and spit out deadly sparks, the window is nothing more than a flaming mouth leading to the void. Everything is falling apart, little by little. It's the end of the Ember. Her world is burning, and she can't help it.
And then… it's a trickle of cold sweat running down his back. A shiver of horror, like a spider with frosted metal legs, chills his blood and bristles what remains of hair on his skin. Sometimes the presence of a tenebrous creature is enough to paralyze a soul lost in its phobia... But sometimes, it is the void, the absence of a habitual presence, which swallows everything safely forever, to replace it with anguish. the most absolute. Slowly, very, very slowly, Löptr turns his head to his right…and freezes in mournful dread.
On its wall, the large block of carbonite, displayed there for years, is empty. It only exposes a carbon hollow, marrying the silhouette of the monster, absent from its cage, liberated by the extreme temperature.
" Baaaaaaaaat… », then hums the voice of a ghost, reflecting its echo on all the walls of the room.
" Nope !... N-no !... thinks Löptr, shaking his head between his hands. " You died... I killed you... she repeats to herself again and again, as the room begins to suffocate her with its black soot and dark anguish. She can't forget that. Everything is falling apart, little by little. His mind is collapsing. Her trauma takes a bite out of her. There is nothing left.
That's when she petrifies. She can't move, and feels that cold little point of contact. This tiny little intruder, in her lower back, cold and hard, which is inside her, and devours her from the inside.
It stings…
She may scream. No sound comes out of his throat, because there is nothing to say. No move is possible, for the charred legs of damned spirits hold her back, ascending from the ground. She looks up at the ceiling, but something runs down her right eye, from her forehead. Something warm, thick. Something red.
" You like it… schutta ? », then whispers the voice of the corpse in the hollow of his ear.
The icy steel blade cuts through his body, shatters his organs, and pierces his stomach. Slowly, the mirialan lets herself fall backwards, attracted by the thousand demonic arms, her eyes wide open.
Everything collapses, all of a sudden. Löptr finally opens his panicked eyes, and wakes up in a flash, panting, sweating, from the worst night of his life.
[An 3 ATC / -3650 BBY]
Test n°1 – Jenth-1 class – Camp Élibor
Registration number : 59916072
NAME : Barvat
First name : Löptr
Date : get over it
================================================ ================================================ ========
FINAL NOTE : 13% CLASS AVERAGE : 92%
APPRECIATION : No knowledge, no respect, this behavior deserves final dismissal. You are an insult to the Armed Forces of the Republic. Forget it, your career, here or elsewhere, will lead nowhere. Go home, we have better things to do.
> REPORT !
================================================ ================================================ ========
I/ Quote the Motto of Chaos, and explain why its principles are dear to you.
Security for the republic, fear for the enemy. Help others, … justice. Suffer for peace and live the good, fuck the evil… Die for your repu, die. You have nothing better to do (basically).
and the principles I don't care, it's the salary that is dear to me. I have my own principles and I imagine that saving the innocent I know how to do so that suits everyone.
II/ Why the imperial enemy must be stopped at all costs ?
The empire is cruel, ruthless, ruled by terror, doesn't care about its people, and doesn't accept failure. His principles are the opposite of yours and they worship a sleazy guy no one knows. These are sufficient reasons.
III/ In what way did the visit to the Senate Museum mark you ?
I dried.
IV/ Situations types:
You are twenty minutes from the camp. A grenade seriously wounds a civilian and a comrade. You can only take one with you at a time, and you are on your own. What are you doing ?
It depends on the comrade, the type of injury, my equipment, the civilian. A kid against that badger Tozier, I'll take the kid. An obese, obsessed drunk like those on Alderaan against a military medic, I get the medic out of there and he can heal himself on the way.
An Imperial General takes one of your partners hostage and wants to negotiate. You're armed, and no one seems to be around. What are you doing ?
I take it down.
Your squad suddenly notices a grenade on the ground. What are you doing ?
I shoot in (if I have time what). Nobody will intend to lie on it if that's what you think, bullshit.
V/ MCQ (color the correct box):
1) Who was Supreme Chancellor before Paran Am-Ris ?
□ Vocatara ■ Berooken □ Contispex II
2) Who is the current Coruscant Sector Senator? ?
■ Vanara Kayl □ Satele Shan □ Beregat Fattum
3) In what year was the Senate of Coruscant erected? ?
□ -343 ATC □ -352 ATC □ -23 ATC ■ -143 ATC
4) In what year did the Sith Empire resurface? ?
□ -22 ATC □ -27 ATC ■ -26 ATC □ -28 ATC
5) In what year did the Battle of Bothawui take place? ?
□ -17 ATC □ -18 ATC □ -19 ATC ■ -20 ATC
6) How many Republic soldiers fell at the Battle of Bomodon ?
□ 20 000 ■ 25 000 □ 30 000 □ 50 000
Seriously, what's the point of knowing all THAT? ??
7) How many civilian casualties are to be deplored per year on Balmorra?
□ 160 000 □ 500 000 □ 900 000 □ 1,000 000
8) Who are responsible for the Blockade and the Battle of Devaron ?
■ The Mandalorians ■ The Sith ■ The Hutts
9) Who momentarily repelled the Sith Empire at the Battle of Kaikielius in -27 ATC?
□ General Forrg □ Captain Gumell □ Lieutenant Dan
10) Which article of the Treaty of Coruscant talking about the 7 systems ceded to the Empire?
□ Section 8 □ Section 12 □ Section 15 □ Section 18
11) Which paragraph is it? ?
□ From paragraph 9 □ From paragraph 11 □ From paragraph 13
Bunch of psychopaths !
12) Who ̶n̶'̶a̶ ̶j̶a̶m̶a̶i̶s̶ ̶s̶i̶g̶n̶é̶ ̶l̶e̶ ̶T̶r̶a̶i̶t̶é̶ ̶d̶e̶ ̶C̶o̶r̶u̶s̶c̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶?̶ gets pissed off ? ■ Me
□ Paran Am-Ris □ Dar’Nala □ Satele Shan □ Ven Zallow
[An 4 ATC / -3649 BBY]
Letter to Private 1st Class Aric Jorgan (CFSSR-VI)
Camp Elibor
Coruscan
Dear Jorgan,
I received your letter. First, let me compliment you on your participation as overseer of the non-ranking order. We are in great need of dedicated people like you, and volunteers for this kind of volunteering in the camps are rare among academic recruits. Congratulations also on your increased results, especially in ranged shooting. I see you becoming a big man, maybe in our snipers ?
However, with regard to Private Barvat, I cannot accede to your dismissal request. I wouldn't condone the resignation of a model as exemplary as you either, but you are free to choose. I also assure you that no bribe has been paid as far as she is concerned.
You see, I have been following this child since she entered the camp, and although reports concerning her do not fill my mailbox each month, I have made the decision to forfeit her judgment as long as it remains possible under my jurisdiction. Without being able to detail his record, I can tell you that Barvat did not have an easy childhood. A series of traumas from an early age, ultimately leading to an early termination of his school years, forged much more than a bad temper in this mirialan. However, over time, I have the firm conviction that her integration into our Army will be a second chance for her. I think I can channel this need for violence into a force for the good of our Republic.
It's a dangerous bet, yes. Unfair, maybe good. But I have faith in this child, so I take personal responsibility for it. Have no fear, if she deviates too much and my idea turns out to be a dead end, an impartial judgment will then be applied to her, and I will invite you to testify against her or against myself in court-martial if that pleases you. In the meantime, I can't recommend enough that you give him space, accompany him in his training like a good comrade, and try to forgive him, when you feel able.
Good for you,
General Elin Garza
[An 8 ATC / -3645 BBY]
The alarm is ringing.
Why did she have to ring ? Why did the world have to exist again, again ? Why couldn't she just keep her eyes closed, her hands crossed over her chest, and never wake up ?
But no. Here she is getting up. No more naps at the end of the day. She will catch up on her sleep in the following century. It stretches and creaks like an old branch. Even his neck threatens to grind his cervical nerves in his nodding. The war may have ravaged the bodies before and the minds after, for her, it was rather the opposite.
She walks slowly and awkwardly towards her personal coffee machine. Black, without sugar, without milk, without pleasure. Hair disheveled, tangled, still strewn with ashes from the battle the day before. She switches off her "pyrocumulampe", a desk lamp, orange, in the shape of an explosive mushroom, and goes out, kicking a leaf of one of the palm trees, already dead for ages, that guards the exit of the room.
First the lights. When she turns on the giant, multiple yellow lamps in the huge gold and bronze palace, she quickly lowers her head, and closes her eyelids, cursing. It's enough to make a kaminoan blind, at least according to her. At the same time, she is on the moon of a thousand lights. Even on the other side of the window, neon lights, billboards and all kinds of headlights make the city glow in the mauve night. Yes. Next time she will choose a cave.
Then the staff. She opens the main door, lets the gamorreans, the twi'leks, the little intern who still hasn't gained an inch pass. She blocks customers in advance, ignores their complaints, and closes the door. It reminds her of the time she broke the nose of a customer who was too eager to enter. He was good after that. It's no surprise that Randa is late again… It will be visible on her paycheck.
Then, the musicians, who pass from behind, come directly with their taxi. She greets them with a clap in the hand. They know the way. The lead singer, with the artificial crest between her two horns, stops to give her the brilliant remark that she doesn't look awake. That she resembles the monster of a legend of her world, Devaron. A green, hairy, nasty monster that haunts children on Life Day night. Löptr sends him a friendly rude wave, and slaps his ass as he enters. He didn't take it well. Too bad.
Finally, the bar. The bottles to replace, the counter to wipe down, and the dishes. Always the same boring routine. The Zabrak Ferment is empty, Ne'tra Gal's barrels are dry, and she's out of Sparkling Protons, Junipera, White Membrosia, Spicy Liquor, Brandy Kaasi, Mijura, and Malastare Pepper . So she screams the name of the little human, and commands him to refuel on the holonet.
At the same time, Löptr takes a rag, and takes care of the counter. The sugar alcohol sticks to the bar, but does not mark the material. Quickly, she hastens to wipe off a small black stain, viscous, repugnant, still smelling of sulfur, and which has nothing to do with it. Then the mountain of dishes waiting for her depresses her even more. At least she has some variety to hold in her hands. She begins to rinse them, and to wipe them with the same cloth.
With each drink comes a memory. The memory of the origins of La Braise. The first one she washes is the first original she got. The same day the contract had just been signed, just over five months ago. The owner, an ungrateful old cathar, stingy and greedy, with feline ears but womp eyes, had given her this flying building for a high price, but reasonable considering what she had done with it afterwards. Himself to this day had to bite his nails.
The second comes from Felucia. A simple coconut in which she serves her Freeta Nebuli. Her "favorite" drink by default because without alcohol, she can consume it during her shift without moderation. Although some nights, it doesn't take much more than that to push her through the night. She puts that away and moves on to the next one.
The kid walks back to her slowly, his elbow in his arm, his head down. He did not retain the list to order. The mirialan, much too exhausted to get angry, repeats it to him. The little one apologizes for not being up to it, and runs off. " He won't get far in life. Löptr thinks to himself.
The next is a glass whose stem goes up and divides into five buttons. The calyx is not high, the parison is wide, and its general color is scarlet. It's a glass she found on the holonet, and which she uses for Hotsa Hoopa, or Spicy Throat. The last one who emptied it burned out his lungs. It was ugly.
Well, this one is funny. The glass of the Puffee Wanga, or Smoking Gun. Hard to wash but impossible to miss. A large glass-tube, twisted as if it had been placed in front of a distorting mirror and taken in its reflection. Its base is thick, which gives it a certain weight, as much as a pocket blaster. Original from Naboo, a small market of local artists. She only has eighteen. No sooner does she put it down than a false move propels it to the ground, and the beautiful object explodes into crumbs. The mirialan lets out a long rattle, and stares at her mistake for a while, hands on her hips. No alternative, she is forced to pick everything up and then take the broom, growling insults. Seventeen suddenly, great…
BOMP !
A loud, metallic thud startles her as she wipes down the next glass. The little shot, for his Fury of the Quarren, almost slips out of his hands too. She tenses up, clenches her teeth and her eyelids, and tries to contain herself. It was Korty. He has just landed on the terrace at his back. His mobile caravan, with massive feet, is anchored in the cantina for the evening. She can already imagine the argument she must have with the Sakian cook, just to tell him to settle down more gently, and to arrive on time. She doesn't care that he has triplets to feed. With him, she always raises her voice. All while his cretin punk porg panics in his cage. The poor animal, obese and one-eyed, panics as soon as there is too much noise.
" No. Forget that ", she says to herself. She contains herself, she can do it. She just wants a quiet evening. Just one. But deep down, she's ready to crack.
Randa comes running. She also apologizes. She came with Korty ? Whatever, just in time to open to customers. How heavy she can be sometimes, thinks the woman whose eyes are struggling to stay open. She takes the next glass, and lets her hands continue their mechanical dance.
The night begins. The world tires her, it pushes her to the limit. The crowd is embedded in his home, people, humans and aliens of all species and all factions, talk, laugh, shout, while the Devaronians prepare their instruments. Tonight, they will be instruments of torture for Löptr. And they don't play the blues, them...
A fight, three drunks, a newcomer who comes armed and refuses to put his knives down at the entrance. She feels her migraine rising, and is forced to sit down for a moment on the table at reception. Luckily, she can count on her gamorreans to get the fool out of her. They are motivated tonight. They do this to get an alcoholic tip, these profiteers. They will have nothing.
Back downstairs, his migraine escalates. The musicians are hot tonight, as often. They give it their all, then shift to slower songs to rest. The owner takes advantage of it. However, she grunts behind her locks of hair, when she hears an improvisation, a spoken word, telling the story of a green, hairy and unpleasant monster. The singer does not hesitate to give him a wink.
Then here comes a jawa complaining about something. He points to his drink. It's very small, on the other side of the bar. How to take them seriously, those ? what was it this time ? A hair in his glass ? An ice cube is missing ? She doesn't understand what he's talking about. She tells him to get out, repeating " Utinni waving his arm as if to shoo away a fly. Whatever that means, it's the only word she knows.
At the end of the line, Löptr inspires a big blow. She can hold on, she can do it. She no longer wants to serve, wash, or talk to anyone. She just wants to get some sleep. A little more effort and she can rest quietly while waiting for the next monstrous day which will await her like a troll under a bridge. Just one more evening. Soon the dirty dishes, the constant noise, the atrocious lights, the bustling world and the shit are over. Come on, she told herself with as much conviction as possible. Do it ! Another last effort, a very small one, a last one.
" Löööööööööptr !! …Wherever my favorite depressed green skin is !? »
Ugh !… No… Not him….
As the mirialan rolls her eyes in the air, puts the last glass away from the dishes, and slowly turns around, she abandons all hope and, weary, sighs.
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