Some years ago there was a publication called
The Star Wars Adventure Journal. It presented a combination of short stories, adventures and game articles all dealing with the galaxy far, far away. In hope of being able to submit to it, I wrote the following short story--a
Star Wars tale with the serial numbers filed off of it--for my college's literary anthology. Shortly thereafter the
SWAJ changed its submission guidelines so that it only accepted pitches from more established authors, quashing those hopes. Even so, I've decided to trot out the story for this blog, and to combine it with character stats for the Kid using the
Edge of the Empire rules.
-Nate
Compassion
Army Trooper Wega had always hated
sweeps.
The officers had another name for
them, of course--fortification patrols
was the term they used--but Wega and his fellow troopers had always
used the less officious designation. It really didn't matter what
they were called; he still hated them.
Surveying
the wreckage that remained of the city of Malor, his beliefs were
reaffirmed. It was one thing to have to enter a battle zone during
combat, when all of one's senses were focused on merely surviving the
encoutner. Now, however, after the fighting had ended and the
adrenaline of combat had worn off, it was a different matter
entirely. His eyes were unhindered as they took in the burned and
broken buildings and torn landscape, his nose quite free to recognize
the scents of smoke and death.
It
all served to remind him what a grim and bloody business this war
was, and that was a fact of which he did not like to be reminded.
The
first signs of the uprising had come almost seven hours before,
during the end of the night. At first, forces from the local garrison
had managed to regain control, but the rebels had fought back sith
what seemed like suicidal enthusiasm. For six hours the battle had
endured; remnants of it were still being fought in the foothills
surrounding the city. Reinforcements had been called upon from
garrisons in other cities in the region, with neighter side showing
any willingness to resign. Casualties on both sides had been high,
but the army had been victorious by sheer attrition.
Wega
himself had been awake to witness the revolt in its entirety, as he
had just been comin off of barracks guard duty when it had begun. The
fatigue he currently felt made everything seem almost surreal, like
some sort of ill-conceived dream, but this was not in his
imagination. Wega's fatigue had nothing to do with sleep.
Now,
as the fires of the conflict were slowly being replaced by those of
sunrise, Malor lay in ruin. Wega's sweep was centered in one of the
more affluent residential areas of town, one where the damage was
particularly heavy. Scarcely a building here had not been touched by
the hand of destruction. From where he stood he could not see one
which hadn't been hit directly or succumbed to the fires which had
come later. The houses stood in the early dawn like a wicked altar to
some vengeful deity. Here and there a scattering of bodies--some
crushed, some burned, some barely recognizable--were visible among
the wreckage. Wega's mind registered these images even as it desired
desperately to shut them out from itself.
He
continued his sweep.
The
street down which he was walking was especially bad; apparently there
had been several pockets of resistance in this area which had vought
with particular vigor. Windows in most of the homes had been blasted
out to provide access for the strike teams, with the gaping holes
resulting giving glimpses of darkened interiors seemingly devoid of
life itself. Wega wondered abouth those residents who had not been
part of the uprising, and how they could possibly stand to live amid
the destruction. He knew that he himself could not, and he had had
the best military training that the government could buy. But command
had insisted that the area be patrolled to ensure that no elements
remained, and thus he was here.
He
chose the first building on his right, advancing slowly across its
once elegantly maintained lawn. This one was much like the rest,
having lost the majority of the face of its lower story in the
battle. Once it must have been a beautiful home, a place of security
and contentment, but now it conveyed only a sense of danger and
foreboding. Despite the best efforts of the sun gradually rising
behind him, the majority of it remained cloaked in shadows. Drawing
the hand light from his belt, he tunred its beam on the gaping hole.
From this fantage point he could detect no movement; wth his pistol
ready in hand he stepped over the broken wall and into the house.
The
floor in this room was still stable, remarkable considering the
damage the rest of the structure had sustained. e was in some sort of
living room, although that tilte no longer seemed very appropriate.
Broken pieces of duracrete from the demolished front wall were strewn
about the floor; a thick layer of dust covered everything. Aside from
this and the broken remains of some furniture, the room was quite
empty, but a dorrway led deeper into the ruined building. Wega moved
quickly across the floor and passed through it.
He
found himself in a hallway. A pair of doorways stood along either
side, and a set of stairs led up from the opposite end. He peered
through the first doorway on his right, revealing the remains of a
dining room. This, too, was empty, a grenade having leveled its
contents. Another door to his left led out of the room; he could
guess where it would take him. Glancing through, his suspicions were
confirmed. It was the kitchen, or at least what was left of it. A
doorway on the left side of this room took him back into the hallway.
The
first doorway along the other side led into a lavatory; this had by
some trick of fortune been untouched by the battle that had raged
inside the building.It almost seemed strange to see something that
had not been ravaged.
That
left only one door for Wega to check, but it was this one that he
desired least of all to investigate. Logically it would have led down
to the basement, and that was where the heaviest fighting would have
taken place. That, of all places, was where the rebels living here
would have made their last stand.
From
the top of the stairs he could see virtually nothing. His hand light
did little to penetrate the darkness below him; it was as if its
illumination bas being thrown back at him derisively. WEga took a deep
breath, then let it out very slowly.
He
headed down.
The
basement was a scene of blatant death. The walls were pitted from
countless rounds of fire; off to his right it was apparent where
explosives had been utilized. Coming to the bottom of the stairs he
was forced to step over the body of one of his fallen comrades. The
man had died a horrible and violent death, his lifeless face orzen in
a rictus of agony even while his hands still held up the rifel that
hadn't protected him.
But
if that sight was terrible, it did not and could not prepare Wega for
what he saw next. Four bodies lay against the far wall, an entire
family having sacrificed themselves for their idealism. Two were male
and two female, two of them adults and two adolescents. From the look
of it the children had gone down first, and the parents had died
standing over them. They had all known that capture was no option for
those who betrayed the government; death had been their only solace.
An entire family, all of their hopes and potential accomplishments,
gone in a moment of violence.
Wega
was forced to look away.
Still,
standard operating procedure held that he search all bodies and
confiscate any weapons, to keep them from falling into the hands of
other rebels. The very thought of it sickened him, but he forced
himself to do it. Taking the backpack from his shoulders which he
carried for just that purpose, he moved over to the corpses. The
father and son each clutched a heavy pistol and the mother had a
smaller weapon; no pistol could be found on the daughter. With a
considerable act of willpower he patted down the bodies, but found
nothing more. Gathering the weapons, he dropped them into the
backpack and then hefted it once again.
As he
was turning back toward the stairs he caught a motion out of the
corner of his eye.
It
was a young boy, huddling behind a pair of storage creates underneath
the stairs. He sat with his back against one wall, his knees drawn up
to his chin and his arms wrapped around them. He must hae been a
member of the family, somehow spared from death. The expression on
his face stunned Wega. It was as if he were lost to the world, cut
off from the events transpiring around him. His eyes seemed glazed
and unfocused; there were not tears. Wega had no wonder wabout what
could have caused such trauma for the child, having seen the rest of
his family lying dead in their home.
A
wash of pity swept over Wega. His training, his orders insisted that
the child be brought into protective custody, to be saved from the
influences of political deviants, but Wega could not accept it. There
was nothing left for the child in this house, but there would be even
less at the hands of the government. He would be recognized as what
he was, the sone of therebels and therefore the enemy. They would
work what little information he might possess out of him and then
abandon him into the system.
No,
Army Trooper Wega could not deliver the child to such a cruel fate.
Turning away from the boy, he stopped over the body of his fallen
comrade to removed the weapons he had carried so that they might not
fall into rebellious hands, then began to ascend the stairs.
It
was as his foot touched the first stair that the shot struck him.
Wega
fell to his knees, his hands moving reflexively to the wound in his
back. The agony was intense; whether due to skill or hapenstance,
he'd been hit with a well-placed shot. Already he felt his legs going
numb. With difficulty he drew his pistol and turned on the child. He
struggled to focus, despite the darkness descending over his vision.
The
boy had risen, was not standing with a pistol held in both hands. It
was almost too large for him, obviously not having been intended for
a child's use. In that moment it all became clear to Wega: the
daughter's missing weapon, even though she had been involved in the
battle...
But
what struck him the most were those eyes, still devoid of recognition
or emotion.
The
flash at the weapon's muzzle was the last thing Wega ever saw.
The Kid
Brawn 1 Cunning 2 Presence 1
Agility 2 Intellect 1 Willpower 2
Soak: 1
Wound
Threshold: 11
Strain
Threshold: 11
M/R
Defense:
0 / 0
Skills: Perception 1, Ranged--Light 1, Resilience 1, Stealth 1,
Survival 2, Vigilance 1
Talents:
None
Abilities:
One free rank in two different non-career skills
Equipment:
Clothing, blaster pistol, other scavenged stuff
The kid is a product of life on the streets, where he has lived since his family was killed at the hands of the Empire. Although he sometimes bands together with other scavengers, he is just as likely to strike off on his own. Needless to say, he hates Imperials with a passion and, given the opportunity, would act on that hatred.
Optional Rules for Younglings
GM's wanting to use younglings in an adventure or campaign can do so with the following modifications.
- Younglings have the same base attributes as other members of their species, except that they suffer -1 reductions to Brawn, Intellect and Presence.
- They do not have a career or specialization, and therefor possess no talents.
- Younglings start with one third of their species' normal XP, rounded down.
