Recovery and Reckoning
Recovery and Reckoning (A short story submitted for Steadfast Readiness Exercise: ReMob Warm-Up)
The tactical red emergency lighting of the ISD-II Hammer's lower decks hummed with the familiar pulse of a Star Destroyer at rest. Lieutenant Et'sen Kryze stood in the observation bubble of Gamma Squadron’s fighter bay, his crimson eyes gazing upon the distant swirl of hyperspace as the fleet licked its wounds after Imperial Storm VIII. The Chiss pilot’s blue skin looked almost black in the low light, the distinguished lines of his face set in quiet contemplation. Callsign “Reckless” felt heavy these past weeks.
He had missed most of it. While Battlegroup I tore through First Order patrols in the Eisvahn System and beyond, while TIEs screamed through the abyss of space and pilots earned glory in the name of the Empire, Kryze had been buried in datacrons, simulators, and shadow-haunted chambers. Some called it cowardice. He called it preparation. The Empire didn’t need another eager corpse in a TIE cockpit. It needed weapons honed to a vibroblade’s edge that were capable of long term military capability.
Kryze flexed his right hand, still feeling the phantom ache from weeks of close-quarters combat drills, vehicle operation training and assasination studies; recently completed through the Imperial University. The bruises had faded, but the lessons remained etched into muscle memory.
It had all started during the opening salvos of Imperial Storm. Fresh from the IWATS academy, still wearing the insignia of a Sub-Lieutenant, Kryze had reported to Gamma Squadron only to be pulled aside almost immediately by a hooded figure in the corridors of the Hammer. The man’s voice carried the weight of the Secret Order, keepers of the Sith’s more esoteric arts.
“You fly well enough on paper, Kryze,” the agent had said. “But the Storm will test more than reflexes. Come with me Novice.” It wasn’t an invitation.
What followed was not the glory of starfighter combat, but something deeper. While his squadron mates launched into the fray against Resurgent-class behemoths and swarms of First Order TIEs, Kryze trained, studied and he prepared to become something…..more.
Gamma Squadron - Flight II - Welcome to the Wolfpack
Mornings began in the advanced TIE simulators. Not the basic Academy runs, but custom scenarios drawn from real Imperial Storm telemetry. He flew against captured First Order flight data; predictable but overwhelming swarms of enemy TIE varients. Flight instructors pushed him on energy management, drifting, and the brutal calculus of proton torpedo solutions against capital ship shields.
“You’re fast, Chiss,”Major Habu growled after a particularly brutal session where Kryze had “died” three times in a simulated vacuum. “But speed without precision is just a faster way to scatter your atoms across the void. Now - Again.”
Kryze flew until his vision blurred and his hands cramped around the fighter's stick. He studied the Hammer’s own battlegroup tactics; how Wing I coordinated with the Arquitens cruisers and the interdictors to pin down enemy forces. He pored over after-action reports from pilots like those in Flight I and Flight III, learning how they could take advantage instantaneously of microscopic enemy blunders. By the time the final battle concluded, Kryze could anticipate enemy maneuvers with chilling accuracy; large part in due to Captain LQC-75-3’s, Gamma’s Commander, obsessiveness on new drift tactics; Reckless no longer meant suicidal. It meant calculated, lightning-fast aggression.
Clan Drakonan and House Valkorion
The day belonged to the TIE Corps but the long nights belonged to the Secret Order. In a sealed chamber deep within the Swift Fury, stripped of rank and uniform, Kryze trained as a Novitiate among shadows. The Order’s instructors, some rumored to have touched the Dark Side in ways the average Imperial pilot could never comprehend, pushed him through regimens that blended physical mastery with mental discipline and paradigms that challenged his perceptions of reality.
Close Quarters Combat was brutal. Sparring against hulking enforcers and agile human martial artists in zero gravity arenas, Kryze learned the dance of vibroblades and stun batons. He memorized pressure points on a dozen species, the precise angle to snap a wrist, the way to turn an opponent’s momentum against them in the tight confines of a starship corridor.
One session still burned in his memory; fighting blindfolded while simulated explosions rocked the chamber. He had taken a brutal knee to the ribs but used the pain to fuel a spinning elbow into his adversary’s solar plexus. The instructor’s rare grunt of approval was worth more than any medal.
Assassination tactical training tested colder skills. In holographic recreations of First Order command decks and shadowy underworld cantinas, Kryze practiced silent kills. Garrotes made from monofilament wire. Poisoned needles disguised as comlinks. Mastery of bomb manufacturing. The art of becoming invisible in a crowd; altering posture, modulating his distinct Chiss accent, using the natural eeriness of his red eyes to unsettle rather than reveal. “The greatest weapon of an assassin,” they taught him, “is leaving no trace behind”.
He learned to improvise: turning a hydrospanner into a lethal projectile, hacking a droid to deliver a fatal electrical surge, or simply waiting hours in an air vent for the perfect moment. The ethical weight of it all and the cold calculus of ending a life for the greater glory of the Empire settled heavily on his shoulders. But the death of his very parents had risen from the ashes of such campaigns. He would not flinch.
Speeder Bike Training brought a savage joy. On the surface of a barren moon during a brief resupply stop, Kryze tore across rocky canyons on Aratech 74-Z speeder bikes modified for stealth and combat. The wind howled past his helmet as he navigated obstacle courses littered with laser turrets and simulated First Order scouts. He mastered high-speed turns that would liquefy a lesser pilot’s innards, learned to fire blaster pistols accurately while weaving at 500 kilometers per hour, and practiced deploying thermal detonators from moving platforms. He was always unnaturally ahead of the curve; perhaps this is why the secret order had demanded so much from him. He focused the anger he felt from being unprepared for Imperial Storm VIII and vowed he would be ready for Remob.
One run nearly ended him, his anger clouding his judgement. Pushing the bike too hard through a narrow ravine, he clipped a rock outcropping. The speeder spiraled wildly. For a terrifying second, Reckless lived up to his name. He recovered at the last moment, skimming the ground and sliding to a halt in a spray of dust. Heart pounding, he laughed; a sharp, Chiss bark of adrenaline-fueled triumph. Never again would he ride a speeder with a foot pedal throttle - he needed the grip-like throttles common on his home planet.
Now, weeks after the Storm had calmed, after months of training, sacrifice and loss - Kryze stood ready.
The Hammer thrummed with the energy of ReMob preparations. Squadrons were refitting, pilots sharing stories of glory and loss from the campaign. Gamma Squadron had done its part, but Kryze knew his true contribution was yet to come. He had emerged not just as a pilot, but as something sharper, something better a warrior forged in shadow and starfire.
He turned from the viewport as the comm chimed. “LT Kryze, report to briefing room seven. ReMob orders incoming.” the voice of his Wing Commander Lieutenant Colonel Narven Task orderd him. Kryze straightened his flight suit, the fresh Lieutenant pips gleaming. His red eyes burned with purpose.
“On my way.”
As he walked the corridors of the Hammer, the weight of training settled into quiet confidence. The First Order, or whatever new threats the galaxy spat forth, would find no easy prey in him. He had missed the Storm’s fury, but he would meet the next tempest head-on, reckless in name only.
The Empire endured. And so would he.
