Roolo

Roolo is a NPC of the ISD-II Challenge, created by Phalk Sturm as part of the Real Heroes of the Challenge competition.

Background

VII - HANGAR BAY - ROOLO

The blast doors slided with a humming noise and a loud clank when they blocked, widely open.

The ISD-II Challenge had been refitted recently, as the catwalks above the hangar had been reinforced and were now fully automated. The elevators were an upgraded version with no rails and with the addition of magnetic fields that prevented careless loss of life and materiel. Walls were of a polished metallic alloy that gleamed dull reflections of this brightly lit area. COL Phalk Sturm was wearing his flight suit, life support, flight gloves and boots, helmet on his left hand and his lightsaber swinging by the same side, an E-7 Blaster on the right hip. He strolled towards one of the Maintenance Officers, standing by one of the control consoles. Crossing the hangar had to be a mindful walk, as tubes, wirings and all kinds of elements were present on the floor, as soon as anyone would wander outside the well-lit and clearly painted walk lanes.

"Good morning, Chief Machinist." Sturm briefly said to the worn-looking officer staring at him in anticipation. "Good morning, Colonel. Your Flight Group is being readied up for launch as we speak, but there have been some issues with your Spectres. The software updates messed up one of your fighters, and Tempest, erm, Tempest 3106853 is grounded. So sorry. I am having one of our best mechanics at it, but I think a replacement fighter is needed. Whose gunboat is that? You should inform your pilot, Sir.". The Chief Machinist seemed worried but not particularly distressed. Just weary.

"Wonderful. Then, I guess I AM grounded, since it's my bird you're talking about, Chief." sourly replied Sturm with a slight grin. "Tell you the truth. Ever since the Spectres were transferred, we've been into nothing but malfunctions and all kinds of crap on a daily basis. I mean, who builds these things? You wouldn't believe the issues, Colonel. I am sorry, but we're doing our best. I can let you have one of the reserve Missile Boats. What do you think?", said Chief Machinist raising both his palms in an open stance of negotiation. "Again Chief, you are trying to convince me to fly, while I could be sipping coffee elsewhere" answered Sturm. "In fact, show me to my ship, I'd like to talk to your mechanics. I need to know what the malfunctions are, because honestly I don't want to end up in flames or with a jammed cannon when the moment comes. I know my way around a wrench. Point me the way", Sturm was standing squarely to the Chief Machinist with both hands on his hips, a broad smile of smug on his face.

"This is highly irregular, Colonel, Sir. I don't think it's necessary you do that, our technicians are more than competent. It will be solved within the day. And one wouldn't like to see an officer like yourself, in such labours, Sir. Besides, it's dangerous. If someone sees you... It would be better if we ...", NOW the Chief Machinist was clearly worried. Embarrassed. Troubled about denying a senior officer a direct request. His face was blushing and contorting in an otherwise, still composed gesture. He could not help himself of thinking that this Colonel would become a pool of problems, either if seen by others, or pointing out unobserved regulations, and what's worse, blabbing whatever he saw to his CMDR, or even the Commodore. He deflected his gaze towards the console module on his hands, in an attempt to defuse the situation.

"Chief, show me the way. Irregular is my middle name", and as Sturm said this, turned around towards the working stations on the opposite side of the Hangar. "Or I'll find out myself", he spoke again and he kept walking.

"Station B-65, the mechanic is AD478. Ask for Roolo, Colonel", shouted the Chief Machinist in the distance.

COL Phalk Sturm crossed the hangar from side to side while walking by the safety lane, until he reached the entrance to the lower sub-level. Several fighters were lined up into pits with scaffolds around them. A bright sign by the side of the metal structures informed of which work station and appointed mechanic. Almost immediately Sturm recognized his Spectre Missile Boat, as in fact it was the only one parked amidst other TIE starfighters. He could see the Commodore's personal Lambda-class Tyderian Shuttle being adjacent to a badly beaten TIE Advanced. Perhaps Elara's?, -he thought to himself-, and a few steps further he was standing by the open lid of his cockpit. Inside, all panels had been dismantled, and he could not help himself, but to release a gasp of despair. Wires, the backside of panels and screens, accumulators, were all visible and also some scattered handheld power tools here and there. Like if a bomb had exploded and bursted the insides of his, now dead, brand new flying death machine.

Then a voice from inside the avionics box, growled. A guttural sound of no human nature.

A sturdy, aged and horribly scarred Ughnaught emerged. Surprised of having company, he did not greet the officer staring at him. Sturm could clearly see the deep scars on his porcine face. Burn marks, probably? Radiation? Skin plague? Electrified lashes?. This man seemed like he had seen a lot through his life. A big number across the chest of a red apron reported his number: AD478.

"Good morning, AD478. Is your name Roolo?" asked Sturm to the still standing Ughnaught, staring back at him, speechless.

"Hmpf, yes, I am Roolo, and you are pilot. What, hmpf, is your doing here? Not belong here, you pilot." said the Ughnaught and turned back to look for some tool that he quickly grabbed and almost snuck back inside the cockpit's entrails.

Sturm bowed and an awkward silent pause ensued.

"I am Colonel Sturm, Roolo. And this is MY fighter. What is the malfunction? Maybe I can help. And I need to know what is it, before I fly this baby again", said Sturm and squared his body, expanding his chest.

Roolo issued a guttural sound, not a growl now, but a purr, and bowed.

Then, he spoke: "Programming is outdated, hmpf, and there are many uncoupled functions that were fried because of unstable molecular weilding. Hmpf, this was poorly done, hmpf. Bad job, bad job" replied, and he started following something with his head, inside one of the open avionic compartments, somewhere in the depths of the fighter's nose.

"Can I help you with those? I mean, I am not flying anywhere this morning, am I?" asked Sturm, more interested in the odd-looking scars of the Ughnaught than the actual malfunctions in his fighter.

"No, hmpf. What can you know about molecular weilding? Hmpf. Work has to be done, you go officer, you go and let Roolo do his job. Good job, good job", his reply was dry but seemed genuinely concerned.

"I have been to Gentes, Roolo. I have been coupling with your neutron-arches quite a few times. In fact, where are you from? Gentes? Belsus? Bespin?" inquired Sturm, with additional intent to know more about his mechanic.

"Neutron-arch you say? Hmpf", Roolo had popped out his head and holding a handheld neutron-arch wielder in his hand. His left hand. His right hand was missing a few fingers and wearing a safety glove. "Gentes I am, but sold in slavery I was. Been to many places. Now you go, officer. Good job, good job", and quickly slipped back to the insides of the fighter.

"Oh, sorry to hear that, Roolo. But you are here by your will, aren't you?" Sturm asked. He was not sensing any resentment from the Ughnaught nor any physical pain attaining an enemy. The Ughnaught just gave him a feeling of weariness. Although genuinely concerned about Roolo's current situation of being a slave or not, he worried more about an unwilling slave fixing his personal starfighter. But he immediately dismissed the thought of sabotage as he felt nothing inside that could lead him to aggression or the itching pain presenting whenever an enemy was nearby.

"Free I am, and fond of my job. A Good job, a good job. Please, now you go officer, let Roolo finish", the Ughnaught showed up again his scarred face lifting a ventilation lid.

"Alright, Roolo. But I'll be back in a few hours, to see how you're doing. And I'll bring something. Not a genteslug, but something you may like. Good job you do and present I will give you". Sturm almost shouted inside the open avionics compartment, since the noise of the wielder muffled his words while in a rain of sparks sourcing from an unknown place in the depths of his fighter. He walked away. Roolo went back to his rumblings.

Red wire or blue wire? The quantum field tester showed another loss of quarks in the end of the blue coupling. The wielding had been clearly done in a rush and no one had tested a repeated overload as a precaution. Another thing to do, another thing to fix, bad job, bad job. After rerouting power several times, none of the couplings had melted, and he felt satisfied. The list on his datapad showed 72 couplings had been upgraded and 3 full cable branches of quantic fibre had been replaced. Additionally, standard chromium input terminals in three of the cockpit panels were removed and enhanced with orichalcum-alloy to sustain higher temperatures and voltages. With everything connected, he accessed the diagnose port. Spectre-class Advanced Missile Boat? Check. Serial number 3106853, frameware version 2.0, Terminal Name: Tempest 3-1. All was in order. A self-dignose check. No errors. He was about to check the systems that had been compromised, when a doubt aroused. A stern gaze crossed his mind. It was the inquisitive eyes of the officer, that had stuck in the back of his brain. A custom-made message, not from the original firmware was showing on the datapad. "Property of P.S.". Everything halted. No options were available in the previous long menu of systems and subsystems. The only working function was "Perform FULL SCAN - ALL SYSTEMS AND SUBSYSTEMS".

"Hmpf, it would take hours. And who had messed with the software? Who was P.S.? Bad job, he thought, and reluctantly initiated the procedure.

Roolo stepped away from the Spectre gunship. The shape was menacing and reminded him of a Velker with broken wings. He had seen those fiercesome beasts while living in the lower levels of Bespin. Their gigantic wings flapping in the clouds and the immediate danger which compelled to find shelter inside the dank, dark tunnels in the sublevels of the massive floating city. Reminiscing the mushrooms he daily ate with his other slave inmates. The genteslug-egg casseroles! What a delight!. The nights of sorrow and grief but also of the relief and nostalgia when he and his kin rememebered the days in freedom on Gentes, Belsuna, before the enslavers came. Enslavers. And Ygloste. A few tears dropped from his eyes and rolled down the deep scars on his nose and cheek. Ygloste. If it wasn't for her, he would not be alive. Ygloste was Roolo's sister. Never such joy and energy impersonated an Uglett as Ygloste. On Gentes, Ygloste, Roolo and their parents lived as a normal family in the settlments around the swamps. His tribe was one of the lesser families of the Insorat tribe. Their tribal profession was farming and the family had been running that establishment for countless generations. But Roolo, was not an ordinary Ughnaught.

He was no skilled craftman of any kind. Much less of his blood profession. Since a young age, however, he had a strong interest for weapons and longed to be a strong warrior. One of those legendary Sith warlocks that where told in whispered stories by the bonfires. Roolo was never around when the crops came, or when someone had to harvest the eggs of genteslugs in the swamps.

Growing up, he connected with the wrong people. Many young Ughnaughts, who were also rebellious to the stern structure of their society, just started to group around isolated campfires in the swamps, at night, to tell stories, brag about their improvised weapons, and yes, fight for the thrill of being the strongest in the gang. Roolo was no exception. In fact, he was good at it, and quickly he found himself expelled from his family's farm and scorned from his father and the tribe. It mattered not to him. Only seeing his sister, from time to time, was a burden, but very much a price he gladly paid for having endless nights of brawls, inebriation and the thrill of escaping the occasional tribal watchmen, when stealing their cattle, jewelry or anything they could lay hands on.

In fact, at the age of 20, Roolo rejected his blood profession. He claimed in front of a full-gathered tribe that he would kill anyone who wanted to test his skill, and no one dared to cross tusks with him. He walked away laughing and it brought his relation with his family to a clear end.

He settled however, close to the swamps. He was an avid learner, and races became another of his passions. His gang, -he found himself leading, after all-, assumed a given nickname. The Warthogs. Along with them and some skilled pilots, the gang was now in the illegal swamp racing business. An elder Ughnaught, a former slave that escaped Lothal, was his mentor and friend now. This older Ughnaught never spoke his name to Roolo, even if they spent day after day, night after night, building up pod-racers, for years, until he finally passed away, with only a "Hmpf" for an answer.

His life was always full of adrenaline. The races, the money, the duels. One day, the planet was invaded.

The Clone Wars had been a distant noise away in the galaxy, but somehow General Grievous and his henchmen had found another world to enslave. Gentes was a primitive planet, defenseless in comparison to the might of the Separatists, and what ensued was a massacre. When the droids landed, they marched unopposed across the surface. The Ufflor constables were no match. Settlement after settlement fell with almost no losses to the CIS huge army. Within months, all populated areas in the open wasteland and the center land mass of the planet had been subdued or destroyed. Thousands of Ughnaughts were executed or captured and sent offworld to Grievous' command, to the mines in Mustafar, foundries in Geonosis, and all across the galaxy.

Roolo lost all his friends while trying to evade the initial droid attack on the Swampways. He barely escaped after losing most of his hand in an explosion, and although severely wounded, managed to make his way back to the remote location of the family farm. His father, Rolgast, in the meantime, had been harbouring refugees from all around, both his tribe kinsmen and others. However, the farm could feed only a few of those refugees, now pouring daily into the dozens. When Rolgast saw his first-born crossing the swamps back home, his joy was so immense, that all the grief and resentment he had for his son, was immediately erased. He was a proud Insorat tribesman, but alone and old, clearly no match to the scavengers flocking to his farm.

One night, after a few weeks Roolo and his family had rejoined, they eventually had to send most of the refugees away. Some, wearily thanked them, collected their few possessions and left, following the Ughnaught way, but a mixed group of scavengers, violently refused. One of them, a human, grabbed Ygloste by the neck and threatened to kill her if they were not to be allowed forever in the farm. The human grew bolder by seeing the Ughnaughts in shock, and demanded that his group was now in custody of the farm, and all of the dwellers within would become their ¨indentured servants¨, as it was a fair price for the protection his group would give to them and the farm. Rolgast fell to his knees imploring this ruthless man not to kill his daughter. That all possessions he had were his now, but to spare the lives of those inside the farm. Roolo, who had been silently watching the scene from one of the sewage tunnels he was inspecting, crawled behind the man and decapitated him instantly with a proton axe. The rest of the group, heavily drunken, barely managed to show any reaction. Roolo charged on the group growling and screaming. The awful shrieks chilled the spine of those standing close to him, and he killed two more with his tusks and the axe. The rest of the group scattered and run anywhere they could.

Everybody in the farm, cheered and greeted Roolo, the prodigal son, the saviour. But Roolo knew better.

Scavengers were going to claim this isolated jewel, and they will come back. When, was the question, Roolo thought.

But, what came later, after a two weeks of total calm, was much worse. He was in the swamps with his sister Ygloste, harvesting eggs, when huge explosions were heard in the direction of the farm. A few flying craft crossed the skies, and then more explosions. They ran frantically towards their home, to see flames, buildings destroyed and dozens of droids pouring from all sides in massive armored vehicles, so huge, like Roolo had never seen before.

Scattered around, on the fields, several corpses could be seen. Roolo knew that he had not to expose himself or his sister if they wanted to avoid a certain death. They hid for days in the draining tunnels leading into the swamps. Finally, he mustered some courage and told Ygloste to wait for him for a full day, and if he didn't come back, to walk towards the sea, following the swamps, until reaching the old temples by the shore.

Although he had a maimed hand, Roolo could shoot very effectively with his other hand, and fortunately he had brought his old CD34 Blaster Rifle, as he always did whenever venturing in the swamps. He approached the farm from the northern side, crawling in the mud and entering the sewage system of the farm. He emerged inside one of the stables, where the Blurrgs were normally held. Empty. Nothing. Only loose forage here and there, but no sign of the dozen blurrgs his family had. Upon approaching the doors, he scoped the area with his rifle's optics, but nothing again. No droids, no corpses, no vehicles. The farm was barren. He ran across the ruined buildings that flanked the main house. The barn, the stores, windtrap and moisture collectors were completely destroyed. He stopped to collect his thoughts and very much needed breath. The tension was unbearable. Knowing he might be captured any time soon and leaving his sister, helpless, at the mercy of slavers, scavengers or the droids, was a thought that forced him to maintain his awareness at the expense of his fears. Roolo finally reached his old house. Smouldering rubble, all there was left. In the kitchen, amidst the debris, he could find some ionized meals and a drum full of water. He filled his canteens and put everything that seemed edible inside his backpack. He carefully made the walk back to the sewers entrance in the stables. A few hours later he rejoined his sister. She was waiting in their makeshift hutt, under a thick canopy of swamp trees, gnarly branches and thick vines. They hugged and rubbed noses and tusks. She was so happy to see him again. They both laughed. After some time, they lit the first campfire after days of hiding, and finally had a proper meal from the ionized packages. Roolo fell in a deep slumber while his sister kept watch.

"PIG FACE! GET UP YOU SWINE HEADED USELESS OLD BASTARD!!!", someone shouted and Roolo startled in fear, hitting his head against a metallic frame inside the Spectre gunship.

Where was he? Ygloste?

It was the Chief Machinist. Red in the face, foam from his mouth like a rabid animal. Clearly the racist slurs were far from banned in the Empire. Abolition of slavery was a first step towards justice, but the segregationist culture of the sneering imperialism that pervaded everything, was far from changed.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR PALPATINE ARE YOU DOING?". His manical shouts could be heard from across the hangar. Some mechanics stopped working and were now clearly staring at the scene.

"Sleeping, master Chief Machinist. Roolo is guilty. Bad job, bad job" muttered the Ughnaught while lowering his head.

"Sleeping on my watch!!! NO ONE DARES TO SLEEP UNDER MY COMMAND!. I will have you skinned, you old wretch. I don't care what is your contract. In here, you are MINE!.", the Chief Machinist continued to yell frantically, at the now cornered and visibly submissive Ughnaught.

"That would suffice, Chief Machinist.", a voice from behind the fuming NCO was clearly heard. Every mechanic on deck was now watching this otherwise, awkward scene. The fiery Chief Machinist, the submissive Ughnaught mechanic and a quiet officer in grey-clad duty uniform behind him.

Chief Machinist's eyes rolled in an unnatural way in a fog of hate.

"WHO SAID THAT? WHO WANTS TO REGRET THIS VERY DAY?" and he turned around slowly, like if he was giving the chance to his offender to escape and hide away.

"I did, Chief Machinist." replied Sturm, again with the same calm voice.

"Oh!. I am sorry, Colonel. I thought for a moment one of these day slackers... And this pigface, erm AD478 was caught in an act of misbehaviour. I will see that he gets proper punishment. I run a tight ship, here!", the man had toned down and seemed almost civil as he gathered composure. His clenched fists betrayed his polite and clearly shallow demeanour.

"Chief, the Ughnaught here is my personal mechanic. He is now under my service and classified tasks for Tempest Squadron. I can't afford any delays nor can the squadron or the Commodore. I'll tell you what. You close an eye today, and no one is telling of those odd looking crates of coolant, filled with Chalquila. And I am not suggesting." Sturm was talking very closely to the Chief Machinist, calmly and almost whispering.

"Yes, Sir. As you command, Colonel.", the man turned around and went back to his post.

Everybody around them tried to hide, burying themselves into their respective workstations.

Roolo was silent, standing still very close to the fighter. Still recovering from the fright of being caught sleeping on the job. Bad job, bad job, old Roolo, he thought.

"Roolo, you'd better get those naps in check, or next time is the airlock for you", the Colonel said, "I've brought you something you may like, but you can have it, if and only if, you show what you've done so far." and he chuckled.

"Changed all wirings and terminals. Good job. Wielding and 100% checked couplings, good job. Diagnostics, I have to check, officer. No quick scan allowed in your ship, strange thing, maybe a bad job" replied Roolo while looking into the datapad in his left hand.

"I see. Full diagnosis only. That's thoughtful and responsible. No shortcuts, Roolo. Good job", and he grinned.

"This is for you", and Sturm extended his arm, holding a small metal box.

The old Ughnaught bowed, and remained silent. Collected the box with both hands and bowed again.

"Open it, Roolo. Nothing so special. A treat from your home, I guess.", Sturm was smiling with his usual smug and both fists on his hips. Roolo opened the box. Inside, a marvel!, a jewel!, something he had not seen in years. Several dried moldflower mushrooms. He growled joyfully. "How is you have this, officer? Greatest gratitude. Good job, good job", he was still amazed at that small treasure contained in the box.

"I grow them at home, in Akritt'ar, Roolo. My wife sent them to me. She'd be happy for you to have them, I am sure. No genteslugs, unfortunately. At best one could find mynocks, here in space." Sturm was happy to see the Ughnaught clenching with both hands his rare present. A second later, the box was nowhere in sight. "You were a slave, Roolo. Where? Lothal? Geonosis?, I am curious", said Sturm as he grabbed the datapad and started to inspect the subsystems in his fighter.

"Geonosis, then Bespin. Followed imperial officers after manumission. Worked Outer Rim. Bad jobs. Signed for Opan. Now the Challenge. Good job now.", the Ughnaught was staring at something inside the cockpit.

"Quite a journey. Rough ride, I guess, Roolo", Sturm was satisfied at the readings on the datapad screen. "Everything seems in order, now. Do we fire her up? What do you think, Roolo?", he was eager to test his fighter as soon as possible.

"Final test, I do, hmpf. Then you officer go fly it. Not before. Good job", Roolo was cleaning his hands on his now clearly smeared, red apron", the Ughnaught was holding the datapad in his hand and looking at the screen.

"I'll get ready and come back, Roolo" replied Sturm, leaving the hangar for the second time in the day.

Roolo watched the officer go away, and after he was gone for sure, finally started to bolt down the panels and rearrange all the exposed wirings. An hour later, he stood up in the cockpit. His small stature allowed him to be fully erect and barely reach the edge of the fuselage. He was satisfied. The cockpit was immaculate. Good job. He descended from the gunship and operated the datapad after he inspected all sides of the fighter. A loud boom and a pleasant humming noise was very much audible from the glowing engines of the Spectre Advanced Missile Boat gunship Tempest 3106853. A red demon head was painted on the nose of the craft, defiant.

The systems responded flawlessly to all commands Roolo was prompting from the datapad in his hands. Again, he felt satisfaction inside. This was his trade. He was able to find the good job, everywhere, anywhere. Not like life before that. He could not save his sister, or his family. Bad jobs were a burden in his heart. He could understand machines. Machines were his friends. Good jobs. They obeyed his commands and his was able to take care of them. But his sister. His family. All dead. Bad job. Useless Roolo, he thought.

Roolo recognized Sturm walking down the hangar, towards him. His blue helmet trimmed in gold, and his lightsaber, always hanging by his thigh. He was wearing a flight suit in full gear and was still far away, but even an Ughnaught could feel the presence of this officer. A Sith?. He had felt similar distresful emotions when inside the old abandoned temples of Gentes. Yet, this human seemed different. Anguish, torment, pain, but also understanding. Roolo was drowning in his deep thoughts, when the officer addressed him.

"Roolo, don't be nervous. At ease. I am sure you did a good job. Look me in the eyes, now." the officer was speaking with a clear voice, and his last word fell like a hammer deep in his brain. He felt the pain in the back of his neck. Something was pushing him to look at the man in the eye. He resisted. The pain intensified and he looked. He saw two dark brown eyes and then something like he had never seen before. He was terrorized. He saw total blackness. A numbing pain and the void he had experienced before. When they killed Ygloste. Why? Who was this man? The anguish of looking elsewhere, was like an oppressing force on his chest. He could not stop looking into that bottomless pit that were the man's eyes in front of him. Suddenly, everything changed. He was able to look at his face. How much time had passed? Roolo was startled. Unable to speak. He just stood with his arms by his sides, helpless.

Sturm spoke again, but his voice seemed different. He looked Roolo straight in the eyes again, and said: "I have seen inside of you, ughnaught. I saw your sister, butchered. The people you've killed and those who died by your side. The cold nights in the tunnels on Bespin. The flaming lashes on your face. Geonosis. The punishment. Torture. Pain and sorrow. They walk by your side. I trust you.", but oddly enough the human seemed to keep his mouth closed. Lips were not moving. "Who is this human?", Roolo was drowning in awe and doubt.

"I am Sturm. Obey and we will be friends.", again he could not see if the officer had spoke, glimpsing only a smile as he wore his helmet, closed the brackets and secured the tubing attached to the life support unit, all in a graceful motion, just a moment before entering the fighter's cockpit.

The engines started with the familiar burst, and a sweet humming filled the work station.

Seconds later the fighter was hovering and dove straight into the open space below the ISD-II Challenge.

Roolo thought of Ygloste, and the dried moldflower mushrooms.