Jest gasped. Dim light filtered through his helmet’s visor, stinging his eyes. Heart pounding, he raised a hand to his neck. He could… recall the sensation of the lightsaber slicing through it, cauterizing the exposed flesh as it passed. Acute pain haunted the area like a phantom as if his mind was still adjusting to the fact that his head was now reconnected to his body.

“You seem out of it. Dehydrated?” A familiar voice called out to him.

The pain brought lucidity and he raised his head. All rank-and-file stormtroopers wore physically identical helmets and armor; even so, he could tell it was Reese from the familiar pattern of mud and grime coating his helmet.

“No…I, I’m, uh, fine.” He answered halfheartedly while surveying the surroundings. They were still in the ruins, the chamber at the end of the tunnel, specifically. The one he and Reese had been guarding before they were killed just now…

Killed quite gruesomely, he might add.

He eyed Reese skeptically before turning his attention to the entrance they were guarding. He considered its lofty archway and the dark cave walls beyond it that trailed back to the ruined citadel. “There’s no way…” He grumbled as he tightened his grip on his E-11.

The cave beyond was dark. Who could say what lurked in its darkest shadows? It was entirely possible a Jedi had slipped in and followed them down into this godforsaken ruin. Their expedition had not exactly been a subtle one. Furthermore, they left a trail of glowlamps in their wake as a lifeline—all the Jedi had to do was follow along the trail they blazed.

His heart lurched.

“Reese, I think we should call for reinforcements."

“Reinforcements?”

“Right. Maybe A purgetrooper, or six.”

“Why?”

“Just… In case.”

“In case of what?"

“Jedi.”

“Jedi?” Reese’s helmet tilted to the side quizzingly.

“Jedi.” Jest nodded.

“Uh-huh. But would that be enough?”

“It should—Hmm. You’re right, we should also call for a dozen flametroopers. Kriff! We might as well get the inquisitor up here while we’re at it. They like fighting Jedi, right? They’d probably thank us!”

“Why not call in Lord Vader?”

“Good idea. Do you have his holo?”

“A, are you joking right now? I… can’t tell.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

[Bzzt—damnit! TK-902! TK-127! Keep this channel clear! Bzzt. Communications arezzzzt interfering with the inquisitorzzzzttt experizzzt—ment! Expect a demeritzzzztt for Bzzzt…]

““Yessir!”” The two clamped up. This time around, Jest did not bother with the whole song and dance of saluting a superior who was not even present. What was the point? He had a Jedi to worry about.

How much time did he have anyways? He considered the taboo of removing his helmet so he could speak freely, but he froze mid-thought. Something had moved. Just out the corner of his eye, an unassuming little shadow had receded. It was only him and Reese here, and they were both standing still. Which could be an advantage, depending on how he used it. He decided to remain still, giving no indication he had seen anything.

One agonizingly slow second passed, then two. He couldn’t wait any longer—if he did, his guard would fall, and he might even convince himself that he hadn’t seen anything. One second more—that was all he could manage before his taut nerves snapped and he lashed out with the butt of his E-11 into the shadows.

“Hah!” Her lithe body contorted at a seemingly impossible angle as she evaded the strike and moved with a dancer’s grace in Reese’s direction.

“Jedi! Open Fire!” Jest shrieked, pivoting his back foot and leveling his blaster.

The snap-hiss of the Jedi’s lightsaber woke Reese from whatever contemplative stupor he was lost in. “Kiddin’ me—" He tried to step out of the way, but he was far, far too slow. His head soared through the air, free of its body. Once again, the nightmare was repeating itself.

Jest’s eyes strained just to make out the fetters of her cloak whipping about behind her. He got two shots in. Both missed, one flew over her left shoulder and the other hung way to the right. His aim was not this bad. Why was she so difficult to hit?

She was almost within striking distance.

“No!” Desperate, and fearing the pain of decapitation, he half-ducked, half-fell out of the way of her strike. What he did not account for, however, was her knee driving itself into his gut.

Thwack.

How her bare knee could exert such force and remain intact after colliding with solid plastoid was beyond him. His body sailed through the air before colliding heavily with one of the stone pillars holding up the archway not far from where Reese died—again. He felt something rising in his throat as he tried in vain to pick himself up off the ground. He got as far as lifting his arms, but the rest of his body refused to budge—something important was definitely broken.

“—Yeah. No problem. Just a couple of bucketheads guarding the entrance. I’m almost there.”

“Damnit…” He choked up a mixture of blood and vomit that pooled along the interior of his helmet. He was rapidly losing feeling in his extremities.

His blurred vision landed on a fuzzy object resting a few paces away from him. A ball? His mind derailed to thoughts of his childhood; muddy ball games waged on the grassy fields of Dantooine. A father leaning against a parked land-speeder watched his son ready at his position. The Kath hound whistle that signaled the start of the match. He passed, he ran, he received, and passed again.

In a moment of clarity, his eyes refocused. The ball deflated into a familiar shape. It was a stormtrooper’s helmet. “If it isn’t Reese…” He coughed up a mouthful of blood. “Finally… huk. Finally, g, got ahead of yourself, eh?” he chuckled. The helmet’s distinctive scowl seemed to deepen.

“Ha…”

His thoughts returned to Dantooine, of kids throwing and punting the ball—now Reese’s severed head—up and down the pitch. The kids no longer had faces but wore little, kid-sized stormtrooper helmets. They no longer had names, but numbers. 152 passed to 201, and 480 made an interception before tossing Reese’s head high, raining down blood on players and spectators alike.

His helmet shifted, the soup of blood and vomit bottled up inside rode up along his face and seeped into his eyes. Squinting through the stinging pain, he could just make out the Jedi looking down at him. There was nothing in that gaze. No malice, no hatred for the enemy. It was the kind of gaze one might give a rock or… a crumpled-up piece of paper. Nothing in her gaze suggested that she was looking into the eyes of another intelligent lifeform.

Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her. It didn’t matter—he knew exactly what she said.

So long. Buckethead.