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They were numbers. They knew they were numbers. Basic had been very… educational, on that topic. Their names, their old lives, were pushed down, pushed back, pressed into the far corners of the limited downtime handed out as rewards for mindlessness.
They were numbers. They knew each other only as numbers. Sharing names, sharing stories, these were punished ruthlessly. Faceless, nameless, perfect cogs in perfect machines, that was what a Stormtrooper was.
It was easy, some days, to be a number. To turn the mind off and obey. To march, to move crates from one place to another, to patrol on routine and repetition, feet and arms operating without the person inside them. It took less energy than thinking, which on a Trooper’s punishing work docket was often a necessary compromise.
It was not easy, other days.
The screaming lived in their ears when their bodies returned to their bunks and their minds could afford to blink on like systems finally receiving power.
Sure, some liked that. Some enjoyed the power, the fear, the pain. There were more who pretended to. There were those who would turn them in at the slightest sign of doubt in the Empire, and they all knew it. Safety was laying in your bunk, keeping the weeping silent as your head replayed horrors.
Risk was discussing it.
Risk was discussing anything.
The Empire liked to believe its faceless, nameless, white-clad servitors never took such risks. Never defied their training, instilled since they entered the Academies as children. That they remained the same simple, straightforward, obedient children even as they grew into lethal adulthood.
The Empire was not run by people who had much personal experience with children.
Tap-code was safest. The ducts that lined the walls of most Imperial installations carried echoes wonderfully, the slightest shuffle of workers in the vents could send a slight, subsonic rattle through a whole building. It couldn’t be traced, it couldn’t be pinned to any one Trooper, and best of all, the officers with their Faces, without helmets with advanced sensors… they couldn’t hear it. It was tap-code that carried whispers, carried prayers and rumors and secrets through the walls.
They say Garel has fallen to Rebels.
I can’t remember my Ma’s face.
Rebels bombed the city.
That’s bullshit, I was on Garel.
I had another dream that came true.
We bombed it.
My family is in Garel City.
I’m sorry.
I can’t sleep.
I miss my sister.
I’m sorry.
Force.
If you’re shipping to Denon, pack a go-bag.
I’m sorry.
Force be with us.
I miss my Ma.
I can still hear the screaming.
I’m one with the Force….
I heard Vader can get you out.
That’s insane.
That feels right.
Please make the screaming stop.
I miss my home.
I’m sorry.
Stay safe.
Get out if you can.
Go and don’t look back.
…and the Force is with me.
It didn’t really matter, the tap-codes in the walls. Sometimes Troopers would hear a warning, an idea, and then someone would be KIA with a bag of supplies they hadn’t needed. Sometimes the whispers would correct a report made by a superior and that officer would be given a tighter facade of subservience, of faceless, nameless, mindless Stormtroopers, and nobody would be punished.
Tap-code didn’t change much. It didn’t stop the orders, it didn’t keep them from following them, it didn’t do anything but alleviate the pressure of hiding everything that made them people.
Until it did.
I saw a trooper with the Rebels.
Force.
They said the Rebels killed him, but there he was.
I can hear the screams again.
Force be with you.
He looked happy.
And with you.
Why are we fighting?
I don’t want to sleep.
So wake the kark up.
Wake up?
Wake up.
It was the tap-code that broke the final line. It was a drum beat, a marching rhythm, steady and strong, that hummed out a song in reverberations only the Troopers could hear. It was a call, an anthem, living in their minds even when the walls were silent.
Wake up.
Listen to The People.
Wake up.
We’ve all been sold lies.
Wake up.
I refuse to serve evil.
Wake up.
It is time to rise.
Wake up, Wake Up, WAKE UP!
Garrison 42 wasn't a big post. It was a tiny outpost monitoring a hyperspace Lagrange point, where ships had to drop to sublight speeds for a few hours before continuing their vector. They weren't over staffed, either, and the schedule allotted only enough downtime to eat ration bars thrice daily and get eight hours of rest. Well, seven point five, the time started from dismissal at post, not arrival at bunk. The workload helped to numb them a little, but the tap-code song echoing across their sensor arrays sent a message.
If you're fed up, you aren't alone.
If you’d rise up, you aren't alone.
Nobody could say who started it. Well, technically the Commandant started it, when he ordered them to open fire on an unlicensed ship. A ship marked with medical sigils and beaming a distress frequency.
“It is clearly a trap!” He sprayed the words, spittle flying onto the faceplate of the unlucky Trooper facing him. “Destroy them!”
The hum began low, deep registers picking up volume, echoing in the command room. The walls rang with it as someone posted against the wall started the song.
Wake up, we can't keep the silence
Wake up, I choose to do right
Wake up, get ready for violence
Wake up, are we ready to fight?
Wake up, Wake Up, WAKE UP!
“Wake up, listen to the people,” a trooper once known as Arrol sang. The Commandant glared at him, but behind the infuriated officer, more were taking up the song.
“Wake up, we’ve all been sold lies,” ER-776 - a trooper who had lost his own name - growled. His voice was harsh. He'd once been stationed on a mining rig with inadequate air seals on his kit, and it wasn’t deemed worth the bacta.
“Wake up, I refuse to serve evil,” a trooper nicknamed Grit added, their voice higher than the others.
“Wake up, it is time to rise,” sang the Operations Trooper, standing from his console to loom over the Commandant.
“Wake up, Wake Up, WAKE UP!” echoed the walls. Boots joined the vents and ducts, a stamping rhythm that shook the floor with the fury of an entire Imperial Garrison that had just hit their limits.
“Wake up, we can’t keep the silence,” sang a Comms trooper as they punched open a line to the ship, and began to transmit emergency docking orders.
“Wake up, I choose to do right,” signed a trooper nobody had ever heard speak. Until now, nobody had asked if he could, since battle sign and tap-code were how most troopers spoke to each other and Troopers as a rule were not supposed to speak to superiors.
“Wake up, get ready for violence,” Arrol commanded, decking the officer before he could draw on the Ops Trooper menacing him.
“Wake up, are we ready to fight?” FF-792 sang, and their voice ripped through the base with an echo that lifted the hair on everyone’s arms. Flimsi fluttered on the consoles as they ripped off their helmet, revealing clear eyes that burned with rage and visible tear tracks.
“Wake up, Wake Up, WAKE UP!” screamed the entire base.
Across the Galaxy, a former Jedi twisted ruined lips into a smile in his hyperbaric bacta tank.
Across the Galaxy, a Princess began to hum a new tune.
Across the Galaxy, Troopers started tapping their feet.
Wake.
Up.