5th Fleet, I found Fixer’s journal on the floor in the 104th bunks. It must have been kicked under his desk when Helasar called the medics in to help him. I knew he wasn’t always doing well, but some of this is a bit unsettling...
Personal log: CC-1114 “Fixer”
Annotated by 1SGT "Relay"
Unknown date. 3 days after Daedalus
Now that things are calm enough, I’m going to continue my journal. Unfortunately my old datapad was lost with the Renegade, so none of my old logs survived.
We have been frozen (and then unfrozen) by the Separatist droid general Rathburn. Communications are still out of whack, but I’ve been told that we have been woken after fifteen years of cryo sleep. It’s almost hard to believe, but the ache and misery of moving upon being unfrozen has made a convincing argument.
On the ground, we found troopers from an “Empire” that sprang up. Evidently, they thought we were part of them, as we were given several... questionable… orders. Whatever happened to the Republic, a dark shadow has taken its place. I don’t have a good feeling for what the future holds…
I wish I was unfrozen earlier. I was on ice before the rest of the Renegade, and was unfrozen a week or so after everyone else. ~Relay
4 days after Daedalus
Valdez is gone. I don’t want to talk about it…
24 days after Daedalus
Another sleepless night. Although the 104th bunks are peaceful and relatively comfortable, my mind still keeps me awake. I stare at the ceiling. The grey of durasteel is nothing new to me, but I can’t help the feeling of unfamiliarity. This is not my ceiling. It’s not my bunk. Those were lost to me as soon as we set foot in the Daedalus facility. I turn in my bed. My mind keeps coming back to that mission. The day we lost everything.
The day General Rathburn released us from our carbonite crypt was a chaotic, confusing time. Hibernation sickness made it hard to even stand, let alone scout the galaxy after fifteen years on ice. Fifteen years. I can barely wrap my head around it, even now. Everything I had ever known, all of my brothers who didn’t join us on that mission, all were swept away by time. I give up on laying down and sit up in my bunk, looking around the room. It’s rather chilly, but it’s hardly the worst cold that has bitten me. As quietly as I can, I drop from the top bunk to the floor, nearly landing on a pair of boots someone left in the middle of the floor. I make a mental note to reprimand whoever keeps leaving a mess in our bunks. The floor feels like ice, and the nip of the cold air finds its way through my clothes. I ignore it. I grab a blanket and sit by the 104th’s chess set.
We had miraculously found the oddity on one of our expeditions onto an enemy Star Destroyer. Clearly the (now late) commander had the credits to spare on the luxury of the antique board game. Looking down at the archaic game, I lament over having no one to play against. The pieces sit silently in the cold darkness. On one side of the board stands an army of shining steel, on the other, a force of dark grey opposes it. It takes little examination to see how badly the pieces have worn and tarnished in the chaos of all of our base changes and firefights. The once great armies that clashed time and time again now sat silently, broken and depleted from time and conflict. I look from the pieces to the troopers around me. While we have General Rathburn’s reserves, we are the last of our shining army. We are the end of the Grand Army of the Republic. I reach for a piece and pick it up. A pawn. It’s surface is scratched and pitted, weathered and dented. As soon as its king is captured or placed in a position where capture is inevitable, the game ends. What more is there to fight for if your leaders and your government are gone? It’s not as though the pawns have families. It’s not as though they have any purpose, but to follow what the king says.
I think I know which mission he was referring to. I was stationed at base during it. A lot of our troopers didn't return home that day. Fixer gave a small speech about why we fight and what we fight for the next day. I could tell he had trouble writing it. ~Relay
76(?) days after Daedalus
The endless slog. The endless losses. Our numbers have dropped to an all time low. Morale among those of us remaining is nearing rock bottom. We have been pushed back from base to base for the past, what, two months? More? For every inconvenience we impose on the Empire, they return tenfold the damage to us. A half dozen troopers were MIA or captured on the last mission alone. Most of the Jedi have slipped into hiding away from us. I can’t say I blame them. We’re a massive target, and the Empire wants them dead more than they want us dead.
Date unknown. I stopped counting.
I have failed. I was supposed to lead my troops to capture vials of deadly poison, but I sent them into a trap. I caused thousands of deaths, if not more. I'm a detriment to my brothers and everyone associated with us. My only hope is that I find forgiveness in death, as I can't forgive myself in life….
God damn, Fixer…. ~Relay
Personal log: CC-1114 “Fixer”
Annotated by 1SGT "Relay"
Unknown date. 3 days after Daedalus
Now that things are calm enough, I’m going to continue my journal. Unfortunately my old datapad was lost with the Renegade, so none of my old logs survived.
We have been frozen (and then unfrozen) by the Separatist droid general Rathburn. Communications are still out of whack, but I’ve been told that we have been woken after fifteen years of cryo sleep. It’s almost hard to believe, but the ache and misery of moving upon being unfrozen has made a convincing argument.
On the ground, we found troopers from an “Empire” that sprang up. Evidently, they thought we were part of them, as we were given several... questionable… orders. Whatever happened to the Republic, a dark shadow has taken its place. I don’t have a good feeling for what the future holds…
I wish I was unfrozen earlier. I was on ice before the rest of the Renegade, and was unfrozen a week or so after everyone else. ~Relay
4 days after Daedalus
Valdez is gone. I don’t want to talk about it…
24 days after Daedalus
Another sleepless night. Although the 104th bunks are peaceful and relatively comfortable, my mind still keeps me awake. I stare at the ceiling. The grey of durasteel is nothing new to me, but I can’t help the feeling of unfamiliarity. This is not my ceiling. It’s not my bunk. Those were lost to me as soon as we set foot in the Daedalus facility. I turn in my bed. My mind keeps coming back to that mission. The day we lost everything.
The day General Rathburn released us from our carbonite crypt was a chaotic, confusing time. Hibernation sickness made it hard to even stand, let alone scout the galaxy after fifteen years on ice. Fifteen years. I can barely wrap my head around it, even now. Everything I had ever known, all of my brothers who didn’t join us on that mission, all were swept away by time. I give up on laying down and sit up in my bunk, looking around the room. It’s rather chilly, but it’s hardly the worst cold that has bitten me. As quietly as I can, I drop from the top bunk to the floor, nearly landing on a pair of boots someone left in the middle of the floor. I make a mental note to reprimand whoever keeps leaving a mess in our bunks. The floor feels like ice, and the nip of the cold air finds its way through my clothes. I ignore it. I grab a blanket and sit by the 104th’s chess set.
We had miraculously found the oddity on one of our expeditions onto an enemy Star Destroyer. Clearly the (now late) commander had the credits to spare on the luxury of the antique board game. Looking down at the archaic game, I lament over having no one to play against. The pieces sit silently in the cold darkness. On one side of the board stands an army of shining steel, on the other, a force of dark grey opposes it. It takes little examination to see how badly the pieces have worn and tarnished in the chaos of all of our base changes and firefights. The once great armies that clashed time and time again now sat silently, broken and depleted from time and conflict. I look from the pieces to the troopers around me. While we have General Rathburn’s reserves, we are the last of our shining army. We are the end of the Grand Army of the Republic. I reach for a piece and pick it up. A pawn. It’s surface is scratched and pitted, weathered and dented. As soon as its king is captured or placed in a position where capture is inevitable, the game ends. What more is there to fight for if your leaders and your government are gone? It’s not as though the pawns have families. It’s not as though they have any purpose, but to follow what the king says.
I think I know which mission he was referring to. I was stationed at base during it. A lot of our troopers didn't return home that day. Fixer gave a small speech about why we fight and what we fight for the next day. I could tell he had trouble writing it. ~Relay
76(?) days after Daedalus
The endless slog. The endless losses. Our numbers have dropped to an all time low. Morale among those of us remaining is nearing rock bottom. We have been pushed back from base to base for the past, what, two months? More? For every inconvenience we impose on the Empire, they return tenfold the damage to us. A half dozen troopers were MIA or captured on the last mission alone. Most of the Jedi have slipped into hiding away from us. I can’t say I blame them. We’re a massive target, and the Empire wants them dead more than they want us dead.
Date unknown. I stopped counting.
I have failed. I was supposed to lead my troops to capture vials of deadly poison, but I sent them into a trap. I caused thousands of deaths, if not more. I'm a detriment to my brothers and everyone associated with us. My only hope is that I find forgiveness in death, as I can't forgive myself in life….
God damn, Fixer…. ~Relay