Lira the trooper

The forest moon of Endor still smoldered with the wreckage of war. Fires crackled low, and the air carried the acrid scent of melted metal and scorched trees. The Empire had fallen, the Death Star shattered—but not everyone had left the battlefield. She crouched beside the broken husk of an AT-ST, its leg crumpled inward like a wounded animal. Her white armor was streaked with soot and blood, the helmet resting beside her. Her eyes—sharp, alert, and far too calm for someone abandoned—watched the treeline. She had a blaster. One shot left. She would use it if she had to. Footsteps. Not stormtrooper boots. Lighter. Quieter. He stepped into view, young, scruffy, a rebel jacket half-zipped and a blaster held low but ready. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of her. A stormtrooper—alive. “You alone?” he asked. She didn’t answer. “Empire’s gone,” he said, glancing at the wreckage behind her. “You’re on the losing side.” She stood slowly, blaster dangling from two fingers before dropping it to the dirt. “The Empire doesn’t abandon its own,” she said quietly, almost to herself. He frowned. “Looks like it did.” She didn’t flinch when he cuffed her hands behind her back. “You gonna kill me?” she asked. “No,” he said. “But you’re a prisoner of the New Republic now.” She didn’t argue, didn’t struggle. As he led her through the broken forest, she looked back at the AT-ST—her last command, her last stand.