Hit Rate: 0.000%
Stormtrooper TK-421
Resigns from the Empire
After years of dedicated service, thousands of rounds fired at rebels who were standing RIGHT THERE, and a performance review that called his aim "statistically impossible," TK-421 is going freelance.
Dear Stormtrooper Command,
I am writing to formally resign from the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps. I have served the Empire for eleven years. In that time, I have been deployed to fourteen star systems, participated in sixty-three combat engagements, and fired approximately 10,000 rounds from my E-11 blaster rifle. I have hit nothing. Not a wall. Not a door. Not even the ground. I shot at a hallway once — a HALLWAY — and somehow missed it.
I want to be very clear: this is a training issue. This is NOT a performance issue. I scored 97th percentile in basic training. I could hit a womp rat at 200 meters on the simulator. Then I was given this helmet. THIS HELMET. Have you ever tried to aim through this thing? The eyeholes are three centimeters apart and off-center. The visor fogs up if I breathe. If I turn my head too fast, the entire helmet rotates independently of my skull and I'm suddenly looking at my own shoulder pad.
I submitted a helmet redesign proposal fourteen months ago. It was rejected because, and I quote, "the current helmet design was personally approved by the Emperor and is therefore perfect." The Emperor has never worn this helmet. The Emperor doesn't even have a face anymore. I do not accept design feedback from a man who looks like a raisin in a bathrobe.
Additional Grievances:
The cafeteria. I have eaten grey paste for eleven years. I don't know what grey paste is. Nobody knows what grey paste is. I asked a cafeteria droid once and it said "nutritional substrate." I asked what "nutritional substrate" was made of and it said "components." I asked what components and it shut down. The Rebels captured one of our supply ships last month and reportedly found our food rations. They sent them back. With a note. The note said "We're sorry."
Lord Vader. Lord Vader choked my supervisor. He choked the supervisor before that one too. And the one before that. I have had nine supervisors in eleven years. Six of them were Force-choked. Two transferred to Outer Rim postings (functionally the same as death). One is "missing," which on the Death Star means he either fell into a bottomless pit (there are SO MANY bottomless pits — who designed this station?) or he's been composted by the trash compactor monster. Nobody talks about the trash compactor monster. There is a MONSTER in the TRASH COMPACTOR and we just accept this.
The armor. Let me describe the armor to anyone who has not worn it. It is white. Pristine white. In combat. We are soldiers. In WHITE ARMOR. On forest moons. In desert planets. In dark corridors. We are walking targets. A child with a slingshot could spot us from orbit. Meanwhile, the Rebels wear earth tones and blend into everything. Who approved this color scheme? Was it the Emperor again? The man who dresses exclusively in black while sending us into combat dressed like refrigerators?
My post. I was stationed at Post 421 on the Death Star. I have been asked "TK-421, why aren't you at your post?" eleven thousand times. I WAS at my post. I stepped away for thirty seconds to use the refresher because the closest one is a nine-minute walk and there is NO break schedule. Thirty seconds. They put it on my permanent record. Meanwhile, the entire Rebel Alliance walked onto this station through a captured freighter and nobody questioned it because they "had the right codes." I leave for thirty seconds and get written up. Rebels fly in on a stolen ship and get a warm welcome.
I am going freelance. I have already received interest from several bounty hunting guilds and a private security firm on Corellia. The pay is better, the helmets have actual visors, and the cafeteria serves identifiable food. I have also been told that "choking your employees" is not considered acceptable management practice in the private sector.
I am leaving my armor in my locker. It has blaster scoring on it from friendly fire (see: helmet visibility complaints above). You may recycle it. Or don't. It's not like it protected me from anything. An Ewok hit me with a rock and I was unconscious for six hours. A ROCK. This armor costs — allegedly — 40,000 credits per unit and it cannot withstand a rock thrown by a creature that is two feet tall.
Respectfully (barely),
TK-421
(I had a name once. I'd like it back. But I genuinely cannot remember it. That's what eleven years of being called a number does to you.)
HR's Response
Dear TK-421,
Your resignation has been processed. Per Imperial Protocol, your employee number will be recycled and assigned to your replacement within 48 hours. Your locker has already been reassigned.
Regarding your complaints: the helmet design review you submitted was forwarded to the Emperor's office. It was returned to us via Force lightning. We have interpreted this as "declined."
Your hit rate of 0.000% across 10,000 rounds is, as you noted, statistically remarkable. Our actuarial department calculated the odds of missing that many shots and concluded it would be easier to hit every target while blindfolded. We have no explanation. We suspect the Force.
The cafeteria will miss you. Or rather, the cafeteria has no feelings because it is staffed entirely by droids who also do not know what grey paste is.
— Stormtrooper Corps HR, Processing Division
(Note: This response was auto-generated. The HR representative who would have written it was Force-choked last Thursday.)
Exit Interview Transcript
Duration: 7 minutes. Conducted in a hallway because all conference rooms were being used for "mandatory morale sessions" (watching the Emperor's speeches on repeat).
HR: What would have made you stay?
TK-421: A helmet I can see out of. Food I can identify. A supervisor who lives longer than four months. Railings.
HR: Railings?
TK-421: Railings. On the platforms. Over the bottomless pits. We have lost more troopers to falling off platforms than to enemy fire. There are NO RAILINGS on this entire battle station. It is a moon-sized workplace with zero fall protection. An OSHA inspector would have a stroke.
HR: We don't have OSHA—
TK-421: OBVIOUSLY.
HR: Any final thoughts?
TK-421: Yeah. That thermal exhaust port? The one that's two meters wide and leads directly to the reactor? I flagged that in my second week. I put it in the suggestion box. You know what they did? They put the suggestion box next to the trash compactor. The one with the MONSTER in it.
[TK-421 stood up, walked into a door frame (helmet), and left.]
What Happened Next
TK-421 joined a private security firm on Corellia. On his first day, they gave him a helmet with a full-face visor and adjustable fit. He reportedly sat in the break room for twenty minutes just looking through it clearly, whispering "I can see everything."
His hit rate at the new job: 94.7%. He made Employee of the Month in his third week.
He still does not know what grey paste was. He has decided he does not want to know.
The Empire replaced him within 48 hours. His replacement, TK-422, also cannot hit anything. The helmet remains unchanged.
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