Denon belonged to the Free World Alliance. There was no point believing otherwise. Imperial forces had been largely routed from the world, and those that were left were pocket forces without resources. The platoon Maerae had initially been assigned to serve alongside had been cut in fourths, and then cut off from one another. Their commanding officer hadn't been heard from in hours, and that left Maerae, an acolyte, in charge of ten wounded and exhausted men of the Imperial Assault Corp.
She was in the worst circumstance she could be in. A few of her men couldn't walk properly. Even Maerae herself had a nasty burn on her thigh: the remnant of a near hit from a blaster, that had come close enough to burn through her robes and singe her skin. It wasn't unbearable, but she felt it constantly, and the pain only became more intense when she put weight on her leg.
And still, she was expected to conduct warfare against the FWA and their Jedi protectors.
Night had fallen, and currently they were spread out among a number of rooftops above one of the countless streets of the ecumenopolis. Before their platoon had been sundered, the Lieutenant had planned on hitting a small caravan of supplies: a fat and slow speeder, supposedly stocked with arms and bacta, escorted by a few greenhorns on speeder bikes. The FWA needed those supplies, but the remaining Imperial forces on the planet needed them more.
This ambush was foolhardy on her part: she had a handful of wounded men, armed only with rifles and pistols, and no leadership experience to speak of. Not to mention that morale was at an all time low. But Sith served the Empire, above all else. And Maerae was destined to become Sith.
"Five minutes to estimated arrival," Maerae spoke into her comlink, as she scanned the streets below, "keep your eyes on the street."
@Taz