I Made Up a Backstory for Captain Drogan so I Wouldn't Hate him so Much
Something about onions
Author's note: I'm tired of arguing about how stupid and boring every original character that CG adds to this game is, especially compared to the wealth of existing canon characters they could have added instead. So I've decided, "fuck it, I'm a writer. I can write something to make me like this character."
The early morning dew on Endor smelled like onions. Fennro just couldn't get used to it. Not good onions, either, but raw, not-quite-ripe onions. Did onions ripen, Fennro wondered to himself. They're a root vegetable, not a fruit.
"Hey Charnaught," Fennro barked to a soldier off to his right through the trees, "Do onions ripen?"
"What the frack," the soldier replied, "are you on about now?"
"Onions," Said Fennro, as if that explained everything.
Breem chimed in. "No, sir! Onions are a root vegetable, sir!"
Always so formal, Fennro thought. He pushed some fern fronds out of the way and continued the slow march through the forest. "I wasn't sure," he admitted.
A titter of surprise washed through the company. Fennro, Captain Fennro Drogan, formally, turned to address his men. They were hot and sweaty, but these were veterans. No one seemed particularly nervous about the fight ahead. Some took advantage of the pause to sit or take a swig from their canteens. Warriors, all.
"Sometimes," Fennro announced, "a Captain needs more intel to make an informed decision."
"Like whether onions ripen," jeered Specialist Charnaught back at him. The others laughed. Charnaught was good for morale, thought Fennro. Theirs and his.
"Exactly." Fennro checked his data pad. They were still 50 klicks out from the Imperial staging point. The rebel soldiers had to drop in far outside of both shield and radar range, and were moving in with limited intel. There was a native village around to the East, which they were doing their best to avoid. Respect the locals, General Organa had ordered.
Not that Fennro would have ever disrespected them.
That's why he was here, in this army, with these soldiers. The empire, years before, had disrespected him and his family when they were the locals. Stole their food. Burned their home. Taken his mother. Killed his father. That hatred burned deep in his soul for a long time.
At first, Fennro had taken joy in setting traps for the Imperial soldiers. His first foray into guerilla warfare had been a deadfall pit. Took him days to dig it out. Long hours with a shovel that made his misshapen hand ache.
Reflexively, thinking about that time, he flexed his fingers as if to shake out the pain.
Once built, he'd used an old cooking knife he'd rescued from his home to cut the stakes. Fennro had intended to use the pit to catch mudrats for something for himself to eat, but then bigger prey had presented itself. A pair of scout troopers, drunk on stolen booze, had wandered through the ruins of his town. One stopped to take a leak, just a foot or so from the covered trap.
Fennro saw the opportunity. He threw a rock to momentarily distract the second trooper, and then charged with the full force of his weight into the peeing one. They both toppled over into the pit.
It was all so fast, the trooper didn't even have time to yell. There was thump and a crack - part plasteel and part bone - and Fennro found himself lying on top of a dead man. Fennro could hear the other soldier running back, yelling for his comrade.
When the soldier looked over the edge of the pit, Fennro had the first one's sidearm ready. Then there were two dead bodies in the pit, and Fennro had a day's worth of Imperial rations in his belly. Two down he had thought. And the galaxy to go.
Fennro tapped the sidearm he still carried. Fifty-three he thought. It wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough.
He pushed that old memory down. There were more pressing matters at hand.
"Break time's over," he announced to his men. "Onion company, let's move."
Charnaught chuckled. "I like you, Captain. You're weird as frack."