There was a lot to think about, and plenty of time to do it. Here, in this cargo bay, hidden away between boxes of cargo, but hardly forgotten. There were eyes everywhere. If he so much as moved from the spot he would be gunned down in a hail of fire. They were around, men and women of the Resistance, and they had taken one of the greatest risks of their entire lives by agreeing to take him on board. They knew who he was. Even if he had not introduced himself with his name, rank, and serial number, the chances were fairly high that at least one person out of the entire compound he had surrendered himself to would know who he was.

Jarvan Trask. Major. RK-441. They called him Tarkin's Hammer. He was the jack boot on the necks of the Rebel Alliance and New Republic. The hound that chased them into the depths. The wolf that stalked them to the ends of the galaxy. A bloody war hero. Once upon a time.

And it felt like a long time. So long ago had the real war taken place. When he was a fresh faced clone with no family to hold him down, a sense of duty in his heart, and an enemy to destroy. Life had been so much simpler than. No easy, mind you, but simple. You got up, put your plastech armor on one piece at a time, and went out and played war. The rebels didn't make it easy. They skulked in the shadows, hit you when you weren't looking, and ran back into the cowardly shadows before you could shoot back. Things got easier once they unified, got organized, and started playing properly. Then he really brought the pain. First it was Cerberus Squad, when his Sergeant Paldron was still fresh from the shelf. They were damn good at what they did, which was kicking down doors and shooting scum in the face. Then the promotions. More men placed under his control. Cerberus was forgotten, and in it's place the 221st; an entire legion of goddamn soldiers.

It was disappointing how the war ended. The Empire being slowly relegated back and then breaking down and joining the very people they had fought all this time. It felt like such a betrayal at the time, and that was why he joined the Pentastar Alignment, or the Imperial Remnant as some called it. They were the last, the only true Imperials left in the galaxy. The patriots and heroes. The rest were either deserters or dead. It had seemed like the right thing at the time. Looking back now, through a lens of so many years, it seemed quite foolish. They should have taken their defeat with grace, with pride in what they had accomplished. Still, he very much doubted there was a place in a peaceful galaxy for someone like him; a thing made for war. No other purpose.

A lust for war, though, was no excuse for what they became. The First Order was meant to be the herald of a new age for the Empire. A bright shining new flag to march under. However, instead they marched themselves straight to hell. It started small at first. A few bloody disputes. Misunderstandings or so it appeared. Then things got heated, and then Ossus happened. That's what he knew things had gone terribly wrong. The Jedi were a threat to the galaxy. That much is for certain, but that does not excuse what happened. You do not march an army onto a foreign planet and slaughter everyone in sight. The atrocities only mounted from there, and from the safety and comfort of his garrison on Bastion he could only watch the horror as it played out on the Holonet. And they applauded it. They ate it up. They screamed for more. It wasn't his Empire anymore. It was something else. A different beast. It wore a familiar face, but it's actions were terrible and cruel.

And that was why he was here, on board this ship, being ferried off to Palpatine knows where. He left Bastion. He pulled on his antique Storm Commando uniform, the classic black scout armor, and left. Not without taking as many weapons as he could fit in a shuttle of course. Then he went to designation Charley Delta Fiver, a Resistance base the Storm Commandos had discovered, but was never reported to higher command. No. They were his ticket back into this war. Stealing away he had gone to the base, sneaked in, and presented himself to them on a silver platter. They had half a mind to kill him right then and there, but he convinced them otherwise, and it had taken his entire cache of weapons and supplies to smooth it out. This base was small potatoes in the big run of things. They would never have the power to make a real effort in this war the Resistance was waging with the First Order. If he was going to make a difference he needed to get to where he could do the most good. That meant getting in contact with the Resistance Leaders. Whatever it took.

They didn't say where they were going. Just that they were taking him to meet the General.