This is a story I just wrote up. Title just about sums up the message, so don't expect any happy endings. The point is to both give out a good message of emotion toward the Empire (although despite the strong message I still feel my story is lacking) and possibly a backstory for characters: joined up in our glorious underdog force from witnessing this very event in the aftermath, possibly seeing recordings of everything that occurred. It might also be good to use in a game that you have in EotE that you plan to convert to AoR, but the players woupld be required to have some sort of heart felt emotions inside of them, saying this because there are plenty of scumbag groups out there. I should know, I GM one.
Now, without further ado, I present...
The Horrors of the Empire
A lone transport vessel, travelling through space: a GR-75, with a pedestrian load onboard. Several turrets dot its exterior, and a small squadron of guard ships flies in low speeds next to it. The captain stands in the middle of the bridge, hands clasped behind his back. He watches his men with satisfaction. They’d been through this run dozens of times. They had all but memorized every last detail of the procedures.
It takes only a small, faint signal coming from the terminal nearby to turn his smile into utter horror. He strides over quickly, his worried eyes locked on the panel. He scans the radar quickly, and his heart sinks at the large red figure that has just entered. Only moments after he shouts orders to avert all shields to the fore, countless miniscule blips erupt from the new ship.
The crew, in their cocky, lax pride, hesitates for a moment, but a moment too much. The front of the ship is covered in large explosions, rocking everyone back and forth. In the holds, hundreds of refugees scream in confusion, children crying and men staring with scared, yet determined looks at each other. A few round everyone up, and they begin setting up for emergency evacuation if needed.
Unbeknownst to them, their efforts will be worthless. As the front of the vessel is finished being racked by explosions, waves of screaming TIE fighters whirl in, green bolts tearing through the scant X-Wings patrolled around the GR-75. Bombers come in seconds later, cascading waves of sonic bombs on the turrets. The landing bay is blasted open, and a troop carrier lands inside.
The Stormtroopers, clad in shining white laminate, stand attentively at the loading ramp of their ship. They’re ready to leap out the moment it’s big enough to see through. In their comlinks, the rigid voice of their commander gives their orders:
“Kill everyone. No survivors.”
In under a minute, the troopers already pass through the landing bay and the first hall, shooting two of the crew on the way. The find one of the holding areas, and line up everyone they find. They then let loose a torrent of fire onto their backs, man, woman, and child. Screams of pain erupt, and children clutch to their mothers even as they are both gunned into a state of no recognition.
It is a similar affair through the rest of the ship. A few individuals try to fight back, but their makeshift clubs are no match for an Imperial E-11. In the halls, a few crew members pull out their holdout pistols, but hardly have them unholstered before blasts cripple their chests. The bridge is stormed, and the captain stands his ground in the face of death, his men all shooting hopelessly at the Stormtroopers, even knowing that they have not a single hope of survival. After thirty seconds, the Imperials leave the room, seeing that not a single survivor is left.
It takes only six hours before the ship is found by a passing vessel. The vessel tries to contact the ship and the crew on board decides to investigate, hoping this might be a long lost treasure ship, luckily brought into their hands.
They land in the empty loading dock, and walk through the deserted hall hearing the blaring alarms and klaxons still beating relentlessly. If the power didn’t acknowledge the recent nature of the ship, the two dead bodies in the first hall and the three in the lobby show it in stark colors. They decide it’s best to hurry up, worrying about upsetting the recently deceased (and any still alive to be upset over their presence). They find their way into the primary cargo hold, and are met with horror.
The five guards could have been a coincidence. An entire cargo hold of aliens, sprawled out, burnt, in neat lines, with horror still struck on their faces and children still clutching in death to their mothers and men standing valiantly but to no use in protection of their wives was not a coincidence. It was a massacre.