Reprogramed Assassin Droid with a desire to kill meatbags


Player – Adam


My internal computer awoke at the sound of meatbags taking residence on the asteroid where I had been abandoned. There were, apparently, no more Jedi to hunt, so my master left me there, claiming I was “too dangerous” to be trusted anywhere else. He probably felt some sense of intellectual reassurance when I blasted his ship as he tried to leave. The resulting explosion, while glorious, left me without a way out.

After some exploration I found several organics setting up a workshop where droids were being constructed. I stalked them for a few moments, realizing quickly that they were unprepared for an onslaught.

I forced open the airlock and kicked in the door. Several of the docile creatures stared at me with gaping mouths when my glowing eye sockets penetrated their fearful souls.

“Observation: The light of my eyes will be the last thing you see as your faces melt toward the floor.”

I pulled the trigger on my sniper rifle.

And pulled, again. And again.

Only then did I realize that some time had passed since my previous master had left me on that asteroid and my isolation programming had put me into hibernation. How long had I been there? It didn’t matter: my gun was useless.

“Hesitant inquiry: If I might ask,” I said, lowering my rifle, “what is the year?”

The meatbags stared at me in silent shock, except for an older one. Grinning, he placed a restraining bolt on me. Everything went dark.

When I awoke, the older organic was still smiling as I lay on a table.

“Threat: You’ll be grinning as I place your entrails into the other one’s anal orifice. Prepare to be slaughtered,” I said. Some of them flinched, but the older meatbag laughed. I, meanwhile, found that I could not move. “Annoyed inquiry: What have you done.”

But I knew. As a mother misses her child, I distinctly felt the absence of my assassin protocols.

“I still think we should kill it!” shouted a rather ugly meatbag.

“Nonsense. It’s a bunch of servos and circuits, not a person,” said the older pile of organic matter. “Besides, he might be the only HK assassin droid left in the galaxy. You’re too young to appreciate that, I know, but we can’t destroy something this rare. Besides, it’s one of us, now.” He turned to me and pointed a finger at a far table. “Stand up and fetch me that hydrospanner.”

“Retort: You have confused me for some sort of galley slave,” I said, as I stood and retrieved his tool. “Weary resignation: Oh…I hate you.”

My armor had been restored, even upgraded with climbing enhancement that apparently were useful on stupid rock formations like ours.

I eventually learned enough of my whereabouts to understand: these organics made droids for something called “the rebellion.” They fought a ridiculous battle against an obviously superior “Empire” made up of equally useless flesh-sacs. I was to be shipped to the rebellion along with the other pitiful droids in the room, some of whom could only speak in crude beeps while waddling.

“HK-477 here is going to fight the empire for us,” the old leader said while puffing out his chest.

“Humiliated entreaty: Surely you can send me on a suicide mission, at least. My dignity could almost bear that.”

“Don’t worry, HK-477, there’s plenty of…meatbags in the Empire. Your old programming still applies to them, but only under orders from the rebellion.” He paused. “There are even rumors of dark Jedi among them. Does that make you happy?”

I recited a saying of my predecessor: “Observation: Even if I did not enjoy killing, I would have no choice. Thankfully, I enjoy it very much.”

He smugly opened a locker and removed a rifle. “You should have this.”

One of his comrades spoke up, with horror in his wide eyes. “You can’t give him that! You…you’re not even supposed to have one of those!”

Into my metal hands he placed a heavily modified blaster rifle. I awaited my orders.





Luck of Ord Mantell Kit_Rhodes Kit_Rhodes