Editorial: Stormtrooping sucks.

I didn’t always wear a helmet.

Too emo for the boys in white?

There was a time not so long ago, really, when I wore a standard-issue navy uniform, pants with a crease so sharp it could cut durasteel, and a little badge on my chest that said I was here to protect and serve. I patrolled Level 5123 on Coruscant. Once reunited a lost child with his droid. Once talked an angry Bothan out of throwing his caf thermos at a city bus. I believed in the Republic. I believed in law and order. The power of a well-organized file system... I believed in the People.

I joined the force not to bully anyone, but because I honestly, tragically, wanted to protect people. I had dreams. Small ones. Mostly involving traffic citations and early retirement.

Now I march in lockstep with a thousand others, dressed like a fascist salt shaker, while civilians cheer as we haul away some guy who asked why the Senate building no longer has doors.

It didn’t happen all at once. You don’t wake up evil. It’s more of a gradual exfoliation of your moral compass. Like one day you’re writing a noise complaint report, and the next day you’re helping relocate a family for possessing an “unauthorized opinion.”

I remember the first time a citizen thanked me for arresting someone.

“He posted something negative about the Emperor’s speech,” she whispered. “Said the word overreach. I didn’t like his tone. It felt... oppositional.”

I arrested him. That was the order. I filled out Form 33-C, checked the box for “Sedition via Attitude Problem,” and loaded him into a transport shuttle that smelled strongly of regret and gym socks.

And she clapped. Not politely. Enthusiastically. Like I’d just done a magic trick or delivered a baby on a monorail.

I thought she was an outlier. A one-off. Maybe too many hours watching Imperial News 24/7 or huffing whatever those scented candles are made of on Alderaan (RIP).

But no. They all clap now. They gather in crowds to watch us detain citizens. Parents lift their children onto their shoulders for a better view, like it’s a parade and I’m a float shaped like State-Sanctioned Intimidation. "Look, sweetie," they say, "that man's going to reeducation because he forgot the Emperor’s middle name.”

And the kids wave.

And I wave back, because at this point I’m not sure how much of this is policy and how much is just performance. And whose performance? Mine? Theirs? Ours?

I used to tell myself fear had made them like this. That they were terrified. Grasping for security. But no, they’re into it. They like the uniforms. The slogans. The way everything is now branded with the Emperor’s face, including the toilet paper. Who's idea was it to put the Emperor's face on the toilet paper? The satisfaction feels seditious.

They like the “stability,” the silence, the weird buzzword-laden briefings where nothing means anything but everyone nods because we all know it all means the same thing. I once watched a man get a standing ovation for a speech that consisted entirely of the word “security” repeated at different volumes for seven minutes.

It’s not conservatism. It’s not patriotism. It was radicalism, and now it’s improv fascism.

And here I am, in the middle of it, wondering how I got so... useful.

I can’t even use the old “just following orders” excuse. The orders aren’t even clear anymore. Sometimes we arrest people for what they say, sometimes for what they think, and sometimes for how they stand. I once detained a woman for “subversive posture.”

She was leaning slightly. I wrote it in the report: “Anti-Empire Lean: slightly to the left.” I don’t make the rules. I just enforce them with increasing confusion and an ever-tightening helmet.

I used to fantasize about being a hero. Now I fantasize about being reassigned to sanitation on Endor. At least there, if you step in something disgusting, it’s probably literal.

There’s a rumor whispered in loading bays and behind snack dispensers that there’s a rebellion. People fighting back. Still believing. Still hoping. Good for them. I’m rooting from the sidelines. Emotionally. Quietly. From the breakroom where we still get milk. Remember milk? You probably haven't tasted it in a year or two. I have it three times a week and sneak some of it back for my kid and my cat.

Me? I’m tired. I have shin splints. I have a full punch card for anxiety therapy. And I have a department-issued rain poncho that smells like water repellent and depression medication.

So I put on the uniform. I fill out the forms. I file the forms about the forms. I try not to think too hard about who’s clapping and why. I try to ignore my jaded disillusion of the people they make me pretend to protect, and who I pretend to care about.

And late at night, when the visor’s off and I can breathe like a regular organism, I stare out at the lights of Coruscant and try to remember the name of that little kid I helped find his droid.

I wonder if he claps now too.

Probably.

He always did love a parade.