They prowled the dense swampland surrounding them, knee-deep in murky waters and circumvented by towering trees. The quiet whisper of the wind brushed by them, filling the gaps within the silence that lurked amongst he atmosphere. Blaster rifles clenched tightly, their eyes were scanning, ever-watchful for their target. Five of them had been killed already; the price of failure. Vollus was unforgiving in his training, expecting them to head out into live exercises. He didn't expect any of them to survive, however, but those lucky enough to hang onto their existence were allowed to continue to serve him.
Eyes front and back, they waded through the muck and mire as they hunted, trying to stay alive until the very end. Their task was simple: scout the surrounding area and report back to Vollus with a full environmental analysis. The stipulation, however, was that his well-trained apprentice would be methodically stalking them every step of the way, and summarily striking down any single one of them that showed a moment's weakness.
In short: every time she attacked, someone died.
Nervousness clutched their chests, making their heartbeats accelerate and pumping acid into their veins. The tenseness of waiting to die was as painful as the most brutal of torture. However, if they were to become Vollus' elite forces, they would need elite training. And this is what he chose...
The familiar low hum of a Forcesaber broke through the quiet, severing the head of Subject 3, his body collapsing like a felled oak. Blasters went free, spewing red beams into the thicket beyond, where (they believed) Amalgama had vanished into. Taking no time to mourn their brother, the remaining four candidates pressed onward. The encampment was less than a quarter mile away, and they had no time to slow down for anything.
It came closer now, flying through the air and impaling one of the unlucky bastards through the sternum. He merely looked down, the volatile energy protruding from his chest scorching his chin. In his shock, he hardly cared; in death, he cared less. Dropping to his knees, already gone, he slumped over, a human sandbag left to rot in this infernal swamp.
The other three kept moving, the rear guard spraying suppressive fire in the direction from which the attack had come. He was lifted into the air, his windpipe struggling to intake air as the mysterious power of the Force strangled him violently. It was mere moments before the sickening crack echoed into his brothers' ears, his fate announced with harrowing audibility.
The mud grew deeper now, swimming up to their thighs and making it harder to move. They kept their eyes peeled, for they knew she was everywhere. The twirling hum of another thrown saber came spinning through the sound waves. Subject 6, the saber's intended target, ducked under the malicious weapon, breathing a short sigh of relief as the energetic blade embedded itself into his teammate's side, prompting a series of shrieks as the pain riddled him.
Saving his comrade the agony, he raised his rifle, putting an end to the poor soul's torment with the pull of a trigger. He would have been dead in a matter of seconds anyway, once Amalgama caught up with him, therefore Subject 6 decided to take it upon himself to make his death simpler.
He saw it ahead; the clearing in which the encampment had been established. He rushed through the stifling mud, moving as swiftly as he could in his slowed movement. He was gong to make it. He had a chance. He was going to-
He was raised into the air and slammed against a nearby tree, back-first. He could feel where that had broken some vertebrae, the pain a white-hot knife in his spine. He could have walked, if the pain weren't so unbearable. He was lucky to not be dead or paralyzed in this moment, but standing was an impossibility. So instead, he crawled, using his elbows and feet to push him forward. The encampment was within reach, the propulsion of Amalgama's attack placing him much closer than he had been.
A few feet to freedom was all it took, and he would pass. However, the hard kick of her boot had flipped him onto his back, the pain forcing his eyes shut as he winced in agony. She stood over him, Forcesaber in hand, the blade facing downward. She raised it up, savoring the moment just before the final kill. So this is what his life amounted to: to be the fodder in some sick game of cat-and-mouse through the jungle on some godforsaken planet. To be slaughtered, and for what? What purpose did his death serve?
Rage boiled within him. Anger at her, anger at himself, all coming to a boil within his heart. He should have been stronger, should have done more to fight her off. But this was his fate. His gaze hardened, teeth clenched as tight as an iron vice, he threw up a hand, as if he had a prayer of stopping the plummeting blade...
Amalgama was sent flying backward, an invisible shockwave hurling her away from his downed frame. She slammed into the ground -hard- but was up on her feet again just as quickly as she had been thrown. She rushed over, seeking to pin the lowly clone to the ground with her blade. "Stop what you're doing, right now!" she heard. Turning, her gaze cast upon her master as he approached.
"This one has passed," Vollus said, standing over the broken candidate. "Congratulations, my son. You are to become my first warrior; the first Doom Trooper." His eyes blurring from the tears of pain in his eyes, Subject 6 lay his head back, a wave of relief and fear washing over him as he remained static on the ground. 'At least I'm alive,' he thought.
But who knew for how long?