Trash Compactor

I ripped my chrome helmet off of my head, gasping for air as I waded in muddy water. Clumps of discarded metal and waste pinned tightly to my torso, leaving only my arms and head free to move. That, and the smell was just disgusting. That damned traitor, had I properly executed him at the first sign of defection, none of this would be happening.

My eyes darted rapidly across the room, but took in nothing but rusted brown and gray. This was the trash compactor of Starkiller Base, where all discarded material, expired parts, and fecal waste of the First Order ends up. God, the smell reeked. Disgusting, it infiltrates the senses until you're overwhelmed, and can think of nothing else. But I knew that I must, lest I succumb to by exposure to this freezing, germ infested water. Needless to say, that wouldn't be my ideal way to go.

I took one last glance at my helmet, sitting discarded among the garbage. I had been so proud to accept this armor upon my entry into the First Order, but now it lies in filth. I shall have to let FN 2187 feel the full weight of that disrespect the next time I see him. I had but to abandon my proud reward if I had any hope of escape.

I reached downwards, feeling around the clumps of scrap metal that clenched my waist tightly. Firstly, I ripped off what was left of my cape, tossing the tattered mess out with the rest of the garbage. Next, I reached to the clamps that held together my breastplate, and pulled ferociously. Alas, no luck. Due to my strange predicament, the armor is seemingly stuck to me. This process was grueling, but I had to carry on if I have any hope of escape.

Suddenly, the room was illuminated red, a digital horn blared. Dank ferrick. Within seconds, the room would empty out the garbage onto a transport ship, headed for the nearest junk planet. I'd be able to survive, but my hopes of warning General Hux of the attackers would be dashed. Sadly, my usually tactical mind thought of nothing, presumably due to the smell, and I plummeted downwards.