Just follow clocktower's lead, he's basically got the gist of it down.

CT-138117 was in his quarters. Pushing himself off the floor with his bare hands, back leveled with his butt poised.

"56.. 57.. " He mustered with each new breath.

CT-138117 shared his quarters with other troopers. All of which have either seen action, or will. This one housed sixteen bunk beds. White, basic, with armor stacked on one end- your bunk mates at the other. Weapons underneath, above your memory foam, or by your feet beside your armor. There was no view. Just an entrance.

He was inbetween #13 & #15.

"80.. 81.." He paused, and abandoned the rest as he turned over to sit on his behind. He began to count off on his fingers:
"Curls, sit ups, jax, push ups... Oh, right. Stretches." But at that moment his belly began to growl.

He stared over one of the bunks at the door. "Can't forget to eat." He said with a sly grin. He put his arm on his bunk to steady his rise as he reached for the above bunk to pull himself up. He marched to the end of bunk #13, grabbed his helmet with one hand and slid it on with both. Grabbed his modified E-11 from under CT-138118s bunk and slung it around his shoulder, he kept it in place with his right hand.

He marched out the door to the galley. Prepared for whatever he wants next.

"Well, I've found your little battery error..." Jet explains as he plucks a small and badly damaged mouse droid from the innards of a bridge console he was searching as the bridge staff continue their duties. "It's an MSE-6 series droid... Could be the one the cadet lost a month ago." Jet thinks aloud before giving the operator of the console the functional repair droid. The mouse droid then squeaks and tries to run away which it manages to do because the operator jumps at the noise. "How could it be damaged like that lieutenant?" the operator asks while watching the technician put the console back to it's pre-examination condition. "Might have been caught in a turbolaser, the cadet was asked to repair the 14th one. Well sir I expect you can resume your console commanding and I'll go and sort out a malfunctioning escape pod." The technician states as he picks up his tools and proudly walks off towards the escape pods.

Lowering the training rifle a hairs breadth, MK219 peered down the range at his target. It was far away but he had good eyes, it was kind of a prerequisite to become a scout. The target was a vaguely humanoid hologram coloured blue to make it easy to aim at it. A small red dot had appeared in the chest-area and marked the spot where MK's shot would've hit if he'd been using a regular rifle and the hologram had been able to take damage from energy shots. He was slightly off target, the tiny white dot he'd been aiming at was still visible right at the edge of the red dot like a sun or white moon eclipsed by a bright red planet.

MK219's right hand moved almost on it's own, found the adjustable sight and turned a small knob on the side twice and an identical knob on top once. He aimed the the target again and gently squeezed the trigger. No recoil, no drop, no projectile that could be influenced by air flow, stationary target. No way to miss.
Again he looked down the range at his target. Another red dot had appeared and the previous one had become slightly more translucent. The bright red dot now perfectly encompassed the white dot. His sight was perfectly attuned to his eyes.

MK219 removed the adjustable scope and got into a sitting position, resting his practice rifle on his left hand and his left elbow on his left knee, left foot on the ground. The full weight of the rifle, which wasn't much, was channelled straight into the ground. On a good day he could sit like that for hours, only occasionally taking a break to flex his right leg which took the brunt of his own weight. Without the scope he could only use the rifle's built-in iron-sights it was a lot harder to aim, especially on distant targets, but it was good practice for a bad scenario. The scope was one of the most sensitive pieces of the rifle, a million things could happen to it in the field that would break it or make it less-than-optimal.

There were five white dots on the hologram...

Four...

Cutter did actually like the Empire. Or at least life in the Imperial army. It was a lot better than life back on Taris. Granted it didn’t always seem like he enjoyed it. Often at odds with superior officers he deemed too stupid and incompetent to bother obeying. During his first year with the empire he scrubbed more toilets and shower rooms that probably any other soldier in the history of the Storm trooper corps. But those officers quickly learned that if they gave him a long leash and let him out into the wilderness where interactions with him could be limited to the bare minimum, he was actually a pretty good soldier. Surprisingly loyal to the Empire, which he viewed as offering him a way out of that otherwise pointless existence he was doomed to lead. And he enjoyed doing what he did. He could actually travel and see new sights beyond the dull florescent lit under hives of the planet city he was born on. Actual vegetation and plants that were real and not fake plastoid moulds. Stone that wasn’t mass produced concrete. Pair that with a free bed, three meals a day and a reason to get up every day and actually have a purpose. It was a pretty damned good deal to him.  And the strict routine wasn’t as annoying as he assumed it would be. There was something about the regimentation that was appealing. It quickly became comfortable, reliable. He took to it better than he thought.
 
Still there were problems. Well not problems in the sense that Cutter thought they were problems. Besides. When he wasn't in the field his record was prone to swell with minor infractions. Today alone he was given two. One for not having his armour up to official, mirror polish standard (It was just going to get dirty again anyway. Besides he always made sure he got the worst off.) and the other for who knows what. Something about mild insubordination. He hardly remembered how many people he could potentially tell off on a given day.

Right now he was off in a secluded corner of the ship. Stripping down his long blaster with a well smoked cigar in his mouth. Another thing that, strictly speaking. He wasn't allowed to do on board the ship. Hence why he chose to find a less travelled area of the ship to clean his rifle. Unlike his armour plates, his gun was meticulously cleaned and scrubbed. Not a spec of dust from the tip of the muzzle to the butt of the stock and all parts in between. One of the few things he could never be blamed for neglecting.

The officers of his Tarisian battalion had learned to cut him and other ex-gangers a little leeway in certain situations. But as long as he was on board this super destroyer he was surrounded by literal hordes of officers who were not from his battalion and not as understanding of those troopers more unique viewpoints on academy trained fops who thought themselves hot shit because a few years of supposed 'higher education' spent in the soft confines of imperial academy well away from any front line gave them some authority. Well his service record would most likely continue to swell with infractions.

He drew a long drag of the cigar and snuffed it out on the cargo crate he was sitting on. Tossing the remaining stub into a dark corner for the maintenance droids to sweep up later. Breathing out the smoke through his nostrils he ready-checked his weapon one last time before he decided he was satisfied it was as clean as it could possibly be. His wrist chrono beeped to remind him he had a punishment duty to fulfill from telling that lieutenant to shove his collar pips up his ass this morning.

“Fuck me.....”

A bite to eat is all he wanted. He didn’t think it was asking too much, but apparently it was. He was used to non-clones muttering something under their breath or calling him “copy” or other such things, but every now and then you got a cocky asshole like this one who, possibly in an attempt to show off to his comrades, feels the need to demonstrate his incredible bravery by abusing a man probably twice his own age.

Despite his incredible urge to punch this cocky trooper clean in the face, he decided not to get involved in the conflict the heavy trooper was so desperately trying to coax out of him. Further, having learned from experience during his many years of training on Kamino that insubordination and breaking rules was wholly frowned upon (he swore that “behavioral readjustment” droid left a scar or two), he decided against sitting at the offending trooper’s table just to irk him and seated himself at the table on the far side of the hall that he frequented.

During the Clone Wars, troopers generally shuffled into their own little groups in the mess hall, squads and those of similar rank usually choosing to sit together. Now instead of a natural separation, it felt downright segregated, with clones and non-humans sitting far from the human enlisted. The Empire being the way it was, that is to say not the most loving and accepting of governments, this separation was almost enforced. Though all species could enlist in the Imperial Army, the xenophobia among its human-dominated permeated all aspects of life like a sour smell.

It seemed to be getting harder and harder to get about on a daily basis without hearing a bitter remark under someone’s breath, being called out in training, or otherwise being belittled in some way. This was especially true in the mess hall when alcohol loosened everyone’s proverbial ties and coaxed the tongue to express the things the sober mind often restrained.

Velker recalled when the mess hall was filled with his brothers. Sure, back then it wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine either. Harsh words were exchanged and fights broke out every now and then. Hell, “every now and then” was a huge understatement whenever ARCS were around. Those guys were known to have a superiority complex and the lower-ranked troopers often had no trouble expressing their distaste at their behavior, especially since it was just random chance that they were bred to be elite. Despite all these disagreements, in those days he never felt such an immense rift between comrades that rumbled below the surface of nearly every interaction nowadays. Sure, there was acidity tinging the words and anger behind every punch, but never such unbridled, biting hatred. After all, they were all brothers then. Those days were definitely gone. Here were the days of dodging more cigarette butts than bullets. He never thought he’d see the day.

@Halvtand

"Have you hit anything yet, MK-219?"

This was the spot where DV-125 preferred most to be when not in mission. Well, to be perfectly honest he enjoyed staying both at the Shooting Range and the the room where all those fancy tools were stored; not that he was welcome there most of the time. There on the other hand, he was more than welcome to stay.

He and his very powerful and dearly loved rocket launcher.

The scout trooper he had just passed, MK-219, was taking actually quite good shots at the holographic targets down the range, but VD-125 was always one for annoying you just slightly. In his mind it made others aware that DV-125 acknowledged their existance. Or it could be that he was an asshole before he was taught to forget his name.

DV-125 took a spot further down the range where he could freely - more or less - practice his Anti-Vehicle weapon-skills. It also helped that he enjoying blowing up stuff that the Empire allowed him to blow up. He lifted the rocket launcher onto his shoulder, calibrated the sights the same way he did between every mission, and took aim; the hologram of a TB-2 Light Tank appeared, about 200-300 meters down range.

"Mind taking out that sharpshooter behind there, MK-219? I'd rather not have my brain's fried up while I try to keep our squad from getting blown to pieces by that tank."

CR-089 lazily stabbed his fork into whatever mystery meat the so called "chefs" aboard the SSD had decided to serve them. "Another delicious gormet meal, eh?" joked another member of his squad, who was currently sitting next to "Cro" at the otherwise empty table in the mess hall. The rest of their squad was down at the training range, leaving the two to eat alone.

He couldn't exactly just "skip" training obviously, even though he didn't consider the Navy Commandos to be a particularly heroic or glamorous bunch, they were still technically classified as special operatives, and had to train as such. The two had only been able to skip out because they had put in some extra hours the day before. That didn't mean that Cro wouldn't still go down to the range some time during the day, there wasn't really much else to do on this floating tin can other than stare out the window and shoot at inanimate objects.

Rolling his eyes back at the other trooper he responded, "Tell me about it, can't wait till it's our stop, I want some real food." he emphasized his point by picking his fork up and biting the meat off of it and chewing exaggeratedly.

CT-0 stares blankly into the grey wall of the cell like room he was staying in. This new room was not as wide as his last, nor as long, not even as high. Why had he decided to stay here. Switching from his comfy old post was a dumb idea he thought. But staying in that place forever was an even dumber idea. Its time to eat but he decides not to go. training isn't worth it either in his mind. He lazes back. plumping onto his bed. Ill go tomorrow, that will be OK right?

He motions his hands in the air imagining a battlefield and his large gun in his hands the weight pulling his hands down, the tough grip keeping his hands wrapped around its black handle, looking down its large scope which had served him well in most battles. In some battles he had to be closer than that of which his scope is really meant for even at its lowest zoom scale, and being this was his only weapon besides the inactive saber on his hip and his smaller size, he can't really handle a one on one fight with a well trained individual. His imagination brought him to a room looking out at a battlefield killing enemies. One, two, three, bodies dropping like flies. It was so relaxing he thought.

His dream ends with him being shot directly in the head. Why does it end that way? Was he scared of being shot or was it his minds way of making him come back to reality?

“Have you hit anything yet, MK-219?"
It was a semi-familiar voice, a trooper who frequented the shooting gallery in a similar fashion to Mark's own. DV-125. Mark didn't so much answer as frown at the guy for a second and look from his smug face to the target in front of him, riddled with red dots.
Their shared fondness of the shooting range is where Mark would want the similarities between them to end, they were really nothing alike. Mark was a scout, stealthy, sneaky, low-key, eyes and ears sharp, first one on the ground in any campaign. DV-125, or Lancer, was a shock trooper. A supporter with high firepower, perfect for keeping the attack line from falling back. Shock troopers were the last to be deployed, if at all, only slightly ahead of the vehicles.

Lancer kept walking and seemed to leave Mark alone, might as well. Precision shooting, even for fun, takes concentration, and with a shock trooper nearby there is no such thing as peace and quiet.
With his rifle once again leveled against his target and a few more white dots spawned Mark was ready to get back to his thing. However, before he had a chance to fire the hologram flickered and disappeared a second before a range of moving holograms appeared at various points around the room. One of them a tank frequently used by the rebells.

The bastard had started a simulation, without asking, what a dick. Now Mark's score was wiped and he had to redo the whole thing.

"Mind taking out that sharpshooter behind there, MK-219? I'd rather not have my brain's fried up while I try to keep our squad from getting blown to pieces by that tank." Lancer yelled from his position way down the line, cowering behind his cover, apparently pinned down by the holografic challenge he'd created himself.
Getting 'killed' wasn't that big of a deal. Your gun stopped working for a time until you reloaded, you took a hit to your score which would effectively prevent you from reaching the top. Getting killed was bad, and the poor bastard with the worst score each week was forced to do the maintenance on the whole chamber. Mark had pretty good score. Keyword; had.

He took a gander at the battlefield. A tank, a small group of snipers and about a dozen regulars. Normally too much for two people to handle. The tank would have to be hit in the right spot to detonate either the ammo or the fuel cells. Even at the worst settings the hologram would try pretty hard to keep a single guy from doing just that. As long as no one was distracting the tank Lancer would not be able to get a clean shot. Throw in the snipers, as soon as the shock trooper popped his head up he'd probably find himself staring down their barrels. The advancing regulars meant that he didn't have the luxury of time.

You didn't have to be a master strategist to see that the battle was lost. Even if Mark could take down the snipers, he'd be no match for the regulars unless he could somehow outmaneuver them and pick them off one by one. With the tank present no amount of fancy footwork would be any good and a single step wrong would hit his score hard. With the snipers down Lancer could maybe take out the tank, but there was a reason why he was a shock trooper and not a sharp shooter. Besides, the tank might stay on Lancer as a target as he was the only one who could do real damage to it and let the regulars chase the poor scout around until he made a mistake.
Seeing the massive disadvantage of the situation, Mark did the only thing he could. He ducked down and began to sprint toward the exit. Leaving the simulation would cut him out of any profit for it being beaten, but also not hold him accountable for failures after the escape.