Name: R5EN-1-10IS (shortened to basic: Rivian von Donitz)
Callsign: Hokum
Species: Human
Age: Unknown
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 150
Hair Color: Light brown
Eye Color: Green
Reason for joining the Empire: None given
Place of Birth: Classified

History:

New consciousness ripped across the darkness, as a flash of lightning through the midnight sky. As the brain struggled to cope with this flush of life, sensations poured in, one above them all: liquid. The skin was surrounded by liquid. Thoughts took shape in this newly created being. The being was perplexed by these sensations. He felt refreshed and alive. As the spirit chased through the void of nothingness to reach its seat in the brain, the body was suddenly washed with fear. The brain knew what was wrong; the spirit simply had to catch up. The liquid. It was all around him; in his scalp, on his skin, it was everywhere. Warning bells tolled in the highest centers of the mind - there were more things wrong, and this liquid was the least of his concerns.

Just as the eyes began to open, the soul of the new being stumbled onto these problems. The place, the situation, it was all wrong. He did not remember any of this. What had happened? Had he been captured? Was he sick? None of it made any sense. But just milliseconds after asking these questions, they were shoved back into the recesses of the mind as he was alerted to a new, more biological problem; he was going to drown. There was too much liquid. What was going on? The last he remembered was sitting in a hard chair, and a metal device being fitted to his scalp. He should be getting out of the chair, but instead he was here. His eyes fluttered open, and they confirmed the sensations. Everything was a blur, a blue-pink blur. There was a mask over his face. With rising terror, he pulled the mask off, just as the pressure in the chamber he was in rose, and he rose with it. Up into the tank. His eyes shot upwards, and there was only blinding light. Before he knew it, he was out of the liquid, and the being took its first gasp of air.

Pathetically, the new creature crawled feebly onto the cold metal floor, gasping and coughing for air, the warm goo still dripping off his naked flesh. Looking up again, he shielded his eyes from the harsh light of the new room. He saw boots near him, standing around him. He curled up on the floor, trying to maintain what little shred of dignity he had in this strange place. Looking up to where he guessed one of the faces should be, he cried out.

"Where am I?" His ragged voice called.

A soothing, masculine voice replied, but did not answer. "Welcome to the world, R5EN-1-10IS."

"What?" He replied in confusion. "My name is not that, it is-" Before he could say another word, another voice interrupted.

"It is now. You are not that person. You are R5EN-1-10IS, or, as accurately as we can put it in basic, Rivian von Donitz."

Blinking, he turned to the new voice. "I don't understand."

A collective chuckle emanated from the group, and yet another fresh voice assailed him. "You will. Stand up, von Donitz. It is time to go."

And so, a few years preceding the dawn of the Galactic Empire, the clone known as R5EN-1-IS was born and bred. From an anonymous parent he was spawned in an understandably hidden facility. For this being, there was a sense of self, and little else. Soldiery is all he knows, and all he is. Quickly churned out from a basic Imperial Flight Academy, Rivian von Donitz eventually survived long enough to demonstrate to his superiors that he was a clone of slightly different abilities. As he gained experience, so did he gain knowledge, and skill. He participated in most major fleet engagements throughout the history of the Empire, achieving little of remark except his own survival, and the death of opponents.

In all probability, he was completely brainwashed, and is regarded as a fanatic. The only things known to motivate him are the concept of the next mission, and the thrill of combat. He acknowledges his life has little value of its own; the only way he can make it valuable is by taking the life of the enemy. However, combat has taken its toll. In his first naive years, he befriended many, and saw them die, as they were destined to do. Slowly, he learned to stop making such acquaintances, for they only brought upon him unnecessary suffering.

Still, seeing Imperial lives and property destroyed has maligned his heart to such a point as to where he suffers a certifiable degree of war neurosis, or more commonly, shell shock. To all who have seen him, he seems to suffer from a small degree of trembling, and a distant gaze. His combat record, however, has permitted him to continue serving despite his ill health. Over many missions he has accumulated a number of unseen scars and damages; most notably, he retains at least three lifelike replica fingers, a lifelike replacement for the lower half of his left leg (which forces him to walk with a slight limp), and a severe burn scar over his abdomen.

He has served solely with squadrons equipped with TIE Fighters and TIE Interceptors, never having the luck nor fate to be stationed in a theatre equipped with more advanced starfighters. His current service station is unassigned, in that during the chaos following the Empires collapse, he hopped from service to service with this sector group or that, and he usually requests to be stationed in whatever area is seeing the most combat.