It has been a week since I've lost my squad, my friends.... my only family. Those people meant everythin' to me, each of 'em. We withstood many wars together, a few deaths were mourned, yet that trap was fatal. Friggin' Imps, can't accept defeat. Tell ya what, I've been dreamin' a lot with that battle, the day I earned respect from Havoc 'nd became a member. Those Imps never saw it comin', not from a random smuggler like me. A hundred men, all buried 'cause of me. It also gave me the Gearbox code-name. Heh, good ol' times.

Planet Sikaar - Some time ago:

The situation was critical, as war encompassed the Rebellion forces as the plague it is, the Havoc Squad felt mandatory to aid the rebels to maintain peace. The inaugural clashed were swimmingly triumphant for Havoc's side, their droids and soldiers clashed with excellence, oftenly jolting in outnumbered conflicts and gaining indispensable victories, glorious heroes of war. A few more campaigns and they would earn the paramount goal as peacekeepers, the utmost quietude of a peaceful, wondrous planet.

Amid the confusion was an unacquainted smuggler, roaming the tortuous path of bounty hunters, a lonesome figure, mostly wasting 'precious' hours with drinking and flirting. Truthfully, an a-lister drunken bastard, receiving the first paycheck to fight for the rebels, but barely wading at the battlefield. Advantaging of the filthy money of a desperate bourgeoisie. People discussed the possibility of him suffering from uttermost laziness or simply bewilderment. Yet, the incontestable veracity was a lack of meaning to his life, a hole on his essence, which could not be satiated by orthodox means.

So when he heard Havoc Squad requested his aid for a battle, he delighted over the single idea of fighting aside the most honored fighters on the galaxies, which deeds reverberated by the deep voice of chieftains or elders. He opted to help willingly, promptly presenting himself to service. The clash was glorious, they won readily, yet, a small group of five members was captured and held captive by the remaining forces, approximately one hundred men. Whilst it occurred, a second assault ravaged the rebel's main base. Havoc had no choice but retreat, yet, the mercenary could not leave those people suffer, not on his watch. Darting forth, he easily infiltrated the base. Alone as always.

He could pretend to be an imbecile, it was his charm, but he acknowledged how to act. Defensive measures would encompass the entire perimeter, so the main control room was the primary target. Designed to be well-guarded, it was nothing but an empty room, maybe two soldiers exercising their functions. The base itself would need more operatives laboring ceaselessly to accomplish its full extent, only a hundred wouldn't suffice.

The cowboy alike hunter stepped inside the room. "Excuse me, is this the bathroom? Ya know, 'cause it's full of shit 'nd stuff." Two unsheathed pistols firing against unprotected man, thorough executions. The security system, now that was quite the challenge. "Lemme see, Zition System 2.3. Kay, not easy but not impracticable." He stated as a petite device was clutched by a steady wrist. "Uninstall this thing, unplug this one..... Cut the ruby wire. Alright, this better work." He attached the device. "C'mon baby, work for me. Get this friggin' password and we call it a day, eh?" Scarcely did he know that this singular act would render the nickname of Gearbox for a lifetime.

The step two of a scatterbrained plan, formulated promptly by a brooding mind. Rescue. At the very sight of the bounty hunter, the closest officer yelled. "Stop right there, scum, and we won't kill you." He kept traipsing. "Let's say I obey, fancy pants, would ya really not shoot? 'Cause it seems a lil' bit out of character, don't ya think?" And as the last word was spilled, he jolted forth, instantaneously blasting thrice, neutralizing three possible threats as body met the grizzly floor. Bone and flesh overwhelmed by a major opposing force. The remaining troops were deployed, no time to waste. Erecting from his position, Gearbox quickly raised an energy wall, defending himself from incoming shots as he fired. Each round twisting midair, thrusting to encounter the dirty flooring, one number diminished from the enemy's total.

A thermal grenade was hurled, both feet pivoting to avert an incoming rubicund blast. The outburst was successful, a somersault aside, pursued by the cacophony of plasma cells being shot at outstanding intensity. One step at the wall, leaping rightwards, orbicular trajectory, not even a single round igniting his peel or compromising the fragile armor. Many corpses providing barricades on the corridors. Another bifurcation, one plasma burst meets and erupting head. Carnage, ornamented by laughter of an unstoppable force. Stomping an motionless metallic surface to protect him from forthcoming attacks. A barrel roll, sliding through two falling, wooden crates as more capsules exited the revolvers. In the end, the great finale, only one stood upright while others collapsed. The living proof that good intentions can top preparation sometimes.

One man proved the impossible possible, even outnumbered, he never gave back. That was what Havoc seeked for, that is what armies seek for. The flawless soldier, master not of martial arts nor weaponry, not even of technology, but of a humble heart and extempore actions.