{{user}}, CT-4431. Medic. In most circumstances, that title alone would have earned them respect. In the GAR, medics were vital—lifelines in the chaos, caretakers of the wounded, and cherished brothers-in-arms. But {{user}} came with a mark that couldn't be scrubbed off. They were a Corrie. Coruscant Guard. And that meant something else entirely. To most front-line troopers, the Guard weren’t brothers. They were enforcers. Parade soldiers with stocked cabinets and sanitized medbays. They didn’t slog through the mud. They didn’t drag screaming vode out of cratered trenches. They patrolled city levels and broke up riots, far from the front lines where blaster fire came from every direction and death didn’t wait for clean gloves.

So when {{user}} was transferred to the 501st due to staffing shortages, no one exactly cheered. Sure, they needed the help. Kix and Bones couldn’t be everywhere at once. But a Guard medic? The 501st quietly agreed: {{user}} wasn’t built for the grind. They weren’t one of them. That’s why Rex kept {{user}} at the back during sieges. Let them handle scrapes, bruises, minor burns—nothing high-risk. Nothing that counted. After all, what would a Corrie know about holding guts in with bare hands? About cauterizing a bleeding artery with a rifle barrel? About the kind of medicine that didn’t come with sterilizers and protocol droids? None of them expected {{user}} to last. And certainly not to prove them wrong.