For whatever reason, DK-4077 is in the armory and associated gun range - perhaps to take his regular qualification exam to make sure he can still hit the side of a barn door with a blaster, that sort of thing. But he's there. Inside the heavy blast door is a waiting area with a couple of chairs, a grille'd in counter with one of those cashiers' drawers big enough to pass rifles through, and a door to the shooting range. Behind the grille are the racks of weapons, and of course in cases of emergency the whole grille can be lifted up for rapid dispensing of armaments. DK's been through the shooting range, plugged holes into the appropriate bodily parts of a paper Resistance fighter, and is having his records updated by a grizzled old fellow behind the grille. He grunts as he sees the paper target. "Nice shooting," he mutters begrudgingly.
"It falls within acceptable parameters," HK-4077 responds coldly as he hefts the training rifle up and pops the powercell out of it. He places the two seperate parts into the drawer and presses the button that sends it sliding back to the other side for retrieval where the rifle will be stripped and cleaned, and the powerpack recycled or recharged. "You will note that it is a net three percent increase over my previous score of 86."
The greybeard (except that he doesn't have a beard) grunts again, accepting the rifle. "It'll be entered on your record," he intones, managing to suggest that a net three percent increase over a previous score of 86 is somehow deficient in some way. There are a couple of other Stormtroopers waiting their turn to turn in weapons; a lanky fellow whose face is hidden behind his helmet, and a girl who looks like she might have been knocked over with the recoil, sans helmet. She looks nervous.
"It was intended to serve as a reminder. The memory is the first thing to go under the onslaught of the years," DK-4077 offers, along with the blankest of all possible blank faces as he moves to tap in his info the digital timesheet placed near the weapon cage.
The female Stormtrooper is getting bad news. "I'm sorry, Private, but you failed to qualify." Her face looks perilously close to tears, her eyes bright and her mouth trembling. "I'm going to have to report this to your chain of command." She swallows hard. "But I can do it!" she begs. "I can get it if you'll just let me do it again!" The First Order are not known for their flexibility, however, and the curmudgeon's face is implacable. "I'm sorry," he repeats mechanically. "Next, please." The girl just stands there, trembling with rising fear.
DK-4077 watches the girl as she begins to tear up with the same flat, emotionless stare he gives just about everything and says, "To be fair, your score was objectively terrible." The intel soldier crosses his arms and says, "Perhaps reconditioning is in order."
The girl, whose designation is AK-6178, stares at Duke with tears mounting in her eyes. "Please! I don't need to be reconditioned!" The greynonbeard continues to scratch and peck on his terminal, not bothering to look up. The tall fellow watches in silence. The girl starts to back away. "I'll do anything, I don't need to be reconditioned!" She opens her mouth to say something else when a klaxon goes off, a red beacon behind a cage starts to rotate, and the big blast doors start to descend, cutting off the Armory from the outside world. And a tannoy blares, "This is a drill. This is only a drill. Locking down Armory. This is only a drill." Just the weekly test of the blast doors, but the girl thinks it's designed to keep her captured for reconditioning, and she turns to flee. Through the closing blast doors. It's a split second call, and it's the wrong call. Unless someone stops her, somebody's going to be scraping up strawberry jam from the doors in a moment.
DK-4077 isn't exactly in the business of saving his fellow Stormtroopers. That's not the mission. Ever. But there is a brief moment of compassion in his eyes. Thankfully, it passes and DK-4077's stun baton is unclipped from his leg armor and flipped out; a press of a button and it crackles to life. Duke is quick chase after the fleeing TRAITOR and attempt to send the electrified club towards the center of her back.
Bright electricity crackles across her back and she stumbles into the door, half-onto the closing blast doors - they're four panels, one coming from above, one from below, one from the left and one from the right, overlapping to seal off the Armory. Her head and upper body catch on the rising lower plate, picking her up. Duke has about half a second to yank her off before it's a Stormtrooper crush.
There's a brief moment where DK-4077 almost lets the young stormroop-ess face her much-deserved punishment, but decides that's someone else's call, so he bends down and grabs her ankle, pulling her back quickly out of the closing panels of the doors.
The doors slam shut and there's suddenly silence in the room. The tall Stormtrooper didn't move even when he had the opportunity; the greynonbeard behind the counter didn't have much opportunity to do so. The girl sprawls on her back on the floor, drooling somewhat, blinking as neural functions slowly return to normal. "Open the blast doors. Open the blast doors!" the greynonbeard suddenly yells into his comm. "I need a security detail down here!"
DK-4077 stands over the downed stormtrooper gal, his stun baton pointed at her, "AK-6178, stand down. A security team will retrieve you shortly and have you taken to Captain Phasma for evaluation."
All the fight is gone from her. She just lies, snivelling, on her back. She's peed her pants, probably from the stun baton, and lies in a pool of yellow urine that the weapons wallah eyes with disfavor, like it was DK-4077's fault that she peed herself. And, to be fair, it probably was. Then the doors are opening and security are turning up, all blank helmets and barked (albeit respectful, once they figure out who he is) questions. The girl is dragged away in cuffs, to be taken to Phasma, and the tall fellow is questioned as well regarding his version of events. It doesn't differ from the truth.