Private A Bullet To Catch

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Lantillies, Mid Rim

12:55

Itzhal Volkihar stretched his legs across the breadth of the enclosed cabin, his boots tapping a faint rhythm into the laminate hardshell of the backstop, the chronometer in the corner of his HuD ticking down.

12:56

Thick shadows distorted by the frosted glass, scrambled past, their lumberous form hunched over a grey frame that rattled with every step, the sound slipping through small gaps in the seams of the door. Aromas filtered into the cabin, filling the cramped air with the scent of roasted meats and rich stews. Itzhal's mouth watered in response, but he dismissed the hunger with a mental note—focused on the task at hand.

12:57

He leaned back against the rough, scratchy texture of the seats, glancing at the fluctuating data in the corner of his HuD. Blue light dissipated with a blink of his eyes, the ominous timer switched out for lines of information: names, arrival times, departure times. Outside, the heavy footsteps continued, punctuated by the swish of a doorframe and muted conversation, their voices barely discernible against the rattle of the metal trolley.

Itzhal strained to discern the words, reaching up to cup the side of his Buy'ce, the sound amplified—background racket erased, the essentials remained.

"Anything for the trolley?" the lumbering shadow said, an offer twisted by the deep rumble of their voice, a threat left in their wake.

"N-no," responded the voice inside, catching on the simple word; sensors picked up on the shake of their head, the incessant tap of fingers searching for an outlet. "I don't need anything."

Seconds passed without words, a silence without context, unwilling to share its secrets. His finger rapped against his Buy'ce, a wave of sound signals displayed on the left side of his visor, none of them quieter than the ambient sound of the repulsorlifts or the faint wisp of wind outside, dispersed by the speeding rush of the fast-moving train. Hesitantly, his hand wavered towards the leather holster at his hip, a finger slipping beneath the release catch.

An echoing chuckle grinded against the silence, a raspy clatter of vocal cords that scraped against the stillness of the train cart. "Suit yourself."

Air hissed through the pistons attached to the door, sealed closed with three massive fingers that slammed against the controls. Another hand clamped against the metal handle of their trolley, rattling once again, as they carried down the corridor with thunderous steps and a murmur of amused grumbles. On the other side of the cart, muffled by the seal of the door, a faint sigh carried over the acoustic sensors attached to the Lawkeeper's beskar'gam.

12:58

Tags: Niijima Izumi​

 

[Niijima Izumi]

12:58

The sigh carried farther than it should have.

Niijima Izumi stood near the seam between carriages, one hand resting lightly near the hilt at her hip. The train rocked beneath her, a steady side-to-side sway, but her balance adjusted without thought. She had learned that long before beskar; on stone steps slick with rain, on narrow ridge lines where a misstep meant a long fall.

The sigil of the Protectors marked her chestplate now. It was not her clan's crest. It was not stitched in silk or painted in careful strokes. It had been forged, not inherited.

And still, she stood like a samurai. Not stiff nor theatrical. Simply… aware.

Her thumb brushed the release at her hip in a familiar, grounding motion. The weapon there was not a katana. The weight was different. The draw would be different. But the discipline behind it felt the same. Steel was steel. Intent mattered more.

Through her buy'ce, she filtered the noise of the train until the fear stood out cleanly. A hitch in someone's breath. The faint staccato of nervous fingers tapping against metal.

Fear had a sound. She knew it well.

Across the carriage, blue light flickered faintly from Itzhal Volkihar's HUD. Timing. Data. Calculations. She did not need to see his face to know he was weighing the same variables. They simply approached them from different angles.

She inclined her head slightly, a quiet acknowledgment.

"I'll take the forward carriage," she said, her voice low through the modulator. Calm. Measured.

She moved then, each step deliberate, unhurried. The armor did not clank or scrape; it followed her lead. She refused to stomp through the world simply because Mandalorians were known for it. Power did not require noise.

Once, she had sworn herself to a fallen clan and an older code. That part of her had not vanished when she joined the Mandalorian Empire. It lingered in the way she breathed before action. In the way she refused to draw first. In the quiet respect she held for the gravity of violence.

She was a Protector now. But she would never stop carrying herself like a samurai.

12:59 approached, and Izumi positioned herself by the next door, waiting and ready.
​

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Lantillies, Mid Rim

Itzhal stepped out into the corridor, the soft snick of the door sealed flush against the metallic frame. Instantly, he was enveloped by the subdued hum of repulsorlifts reverberating up through his feet, energy carrying through his limbs with the whisper of potential momentum. As the carriage swayed rhythmically, he adapted to the movement, lifting his ankles so that the tips of his treaded boots burrowed deep into the laminate flooring, which bore the scars of time with a patchwork of old stains.

In the distance, the trolley cart faded from sight, vanished behind the door to the next carriage, leaving only two individuals to stand in the corridor.

Soft rays of light from the ceiling above filtered gracefully into a warm glow that crept over the sleek plates of beskar'gam. Crafted from a shade of deep, inky blackness so dark it swallowed the shadows, the chestplate accentuated the intricate patterns of embellishment sealed in shimmering gold and rich crimson that descended over beskar greaves. At their hip, a metal gauntlet hovered over the release clasp of their beskar blade, sheathed in a beautiful scabbard that fluttered with the subtle sway of the carriage.

Niijima Izumi wore her past like a well-worn cloak, its fabric frayed at the edges yet comforting in its familiarity; threads woven from memories both cherished and painful. She did not seek cin vhetin as so many other Mandalorians new to the culture did, rather, the daughter of Atrisia's decisions were made with the critical foundation of her experiences—the path already ventured, smooth roads and unsteady bedrock alike. What compelled her to hold so tightly to those years gone by? He could not say, nor could the ghosts that followed him.

In the end, it mattered not.

Only that they both had a task to complete, his eyes flickered towards the front carriage, one route closed with her promise, the other, he hoped, wasn't needed.

12:59.

Hurtling through the countryside, the train neared its destination.

Slowly, Itzhal inclined his head forward with emphasis taken for the shape of his buy'ce. "Understood, this shouldn't take long."

If only he knew the truth—fate had a way of making one regret their words.

He moved away, a swift turn leading him across the corridor towards the sealed door and the voice tainted with fear. The greyscale metal door and clouded-over windows left the cabin no different from any other, at least, if not for the inhabitant. With no time to waste, Itzhal opened the door.

Sat slouched in the corner of the room as if the world would swallow them whole. Comrox Tuj was not a man known for his presence; he was a coward, the type that feared their own shadow, and yet, somehow had the terrible habit of sinking into the memory of others like a dreadful stain in your grandmother's favoured couch. The Falleen's skin was a patchy and moulted green, covered by a shabby black beard that resembled creeping ivy crawling over a decrepit wall.

"W-w-waiit," his voice cracked into a horrid shrill that scrabbled over the walls. He shot out of his chair, one step forward, then another, stumbling into the seats on the other side of the booth, both hands braced to stop his fall. "I've got what you want. Listen, I know it all. I can give you what you want."

Itzhal stepped forward, slipping loose the catch of his leather sheath as his fingers settled on the handle of the blaster pistol. "Comrox Tuj, I'm with the Mandalorian Protectors, we're placing you under arrest."

Tags: Niijima Izumi​

 

[Niijima Izumi]

12:59

Izumi heard the door open behind her.

The sound was small; just the soft hiss of pistons and the quiet click of a seal breakin; but it carried clearly through the steady hum of the train. She did not turn immediately. A samurai did not snap toward every movement like a startled animal. Awareness did not need spectacle. Instead, she listened.

The train thundered along the rails, repulsorlifts vibrating faintly through the deck. Somewhere ahead, a trolley rattled away toward the next carriage. Beneath it all came the sharp crack of a frightened voice, high and desperate, spilling through the corridor behind her. She closed her eyes for half a second.

So that was where the fear had been hiding. Izumi turned then, the motion slow and timely. The warm overhead lights slid across the polished edge of her visor and the dark plates of her armor as she stepped back toward the open doorway. Even in beskar she moved lightly, her steps quiet against the worn laminate floor.

Inside the cabin she caught the scene in a single glance.

The man, Comrox Tu, looked like he might collapse under his own panic. Green skin mottled and dull, beard uneven, eyes wide with the kind of fear that came from knowing exactly how much trouble you were in. Across from him stood Itzhal, already moving through the formalities of the arrest, one hand settling onto the grip of his blaster.

Izumi remained in the doorway, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame. Her hand hovered near the hilt at her hip, not drawn, not tense. Ready to strike when time called for it.

She studied the man quietly. Not just the trembling hands or the frantic words, but the way his weight shifted, the way his eyes darted around the room looking for escape that did not exist. Old habits. The kind she had learned long before armor and empires. Fear made people unpredictable. “You’re done running,” she said calmly, her voice steady through the modulator.

There was no anger in it, no threat. Just certainty.

Her head tilted slightly toward Itzhal, acknowledging his lead without a word. This was his arrest. Her place was the same role she had stood in countless times before joining the Mandalorian Empire; watching the edges of the moment, where things tended to break.

Once she would have stood in a temple courtyard with a hand on the hilt of a katana. Now she stood in a train cabin in beskar. Different armor, different banner but the same patience. Izumi waited, silent and still, ready for the moment when fear turned into something far more dangerous.
​

Itzhal Volkihar​