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​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Lantillies, Mid Rim

The train glided smoothly across the tracks, its movement subtle and serene, a price of luxury underscored by the gentle hum of the repulsorlifts that kept it aloft—an impression of tranquillity, disrupted only by the sight outside the large, panoramic windows. Towering trees, their vibrant green leaves shimmering in the sunlight, flashed past in a blur, while valleys stretched out on either side of the train, their rolling hills painted in shades of gold and vibrant greens. In the distance, a humble dot of grey surrounded by countryside continued to grow with every second that passed, the miles between the train and the station rapidly disappearing as it neared the local mountain range.

"No, you can't," Comrox Tuj stammered, his voice trembling as he stumbled backwards, nearly pressing himself against the cold glass window pane behind him. His yellow, beady eyes darted anxiously from the imposing form of the Mandalorian Protector to the doorframe, where the dwindling possibility of escape flickered like a dying flame. "I mean, surely you've got the wrong person," he pleaded, desperation lacing his words as the lies slipped from his mouth. "I've done nothing wrong."

Itzhal Volkihar cast a fleeting glance at the chronometer embedded in his HuD, the numbers ticking away relentlessly, like grains of sand slipping through his fingers or the jaws of a great beast nearing closer; time was of the essence—the window of opportunity was tight.

"We both know that isn’t the case," Itzhal drawled, his measured steps closing the distance between them. A soft blue light from the corner of his HUD highlighted the crimes he was undeniably guilty of: spice smuggling, arms dealing within the Mandalorian Empire without a license, possession of an unauthorised disruptor, arson of multiple warehouses, identity theft, three confirmed cases of first-degree murder, bribery of officials, and the erasure and alteration of criminal records. The list went on and on.

Comrox's panicked gaze swooped from side to side, tracing over the firm padding of the seats and the laminate flooring beneath their feet, before they slowly settled upon the blaster at Itzhal's hip. "I-i, surrender."

In the bleak glare of the transparisteel visor, Comrox's eyes shuttered with failure, as Itzhal's hand slipped away from the hilt of his blaster, and towards the magnetic cuffs attached to his utility belt. The clamps deactivated with a soft whine that released the cuffs, allowing the Mandalorian to step forward and wrap the bindings around the Falleen's slender wrists.

With one hand attached to the central clamp of the bindings, his other hand reached up towards his buy'ce, "Target acquired, moving to exfil."

13:02.

Ten seconds till arrival at Golden Acre Station.

Itzhal stepped forward with Comrox dragged behind him, their footsteps an offbeat echo.

Five seconds.

The rails guided them into the station.

The train lunged forward, the repulsorlifts screaming to life as a jolt of acceleration slammed into Itzhal, nearly knocking him off his feet. He struggled to stay grounded, one hand pressing against the wall for support while Comrox stumbled backwards, all their weight held in the cuffs, before he rebounded into Itzhal's back. Another firm stamp and the magnetic locks sealed him into place, as his hand went from supporting his stance to slamming into the emergency stop.

It only sped up.

Tags: Niijima Izumi​

 

[Niijima Izumi]

The change came before the noise. It was subtle; just a slight shift under her feet, enough to break the steady rhythm she had been following without thinking. The train had been smooth, almost predictable in its motion, but now there was a sharpness to it, like something no longer in balance.

Izumi adjusted without hesitation. One foot slid back, her weight settling lower, her stance grounding itself in a way that looked effortless but was anything but. Even in armor, she moved like she always had—controlled, deliberate, every motion serving a purpose. Her hand came up to the doorframe, not gripping tightly, just enough to anchor herself as the carriage began to betray its calm.

Then the surge hit.

The train lunged forward with sudden, violent force, the hum of the repulsorlifts rising into a strained, almost pained whine. The world outside the windows blurred into streaks of color, too fast, too uncontrolled. The kind of speed that didn’t belong this close to a station.

The force dragged at her, trying to pull her off balance, but she held firm. Her boots pressed harder into the floor, her body absorbing the motion rather than fighting it. Years of discipline carried through the unfamiliar weight of beskar. Different armor, same instinct.

Izumi turned at the commotion, taking a moment to grasp at the situation before her. Itzhal had the prisoner secured, but the sudden acceleration had disrupted his footing. The prisoner was stumbling, dragged by the cuffs, his panic now made worse by the chaos. It wasn’t out of control yet; but it was close.

She stepped in immediately. Her hand would catch the edge of a seat as she moved, using it to steady herself before reaching in; not for her weapon, but to stabilize the situation. Her presence shifted the space, closing angles, removing the chance for either man to fall the wrong way if the train jolted again.

“Hold him steady,” she said, her voice calm and even despite the rising strain of the train around them. For a brief moment, her gaze flicked toward the window. The station was coming up too quickly, the approach wrong in a way she could feel more than measure. The train wasn’t slowing; it was pushing forward, faster than it should have been.

Something wasn’t right.

Her attention returned to Itzhal and the prisoner, her stance shifting slightly so she could brace for another impact if it came. She would position herself where she could take the force if either of them lost balance again, quiet and steady in the middle of rising instability.

Izumi didn’t react to chaos the way most did. She absorbed it and waited for the moment where control could be taken back.
​

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Lantillies, Mid Rim

"It's a little harder than it looks," Itzhal grunted, his voice strained as he tightened his grip around the collar of Comrox's dress shirt, the fabric bunching beneath his fingers. The Mandalorian tilted his Buy'ce back, narrowly avoiding the flailing arms attached to metallic cuffs that only slowed as the Morellian dragged them closer, bringing their owner's sickly green-tinged face nearer to his expressionless visor. "Contain yourself."

They did, at least for the moment.

Over the tightly restrained figure of their captive, Itzhal subtly tilted his head toward his fellow Mandalorian, a silent exchange of appreciation for the support offered. Beneath the visor, the Morellian's eyes flickered towards the metallic cuffs wrapped around Comrox's wrists, his hands held low as if he could hide them amongst the folds of his travel clothes. It might even work in a more crowded situation. Here, it was a reminder of just how necessary the two Protectors' position was, with Izumi's imposing presence behind them, cutting off any retreat just as effectively as Itzhal had severed the criminal's options from the front.

Through the large windows, fleeting glimpses of the station flashed by like snapshots, the dull duracrete and weathered durasteel structures barely registering as they grew close enough to define, then just as quickly vanished into the distance with another surge of power from the repulsorlifts underfoot. With his boots bound to the floor, Itzhal rode through the influx of momentum, his knees tilted to absorb the impact as all around them the train car shook from side to side, barely restrained by the tracks beneath the thunderous streak of mechanical might.

Further up the train, passengers screamed in shock and horror, their lives flashing before their eyes as emergency brakes were slammed to no avail and bodies braced against a fate they had no control over.

With a quick flick of his eyes, Itzhal surveyed the display of their surroundings and the door behind them without even turning his helmet in their direction. His broad shoulders bore the weight of his jetpack, its metallic frame pressing heavily against him, the burden of freedom looming overhead as the screams ahead rattled through the feedback of his audial sensors.

"We need to stop the train," Itzhal intoned, firm as the beskar that coated his form. His next step clanked with the deactivation of the maglocks and the pitter-patter of Comrox's steps, attempting to keep up as the Mandalorian strode forward at pace.

"Wait, wait, what about getting me off this? You came here for me, right?" The Falleen's voice cracked as the light outside dimmed, the shadow of the mountain creeping closer with every second that passed, his steps slowing down in turn.

In the absence of words, Itzhal's hand wrapped around the link of the cuffs and pulled them forward, through the doorframe of the first train car into the next. Unlike the previous cart, where well-paid occupants had lurked in their own booths, separated from their fellow passengers, the current cart was an open walkway with chairs on either side, filled with desperate civilians who clung to their seats with dogged determination, a few securing seatbelts and whatever personal goods they had on hand. As he passed, Itzhal grabbed hold of a woman's shoulder, holding them steady before they slipped back into their seat beside a much younger girl with similar features.

On the other side, the door opened, a hiss of gas that screeched outwards, and was just as quickly silenced. In the dimming light of the cabin, a figure stepped through with a calculated grace, their steps a whisper against the laminate floor. Draped in a sleek, form-fitting cloak of the purest black that flowed over their right shoulder. They took another step forward, muffled by the sharp rasp of the cane they wielded, immaculate white gloves wrapped around the intricate silver pommel shaped like a descending shriekhawk. His piercing amber eyes stalked over the field of prey, assessing potential threats and escape routes with ingrained dedication, no figure dismissed, until they landed upon the two Mandalorian's and the captive shoved between them. His pale blue lips, a tinge lighter than the rest of his skin, twisted upwards in a creeping grin.

"Apologies, it would appear that you have acquired someone of value to my employers and me," he replied smoothly, flourishing his free hand to the side as his amber eyes narrowed upon the sight of Comrox. "Would you be ever so kind as to step aside, while I deal with the rabble?"

Tags: Niijima Izumi​