Sarge Potteiger
Emotional Damage
@[member="Diana Moridena"]
Cato Neimoidia
Starport
A CR-90E painted in the matte-black of the Protectorate wasn't a common sight in these worlds, even though they bordered Protectorate space. The stranger part was that the electronic flag it was flying was that of a mercenary crew - the fact that a mercenary group had their own corvette spoke volumes of their efficiency and purse size.
Sadly, perhaps, there was no crew.
Instead, sitting in the massive command throne of the vessel was a man dressed in deep-maroon armor of beskar, a bodysuit of the same rich color laying beneath. Crushgaunts rested on large armrests adorned with various buttons and symbols, attesting to the fact that this was, in fact, the captains chair.
But aside from this lone figure the only others around were droids - HBD-300 War Droids, also of Protectorate stock. Armed with telescopic vibroblades and flechette launchers, they would turn the hallways of this vessel into a deathtrap should anyone think to board. No one would, not without permission.
Autoturrets at the entrances saw to that.
Still, he needed to meet the harbormaster in person to fill the paperwork necessary to load the vessel with fuel. Standing and disconnecting the wires from his helmet, the man walked from the bridge, the hatch sliding shut behind him. Walking the sterile white halls, his footsteps made nary an echo even as he began walking down the ramp to the massive hangar deck below.
Looking around, he found a large opening to his right through which he spied masses of people moving about their business. The starport here were always busy - the result of a booming economy buoyed by the influx of credits that war always brought with it. Taking long strides, he melded in with the crowd; at least so much as a man in Mandalorian armor could.
Broad shoulders shifted and twisted as he maneuvered his way deftly through the throngs of people who paid little to no attention to the forgettable man in their midst. His HUD was telling him the harbormasters office was up ahead, but the line outside of it said this was going to take awhile.
Sighing a little inside his helmet, he slowed his pace and directed himself that way.
Hopefully he'd not be interrupted by an ill-timed fight or noble from Kuat who was sneaking her way out and into the Outer Rim.
Cato Neimoidia
Starport
A CR-90E painted in the matte-black of the Protectorate wasn't a common sight in these worlds, even though they bordered Protectorate space. The stranger part was that the electronic flag it was flying was that of a mercenary crew - the fact that a mercenary group had their own corvette spoke volumes of their efficiency and purse size.
Sadly, perhaps, there was no crew.
Instead, sitting in the massive command throne of the vessel was a man dressed in deep-maroon armor of beskar, a bodysuit of the same rich color laying beneath. Crushgaunts rested on large armrests adorned with various buttons and symbols, attesting to the fact that this was, in fact, the captains chair.
But aside from this lone figure the only others around were droids - HBD-300 War Droids, also of Protectorate stock. Armed with telescopic vibroblades and flechette launchers, they would turn the hallways of this vessel into a deathtrap should anyone think to board. No one would, not without permission.
Autoturrets at the entrances saw to that.
Still, he needed to meet the harbormaster in person to fill the paperwork necessary to load the vessel with fuel. Standing and disconnecting the wires from his helmet, the man walked from the bridge, the hatch sliding shut behind him. Walking the sterile white halls, his footsteps made nary an echo even as he began walking down the ramp to the massive hangar deck below.
Looking around, he found a large opening to his right through which he spied masses of people moving about their business. The starport here were always busy - the result of a booming economy buoyed by the influx of credits that war always brought with it. Taking long strides, he melded in with the crowd; at least so much as a man in Mandalorian armor could.
Broad shoulders shifted and twisted as he maneuvered his way deftly through the throngs of people who paid little to no attention to the forgettable man in their midst. His HUD was telling him the harbormasters office was up ahead, but the line outside of it said this was going to take awhile.
Sighing a little inside his helmet, he slowed his pace and directed himself that way.
Hopefully he'd not be interrupted by an ill-timed fight or noble from Kuat who was sneaking her way out and into the Outer Rim.