Character
| Location | Pesmenben IV, Mid Rim
Itzhal's calloused hands gripped the steering controls with a careful intensity, his right thumb hovering just above the ignition switch, which sat silent and still. He closed his eyes, momentarily shutting out the world around him, allowing the blaring of different lights to fade, even as he felt them seep at the edges of his eyelids. As he breathed deeply, his lungs filling with air, the faint smell of an air freshener trickled into his awareness—overlaid over the unpleasant tinge of old cigarra that was just light enough to prevent his filters from activating.
On the exhale, he opened his eyes to the familiar interface of his heads-up display, filling his vision with a barrage of information: urgent traffic alerts flashed like warning signs, crime statistics splattered unsettlingly across the scene, and a relentless stream of requests clamoured for his attention, each one more demanding than the last. In another sequence of blinks, half of them vanished, the information fading like ashes on the wind, leaving what little remained to warrant his attention.
WARNING: UNIDENTIFIED INDIVIDUAL ARRIVED AT SPACEPORT. HEAVILY ARMED. SUSPECTED MANDALORIAN ORIGIN. APPROACH WITH CAUTION.
Quietly, he wondered what it meant for an individual to be both suspected of Mandalorian Origin and still receive a separate notice of being heavily armed. The rest of him braced for the confrontation, his fingers squeezing the leather grips until they squealed, and even a little further as the black bodyglove shifted under the friction. With a deep sigh that started in his chest, prying loose from his lungs, his shoulders rose, then slumped forward, releasing the grip on the control sticks in the process.
Weighted for a threshold of smaller species than himself, the door clunked open, swinging up towards the sky and leaving the Mandalorian to swing his legs out in a twist that left his weary old bones twinging about the memories of younger years, as his hand wrapped around the handhold and pulled himself out, the rugged old boots clattered against the metal surface of the parking lot.
Then, with only a moment to slam the door shut with a resonant thump, he strode forward, past the orderly lines of gleaming speeders and repulsorcrafts towards the entranceway where a human male in the local spaceport's security uniform stood—beneath the visor, Itzhal's glare sharpened, tracing over the inefficient armour plates in a cheap blend of plastoid and lesser alloys and the lack of faceplate that left their worried expression on display.
"Thank the trinity you arrived when you did," they began, a gleam of something like hope in their eyes.
Without a word, without even a second thought, the Mandalorian Protector continued onwards, past the security officer still paused at the doorway like they had time to stick and chat, now quickly realising the situation as their mouth closed and they spun to follow. Itzhal didn't slow, but at the same time, he didn't rush himself any further, each stride deliberate and controlled as they passed through the public areas of the spaceport.
And once he was certain they were both going to keep moving forward, the Mandalorian commanded, "Tell me about them."
"They arrived about an hour ago by freighter, said their name was Korar Murrak," the man's voice felt uncomfortably like nails on a chalkboard, each word fighting for dominance over the next as if he didn't have a moment to breathe. "Claimed they had a mercenary contract on the planet; they were wearing Mandalorian armour, so we figured it was better to contact one of you."
Idly, Itzhal noted that was probably the most reasonable thing they'd done yet. As the man struggled to maintain pace, trailing behind as they navigated away from the bustling public areas. They passed through a trio of imposing security gates, the heavy metal structures clanking as they opened, scanners travelling over the two, before finally they entered the quieter, less bright realm of the staff facilities.
"I'm not hearing a reason for why they were detained," he noted, each word sharpened like a knife as he cut to the point of the matter.
"Ah, well," the security officer's hand shifted, a nervous twitch, bringing their fingers worryingly close to the blaster pistol strapped at their hip. "They're big. Like really, really big; they could be dangerous."
Slower than the tides that ebbed and flowed with the lunar cycles, Itzhal adjusted his buy'ce, the polished surface of his visor sweeping over the figure of the man designated as his guide. Then, for the first time, the Mandalorian came to a stop. His boots clacked against the laminate, heels digging in. It wasn't till a couple of seconds later, huffing and puffing, that the security guard followed.
"Your assistance is no longer required..."
"...but..."
"...I have the schematics of this spaceport already accessed; in the meantime, you will return to your post."
And without a further word, Itzhal continued forward, step after step, bringing him to the lonely door.
Itzhal's calloused hands gripped the door handle with a careful intensity, his right thumb hovering just above the door switch, which sat silent and still. He didn't close his eyes—once again at the breach, he pushed, his finger jabbing against the control panel as it opened with a click. Adorned in plates of black and crimson, Itzhal prowled into the room... then his visor tilted upwards.
Tags:
Korar Murrak
Korar Murrak
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