Dominik Borra
Man In A Suit
If one was to say that the force brought him here, he wouldn't know what to say to that. He wasn't sensitive to the force, couldn't command it or fight it. But when he was about to drink himself to death, a Jedi Padawan and a Mandalorian had got in his way. Gave him a job. Made him feel good about himself.
And reminded him about his stash.
A stash he had made during training for the project. He had visited it once after and then forgot about it. How did one travel the galaxy in a drunken stupor and happen to end up in the one place that could get you back on your feet by accident? Maybe it was. Or maybe the Force had some sort of plan.
But first Dominik would have to get this karken grate open.
On the seventeenth kick of his boot, the metal snapped and the grate clattered to the floor. Thankful to finally be out of the suffocating ventilation shaft, the tall man who looked more like an unshaven bum than an Ex-Sith assassin slipped into the small room. He was on the fifth level of Coruscant, the last livable level. And his little bunker was on the next level down. The vent was the only way in unless someone got a mining drill to free up the hallway that Dominik had collapsed on purpose when he got the place. He looked around the corner, and it didn't seem like anyone had. In over a decade, no one had touched the place. Tells you how many people came down there.
He needed to go down another level, where it wasn't hospitable. No one lived lower than the fifth level. He just had to hope that his air-tight chamber held up over this long. If it didn't, he'd die as soon as he stepped through the next door. In the middle of the small room was a desk. In one of the drawers was a gas mask. Dominik strapped it on, making sure it was nice and tight. It had a filter attached, but it wasn't one that would work with the gas in the next room. A red herring incase someone had discovered it. He brought the correct filter and swapped it in. Picking up what looked like a discarded steel bar, Dominik walked to the shut door and jammed it into the center where two panels met. Wrenching it with all his weight, it creaked open with a rusted scream.
He pushed more and more, his face going red with the effort. It slid only an inch more. He let out his pent-up breath and let his arms rest. A decade in the bacta tank really hurt his muscle-mass. He tried again and got nowhere. In frustration, he kicked the bar and the door slid open without a problem. Blinking in surprise, Dominik watched as the metal doors activated the age-old pressure trap. The toxic gas spewed out of the small cracks with intense pressure, filling the entire room with green vapor. Dominik watched as the filter on the ground deteriorated. Even after all this time, the gas was still good. Worth the credits.
Dominik walked forward through the gas into a long rough staircase that descended downwards and downwards. Level four, where nothing could live; But things could be stored.
He came to another small concrete room with one singular ventilation shaft and four large gun crates and one smaller box. He found a control panel on the wall and clicked the big green button, activating a fan that would push clean breathable air down from level six. He let it circulate for a moment before taking his mask off and opening a crate.
And there it all was. By now they would be a little outdated, but weapons he was familiar with all the same. Thermal detonators, two holdout blasters, an A-180, and a DX-2 Disruptor blaster. Dominik continued opening the crates, one dominated by a DLT 19 Heavy Blaster Rifle and an E-11 Sniper Rifle and it's ammo. Another had a selection of his all-time favorite weapons, Slugthrowers. Far faster than blaster bolts, and no lightsaber could deflect the metal rounds. A rifle, a handgun, and a scattergun. The final crate was filled with explosives and detonators ontop of a pile of credits. The smaller box contained a DC-17m Interchangeable Weapon System and all of the necessary attachments and ammo.
He shook his head. What in the world did he think he was going to blow up? An imperial destroyer? Either way, he had his supplies now. Now the question was: What to do with it all? What was his work now? He had always been someone's scalpel at one point or another. His friends were all gone. Those who had hunted him were dead and forgotten.
What to do...
And reminded him about his stash.
A stash he had made during training for the project. He had visited it once after and then forgot about it. How did one travel the galaxy in a drunken stupor and happen to end up in the one place that could get you back on your feet by accident? Maybe it was. Or maybe the Force had some sort of plan.
But first Dominik would have to get this karken grate open.
On the seventeenth kick of his boot, the metal snapped and the grate clattered to the floor. Thankful to finally be out of the suffocating ventilation shaft, the tall man who looked more like an unshaven bum than an Ex-Sith assassin slipped into the small room. He was on the fifth level of Coruscant, the last livable level. And his little bunker was on the next level down. The vent was the only way in unless someone got a mining drill to free up the hallway that Dominik had collapsed on purpose when he got the place. He looked around the corner, and it didn't seem like anyone had. In over a decade, no one had touched the place. Tells you how many people came down there.
He needed to go down another level, where it wasn't hospitable. No one lived lower than the fifth level. He just had to hope that his air-tight chamber held up over this long. If it didn't, he'd die as soon as he stepped through the next door. In the middle of the small room was a desk. In one of the drawers was a gas mask. Dominik strapped it on, making sure it was nice and tight. It had a filter attached, but it wasn't one that would work with the gas in the next room. A red herring incase someone had discovered it. He brought the correct filter and swapped it in. Picking up what looked like a discarded steel bar, Dominik walked to the shut door and jammed it into the center where two panels met. Wrenching it with all his weight, it creaked open with a rusted scream.
He pushed more and more, his face going red with the effort. It slid only an inch more. He let out his pent-up breath and let his arms rest. A decade in the bacta tank really hurt his muscle-mass. He tried again and got nowhere. In frustration, he kicked the bar and the door slid open without a problem. Blinking in surprise, Dominik watched as the metal doors activated the age-old pressure trap. The toxic gas spewed out of the small cracks with intense pressure, filling the entire room with green vapor. Dominik watched as the filter on the ground deteriorated. Even after all this time, the gas was still good. Worth the credits.
Dominik walked forward through the gas into a long rough staircase that descended downwards and downwards. Level four, where nothing could live; But things could be stored.
He came to another small concrete room with one singular ventilation shaft and four large gun crates and one smaller box. He found a control panel on the wall and clicked the big green button, activating a fan that would push clean breathable air down from level six. He let it circulate for a moment before taking his mask off and opening a crate.
And there it all was. By now they would be a little outdated, but weapons he was familiar with all the same. Thermal detonators, two holdout blasters, an A-180, and a DX-2 Disruptor blaster. Dominik continued opening the crates, one dominated by a DLT 19 Heavy Blaster Rifle and an E-11 Sniper Rifle and it's ammo. Another had a selection of his all-time favorite weapons, Slugthrowers. Far faster than blaster bolts, and no lightsaber could deflect the metal rounds. A rifle, a handgun, and a scattergun. The final crate was filled with explosives and detonators ontop of a pile of credits. The smaller box contained a DC-17m Interchangeable Weapon System and all of the necessary attachments and ammo.
He shook his head. What in the world did he think he was going to blow up? An imperial destroyer? Either way, he had his supplies now. Now the question was: What to do with it all? What was his work now? He had always been someone's scalpel at one point or another. His friends were all gone. Those who had hunted him were dead and forgotten.
What to do...
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