Faction Ashes in the Undercity [ME]

[Rynna]

It didn't take much to get the Taris undercity riled up, riots had been commonplace since the Planeshift. The Mand'alor of Iron had brought salvation, but that salvation never seemed to stretch deep enough to relieve the strain on those who lived beneath an iron boot. The perfect recipe for chaos.

There had been whispers for weeks, echoing in dark alleys, sermons shouted from cracked stone steps by people bearing the symbol of the Diarchy, all preaching the same thing: Mand'alor the Iron's rule was illegitimate. No one had asked them if they wanted to take the Caburian Creed, and they were ready to answer.

When the first blaster bolts lit the dark, they weren't aimed at gangs. They were aimed at the patrols. Bolstered by smuggled arms and false promises, desperate factions of the undercity rose, and chaos followed.

Now, fires painted the skyline red. Security forces, caught flat-footed, fought tooth and nail to hold the barricades while riot after riot began to spill up into the levels above. Every corner was a battlefield: gangs settling old debts, looters breaking into stores, innocents caught in the crossfire.

**

Glass crunched underfoot as she pressed against the corner of a building. Rynna peered around, making sure the coast was clear. Bright green eyes peered out from beneath a hood, her nose and mouth covered by a grubby scarf, a makeshift mask against the clouds of smoke.

Cackling and hoots of joy made her retreat into the shadows as a group broke out from another alley, dragging someone by their hair. Rynna gritted her teeth and pressed her back against the wall, tearing her eyes away and breathing deep. She wasn't a stranger to violence, but this was low, even for the undercity.

She stayed perfectly still, not wanting to draw attention to herself, trying to ignore the desperate pleas. The blaster bolt made her jump, and she felt icy fear creep up from her stomach. This wasn't just a riot; this was a bloodletting.

After a few beats, they moved on, their laughter echoing around them. Rynna waited until all she could hear was the distant sound of blaster fire before she slid out from the shadows again, skirting along the street's edge. She didn't spare a glance towards the dead body; she'd seen enough in her time, and survival didn't give space for emotion.
​

 

[Ryzen Vord]

Ryzen sat rigid in her seat, body completely still (her hunter’s discipline demanding nothing less), yet mind light-years away and racing. This would be her first deployment. Oh, she’d long been blooded, and had grown up slaying all manner of beast, but this would be her first time hunting a true monster. The Diarchy had gone too far, twisting the people of Taris with their lies to the point where they could do nothing more than strike out like cornered beasts. It was sickening; this kind of proxy warfare made the hackles of every true Mandalorian rise in outrage. Worse, the cowardly tactics favored by the Diarchy had already cost the life of a Mandalorian child. It was not a crime that could go unanswered. While the general forces of the Great Heathen Army would be working to quell the rioting populace, Ryzen’s branch, the Nite Owls, would be cutting off the head of the venomous snake. Those who had incited the riots would not be allowed to leave the world they set ablaze.

Ryzen was… nervous, to say the least. Taris was a world that had been built up and shattered so many times that the landscape was barely recognizable as something natural. It was a far cry from the remote jungles, tundras, mountains, and plains she had spent the last five years scouring in the name of her brother’s dream. This was a place stained and changed by some of the worst atrocities to ever hit the galaxy. She was scared, honestly, that her skills wouldn’t be enough.

Basic Training in the Mandalorian Armed Forces differed greatly from that of other factions of the Galaxy. Upon enlistment, every Mando had at least a decade of training under their belt. A firm foundation as a Warrior was expected, not something that needed to be taught. Therefore, the skills learned in Basic tended towards becoming familiar with the standard procedures and specific equipment used by each branch’s speciality. It also emphasized the importance of communication, chain of command, and working as a team with your Unit. Ryzen had learned well the ways of the Nite Owls, memorizing their codes and signals and what each asked of her. She also brushed up on her jet-pack maneuvers. Despite her relative isolation, she was well used to following orders: her brother and his doomed personal crusade had demanded no less. Even still, despite her obvious competence, Ryzen still felt the cool coil of nervousness tightening in her gut. What if she failed? What if she caused more damage by her actions than had already been done?

It took everything Ryzen had not to draw her knife, indulge in the familiar idle habit of flipping it in the air and catching it. No matter how soothing the motions may have been to her, now was neither the time nor the place. Even still, gloved hand gripped the lit tight. Ryzen was startled from her inner musings by the harsh tones of the ship’s intercom. 10 minutes until they entered the upper limits of Taris’ atmosphere. In other words: go time. With a deep, calming breath, Ryzen rose to her feet and prepared to receive her orders.

 

[Jonah]

Jonah seethed. Incensed. The chaos engulfing Taris was his failure made flesh, an insult born of his blind spot. The Nite Owls existed for one singular purpose: to keep the Mand’alor informed of all things. They were to rule the shadows so that his brother could rule the light. And so, failing to spot the Diarchy’s venom before it slithered into the undercity, failing to cut off its head before the riots began, failing to spare Taris from being troubled once again...every failure rested upon his shoulders. His younger sibling would not flay him for it, for graciousness was woven into Aether’s very nature. But that did not change the truth of the matter. The world was burning, and it was Jonah’s duty to set things right.

The Warmaster stood within the hold of the Kom’rk, garbed in midnight black beskar’gam, every inch of his frame ready for war. His helm swept the cabin, visor catching each of his warriors in turn, wordless communion before he spoke.

“Rebellion is not a word that lives in our Empire.” Jonah growled, voice carrying like steel dragged across stone. “Honor drives us forward, but we are warriors first. And those who dared to light the Mand’alor’s peace aflame will be burnt themselves. Our target is a cell of Diarchy dogs, holed up in the Undercity. It was their venom that poisoned the people, their sermons that birthed these riots. Tonight, their words end, and so do their lives.”

He struck his chest with a gauntleted fist, the sound echoing across the hold.

“Once we’ve cut off this snake’s head, we turn to aid the Great Heathen Army. Every riot, every fire, every street painted with chaos? We will help bring it back to order. We are moments from the drop point. Do not mistake the familiar streets beneath us for safety. Hostiles are hostiles, even in our own backyard.”

The Kom’rk descended, slicing through the night, skimming ruined towers and shattered causeways until the blackness of the city’s underbelly swallowed them whole. When the vessel steadied, the sounds of blaster fire cracked against its hull, a reminder that the enemy was ready and waiting.

Jonah’s voice rose above the noise. “They know we are coming. Good. Let them wait for death.” His gauntlet struck the panel set into the wall, and the deck split beneath them with a metallic roar.

The first to fall was the Warmaster himself. He dropped like an obsidian blade loosed from its sheath, only for his jetpack to thunder to life and catch him mid-descent. He wove between streaking blaster fire as if born to it, a predator carving through chaos. Below, the target of his wrath revealed itself in the flickering glow of fire and muzzle flash. Fitting, that the Diarchy’s venom would be spewed from a pulpit, for the rats had chosen a church as their den.

And fitting still, that this night it would become their tomb.

Tag: Ryzen Vord + Rynna (Nearby)

 

[Siv Kryze]

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O B J E C T I V E: KEEP THE ORDER​

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Siv remembered when this street was quiet. When his boots first hit the permacrete hours ago, the smoke was just beginning to rise, and the crowd was only a restless sea of faces. No blasters yet—just shouting, fists shaking, voices spitting hate for a creed they claimed was forced upon them.

Siv had stood at the center of the checkpoint then, helmet locked, rifle lowered but ready. His voice carried through the modulator, cold and even: "Clear the streets. Go home. This ends without blood.”

They didn't listen.

Now, the barricades burned. What had been a tense standoffhad rotted into open war. The same faces that spat words were now screaming war cries, charging with stolen blasters and jagg ed pipes. Siv was back-to-back with his squad, his beskad wet, his rifle glowing hot from the firestorm he'd unleashed

He'd come to keep the peace. He was staying to hold the line.

"No more warnings," he growled into the comm as another wave crashed toward them, flames painting their helmets in orange. "Push them back. Keep this sector contained."

The mob surged again, but Mandalorians didn't break. Not here. Not today. Siv squeezed the trigger and waded into the chaos, iron to the bone.

Tag: Jonah Ryzen Vord Rynna​