TYTHE
The rain on this world didn't just fall; it felt like it was trying to wash the entire industrial platform into the sea. It was a miserable, humid heat that made the standard-issue CIS fatigues stick to the skin.
Jackal leaned against a stack of crates marked with the seal of a corporate subsidiary, one of the few still operating under the Council's "informal" protection. He checked the power cell on his rifle for the third time in ten minutes. Across the docking bay, a pair of local planetary security officers stood under a leaking awning, their Republic-issued blasters looking as rusted and neglected as the station itself.
"Look at them," The lieutenant muttered, nodding toward the security officers. "Still waiting for a signal from Naboo. Still waiting for permission to save their own people from the starvations riots."
It’s been three months of nothing, while pirates bled the trade lanes dry. The Separatist Council took that as an opportunity, they sent Jackal’s squad and fuel relief for the locals.
"They call them radicals because they don't want to die in a queue," Jackal said, his voice low and gritting against the sound of the downpour. He looked over at his two partners, the only other organic soul in a sea of half-functioning B1s.
Jackal pushed off the crate, his eyes scanning the perimeter. "Council wants this shipment moved by 0600. If those Republic boys try to cite a 'permitting delay' one more time, we show them what 'consequence' looks like."
The rain on this world didn't just fall; it felt like it was trying to wash the entire industrial platform into the sea. It was a miserable, humid heat that made the standard-issue CIS fatigues stick to the skin.
Jackal leaned against a stack of crates marked with the seal of a corporate subsidiary, one of the few still operating under the Council's "informal" protection. He checked the power cell on his rifle for the third time in ten minutes. Across the docking bay, a pair of local planetary security officers stood under a leaking awning, their Republic-issued blasters looking as rusted and neglected as the station itself.
"Look at them," The lieutenant muttered, nodding toward the security officers. "Still waiting for a signal from Naboo. Still waiting for permission to save their own people from the starvations riots."
It’s been three months of nothing, while pirates bled the trade lanes dry. The Separatist Council took that as an opportunity, they sent Jackal’s squad and fuel relief for the locals.
"They call them radicals because they don't want to die in a queue," Jackal said, his voice low and gritting against the sound of the downpour. He looked over at his two partners, the only other organic soul in a sea of half-functioning B1s.
Jackal pushed off the crate, his eyes scanning the perimeter. "Council wants this shipment moved by 0600. If those Republic boys try to cite a 'permitting delay' one more time, we show them what 'consequence' looks like."
