Faction Breaking the Threshold [ Imperial Reclamation Authority]

[Olorion Fossk]

For years, the Empire has existed in fragments.

It has drifted between worlds and hidden among the stars, surviving through necessity rather than design. Fleets became homes. Outposts became capitals. Every victory was temporary, every refuge impermanent. The galaxy watched the remnants of Imperial authority recede into the darkness and assumed that time itself would finish what war had begun.

It did not.

Empires are not sustained by ships alone. They are not preserved by endless retreat. They endure because there are places where banners may be raised, laws enforced, industries rebuilt, and generations allowed to inherit something greater than uncertainty.

Lothal is such a place.

Its location, infrastructure, and resources make it more than another strategic objective upon a military map. It is an opportunity. A foundation. A declaration that the Imperial Reclamation Authority no longer intends to drift at the mercy of circumstance. Here, for the first time in years, the Empire intends to establish roots.

Such ambitions cannot be achieved through promises or proclamations. They must be secured.

The campaign begins in the void.

Above Lothal, fleets maneuver into position while starfighters scream across the darkness between worlds. Communications arrays become battlefields. Sensor platforms become objectives. Navigation stations, orbital defenses, and civilian traffic routes transform into pieces upon a board where information may prove as decisive as turbolaser fire. The objective is simple in principle and monumental in execution.

Lothal must be isolated.

Every transmission intercepted, every approach secured, and every hostile vessel neutralized draws the system further from outside assistance and places it more firmly within Imperial control. The fleet is not merely fighting for orbital superiority. It is severing the world's connection to the wider galaxy and ensuring that the battle below unfolds according to Imperial design.

Then comes the surface.

As control of the void is contested above, armies descend toward cities, government districts, industrial centers, and communications hubs. Armored columns advance. Stormtroopers secure landing zones. Special operations teams move toward priority targets. Inquisitors and intelligence operatives begin the difficult work of dismantling resistance before it can organize itself.

This is not a campaign of indiscriminate destruction.

Lothal is not an enemy to be burned. It is a future to be secured. Its institutions must be captured intact where possible. Its infrastructure must survive. Its leaders must either be brought to heel or removed. Potential allies must be identified. Hidden enemies must be rooted out. By the time this campaign concludes, enough of Lothal must remain standing that a new authority can govern from its foundations.

The Empire did not come to Lothal simply to win a battle.

It came to stay.

The long retreat ends here.

|| DOWN COMES THE IRON GATE ||
Every invasion begins with information.

Before armies can march and before governors can rule, the void itself must be brought under control. The Third Naval Task Force enters the Lothal system with orders that extend far beyond defeating hostile warships. Communications networks, sensor stations, orbital defenses, navigation arrays, and civilian traffic routes all represent pieces of a greater battlefield where information is both weapon and shield.

The objective is complete isolation.

Lothal must be severed from outside interference and denied the ability to coordinate with potential allies beyond its atmosphere. Boarding actions, fighter engagements, reconnaissance missions, electronic warfare operations, and targeted strikes against critical infrastructure will determine who controls the flow of information throughout the campaign.

Every transmission silenced strengthens the forces below. Every sensor array seized blinds the defenders further. Every approach secured tightens the noose. If the fleet succeeds, Lothal will stand alone beneath Imperial guns.

If it fails, the battle for the surface may become a war for survival.

OBJECTIVE
~ The opening battle for Lothal will be fought in the void. As the Third Naval Task Force closes in on the world itself, its commanders face a mission that extends far beyond simple orbital superiority. Communications arrays, sensor platforms, traffic control stations, defense satellites, and civilian shipping routes all represent pieces of a larger battlefield where information may prove as decisive as firepower. The objective is to isolate Lothal from the wider galaxy, secure the system against outside interference, establish complete space and air superiority, and ensure Imperial forces control the flow of information from the first moments of the campaign. Naval officers, fighter squadrons, intelligence operatives, and security personnel will find themselves engaged in boarding actions, interception missions, reconnaissance operations, electronic warfare, and the identification of high-priority targets. Every transmission silenced and every approach secured will strengthen the forces descending below. If the fleet succeeds, Lothal will stand alone. If it fails, the entire operation may unravel before the first boots reach the ground. ~

Recommended for: Navy, ISB; especially ship captains, starfighter pilots, intelligence operators, infiltrators.​

|| STRIKE THE CITADEL ||
With the skies contested above, Imperial forces descend upon Lothal itself.

This campaign is not one of conquest through devastation. It is an operation of deliberate decapitation. The defenders' ability to resist must be dismantled swiftly and methodically before a unified response can emerge.

Government complexes, military headquarters, communications centers, industrial facilities, infrastructure hubs, and suspected insurgent strongholds become immediate objectives. Armored formations secure key locations while stormtroopers and special operations teams move against individuals capable of organizing resistance. Inquisitors and intelligence personnel pursue hidden threats, identify collaborators, and ensure that no hostile element remains capable of coordinating opposition.

Every captured official denies the enemy leadership. Every secured facility strengthens Imperial control. Every dismantled command structure brings the world closer to order. By the end of the campaign, the question will no longer be whether Lothal can resist.

The question will be what kind of future remains standing when Imperial authority rises in its place.

OBJECTIVE
~ Imperial forces begin the work of reclaiming the planet itself. Mechanized formations, stormtrooper detachments, special operations teams, and Inquisitorial assets are tasked with striking directly at the institutions and individuals capable of organizing resistance. Government complexes, communications centers, military headquarters, infrastructure hubs, suspected insurgent strongholds, and strategically significant facilities become priority objectives as Imperial forces race to dismantle local command structures before a coordinated defense can emerge. The campaign is not one of indiscriminate destruction but deliberate decapitation. Key leaders must be captured or eliminated. Critical facilities must be secured intact. Potential allies, collaborators, and hidden Imperial assets must be identified before chaos consumes them. Every successful operation weakens the defenders' ability to respond and expands the Empire's foothold on the world. By the time the battle concludes, the question will no longer be whether Lothal can resist, but whether enough of its institutions remain functional to govern under a new authority. ~

Recommended for: Army, Inquisitorius; especially Army Troopers, Stormstroopers, Inquisitors, infiltrators.


|| FIFTH BROTHER || ​

The streets surrounding Commissioner Varo's residence had already been secured by the time I arrived. Stormtroopers stood at intersections and along the perimeter of the property, their white armor illuminated by the warm glow spilling from the windows. Beyond them, Lothal remained alive. Sirens echoed somewhere in the distance, and the occasional flash of light upon the horizon marked the beginning of battles being fought elsewhere across the city. Here, however, there was only quiet.

I approached the front door with my hands clasped behind my back while two stormtroopers remained several paces behind me. I never reached the threshold. The door opened first.

Commissioner Varo stood before me wearing civilian clothing. He looked tired. Frightened. Angry. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and tension in his jaw that suggested he had not slept since the first reports of Imperial vessels entering the system. He looked exactly like a man who understood that the world beyond his doorstep had changed.

"I know who you are," he said.

"I'm certain you do."

For a few moments, neither of us spoke. Through the doorway I could see his family. A woman standing just beyond the entrance and two children further inside the house. Fear had settled across all their faces.

"May I come in?"

The question lingered between us.

Neither of us cared about the answer.

After a long moment, he stepped aside.

I entered.

The home was comfortable. Family photographs rested upon shelves. Commendations and service awards hung neatly along the walls. Pictures of graduations, birthdays, and celebrations filled frames placed carefully throughout the room. It looked like the home of a man who had dedicated his life to public service. The sort of place where people believed themselves safe.

I turned my attention back toward him.

"You are Commissioner Daron Varo. Twenty-three years of service. Decorated on six occasions. Married. Two children. Responsible for approximately eight thousand officers throughout the capital and its surrounding districts."

He stared at me.

"You've done your research."

"Of course."

Silence settled over the room once more.

"The Imperial Reclamation Authority has begun assuming control of Lothal. Effective immediately, the local police force will aid Imperial operations in maintaining public order and securing critical infrastructure. Communications must remain operational. Emergency services must continue functioning. Civil unrest must be prevented."

His expression hardened.

"No."

I regarded him quietly. A tone of voice almost incredulous at his defiance.

"No?"

"I won't help you occupy my world."

"I see."

I spoke softly. Understanding, and almost knowing what was going to be happening. Eyes flicking under the helmet over to the family that stood behind him. Pity. Almost pity for his family in this man's stubbornness. As He took a step toward me, his voice trying not to break.

"You think you can just walk into my house and tell me how things are going to be?"

"Yes."

The answer seemed to catch him off guard. His face blank for that instance before I continued.

"The city will still require law enforcement tomorrow morning. If you refuse to cooperate, someone else will assume your responsibilities. I will find your deputy. If they refuse, I will find the officer beneath them. The police force will continue functioning. The only variable in this equation is whether you remain a part of it."

"You people are monsters."

"No, Commissioner. Monsters destroy things without purpose."

I could feel it before I saw it. A sudden spike of fear. Anger. Resolve. His hand moved toward the blaster hidden beneath his jacket. His wife saw it too. She screamed. I crossed the room. One moment I stood several paces away. The next I stood directly in front of him. The crimson blade ignited between us. For a single heartbeat, nobody moved. Then the commissioner's body collapsed onto the floor. Silence descended over the room. I looked down at him.

"You could have made this significantly easier."

The blade disappeared. The woman had fallen to her knees beside her husband. One child clung to her while the other simply stared at the body lying upon the floor as though refusing to understand what had happened. Grief had a way of making rooms feel smaller. I regarded them for several moments. Then I inclined my head.

"You have my condolences."

The words sounded absurd in the silence. I meant them nonetheless. I looked toward one of the stormtroopers standing near the doorway.

"Notify Central Command that Commissioner Varo has declined continued employment. Identify his deputy. I would like to speak with them immediately."

The trooper nodded.

My attention returned briefly to the family.

"Remove them from the residence. They are not to be harmed and are to be transferred to a secure location. They may still possess information of value to the Empire."

The woman looked up at me in disbelief. She looked as though she wished to scream, strike me, or throw herself over her husband. Instead she simply held her children tighter. I turned and walked toward the door. The cool evening air greeted me as I stepped outside. The city remained illuminated beyond the residential district. Somewhere in the distance, another explosion rolled across the skyline.

I stopped at the edge of the walkway.

"Burn it."

A brief silence followed.

"Sir?"

I looked back toward the house. Warm light still spilled from the windows. Family photographs still decorated its walls. Commendations still hung in their frames. The life of Commissioner Varo still existed within those rooms. A life that no longer existed.

"The Commissioner represented the previous authority of this district. By morning there will be a new one. Nothing inside is irreplaceable."

"Yes, sir."

I began walking.

Behind me, stormtroopers escorted the family away from the residence. Moments later came the dull hiss of accelerant followed by the first bloom of orange light. Flamers, and plamsa weapons fired into the structure. The house torn from its foundations not from force, but a slow reduction to ash.

I did not look back.

There were still names on the list.

And by dawn, Lothal would require new leadership.

 

[Galen Tagge]

|| DOWN COMES THE IRON GATE ||​

The Battle Of Lothal had begun. It's quite refreshing honestly, a little battle. Galens time as a warlord wasn't quite as fun as he thought it would be. People never put up a fight. BUT NOW, this is where the fun begins. Galens job was simple keep the Titus safe. The interdictor was the most important part of the fleet. Civilians and military alike can't be allowed to exit the system under any circumstances. If Galen failed, the ground battle would become quite difficult and most likely impossible as reinforcements would tear the fleet apart, and would finish the army down below. The fleet composition was quite Tarkinish. As surrounding the Titus was a few star destroyers. Among them only a few frigates. Not a lot of anti-starfighter, not good at all. But in times like this, what they have at their disposal will do. "Scramble, the TIEs. I want fighters here defending and I want interceptors escorting bombers to the defense fleet, make sure they target shield generators." I hope the army is doing as well as we are up here.

 

[Qiyara Vorn]

Location: Landing Craft, Surface of Lothal
Equipment: Reinforced Infantry Armor Package, Standard Service Blaster Carbine (shoulder), Service Blaster Pisto (holster), Combat Vibroblade (belt)
Tags: OPEN | QS-022

|| STRIKE THE CITADEL ||

​

The landing craft hit the ground hard enough to rattle teeth. Qiyara Vorn barely noticed. The troop compartment was already a symphony of nervous habits and bad decisions. A Mirialan checked the charge pack on his rifle for the fourth time. A scarred Chiss across from him muttered something that was probably a prayer and definitely a curse. Two former prisoners argued over who had stolen whose ration pack three days ago. Somewhere behind them, somebody was actively losing a battle against motion sickness.

The Bastards.

Officially they were a penal assault detachment attached to the Imperial Reclamation Authority's ground forces. Unofficially they were everything the Empire had found useful enough to keep alive and expendable enough to throw away. Non-humans who were deemed fit to die for the Empire but never trusted enough to climb very high. Former inmates offered redemption in exchange for service. Disciplinary transfers. Washouts. Screwups. The unwanted.

Qiyara fit right in.

The only reason she wore the rank insignia of Staff Sergeant was because she kept surviving assignments that should have killed her. After enough dead officers and enough successful operations, command had apparently decided promoting her was easier than finding somebody else willing to lead the unit. Or maybe nobody wanted the job. Either explanation sounded right.

The transport's forward ramp began to lower with a hydraulic growl. Harsh daylight spilled into the compartment. Blaster fire crackled somewhere beyond the dust and smoke outside.

Showtime.

Qiyara rose from her seat and slung her rifle into a ready position. "Listen up, Bastards." The arguing stopped. Several pairs of eyes turned toward her. A few looked almost respectable. Almost. "The brass thinks we're expendable."

A chorus of grins appeared. "They think we're the people they send when they need a problem solved and don't care how many bodies it costs."

More grins. A Mirialan barked a laugh. Qiyara nodded toward the open ramp. "They're probably right." That earned a few chuckles. "But those poor idiots in that citadel?" She jerked a thumb toward the battlefield beyond. "They've got an even worse day ahead of them."

The compartment erupted with rough laughter. "So let's go remind them why command keeps sending us." Qiyara's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "Move fast. Shoot straight. Stay alive."

She stepped toward the ramp. "And if you die, die where somebody else can trip over your corpse." The Bastards roared their approval.

The moment the ramp touched dirt, Qiyara charged down it. Blaster fire flashed across the battlefield. Explosions thundered around the Imperial advance. Without hesitation she plunged directly into the storm, her squad surging after her in a wave of mismatched armor, questionable life choices, and stubborn refusal to die.

The Bastards had arrived.

And they were already looking for trouble.

 

[Jyote Veyr]

"Reclamation isn't about the past. It's about deciding what's worth carrying forward." - Tags: OPEN | Galen Tagge

​

|| DOWN COMES THE IRON GATE ||

The cockpit smelled faintly of coolant, lubricants, and ozone. To most pilots it was an unpleasant combination. To Lieutenant Jyote Veyr it smelled like home.

She sat low in the cockpit cradle of her TIE/IN Interceptor, gloved fingers moving across the startup sequence with practiced familiarity. Displays flickered to life one by one across the instrument panel, bathing the cramped compartment in pale green light. Outside the canopy, the launch bay swarmed with activity. Ground crews moved between fighters. Deck officers shouted final instructions. Tractor crews repositioned munitions pallets and fuel tenders beneath the shadow of warships preparing for battle.

Jyote barely noticed any of it. Her attention remained on the fighter. Every vibration mattered. Every warning light mattered. Every sound mattered. The young pilot listened carefully as the engines cycled through their diagnostic routines. Years spent crawling through salvage wrecks had taught her that machines always told the truth if someone knew how to listen.

A slight tap of her fingers against the console. Power distribution nominal. Weapon capacitors charging. Targeting package synchronized. Life support green. No faults. No excuses. A faint smile touched her lips.

"Good girl." The words were directed toward the interceptor rather than anyone else. The fighter had survived more battles than regulations would have considered reasonable. Much like its pilot.

Jyote reached up and secured her helmet into place. The familiar seal locked with a hiss. Instantly the sounds of the hangar dulled beneath the filtered hum of life-support systems.

Her HUD sprang to life.

Beneath the cockpit, painted on the fighter's hull, a row of white salvage-hook markings stood as silent testimony to previous engagements. Notches earned through skill, stubbornness, and more than a little luck.

She studied them for a moment. Then looked forward. The Iron Gate. The objective name carried weight throughout the launch bays. Rumors flowed freely among pilots, but the details hardly mattered now. There would be hostile ships. There would be enemy pilots. There would be wreckage.

Jyote understood all three. She keyed the comm. "Launch Control, this is Veyr, Interceptor Aurek-Two-Seven." Her voice remained calm and professional despite the anticipation building in her chest. "Final readiness checks complete. Engines green. Weapons green. Flight systems green."

She rested one hand lightly on the throttle. "Aurek-Two-Seven is combat ready and standing by for launch." The fighter remained motionless on the deck. Waiting. Like a predator poised at the edge of a trap. Waiting for the gate to come down.

 

[Orsyn Krennic]

---

---

' Down Comes The iron Gate '
An Imperial Reclamation Authority story set on Lothal

The bridge was quiet save for the signs of technology being operated upon and the soft, hushed whispers of offices working to bring Lothal to heel. If Orsyn were a historian with some air of sentimentality for the past then she would acknowledge that this planet was filled with recent history that ought to be toasted too of valiant sacrifices, a rebellion defeat by Imperial cells claiming to be the new Empire, and criminality brought to heel by the power of the Imperial Star Destroyer. Krennic was anything but sentimental. The groups which operated out here in these Outer Rim systems before the I.R.A initiated this operation were inconsequential. The past, as far as Orsyn were concerned, was to be eroded by the present day progress and a future secured for the true Empire. Certainly, that menacing scowl which often accompanied Orsyn did not betray any gravitas towards the past at all.

Only what happens next matters as far as she was concerned.

It was Orsyn's idea that they should implement a strategy that ought to avoid an incursion by their adversaries out here in the Outer Rim during the attack. Lothal was in close proximity to other star sectors that were said to be swarming with piracy eager to capitalize on any weakness held by the beleaguered Imperial armed forces. Indeed, they were not as strong as they were before the Core Worlds fell. Intelligence also exposed other factors that were set to affect their incursion back into the Lothal system if the right strategy was not implemented. Rebel cells were said to still linger out here and they were always eager to repel Imperial aggression irrespective of what they called themselves.

There were also rumours that pointed to the possibility of Mandalorian or Sith attack if the recent strike on Lianna was anything to go by. It was an almost amusing thought that the Imperial Reclamation Authority could invite the wrath of a stronger, more potent military force as a consequence of other Imperial cells and their failed plans to secure the reaches of the Tion Hegemony that would have served as an epicentre of Imperial power if not for their abject failure. They ought to avoid challenging the Mandalorian Empire and their Sith contractors for now.

All of it was enough to make Orsyn feel the bile in her throat and the familiar pang of sickness. The idea that they ought to be clever and avoid pirates, rebels, or their adversaries on the galactic stage due to their current weakness. If it were not for the sense of duty then, perhaps, she would have joined the other sycophants who surrendered or died at Imperial Centre. Alas, Orsyn was too furious to allow such thoughts to erode the mind. There was still a purpose for them out here in the stars she affirmed. Lothal was in their sights now. A new beginning.

The Empire always strikes back.

Eventually.

"What is our time table?" Orsyn inquired.

"Two minutes," came a reply to her left. Orsyn turned her gaze to study the man and wondered to herself why the personnel on this ship were so slow? They should have been ready to implement her strategy the moment they dropped out of hyperspace. After all the attack had already begun.

"Take this man into custody," Orsyn said as she turned to the Stormtroopers detachment which had been assigned to her command. She quietly studied the scorch marks on their plates and the cracks in their visors. That would have to be rectified soon. One thing at a time, however. "Take him to the brig. I do not want to see him again."

As the officer begun to raise his voice with protests Orsyn reached out before his absurdity filled the bridge with his noise and latched both hands around his throat to strangle him. Within seconds she rendered him unconscious. Quickly the Stormtroopers hurried to take the officer away to the brig before she did something far more cruel and permanent. Yes, Orsyn would soon court a reputation for maleficence and the inability to show patience with others who did not meet her perfect standards. She was perfectly self-aware of this, mind. That type of fear, apprehension or anxiety would keep them all in check whether they be her comrades or the rivals that were holding Orsyn back from climbing up the rungs of the ladder towards a station that was more suited to her ability.

"Two minutes then," Orsyn repeated as she turned her scowl back to the bridge. She spotted the crew quickly averting their gaze back to their posts. There was a time to be cruel and then there were times like this to show restraint. In time everyone who came to work with or for Orsyn would know to never deviate from their work regardless of what was happening around them. Efficiency was key to success. They would soon learn that not even the gasps and protests of an officer being reprimanded gave them permission to stop what they were doing or to allow themselves to be distracted from their work.

All in good time.

---

 

[Arturion of Kalidan]

---

|| STRIKE THE CITADEL ||

Lothal Capital City, Government District

Distant: Olorion Fossk | Qiyara Vorn

---

They must have seen it coming. The Imperial gathering in the system was not exactly a secret, therefore they must have seen it coming. Why was this so miserable then? Why were their preparations, their defences so meagre?

Democracy, freedom, unlimited liberties. That is what Arturion judged, what he saw. They were unable to act, condemned to debate and corruption rather than action and progression. It was a petty and yet it was salvation for them, for the Empire had returned to bring back order and direction to this place that failed to erect a baseline of respectable resistance against those that in their views would oppress their people.

Shadowkeeper Command had landed among the dozens of troop ships that aimed for key locations in the central government district. Hundreds of Stormtroopers emerged and started securing traffic junctions, hospitals, communications relays and larger landing zones for the bigger landers. The enemy was pathetic. Sirens might be howling, but there was still civilian traffic, anti-air fire was sporadic at best and aside from few security forces, the armed resistance in the immediate vicinity broke down almost immediately.

With his white lightsaber ignited, the red armored figure moved through the streets, the black clad Purge Trooper squad around him. His gaze wandered and the Ninth Brother saw people in cafés, hiding behind counters and beneath tables, he saw groceries dropped on the pavement, groups of civilians cowering in fear as they were guarded by Stormtroopers. He was still disappointed.

The imperial comms were buzzing with activity. A district further apparently the landing was contested and an intense firefight ensued. A battle. He could hear it, a large flash of an explosion briefly lit the streets before they continued. He held no tactical or operational command and would not interfere in the operation's decision making. He had a target.

In what only was guttural, mechanically distorted noise to anyone around, Ninth Brother issued the order to his unit for an accelerated advance. Immediately they fell in a swift jog and turned into the next dark alleyway. The central Lothal long range communications and holonet access was only two blocks away.

Blasters erupted in the next street. Green and red bolts flew in opposite directions. Adrenaline kicked in. Around him he heard the priming of the weapons of Shadowkeeper Command. Beneath his helmet, Arturion's expression hardened in excitement as they rushed towards the end of the alley.

Finally the enemy had awoken.

 

[Olorion Fossk]

|| STRIKE THE CITADEL ||
|| TAGS: Arturion of Kalidan | Qiyara Vorn || ​

The glow of the burning residence slowly disappeared behind the convoy as we continued deeper into the city. Lothal had entered that brief period that exists between the collapse of one authority and the establishment of another. Some districts remained calm while others had already become battlefields. Sirens echoed through distant streets, emergency vehicles attempted to navigate around newly established military checkpoints, and civilians watched from windows and storefronts as Imperial forces spread throughout the capital. The city had not yet fully grasped what was happening to it, though that uncertainty would not last for long.

Reports continued to flow steadily across my communications network as units advanced through their assigned sectors. Stormtrooper detachments secured government facilities and transportation hubs while Army formations expanded landing zones and established defensive positions around key infrastructure. Intelligence teams had already begun acquiring municipal records and communications data, compiling lists of officials, administrators, and local leaders whose cooperation would determine how quickly Imperial control could be established. Resistance varied from district to district. Some surrendered immediately when confronted with overwhelming force while others attempted to organize opposition despite the increasingly obvious reality that the battle had already been decided.

One report in particular drew my attention. The deputy commissioner had been located.

According to the officer delivering the update, Deputy Commissioner Taryn Voss had not fled the city, barricaded himself within an office, or attempted to disappear into the growing confusion. Instead, he was actively attempting to coordinate surviving precinct commanders through the police communications network. The information earned a small measure of approval. It suggested competence. More importantly, it suggested responsibility. Men who continued performing their duties during a crisis were generally easier to work with than those who abandoned them at the first sign of danger.

As the report concluded, another appeared almost immediately afterward. Fighting had intensified around the central communications district. Imperial forces had encountered organized resistance attempting to hold several key facilities while reinforcements moved to secure the area. The tactical display projected across my visor identified the sector as one of those assigned to the Ninth Brother's advance. Initial reports indicated the operation remained on schedule. Communications infrastructure was largely intact and enemy resistance was steadily collapsing beneath coordinated pressure.

I opened a command channel as the convoy continued forward through the city.

"To all Imperial forces operating within the government district, priority remains the preservation of infrastructure. Communications hubs, hospitals, police facilities, transportation centers, and administrative offices are to be secured intact whenever possible. We are establishing authority, not dismantling it."

Acknowledgements immediately began filtering back through the network.

"Resistance leadership is to be captured if practical and eliminated if necessary. Any official removed from authority is to be replaced immediately. Local command structures will continue functioning under Imperial supervision until further notice."

The channel remained open for several moments before another report appeared, this one identifying the arrival of the penal assault detachment known informally as the Bastards. Their reputation had preceded them. Officially they were a disciplinary formation attached to Imperial ground forces. In practice they were a collection of survivors who possessed an almost unnatural ability to accomplish objectives despite circumstances that should have annihilated them. Their methods were often unconventional, but results mattered more than appearances.

I keyed the channel again.

"Penal assault detachments are authorized to continue offensive operations within contested districts. Priority targets remain resistance strongholds, fortified defensive positions, and insurgent command centers. Coordinate with intelligence assets before demolition of strategic facilities."

More acknowledgements followed.

Outside the convoy's armored windows, the city continued to shift around us. Stormtroopers established checkpoints while military transports occupied major intersections. Some civilians watched openly while others disappeared the moment Imperial vehicles entered view. Fear, uncertainty, resentment, relief. Every reaction appeared somewhere within the city. None of them mattered as much as maintaining order before those emotions had an opportunity to become organized resistance.

By the time we arrived at the central police headquarters, the area had already been secured. Stormtroopers guarded entrances and established checkpoints around the perimeter while military vehicles occupied much of the surrounding plaza. Local officers moved throughout the building under Imperial supervision, their expressions ranging from nervous uncertainty to outright resentment. Most appeared far more interested in understanding who was now in charge than they were in resisting the answer.

I stepped from the vehicle and surveyed the scene for several moments. Unlike Commissioner Varo, Deputy Commissioner Voss had been given the opportunity to witness the consequences of refusing cooperation before our meeting ever occurred. Whether that knowledge would make him practical or merely fearful remained to be seen.

A stormtrooper approached and informed me that the deputy commissioner was waiting inside.

I nodded once and adjusted my gloves.

"Good."

The city still required a police force.

The question now was whether it still had a police commissioner.

 

[Jekkath Raxus]

◆ Objective ◆

Strike the Citadel

◆ Location ◆

Lothal · Capital City · Capitol Building

◆ Equipment ◆

Armor · Saber · Rifle

Deep within the heart of the city stood the beacon of democracy, the core of leadership among the peaceful tranquility that was Lothal. The capitol building was crafted in emulation of the Senate Building that once stood on Coruscant, a relic of the ancient Galactic Republic. It was something that endured throughout the millennia, forging itself an indelible reputation as the symbol of democratic leadership. Imperial archives once detailed that it'd been abandoned in ages past for an Imperial Complex, something that had been swiftly erased when the then Galactic Empire fell. Throughout the turbulence of the ages since the old capitol yet remained as the center of governance, the location of the Governor of Lothal, the center of administrative control in the whole of the planet.

It became the headquarters for the defense of the world, when Imperials once again walked the surface of Lothal. When the fighting began it was among the most well defended districts in the city, the planetary militia had taken up defended positions to secure the building while others spread throughout the city, determined to push the occupiers away. It was the deep breath before the plunge, the anxious waiting right on the eve of battle knowing it could be upon you any second, any moment could see the eruption of violence. There was a mix of individuals ranging from those with prior experience to greenhorns who seldom saw violence, who knew little of warfare. But for all their differences they were all united in one solitary fact: That death was lurking so close at hand.

The Hangman of Rattatak was watching. A nearby three story structure held the Second Brother, a staging point chosen for its vantage point and the proximity it held to the capitol. Along the way he'd carefully led elements of Stormtroopers, their progress had been slow and merciless, mixed into the pandemonium of the occupation, they'd managed to move close and take cover, waiting for his command. They'd received their orders: Hold position. None of them knew where he was, they never would. He became a ghost to them, vanishing entirely from all known methods of detection. High on the roof Jekkath found himself kneeling down, braced against the buildings ledge, Shûkkyant sat cradled in his hands, his sight peering down the scope, its Force sight filter creating a crimson film over it, as he carefully observed the defenders.

"Such determination! But I can smell your fear." Jekkath whispered as he placed a soldier square in his crosshairs, carefully observing his position in relation to his comrades, and pulled the trigger. Hiss. A spray of blood hit the wall as the round passed through his brain, a boy barely passing the age of maturity dropped without hesitation, his life cut short so fast his body barely received signal. Carefully he shifted to the next target, a man with brown hair who'd been talking to someone clearly his senior, a blond woman whose smile lingered far too long. The Hangman could see their attraction for one another. There was something genuine between them. "Love is it? Such a fragile thing..." Carefully he placed the woman in his crosshairs, waiting for the man to turn his back, just as he took three steps.

Hiss.

The round pierced right into her throat and blew out the back end, she collapsed gurgling for air, hands clasped around the wound her eyes fixed with shock. While silent, the round was fired close enough to make the man turn, to force him to see the death of someone he cared so deeply for. The Second Brother could feel his sorrow, drink in the confusion and terror that poured outwards like a flood, before realization set in that the man would need to do something. "Your sorrow is refreshing." Hiss. Hiss. Two swift pulls on the trigger sent the first round ripping right through his heart, dropping him like a stone. The second turned the dying womans skull into an abstract painting on the ferrocrete.

Another had turned in time to see her die, an older man with salt and pepper hair, it was clear he was far past his prime. Too far removed from battles carefully honed instincts, too complacent in peaceful life to snap to action. The gruesome sight had triggered one of three fear responses the mind triggered: Freeze. Fear so overwhelming that his teeth were chattering, Jekkath could see the mans hands trembling as his eyes grew to the size of saucers. The Second Brother grinned wide as he drank in the terror, the power of the Dark Side surging as he fed off his emotional agony "Such delectable fear. It controls your life doesn't it? Fear of the unexpected, fear of loss." There was that mocking tone again, as Jekkath continued to talk to himself. Right as the mans hand moved towards his comlink, right before it touched to raise alarm: Hiss. The round ripped through his hand with enough force it took most of his fingers off, painting the nearest wall crimson. The older mans body dropped like a sack of stones, eyes fixed in that same, dead, panicked gaze they held in life. For a moment Jekkath watched the light fade from them, before he shifted once more.

For his next target.

It was a portly man leaning over a heavy weapon emplacement with red hair, a bald man standing next to him, and a black haired woman cradling a bottle in both hands. They were scared he could tell, but it was clear they were all friends. Either friendship from before service, or bonds forged amongst their time in the militia, it was clear by the warmth on their faces they were close. The portly man was haphazardly leaning on his weapon, half turned towards his comrades, from the motion of his lips he was in the midst of some crass joke about Imperials. The others were laughing, the woman especially seemed to grip the bottle that no doubt contained alcohol ever tighter. "Ah friendship. The bonds of comrades. It can carry us through even the worst of times, knowing someone you trust is beside you. But relying on friends isn't strength. Individual strength will always be greater." A larger grin from ear to ear formed on his face, within his helm. "Oh but don't you worry. I'll show you."

Hiss. The portly mans gut exploded in a violent spray of bloody mist, coating his comrades, the bald man fell in shock while the womans bottle crashed against the ground, glass and liquid spraying in every direction. Jekkath could feel every emotion play out like a cinema to his very eyes, he let them linger there perhaps far longer than sense would dictate. Care for their friend brought them over to him, clutching the hole in his stomach. "Oh don't worry, you'll see the Nether long before he will." Hiss. Hiss. The two cradling their dying friends fell back, heads blown open while their friend still squirmed in agony. Death would be near, but the portly mans death would take far longer than theirs, and he would drink in their pain. The last was a bearded man, who'd watched the three die. The shock tore through him as he let out an abrupt scream, he ran around behind cover, burying his head. "Tsk tsk tsk. Do you think that will save you little man? Small thinking for a smaller man in a small world." Hiss. This round was different. Through the Force, Jekkath gripped it in a telekinetic sheath as it went, curving the round right as it passed nearest the cover, it would arc downward, striking him right in the top of the head. The bearded man fell a gorey mess, arms splayed outward.

The Second Brother took a deep breath and slowly pulled away from the scope, he could feel when Shûkkyant was finished speaking, its magazine was empty. He carefully slid it out, storing it. "Move. Secure the area." It was the only order he'd pass to the Stormtroopers. They'd all begin moving at once, towards the site of carnage he'd created. In the meantime he swapped channels to connect with the other Inquisitors. "This is the Second Brother. We are securing an entryway into the capitol building now." Jekkath slid a fresh magazine into place, making sure Shûkkyant was ready to continue speaking. Once more he slid his sight back into the scope.

"Lets see who is ready for you, my dear." Jekkath spoke to the rifle, scanning the area while the Stormtroopers made their way towards the rising stair.

✶ Transmission Directed To ✶

Olorion Fossk | Arturion of Kalidan | Qiyara Vorn

Order · Compliance · Reclamation

 

[Evander Thule]

Objective: Strike the Citadel
Tags: Open

​

For his part, Thule still wasn't sure where he fit into all this. It wasn't as though he could put on a uniform and pick up where he'd left off. That option hadn't been in the cards for a very, very long time.

Those assembled had descended on Lothal with a sort of unorganized fury, and despite himself, he'd joined them. He couldn't say why. Maybe he just had some anger to work out, and this had been the most easily-available option.

Thule didn't have armies to call upon or resources to bring to bear. Instead, he brought only himself. That had been more than enough.

At least until now.

Thule was strong enough to tear the head from the shoulders of most humanoids, but even so, the massive security door that now loomed in his path proved an insurmountable obstacle. The door groaned and protested under his efforts to move it, but did not give.

Said obstacle had been deployed in one hell of a hurry by the locals, boxing him inside of a local resistance strongpoint. He didn't carry a lightsaber like those mystics the higher-ups were so fond of, so alternatives were needed.

Thankfully, the cyborg had access to other means of entry. A quick search revealed a small ventilation shaft on the ceiling some twenty feet overhead. Likely, it had either gone unnoticed, or not been deemed a serious security vulnerability.

Thule scurried up the wall like an oversized insect, seized the vent's cover, and tore it away with a screech of twisted metal. He slipped into the aperture easily, contorting his limbs in a distressingly inhuman fashion to fit into so small a space.

Voices echoed along the constrained metal corridors of the shaft, and he followed them with the ease of long practice. If his estimation was correct, they were right on the other side of the armored door.

"Do you think it's still there?" One was asking. Young, exhausted, terrified. Certainly not the leader.

"Don't know." Came another, shorter, clipped, repressing his fear with more success.

Thule mentally triggered his armor's sensors, sending a quiet pulse through the room below. Seven men, armed, six rifles and one sidearm. Pulse rates elevated, but not as elevated as they were about to be.

Losing no time, the cyborg flexed his legs, pushed, and tore through the ceiling, dropping himself right into their midst.

One died immediately, crushed to the floor as Thule landed right atop him. The rest were raising their weapons to fire when the apparition moved again.

Thule seized the nearest by the throat, hurling him into another and bowling both over. A third lifted his weapon and fired, spraying the hallway with a hail of glowing crimson blaster bolts. Thule's form flickered between the heartbeat-thin gaps in the automatic fire as he closed the distance, illuminated nightmarishly by the glow of the incoming barrage.

One bladed foot lashed out in a spinning kick, sending an expertly-aimed slash across the soldier's carotid. He went down, adding a touch of red to the hallway's sterile gray decor.

That same weaponized limb reversed course in a single fluid motion, pinning a weapon-bearing hand against the wall with an audible crack of shattered bone. Thule caught the pistol as it toppled from nerveless fingers, lifting it to shoot its owner in the face from centimeters away.

By now, the two who'd been thrown together were standing up. Thule didn't give them the chance, executing both with a pair of unnaturally-precise headshots.

The remaining two charged him, throwing Thule off-balance and sending all three of them to the blood-slick floor. One focused all his strength in keeping the cyborg's weapon arm pinned, while the other struggled to get his own blaster into place.

With a sudden effort, Thule hurled the first away and into the still-closed blast door, where he slumped senseless for a few moments. Leaping to his feet, he hauled the remaining soldier upright, shoving him against the wall of the corridor. Razor-sharp Helsteel claws sprang into position as Thule packed dozens of strikes into the space of a few seconds, causing his opponent's body to seize and shudder under the hail of rapid impacts. The staccato crackle of chain-broken ribs echoed through the hallways.

The ruined corpse had hardly toppled before the last man recovered, getting a bead and firing. Two shots rang off the front of Thule's armored chest, prompting warning signals across his vision. He didn't need them to know that he'd be feeling those impacts for a few weeks.

The cyborg sprinted toward the last survivor in a barely-visible blur of motion, claws still wet with his comrade's blood. The man let loose a near-animal scream of terror, the last of his trained marksmanship failing in the face of this apparition. More blaster bolts dinged off the mechanical horror's surface, though most missed entirely as precise aimed shots gave way to panic-stricken sprayfiring. Those claws came down in a decapitating scissor-arc, and the last gun fell silent for good.

Thule looked backward, feeling his heartbeat hammering from the exertion and adrenaline. Seven corpses littered the corridor, strewn about in various stages of dismemberment. A fitting warning to any others who might pass this way.

The diagnostic software wired into his CNS briefly took stock of the damage. Some moderate bruising where the bolts had struck his armored torso, coupled with the usual hallmarks of adrenaline and exertion. Reminders that he was not a droid, and not tireless or invulnerable. Thule held onto those with relish. As his old ST instructor had often said, pain was just weakness leaving the body.

He opened a comms channel, reporting his status even as he sent another sensor ping down the corridors. He wasn't even sure who was in command at this point, who would hear, or who would care, but figured that someone up top deserved the occasional progress report. "Gridpoint C-62 engaged. Confirming now, but early scans show no remaining lifesigns. Will confirm manually, then move on to the next unless ordered otherwise."

 

[Arturion of Kalidan]

---

|| STRIKE THE CITADEL ||

Lothal Capital City, Government District

Distant: Olorion Fossk | Qiyara Vorn | Jekkath Raxus | Evander Thule

---

They came into the street like a blade drawn from its sheath.

The firefight ahead had already lost its first moment of panic and settled into something uglier, something harder. Local security forces had established a barricade between two municipal towers, a crude line of speeders, durasteel traffic dividers and portable shield emitters dragged into place with more desperation than doctrine. Behind it, men and women in mismatched armor fired in disciplined bursts toward the advancing Stormtroopers at the far end of the boulevard. Not soldiers of an army, Arturion judged. Not yet. Police, militia, frightened volunteers, perhaps a few insurgents with enough sense to give orders before the rest began dying.

It was still better than nothing.

Red bolts hammered against the walls around the alley mouth as the first Purge Trooper stepped into the open and answered with controlled, heavy fire. The squad fanned out without hesitation, black armor moving through smoke and flashing light, disciplined where the defenders were frantic. Arturion followed at their center, white blade low at his side, the glow of it cutting through the dimness like a wound in the air.

A volley came for him.

He raised the saber.

Blaster fire struck the white blade and screamed away into stone, glass and empty air. One bolt returned to its origin and punched through the shield gap at the barricade. A defender collapsed behind it. Another hesitated. That hesitation spread faster than fear ought to have spread, from one body to the next, from one trigger finger to another. They had been prepared to fight men. They had not been prepared to see judgment walking toward them.

"Advance."

The word came out as a warped growl through the mask, but Shadowkeeper Command understood. They always did.

The Purge Troopers moved with him. A rocket struck the upper face of the left-hand tower and rained glass across the boulevard. Stormtroopers at the far end surged forward under the sudden cover, their white armor appearing and vanishing between smoke clouds and falling debris. Arturion did not look at them. The enemy was ahead. The communications center was beyond. The delay was unacceptable.

He extended his free hand.

The nearest shield emitter tore itself from the barricade with a shriek of buckling metal and flew sideways into a speeder. The defensive line flickered. Then it failed. For one perfect instant the defenders stood naked behind the ruin of their own makeshift wall, staring at the red-armored shape bearing down upon them.

The Purge Troopers opened fire and the barricade broke.

Some of the defenders died where they stood. Others threw themselves backward into doorways, behind pillars, into the lobby of the municipal tower. A few tried to run. Arturion let them. Fleeing men carried terror faster than commands could travel, and terror had its uses when applied with restraint. He did not need every body in the street. He needed the route. He needed the facility. He needed the voices of Lothal cut out before they could unify into a single cry.

A blaster shot from above struck one of the Purge Troopers in the pauldron and spun him half a step.

Arturion looked up.

A figure in civilian clothes vanished from a second-floor window. Not security. Not uniformed. Armed regardless. Collaborator, insurgent, opportunist; the distinction mattered only to clerks and tribunals. The Force tightened around the window frame, then the entire facade groaned as if seized by an invisible fist. The man was dragged back into view, clawing at the broken edge, his weapon falling to the street below. Arturion held him suspended there for a breath.

"Mark this building for sweep."

One of the troopers acknowledged him. The man was released. He fell back into the room rather than onto the pavement. Alive, then. For questioning. That too was restraint.

They crossed the boulevard and entered the final approach to the communications center. The structure rose ahead of them behind a security plaza, broad and angular, its upper levels crowned with transmitter vanes and holonet relays that still pulsed with civilian traffic. Messages. Warnings. Appeals. Lies. All of them spilling outward while the Empire was already at the throat of the city. Arturion could feel the desperation around it now, not as sound, but as pressure. Minds closing ranks. Fear hardening into resistance. Someone inside was still trying to coordinate the district.

Good.

The building's outer doors sealed before they reached the plaza. Heavy shutters came down over the lower windows. Automated turrets unfolded from recessed housings along the roofline and began tracking targets with cold mechanical purpose. For the first time since landing, Arturion felt something close to approval.

"Defensive systems active," one of the Purge Troopers reported. "Multiple heat signatures inside. Upper floor concentration. Command personnel likely present."

"Alive where possible."

The trooper turned his helmet slightly toward him. Arturion's grip tightened around the saber hilt. "Where useful."

The turrets fired.

The plaza became a storm of light. Stormtroopers scattered into cover along the surrounding walls while Shadowkeeper Command pushed forward in short, brutal bounds. Arturion walked through the center of it. His blade moved in sharp, economical arcs, deflecting bolts meant for him, ignoring those that were not. Duracrete erupted at his feet. One shot grazed the edge of his armor and scorched the red plating black. He did not slow.

He reached the first turret with a leap that carried him from the plaza floor to the low security awning beneath it. His saber cut once, white fire through machinery, and the weapon died in a cascade of sparks. The second turret rotated toward him. Before it could fire, he clenched his fist and crushed its barrel inward. It detonated against its own housing, scattering fragments across the roofline.

Below, the Purge Troopers reached the sealed entrance. Charges were placed.

Arturion dropped back to the plaza as the blast doors erupted inward. Smoke rolled into the lobby. Red emergency lights flickered beyond. The defenders inside fired immediately, but they fired too high, too fast, too afraid. Shadowkeeper Command answered with a precision that had nothing of panic in it. One by one, the entrance hall was taken.

Ninth Brother stepped through the smoke.

Inside, the communications center still spoke. Consoles blinked. Holoscreens flashed with fragmented district feeds, troop movements, pleas for reinforcements, evacuation orders, coded transmissions attempting to leap from one node to the next before Imperial slicers could strangle them. Across the central display, a map of the capital city glowed in urgent blue and warning red.

He saw the resistance forming in real time.

There. A military headquarters transmitting fallback routes. There. A civic bunker rerouting officials through maintenance tunnels. There. A civilian emergency channel being used to mask insurgent movement. There. Hidden nodes beneath legitimate traffic, too deliberate to be accident.

His disappointment receded. Not gone. Never gone. But refined.

The enemy was not absent. It was buried beneath weakness, waiting for structure, for signal, for permission to become dangerous. This place was not merely a facility. It was a nerve cluster. Cut it wrongly and the body convulsed. Cut it cleanly and the body forgot how to move.

Arturion raised his blade toward the upper levels.

"Secure the operators. Seize the data cores. No transmission leaves this building without Imperial sanction."

A fresh alarm began to sound somewhere above them. He could sense movement on the higher floors now, a knot of fear and urgency withdrawing behind locked doors and armed men. Officials, technicians, perhaps intelligence assets who had thought distance and encryption would protect them from consequence.

The Ninth Brother began to climb. At last, Lothal had found its voice. Now he would decide which parts of it were worth keeping.

 

[Qiyara Vorn]

Location: Landing Craft, Surface of Lothal
Equipment: Reinforced Infantry Armor Package, Standard Service Blaster Carbine (shoulder), Service Blaster Pisto (holster), Combat Vibroblade (belt)
Tags: OPEN | QS-022

The advance on Capital City rolled onward above. Below ground, it was the Bastards' war. The drainage tunnels narrowed until two beings could barely walk abreast. Water surged around their boots, carrying filth and shattered masonry toward the city's treatment systems. Every few meters another pipe had burst, filling the air with steam and the metallic scent of scorched durasteel.

Exactly the sort of place command had decided was fit for Qiyara Vorn and her squad. A lieutenant had delivered the assignment with barely concealed relief. "Enemy holdouts have collapsed portions of the stormworks. They're threatening our logistics route. Clear the tunnels and secure the exits."

Nobody wanted sewer duty. Nobody except the Bastards ever got it. Qiyara looked over her motley collection of convicts, disciplinary transfers, aliens considered good enough to die but never to lead, and every soldier the Empire had nearly thrown away.

"Bastards!" A rough chorus answered. "They've given us another glamorous assignment." Laughter echoed through the tunnel. "The boulevard belongs to the parade troops." She slapped the stained concrete wall. "We get the plumbing."

A Mirialan snorted. "Could be worse."

"It will be," Qiyara replied. "Now move."

The first shots came from the darkness. Hidden repeater positions opened from behind an overturned maintenance crawler while riflemen fired through murder holes hacked into the utility bulkheads. Crimson bolts ricocheted through the confined passageway, forcing the Bastards into whatever cover broken pipes and collapsed concrete could provide.

One of the newest replacements took a hit squarely in the chest. His armor stopped the bolt, barely, but the impact hurled him backward into the runoff channel.

"Medic!"

"We don't have one!" someone shouted back.

"Then stop screaming!" Qiyara leaned around a support column long enough to snap off three precise shots. One defender pitched backward from the barricade.

"Smoke!" A thermal smoke canister skipped across the flooded floor before bursting into thick gray clouds that swallowed the tunnel.

"Left team, around them!" The Chiss scout, a Twi’lek bruiser, and two former inmates disappeared into a narrow maintenance conduit barely large enough to crawl through. Qiyara didn't wait. "With me!" She charged straight into the smoke.

Blaster fire erupted almost immediately. Shapes emerged only for fractions of a second before disappearing again. Qiyara fired by instinct as much as sight, dropping one defender before shoulder-checking another into a pipe hard enough to crack his helmet. A third rushed her with an electro-baton. She caught his wrist, twisted, drove a knee into his stomach, and finished him with the butt of her rifle.

Someone behind her shouted in pain. Another Bastard fell, clutching a scorched thigh. The Mirialan dragged him behind cover while firing wildly over his shoulder. "Keep moving!" Qiyara barked. "If we stop, we're dead!"

Then the flanking team struck. The Chiss appeared behind the barricade, firing into the defenders from an access ladder while the Twi’lek simply vaulted the sandbags with a roar, scattering the holdouts before they could reorient. Former prisoners followed close behind, fighting with the kind of reckless enthusiasm that came from knowing prison had been the alternative.

Caught between both assaults, the defenders broke. Some fought to the last. Others attempted to flee deeper into the utility network. None escaped.

The tunnel slowly fell silent, broken only by dripping water and the hiss of ruptured pipes. Qiyara lowered her rifle and surveyed the aftermath. Three Bastards were wounded badly enough to need evacuation. Two more carried burns and shrapnel wounds they'd ignore until later.

One replacement was unconscious but breathing. Not clean. Not pretty. Good enough.

She keyed her comlink. "Stormworks secure. Enemy holdouts eliminated. Supply corridor is open." A pause. Then the clipped acknowledgment from headquarters.

"Copy, Staff Sergeant. Hold position until engineers arrive."

Qiyara rolled her eyes. "They always send the engineers after we've done the hard part." The Bastards laughed tiredly as they began policing weapons, checking one another's injuries, and dragging enemy barricades out of the way.

Above them, the assault on Capital City thundered onward. Below, another miserable job had been finished by the only squad nobody expected to come back. Which was exactly why they always did.

 

[Jyote Veyr]

"Reclamation isn't about the past. It's about deciding what's worth carrying forward." - Tags: OPEN | Galen Tagge | Orsyn Krennic

|| DOWN COMES THE IRON GATE ||

​

The launch light flashed from amber to green. "Aurek Squadron, launch." The restraining clamps released with a solid metallic clunk. Jyote eased the throttle forward rather than slamming it open, letting the twin ion engines spool to full power before the TIE/IN surged from the launch rack. The stars swallowed her immediately as she cleared the hangar, the blackness of space exploding into motion around the Imperial formation.

Her HUD rapidly populated with contacts. Friendly transponders. Capital ships. Escort craft. Dozens upon dozens of launch vectors. Then—Enemy returns. The void ahead glittered with weapons fire. Brilliant emerald lances reached outward from the Imperial line while crimson and sapphire answered in kind. Turbolaser fire crossed the battlefield in blinding sheets, illuminating silhouettes of warships that dwarfed everything around them.

Jyote couldn't help herself. She smiled. "Now this is flying." Her Interceptor rolled effortlessly onto its starboard wing before slipping into formation with the rest of Aurek Squadron. The TIE answered every touch with crisp precision, almost anticipating her inputs. Salvage crews had once dismissed the battered starfighter as beyond economical repair.

Idiots. The fighter had simply needed someone willing to listen to it. "Flight, tighten spacing. Don't chase anyone into the guns," the squadron leader barked over comms.

Jyote acknowledged with a double-click of her transmitter. No unnecessary chatter. The squadron accelerated ahead of the Imperial battle line, forming part of the protective fighter screen as more launch waves poured from the carrier behind them. Enemy starfighters rapidly detached from their own formation, converging in scattered attack groups hoping to break through toward the larger ships.

Perfect. She selected the lead contact. Target lock. Range closing. Her fingers danced across the controls as she adjusted reactor output, bleeding a touch of power away from life support and into the laser capacitors. The Interceptor leapt forward with renewed aggression.

The first hostile pilot opened fire too early. Red bolts streaked harmlessly through empty space where Jyote had been a heartbeat before. A gentle nudge of the rudder pedals. A half-roll. Tiny corrections. Nothing wasted. Nothing dramatic. The enemy overshot.

Jyote's targeting reticle settled almost lazily over the opposing fighter. She squeezed the trigger. Twin emerald beams slashed across the darkness. Whether the hostile exploded or merely broke away scarcely mattered. She had already begun rolling toward the next target before the previous engagement had fully resolved.

One kill never won a battle. Maintaining momentum did. "Veyr engaging," she transmitted calmly. "Let's see how many of you are worth salvaging."