Public &nbsp; Catalyst: Signal Flare (OPEN)

Talyr Ivaakren //

Gear: //Custom Blaster Pistol, Tool-Kit

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Hubert sits in the seat of his ship as he drifts through space, humming to himself quietly in the isolation of the Star-Scraper as he flutters through different frequencies. It has been days since he departed from his last location of refuge, and unfortunately- those tailing him didn't allow much time for Hubert to prepare.

It's been rough lately... Hungry days, cold restless nights, a constant need to look over his shoulder to confirm no blaster is pressed against his skull. A sigh punctures the silence of his cockpit as he blows a cloud of cigarette smoke from his nose, ready to turn in for now... But suddenly, a relay snags him by the ears. A garbled transmission calling for some sort of asset retrieval and a failure to contain... Hubert has a hard time making it out, but he got at least that much. And fortunately, the coordinates aren't too far away from his current location.

He sits up in his seat, taking another drag off of his smoke, and pitches his ship to follow the coordinates recieved. This could be the big break he's been looking for. Chances are, he may be able to scrounge some valuables- maybe even some salvage to better fortify his rusted hull, and rewire a few darkened screens. Most importantly- the valuables. Money means food, and no money means- Hubert needs money.

It isn't long before Hubert is approaching the planet. He's always had a fair amount of luck, but having a shipwreck pop up out of the blue not even a few parsecs away seems almost too good to be true. However, despite the questionable nature of this bounty, Hubert is in no position to refuse...

As he enters the planets atmosphere, it's almost as if his ship shorts out. First, his thrusters sputter into fits of black smoke before cutting out completely. Second, his diagnostics and scanner systems black out, leaving him to land blindy on a foreign world. And finally, the stability core in his ship whirs down, and the bucket of rust begins to freefall haphazardly.

"KARK IT- IT'S ALWAYS SOMETHING!" He yells to nobody but himself as his ship begins to cut through the sky. Frantically, he starts redirecting couplers and relays, attempting any and everything he can to save his own life. It feels like minutes until he finally just diverts all the ship has into the thrusters, and they come coughing back to life.

In the corkscrew of death, Hubert has to put his life on the faith of timing and science. He waits until the back of his ship points at the ground again, and slams every ounce of thrust he can through his engines. The still air of the planet is suddenly torn through by the exploding roar of two twin turbines as Hubert gasses it in attempts to brake his fall.

The Star-Scraper slows, but not enough...

The back of the ship slams into the edge of a canyon and begins to tumble down like a log, rolling over on itself again and again down the slope of the canyon wall until it flings off from the bottom, flipping and twisting along the ground. All Hubert sees through his now shattered windshield is a blur of white, distorted by the inertia he's subjected to.

Suddenly, Huberts' vision goes black, and he slips into a state of unconciousness as his ship scatters along the surface. And at last with a great clapping and screeching of metal-to-metal, the Star-Scraper stops abruplty as it slams against the side of the wrecked Star-Destroyer, shaking the canyon with its thunderous settling. As the sound dies, and the dust clears, Hubert hangs upside-down from his pilot seat, unmoving and bleeding from the side of his head. A buzzing alarm remains prominent within the confines of his ship- likely unheard due to the broadcast echoing across the tundra.

As far as landings go, this definitely isn't the best showcasing of his ability. Well...

...At least he didn't blow up.

Dankaia Virkenn · Nov 22, 2025

Tag:

Dankaia Virkenn's ship drifted through the black like a shard of fractured glass, its sensors scanning the void for anomalies when the faint trace of an Imperial transmission flickered across the comm array. The signal was encoded with layers of encryption, but her ship's computer parsed it effortlessly, unraveling the sequence of commands, coordinates, and alerts hidden within.

Every pulse of the transmission carried weight; warnings, intelligence, directives and even from the static-laced feed, she could tell it wasn't routine. The message hummed through the ship's hull like a living thing, pressing against the reinforced hull plating, and Dankaia's mind raced through probabilities, calculating which sectors would be safe, which would be traps, and which could be exploited.

With a sharp, measured breath, she brought up the navigation console, the holo-grid responding instantly to her thoughts as the ship's AI looped predictive simulations in nanoseconds. Dankaia adjusted vectors and overrode secondary protocols, her fingers flicking over the tactile interface as her brain chip preloaded hyperspace trajectories.

She didn't hesitate; the Imperial signal was both a lure and a warning, and she had the advantage of speed, stealth, and neural-enhanced intuition. The course was plotted, engines primed, and as she engaged the thrusters, the stars outside blurred into streaks of cold light, each one a calculated step deeper into a game that had already begun before she even received the transmission.

Settling her ship onto the rocky surface with controlled precision, thrusters spitting fine dust into the thin atmosphere as the hull scraped against jagged outcroppings. She had chosen a landing point a few miles from the canyon, deliberately outside the reach of orbital scans and prying sensors, a position that gave her both concealment and tactical oversight.

The Imperial transmission had been her guide, a digital breadcrumb laid into the void, and she now reviewed the encrypted data again, cross-referencing it with terrain maps stored in her ship's databases. Every contour, every shadow, every potential ambush point was cataloged in milliseconds, her augmented mind parsing threats faster than the human eye could track.

The ramp descended with a hiss, and Dankaia stepped onto the uneven ground, boots sinking slightly into the coarse, mineral-strewn soil. Her gear was light but reinforced, her lightsaber dangling like a religious icon at her waist. Even in the stillness, she could feel the subtle pulse of energy through the canyon, an echo of the signal she had followed through space, vibrating faintly underfoot.

Each step was deliberate, each movement measured, as she advanced toward the transmission's source; the calculated distance between stealth and exposure, anticipation and action, her mind already mapping contingencies for every possible encounter. Dankaia Virkenn's voice was low, as she stared out into the horizon, and the waiting canyon, as she muttered, "I've got a bad feeling about this."

Cybernetics / Bionics

Talyr Ivaakren · Nov 22, 2025

Hubert Starhopper Dankaia Virkenn

The trembling, lanky female shifted sharply upright as she gasped, a rounded ear twitching atop her head of unkempt, scarlet hair; her overly large Corellian jacket flaring as she raised her eyes to squint up at the sky...

Dammit! She wasn't the only passerby to have located the signal and decided to investigate!

Her bare feet scrabbled over dry stone as her good hand holstered her pistol as swiftly as she could manage, lithe body shifting as she sprinted on all fours towards the ruin of the Star Destroyer in the distance. It was the best place to be at the moment, considering that there was still an ABUNDANCE of good places left to hide in where she could wait out the storm and hopefully not miss anything worth salvaging.

The Selonian vanished easily into the yawning expanse of the split ship's waiting innards, ducking into a sand-laden and wind-worn tunnel of durasteel and dead wiring. She fumbled with a strap around her lithe shoulder, producing a datapad with both hands, frantically rubbing her hand over the side to find the buttons.

Click!

The bright beam of soft white light emanated from the top of the device, illuminating the faded durasteel, the occasional dangling, lifeless wire and in the distance, an outstretched, dead arm of what could only be Stormtrooper armor. Suppressing a violent shiver of fear and apprehension, Talyr made her way deeper into the Destroyer's exposed depths, before her judgement and cowardice could manage to get the better of her and send her running back for the outside desert. A half-open first door a few feet inwards had been cleared of everything at all, it's few draws and a tiny wardrobe open and empty, either scavenged by others like herself or maybe even cleared out by survivors who managed to salvage or repair some ships to flee off-planet.

The next room, quite shockingly, contained a forgotten code cylinder of some variety, rusted over, but possibly salvageable - the devices were good for centuries, at least. However, the contents would remain unknown for now - Talyr would have to work on that back on her ship or, failing that, find someone who had an analysis droid available that she could use. The rest of that room was empty, however. But it was a start, as the right information was always of value to one faction or the other.

Pocketing the code cylinder, the Selonian raised her light-equipped datapad with one hand, while her other hefted her blaster pistol, just in case it may have been needed.

Anything could hide in shadows, after all!

Dankaia Virkenn · Nov 22, 2025

Tag:

Dankaia Virkenn approached the fallen warship with the wary respect one gives to an old predator, outdated on paper, perhaps, but still capable of killing anything careless enough to get close. The vessel lay canted on its side like a broken monument, its armor plating dulled by decades of neglect and the violent crash that had finally brought it down. Corrosion traced the seams of its hull, yet intermittent glints of intact composite suggested systems far from dead.

Cautiously, she turned her head from one side to the other, sweeping the surrounding terrain with practiced precision, mapping debris patterns, identifying potential ambush points, or leftover automated defenses that didn't know their war was over.

She reached the breach in the side hull, noticing a gash torn open by the crash or blaster fire, and knelt to analyze it; that unfamiliar ease returning. The alloy edges were forever curled like burnt paper, the discoloration suggesting both extreme heat and mechanical stress. A gust of stale air sighed from the opening, carrying the scent of oxidized metal, decayed insulation, and something she couldn't immediately classify.

Dankaia rose, tighten her grip on her hilt, and slip through the jagged aperture, entering the carcass of the old war machine with the silent caution of someone who knew outdated tech could still bury the unprepared.

Inside the warship's lightless interior, Dankaia's pupils constricted to reddish-orange slivers, then widened with a predatory smoothness no human physiology should allow. The darkness folded back from her like a curtain drawn on well-kept taboo, her Sangnir heritage sharpening every contour, every metallic edge, every dormant conduit along the corridor walls.

She despised relying on the mutation she sworn never to reveal, but here, in the bowels of obsolete steel and dormant threats, its advantages were undeniable. The shadows were no hindrance; they were data. And as she moved deeper, silent and precise, the warship seemed less a tomb and more a map etched in colors only a Sangnir could see.

Cybernetics / Bionics

Liin Terallo · Nov 22, 2025

The canyon held its breath again. After that bone-deep crash rattled the cliffs, even the looping distress call wavered; as if the old speakers were startled by the new noise.

A thin column of smoke curled into the sky far behind us. Eli was already looking that direction. “Go,” I told him, steadying my own breath. “I will deal with the signal.” I did not wait for his reply.

The torn hatch yawned open at my feet, exhaling a cold, stale draft that smelled of dust, metal, and something faintly chemical -like old coolant mixed with ozone. I stepped inside. Instantly the temperature dropped. A shiver crawled up my spine as a slow pulse vibrated through the floor plating, uneven and arrhythmic, like a dying heartbeat hidden deep below. My ring flickered in response, it's glow faint but agitated.

The interior corridors were warped into unnatural angles, crushed by centuries of rockfall and structural failure. Panels hung half-detached from the ceiling; some sparked weakly as I passed beneath them. I kept my steps light, testing each section of flooring before committing my weight. A few groaned threateningly beneath my boots.

A sudden clatter echoed from somewhere deeper inside - metal collapsing or something shifting. The sound rolled through the ship like a warning. I moved toward it anyway. The walls were worse than before. Those faint glowing veins traced along the durasteel like frost, branching with every thrum of the buried reactor. I touched one lightly with my knuckles; it was warm and live. Not natural. Not stable.
And unmistakably tied to my stolen research.

A narrow junction split ahead. One hallway was partially flooded; a thin sheet of water rippling from the vibrations. The other was filled with drifting vapour, leaking from a cracked pipe. Both paths echoed with the repeating distress call. That was when I noticed the clue; small and easy to miss unless you were looking for grounding details in all this chaos: a smear of fresh sand along the wall. Not ship-dust. Not ancient. Fresh. It looked recently brushed off someone’s clothes or boots.

Someone else had been through here. And recently.

The corridor opened into a cramped chamber where the signal tower’s uplink mesh had fused directly into the bulkhead. The speaker was warped nearly flat, still screaming its loop with a static-ridden crackle that stabbed behind my eyes. The floor vibrated sharply under my feet - a sudden surge like the reactor fighting itself. Dust drifted from above. That was a bad sign. A very bad sign.

I pressed a hand to the uplink housing, feeling the uneven jump of corrupt circuitry overheating. If I could break the loop at the source without damaging the power relay, the whole ship might hold together a little longer. “I am here,” I whispered to the dead corridors, to the echoing voice, to the parts of myself that hated how familiar all of this felt. “And I am shutting you down.”

Tags:

Talyr Ivaakren

Hubert Starhopper Dankaia Virkenn Eli <redacted>

Eli <redacted> · Nov 22, 2025

The crash still echoed through the canyon when Eli turned away from the derelict ship. Dust spiraled lazily in the updraft, glowing faintly with the same green-blue shimmer leaking from the ancient hull behind him. He watched Liin disappear into the darkness for a heartbeat longer than necessary, expression unreadable. Then he moved.

His stride was unhurried, purposeful. Not cautious - calculating. The canyon seemed to narrow around him as he followed the trail of scattered wreckage: scorched plating, shattered transparisteel, a snapped stabilizer jutting from the sand like a warning sign no one had bothered to heed. The air trembled with the residual shock of the impact. The looping distress call stuttered overhead, it's broken voice slicing through the quiet like a serrated edge. He liked the silence between each repetition.

When he reached the crash site, he stopped just outside the shadow of the buckled cockpit. The ship had come down hard enough that the hull looked folded, crimped like a crushed tin between invisible fingers. Inside, a pilot hung suspended in their harness - upside-down, limp, unconscious. A bead of coolant dripped from the shattered console and hit the deck with a soft, rhythmic tap. Almost like a clock.

Eli tilted his head. He didn’t look concerned. He looked… curious. As though studying a specimen trapped in amber. His gaze lingered on the pilot’s face, the angle of their limbs, the faint twitch of breath that confirmed they were still alive. He tapped a knuckle against the cracked canopy, testing how much it would take to shatter it completely. Not much.

A spark skittered across a loose cable near his boot. He stepped over it without breaking his focus. “Well,” he murmured, voice low, almost conversational. “You arrived in exactly the wrong place." He paused for a beat. “Or the right one, depending.” He brushed dust from the canopy frame, fingers deliberate and too calm for the situation. The metal groaned under the slight pressure - a warning, though not one he appeared to heed.

The pilot didn’t move.

Eli’s eyes sharpened, a glint of something half-amused, half predatory. Someone unconscious was someone malleable. Someone who had seen the broadcast was someone useful. Someone desperate was someone who could be steered.

He reached for the latch, testing it with slow, patient pressure. Whether he freed the pilot, woke them, or let the situation teach them humility…that decision was his to make when the moment arrived.

Above him, the distress call looped again; fractured, cold, insistent. Eli smiled without warmth and began working the canopy open.

Tags:

Dankaia Virkenn · Nov 23, 2025

Tag:

Talyr Ivaakren

Hubert Starhopper / Eli <redacted>

Dankaia Virkenn's boots clanged softly against the warped deck as she edged deeper into the derelict ship, every shadow seeming to flicker with a life of its own. The corridors groaned and shuddered around her, as if the metal itself resented her intrusion. Loose panels rattled under her careful steps, a fragile orchestra of entropy that threatened to collapse with the slightest misstep.

Something about the air felt electric, tense: she could almost sense the ship breathing, waiting, and maybe even watching. Every step was a negotiation with the fragile integrity of a vessel that had survived battles it should never have endured.

She stumbled upon a room that seemed almost… aware. The door groaned in protest as she pushed it open, revealing a cramped chamber whose lights pulsed erratically, as though struggling to exist. Consoles flickered with fragmented data streams that leapt across their screens in bursts, only to die moments later.

The hum of the machinery wasn't steady; it skipped and stuttered, like a heartbeat that couldn't decide whether to continue or stop. Dankaia absorbed it all with measured urgency, knowing that the room's fragile heartbeat could cease at any moment, taking its hidden truths with it; and yet, she felt a sensation, a cold impression washing over her that the room itself breathed, or maybe that it resented her presence.

As she approached one of the consoles, colourful images and displays quivered under her gaze, flickering in patterns that seemed almost deliberate. Warnings appeared and vanished before she could read them; logs spat fragments of events like cryptic whispers, then fell silent again. Then the room went dark.

Dankaia stood frozen in the pitch-black room, listening, watching patiently through her vampiric eyes. The ship's presence in the Force was like a half-formed whisper, awkward and intrusive, crawling along the edges of her perception with a subtle insistence that set her teeth on edge. It was alive, but not alive in any way she had known; its awareness was mechanical, fractured, and unnervingly deliberate.

Her breathing slowed, almost instinctively, as the sensation deepened, coiling around her like invisible tendrils. The Force carried an awkward tension, as if the ship was trying to speak but couldn't form words, its fragmented consciousness pressing against her awareness in sharp, uncertain pulses; then it was gone.

"Charming," she muttered, letting the word hang like a blade in the darkness, "I do so enjoy being observed… especially when I have no idea by whom." Her senses prickled in the Force, a taut, insistent vibration that told her she was not alone, that something alive lingered just beyond reach, patient and deliberate. She shifted slightly, every muscle coiled, and added under her breath, "And yet, here I am, talking to ghosts."

Cybernetics / Bionics

Hubert Starhopper · Nov 23, 2025

Objective

Tags:

Liin Terallo Eli <redacted>

Talyr Ivaakren Dankaia Virkenn

Gear: //Custom Blaster Pistol, Tool-Kit//

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The world surrounding Hubert is nothing but a void as of now. Now- what fills his mind is... His past. Memories flood into his psyche of his youth, his trials and tribulations. Tatooine, the suns overhead, the endless expanse of rolling beige tides that haunt Hubert like a specter in the night. As he stares out into the desert, a voice calls to him. Familiar, warm- a voice that he had almost forgotten...

His mother.

He turns around to face her, now standing in the kitchen of their quarters, a small single room fitted with their beds and a single portable stove. The floor is dirt, and on top of that is a dusting of sand that no amount of sweeping could combat. Especially without a door.

"Hubie where have you been? Walisi has been looking for you all day. You know how much trouble this will be..."

The sound of Durasteel clattering begins to grow from behind him, and without thinking he turns to check. Now- he stands in the Tatooine suns, the heat wave seemingly impacting him all at once. He falls to his knees, bringing his hands up to wipe the sweat from his face and recoils at a synging sensation. Durasteel chains locked around his wrist, scorching hot under the desert suns are clamped around his wrists, and the chains feed to either side of him. He follows the length of chain and sees a stranger on either side of him, shackled and cutting away strips and pieces from an old ship wreck.

Suddenly, his state of confusion is cleared as he feels a lash across the back of his neck, and a Toydarian yells for him to resume working. As he picks up pace, the Bug keeps yelling, and lashing at Hubert until finally he shoots up onto his feet and spins on his heel, ready to kill the slaver. However- as he spins, his blood runs cold.

Now he stands before the complex of slave hovels as their occupants all gather around him and Walisi, enclosing them in a circle. Hubert feels a weight at his shoulders, and a kick to the back of his knee, and he is suddenly forced to the ground, held in place as Walisi flutters his wings over Huberts mother, lashing her time and time again. Huberts vision turns red, and he begins struggling against the weight holding him down, snarling and screaming curses of hatred as his blood boils. He manages to pull his knee under himself and uses it to push himself up, leaning in and biting one of the men holding him down. As the man lets go, Hubert slips the blaster from his victim's holster, points it at the bug and wakes up screaming.

His vision is blurred, partially from the blood in his eye, mostly from the concussion. He catches his breath for a moment and groans, cursing himself internally. He looks around, straining his eyes to try and focus. Maybe something survived the crash, but the obtuse globs of blur his eyes were showing him don't help in boosting his confidence. Suddenly, he notices the figure standing on the other side of the glass.

"Friend 'er foe?!" He yells, placing his hand on his blaster hilt sitting in the holster on his chest, still hanging from his seat.

He may not be able to see very well right now, but he can still shoot. Hopefully...

He reaches up and pulls a latch on the bottom of his seat. As he does so, the belt harnessing him detatches and he drops to the ceiling of his ship with a loud clatter of debris and metal. A bowl rounds in a circle until it stops, only prolonging the awkwardness of Huberts dismount.

He begins to pull himself up off the ground slowly, struggling to keep his balance as he rises. He takes a few small steps towards the entrance to the ship, and groans. The entire ramp is crumpled inward and twisted on its edges. Hubert returns to the front of the ship and looks at the stranger.

"I don't suppose you could get me outta' here, huh?" He asks, flashing a toothy grin for only a moment before his face returns to it's pained grimace.

Standing in the Light, Eli <redacted> can see that Hubert is a tall, lanky individual with long brown/red curls pulled into a loose collection behind his head. The only distinguishable piece of clothing he has is the bantha leather jacket pulled over his shoulders- unmatching to the rest of his attire. His skin is lackered with a layer of engine grease that make his slightly yellowed teeth seem pearl white in comparison.

He pulls a cigarette from his coat and places it between his lips. He brings his fusion cutter up to light it, but stops, deciding it might be best to exit the ship first. Theres a fair chance a combustable is in the air of this cockpit.

Eli <redacted> · Nov 23, 2025

Eli stepped out of the shadow of the crashed vessel into the warped canyon light, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve as though this entire crash site were nothing more than an inconvenience. The pilot stood a few feet away, smoking, shoulders tight from adrenaline and pain. Eli approached at an easy pace - not too close, not too distant - wearing that quiet, self-assured calm that made people lean in without realizing they had.

“That was one hell of a landing,” he remarked lightly, almost with a hint of admiration. “You holding together? Crashes leave damage people only feel once the shock fades.” The concern sounded genuine. Warm, even. But his eyes watched the pilot with a predator’s steadiness; noting posture, breath, the way the man guarded his ribs.

Then Eli glanced toward the embedded freighter, it's hull glowing faintly beneath layers of dust. “Are you asking for help getting off this planet?” he continued, voice smooth and sure. “I can do that. I really can. But this place…” He gestured to the pulsing ship. “It didn’t wake up for nothing.” He let the tension sit only a moment before easing it with a calm, controlled smile. “A woman slipped inside before either of us reached it. You didn’t see her. Few people do unless she wants them to.” A faint shrug. “She’s wanted. Dangerous to the wrong crowd. I’ve been tracking her for a while, trying to bring her in quietly.” His tone framed himself not as a threat, but as a professional handling an unfortunate situation with competence. “And then she walked into this structure… and it responded.” He let that linger with a touch of intrigue rather than alarm.

Eli stepped a little closer, not crowding the pilot, just enough that his presence felt solid - an anchor in an unstable place. “I’m offering you something simple,” he said, voice low and confident. “We stop her from pushing things any further. Keep the situation stable. Then I get you off this rock before every scanner in a thousand klicks locks onto that distress signal.” A pause. A small, knowing tilt of his head. “You strike me as someone who understands when to take the smarter deal.” The line wasn’t a threat.
It was an invitation; one that felt safe, logical… even appealing. Exactly how Eli liked to set the hook.

Tags:

Talyr Ivaakren · Nov 23, 2025

Liin Terallo Dankaia Virkenn Eli <redacted>

The sound of at least one resounding crash rumbled through the ship even as the trembling Selonian made her way into the depths of the forgotten hulk of the ruined vessel. While she had found multiple code cylinders, from deceased Officers of varied rank, doubtlessly, and had descended a single level into the coolness beneath the desert floor, it was eerie throughout: the ship was alive and made somewhat whole in areas where it hadn't died off completely. Corrupted holograms attempted to display, flickering on and off in defiance of the darkness in rooms vastly damaged, while in other areas, readouts appeared as fresh and recent as they had since the systems had last been updated, and displayed readouts from the most recent commands as well as regarding the surrounding planets varied statistics.

Talyr shifted her thumb, allowing the curved vibroblade to extend out from the back of her cybernetic left hand: it wouldn't hurt to be prepared, at this point. Survivors from the crashed ship outside may have been hostile after all! The demure girl was, using her datapad-light in one hand and using her cybernetic hand to sift through some old datapads, doubtlessly drained of power after so many years, while her extended hand-blade scratched along the screen of one. Deciding to search through them all eventually, the Selonian grasped them eagerly, shifting them one at a time into a black Old Republic pack that she had found and strapped into place over her lithe back, along with a few code cylinders that she had recovered. Hopefully the information found inside was at least somewhat valuable. At the very least, living relatives were guaranteed to pay for knowledge of what happened to their dead loved ones.

The Selonian ventured out of the room and further into the darkness, until, turning a corner, she at last found a section that was brightly-lit by the ship's now-living systems throughout this section. Switching off her personal datapad, the thief tucked it under one thin arm, to keep it handy if she came across any terminals that might be worth checking and possibly hacking into. She made a mental note to remember to search dead Officers for security clearances to help her in her focus on useful information...

Suddenly, a harsh whistle shrilly echoed forth, and the outline of a pale R5-Series astromech screamed as it began to wheel towards the intruder. Swiftly raising her Model 434 heavy pistol, the Selonian yowled in shock, while an emerald beam of light burst from her pistol, striking the poor R5 and blowing off the left side of its head in a cascade of blue-green sparks and clattering, molten metal and wiring that flew ff into one corner of the room.

With her heart still hammering in her chest and with an excited giggle of delight, the lithe alien fumbled to remove a fusion cutter from her new backpack. The droid's heuristic processor and memory core would be well worth the effort of cutting out, while the rest pf the useless R5 could easily be abandoned! Those parts alone would be well worth slicing into to retrieve ALL of the droid's data later on!

Hubert Starhopper · Nov 24, 2025

Objective: Stop The Lady

Tags: Eli <redacted>

Talyr Ivaakren Dankaia Virkenn

Gear: //Custom Blaster Pistol, Tool-Kit//

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Hubert stares at the man, vision still blurry, head still swirling its thoughts as well as equilibrium. Huberts hand loosens on the grip of his blaster, but still hovers nearby, hanging from the midsection of his jacket. Ready to recoil and draw if this stranger was just trying to lull Hubert into a false state of confidence.

"Nah-nah." He shakes his head, his backwater drawl letting his words hang loosely off his tongue. Anyone who had done any amount of travelling could tell he grew up around farmers. "I mean, I can help you. And yeah, I'd like a ride outta' here- but I meant can you help me outta' here. My ramp is all karked to hell and my systems're all dead. I'd shoot out the glass, but I'm pretty sure it'd just recoil."

He braces his hand against the wall for balance and gives the glass a couple of hearty kicks. The wreckage groans and rattles at the attempts, but the glass gives no heed. A frown scowls across Huberts face. He is growing eather tired of being in these helpless situations. Granted, he's come out of the other side on every one of them, but sooner or later he's going to land at the feet of the wrong person, and he knows it.

"Just try not to blow me up."

Hubert more or less collapses upon the ceiling of his ship with a grunt, allowing his body to rest while his head spins on axis. This is definitely one of the roughest crashes he's ever had the misfortune of being a part of.

"I don't even know what happened. I entered the planet and my ship just up an' croaked. I barely managed to fry my thrusters and soften the blow." He lets out a long sigh.

It's been a day...

Dankaia Virkenn · Nov 24, 2025

Tag:

Talyr Ivaakren

Hubert Starhopper / Eli <redacted>

Dankaia Virkenn slid through the derelict ship's central artery, aware of being watched, with the religious calm of someone who had learned long ago to trust the itch behind senses more than the images displayed by her eyes. The air tasted metallic, sharp with oxidized wiring and something older, stale memories trapped in dead ventilation shafts. Her boots made almost no sound against the warped decking, but the ship listened anyway, groaning with each step as if protesting her intrusion. Every loose faltered conduit, every flicker of reflected light sent a spike of instinct scraping along her nerves, guiding her deeper into the vessel's abandoned circulatory maze.

The temperature dropped as she advanced, her breath puffing into the dim corridor like spectral warnings. A low hum threaded through the passageway, too steady to be structural, too faint to be a power line still clinging to life. She paused, letting the darkness settle, and felt the shift: a subtle displacement of air, the whisper of machinery cycling to struggle online in response to her presence. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her weapon, but she did not draw; instead, she pressed forward, eyes narrowing as her augmented senses mapped out the ghostly curvature of the bulkheads ahead.

The defense alcove revealed itself not with alarms but with movement; deliberate, smooth, predatory. Two droids stepped out from recessed compartments, their chassis scarred but their optics burning with fresh activation codes. They tilted their heads in unison, joint servos ratcheting into combat alignment as though offering her a mechanical parody of a greeting. Dankaia exhaled once, slow and steady, the ship's cold breath swirling around her as she prepared to answer the welcome she had never wanted.

Dankaia held her ground, eyes drifting over the droids with the calculating sweep of someone accustomed to dissecting threats in microseconds. Their frames were mismatched composites, military-grade torsos bolted to security-class limbs, plating scored with age but humming with suspicious vitality. She noted the carbon residue around their emitter ports, recent enough to suggest they hadn't been idle as long as the rest of the ship. Their cranial units, though battered, pulsed with a faint tri-beam pattern she recognized: an old Menendahl handshake protocol, discontinued after too many "misinterpretations" ended in blood. Every detail screamed that someone, or something, had reactivated them with intent. Low class-droids.

"Unit identifiers," she said, voice steady, "respond if you can receive this channel." The droids froze, optics narrowing to slits of red as their processors chewed on her request. Dankaia shifted her stance subtly, weight over the balls of her feet, prepared to move the instant curiosity turned hostile. "I'm not here to damage you," she continued, locking eyes with their glowing visors. "State your last directive." In the silence that followed, she could hear their internal systems ticking: like a pair of mechanical hearts deciding whether to speak…or to strike.

Then that eerie feeling returned.

Cybernetics / Bionics

Liin Terallo · Nov 24, 2025

The corridor felt too narrow, as if the ship itself were bracing around me. Every few meters, the gravity lurched; both too heavy, then too light, making my steps uneven. My fingers skimmed the wall panels to keep my balance, leaving faint smears where dust and coolant mixed beneath my touch. Ahead, the beacon pulsed again, a low mechanical heartbeat that made the lights buzz in protest.

And then blaster fire. It was sharp and close enough to jolt my nerves but far enough that echoes warped the direction. Someone else was inside. Two someones, at least. I was not alone in here, and the realization tightened something deep in my ribs. I took another step. And that was when I felt her. A presence brushed the edge of my senses, faint but distinct; like someone trailing fingertips along a frosted window.

My knees softened as the pressure built behind my eyes, a creeping migraine that made the corridor tilt for a heartbeat. I pressed my palm to my temple, breath sinking out in a hiss. I could feel her - this woman - somewhere behind a bulkhead or two. Her curiosity. Her readiness to strike if needed. And her awareness that something was off in the ship. She was sensing me, though she could not possibly know what it was.

I forced myself upright, waiting for the nausea to ebb. “Not now… please not now…”

A soft whirring noise pulled my attention forward. Three maintenance droids stood several meters away, half-shrouded in shadow. Their chassis were cracked, scorched, and their red optics glowed faintly through drifting haze. All three were motionless; paused mid-action like puppets with cut strings.

Then the woman’s voice filtered through their receivers, tinny and distorted: “State your last directive.” The droids did not blink. They did not twitch. But their processors ticked; soft clicking bursts, like clockwork chewing through damaged gears.

The migraine sharpened suddenly; transforming into a sharp line of pressure across my temples. The Synthetic Force inside me fluttered restlessly, responding to them, to her, to the whole ship straining under too many signals.

The droids finally answered, their voices blending into a single, hollow chord: “Last directive: Contain the anomaly.”
“Identify trespassers.”
“Neutralize deviation.”

A tremor ran through me. The anomaly that they spoke of. They could mean this place. Or they could mean me.

Their heads turned slowly, almost thoughtfully, until all three red optics landed on me. I had nothing but a small diagnostic tool clutched in my hand, barely useful even as a bluff. My stomach dropped, but I forced myself to stay still. Movement might trigger them. Running definitely would.

The beacon throbbed again - harder this time - making the deck plates vibrate beneath my boots. And the pressure behind my eyes pulsed in response, in sync, as if the ship itself were trying to push me out. Or call me in deeper.

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Eli <redacted> · Nov 24, 2025

Smoke drifted in wavering strands from the ruined ramp as Eli stepped closer, studying the wreck with a calm, almost clinical interest. The hull had folded inward just enough to trap the cockpit in a crooked cage, the canopy fractured but stubbornly intact. Inside, the pilot slumped in the seat, movements slow and uncoordinated. He looked moments from passing out. Eli rested a hand against the twisted frame, tilting his head slightly as he observed the scene; not with urgency, but with a patient, predatory focus. The pilot had already agreed to help him stop Liin. That alone made him valuable. And vulnerable. He crouched at the edge of the wreckage, fingertips brushing the cracked canopy. The Synthetic Force hummed beneath his skin in response to his intent, subtle but eager. He allowed just a small thread of it to slip outward, a controlled pulse that seeped through the canopy. The trembling in the metal eased. The stress patterns along the fracture lines softened.

Eli watched each change with careful attention, expression unreadable. He kept the ability active only a moment longer than necessary; just long enough to cement the association of relief with his presence. When he withdrew the pulse, he did so gradually, like releasing pressure from a sealed chamber. The ship creaked overhead and a loose panel rattled.

Eli straightened, brushing dust from his glove. His eyes flicked over the canopy again, now evaluating weak points, imagining the cleanest way to tear it free without causing the rest of the wreck to collapse. The pilot was conscious enough. That was all Eli needed. He placed both hands on the canopy’s edge, testing it with a slow, deliberate pull; the kind that suggested confidence rather than brute force.

“Let’s begin,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else. And the Synthetic Force stirred again, answering him like a loyal, restless animal. Eli pressed his palms flat against the fractured canopy, fingers splayed as though feeling the heartbeat of the wreck beneath him. The glass was spiderwebbed but stubborn, clinging to its frame despite the force of the crash. Typical starship design; safe enough to keep the pilot alive, irritating enough to keep him trapped. He leaned in slightly, studying the fracture lines. A small breath escaped him, not frustration but anticipation. The Synthetic Force stirred. Not a flare - a quiet, coiling presence tightening through his arms and into his hands. The air around him seemed to still, as if holding its breath with him. The ship creaked overhead. Eli pushed. Not with muscle. But with precision.

A sharp, focused pulse rippled from his palms into the canopy, threading along the cracks like liquid pressure. The glass responded instantly; a thin, crystalline shudder that vibrated up his arms. Hairline fractures deepened in a pattern he guided with deliberate control. Another slow push. The fractures split. The canopy gave a strained, high-pitched whine. Then—

CRACK.

The entire panel buckled inward along a perfect arc, snapping free from its mount. Eli caught it before it could collapse onto the pilot, turning the heavy sheet aside with an effortless sweep and dropping it into the dust with a muted thud.

Silence settled for a beat. Eli stepped back from the opening, brushing shards from his gloves. The Synthetic Force retreated under his skin, cool and obedient, leaving only a faint tingle in its wake. The path out was open now.

He looked at the weakened cockpit, expression calm, almost courteous, as though he’d simply opened a stubborn door rather than broken a military-grade canopy with an invisible hand. “Good,” he murmured to himself. He reached one arm toward the pilot - not rushed, not demanding - but with the smooth, confident expectation that he would be taken.

The ship groaned again, metal shifting beneath the strain.

Time to move.

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Talyr Ivaakren · Nov 24, 2025

Liin Terallo Dankaia Virkenn Eli <redacted>

Talyr couldn't believe the sudden mass of luck that had found her with this decision to explore the hulking wreck - with extreme prejudice, of course. She ventured along further into the yawning carcass of the Old Republic vessel, occasionally consulting her cybernetic hand to bring up a purple holographic display of her path - rooted back in her ship, of course. A tap of her good hand against the holo-display remotely instructed the navicomputer to prepare - with continual scanning afterwards to ensure the safest, swiftest passage - coordinates for a microjump out of the system once she concluded her business in this scrap heap. A solid ten minutes more, at least.

She switched off her synthetic hand's holo-display, grateful for the accident - in the form of a cruel prank by her bullying sept-sisters - that had cost her her left hand; the cybernetic replacement she had received was vastly useful, and she had grown ever-fonder of the device over the years. She slipped her datapad into her new (cool and stylish) Old Republic trooper backpack, allowing her eyes to take in the sight of the ship's navigation room as she entered directly, casting her vision to and fro for anything else... Seeing nothing and breathing a sigh of relief, the Selonian slinked her lithe, noodle-like body closer to one of the ship's forgotten computers, alight and humming with flickering blue energy, and RIPE for the taking: someone, somewhere, be it a historian or any number of living relatives that'd be worth tracking down and putting on a sorrowful, sympathetic face for - would be willing to pay thousands upon thousands of credits for the associated information, be it historical or familial in nature, it mattered not to her! Walking past the corpse of long-dead admiral, Talyr lifted the dead man's code cylinder with her finger, grateful that he had died in so convenient a location; doubtlessly from the head trauma of being slammed right into this very computer's keyboard as the ship had crashed - the keys were still painted a faded, rusty red as she studied them more closely.

Extending her artificial hand's pointer finger, a scomp link, identical to the ones used by astromech droids, extended from the tip towards the computer's interface, even while her free hand clumsily grasped an interface wire, attaching one to the base of her "palm" at the wrist (thank you, Cyberpunk genre) and the wire's other end to her datapad for storage while she inserted her scomp link, which began rotating in the interface properly and steadily, even despite the vessel's advanced age.

The computer began to whirr with greater intensity, the screen flickering unsteadily a few times, while her scomp worked to and fro. Slotting in the former Admiral's code cylinder into the computer did the trick, even if the screen was off-color and flickered occasionally before her eyes.

The Selonian's finger worked to and fro, locating the crew manifest, she began to chuckle at her good fortune.

Her datapad had a datacard that was waiting to be filled - after she brought up the ship's navigation records, as well as the crew manifest.

Both historians and living relatives alike were going to pay her a FORTUNE for this information...

Hubert Starhopper · Nov 25, 2025

Objective: Stop The Lady

Tags:

Liin Terallo Eli <redacted>

Talyr Ivaakren Dankaia Virkenn

Gear: Custom Blaster Pistol, Tool-Kit

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Hubert watches what he can only assume is the Force in action for the first time in his life. Quite startling at first as it tears through his livelihood, his hard-scrapped ship that he pieced together like some mad scientist would with different sections of a corpse. Sandcrawler plating, wiring from anything still working- so on...

The shock however can't help but turn to awe, how one can be so attuned with the world around them that they can just bend it to their will. Hubert glares at the man as he approaches, not in anger, or worry- but in a rather studious manner. It takes a moment or two for him to take the assumed-Jedi's hand, and stand straight. He wobbles on his feet a bit, still dazed from the crash. He brings his hand up and wipes the blood from his eye with his sleeve, squinting in the light as the two exit the wreckage.

"Thanks for the help, friend."

He pulls his fusion cutter from his tool-kit and brings it up to the tip of his cigarette lighting it with a quick buzz. A long drag is taken as the cigarette hangs from Huberts mouth. He lets the smoke out, watching the cloud carry and disperse along the canyon. His eyes linger in the distance, as if he expects to see someone. But after a moment, he turns to the stranger- a puzzled look on his face.

"Ya' said you're tryin' to hunt someone down. You bounty hunters? Imperial?"

Suspicion grows. It is safe to say that this strangers answer will depict how the rest of their interaction would go. His hopes linger on the factor of this man simply being a bounty hunter. It's rare for an Imp to outwardly help someone out of the kindness of their heart- but the man before him was getting his due from Hubert. If he is Imperial, what would stop this guy from turning Hubert in as soon as they're off-world?

"I don't trust Imps. I need to kknowwho I'm workin' with."

Dankaia Virkenn · Nov 25, 2025

Tag:

Hubert Starhopper / Eli <redacted>

Taking a measured step back, her boots grinding softly against the corroded decking as the droids' vox-emitters crackled to life. Their voices were metallic and threaded with a corrupted system cadence: "Contain the anomaly." A cold surge rolled through her nerves as their sensor arrays reoriented, luminous apertures narrowing with predatory precision. The derelict corridor around her seemed to tighten, conduits vibrating with dormant power as if the ship itself was bracing for escalation. She steadied her breathing, hand hovering near her hilt, trying to calculate whether their directives were automated protocol or something far more adaptive.

The second droid's cranial unit swiveled with a surgical whine, its optical cluster bathing her in a harsh spectrographic sweep. "Identify Trespassers." The third line came layered in distortion, almost hungry, "Neutralize Deviation." The words pulsed through the stale air like a security lockdown sealing into place. Dankaia felt the deck tremor beneath her, micro-motors calibrating in the machines' limbs, the unmistakable sound of a threat assessment shifting into engagement mode. She forced her stance low and centered, eyes tracking every servo twitch, her mind racing through tactical options as the ship's dead silence fractured under the rising hum of conflict.

Dankaia's thumb brushed the ignition stud, and the lightsaber erupted in a contained column of hot plasma, its hum slicing through the stagnant air like a warning encoded in light. The glow carved sharp contours across the droids' alloyed frames, reflections jittering over their plating as their targeting sensors recalibrated in rapid, staccato bursts. She held the blade angled low, non-aggressive, but unmistakably capable: letting its presence stall the advance without provoking it. Her voice cut through the metallic tension with a deliberate calm, every syllable modulated to override the machines' escalating threat routines. "We are not enemies," she said, steady and unflinching, "In fact, we are almost kin."

For a heartbeat, the corridor seemed to freeze. The droids halted mid-stride, as though parsing her words through layers of outdated heuristics and fractured mission profiles. The saber's radiance flickered across abandoned monitors and dormant conduits, casting the scene in a stark, clinical brilliance that made her feel like she was standing inside a diagnosis no one had delivered yet. She took a slow step forward, lowering her center of gravity, offering presence instead of force. "Your makers and mine share more in common than you think," she continued, her voice threading between the droids' growing harmonic whine. "Stand down! Do not remember what you were built for."

Cybernetics / Bionics

Liin Terallo · Nov 25, 2025

The sound reached me before the sight did.
A rising whine; metallic and uneven, like a choir dragged through static.

I slowed, letting my breath settle into the thin, charged air of the corridor. The Imperial architecture around me felt strained, as if the ship’s ribs were holding their breath, waiting for something to go wrong. Ahead, between flickering emergency strips; the woman’s voice cut through the noise - steady, braver than the tremor I felt under the floor. "We are not enemies… we are almost kin… stand down… do not remember what you were built for…"

I pressed my back against the nearest support strut, feeling it's cold hum through my coat. “Almost kin,” she had said. The words landed sharper than she could possibly know. The droids’ makeshift chorus fluttered like a migraine behind my eyes, and for a moment I was not sure if they were reacting to her, or to me, or to the isotope threading through my veins; the strange resonance I carried like a second pulse.

I edged forward, careful not to startle the machines. Their sensor clusters jittered in small, searching arcs, as if trying to decide which threat to acknowledge first. The gravity here was unstable enough that dust drifted like slow snow when I stepped out into the open. I lifted my hands slightly - not a surrender, just openness - and let my voice ride the low frequency I had been fighting since we entered the anomaly. “Easy…” It came out softer than I intended. “They are listening. I can feel it.” A shiver crawled along the back of my skull; the droids’ logic core was pinging over and over like a trapped heartbeat trying to sync with mine. I did not know whether it was my serum, the reactor’s distortion field, or the echo of whatever intelligence had been here before the crash. “Don’t push them,” I whispered toward the strange woman without taking my eyes off the units. “They are… remembering the wrong things.”

One of the droids jerked spasmodically - a warning flex. It's carapace plates fluttered open and shut, clicking like an insect tasting the air.

I drew in a breath that tasted like metal and dust. “Let me try,” I said quietly. “I think they recognize something about me.” Or the mutation I carried. Or the echo of what Eli had become. Either way, the air shifted.
The droids’ harmonic whine dipped just slightly; like they were reconsidering the shape of danger.

I stepped closer. And the ship itself seemed to lean with me.

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