Private Corruptive Prospect

[Veyra Kryze]

"Young blood."

Tags - Evangel

The dropship rattled as it descended through Taris' smog-choked skies, each judder of the hull a reminder of how far Mandalorians had fallen.

Veyra Kryze sat strapped into the bench along the starboard wall, helmet tilted down, visor dimmed to violet. The rest of her squad went through the motions: locking rifles, checking armor seals, muttering clipped phrases of readiness. To them, this was just another patrol. To her, it was an insult.

Patrolling. As if the Mando'ade had nothing better to do than babysit some ruined undercity crawling with spice-peddlers and petty gangs. The Mandalorian Empire called it "stability operations." She called it cowardice.

Once, the Mandalorians had been Neo-Crusaders. Conquerors. The galaxy trembled when their banners blazed across the stars. They hadn't waited for contracts or soft negotiations—they had taken. War was their birthright, not this half-hearted mercenary theater. Now she was eighteen, armored in steel and tradition, and her so-called leaders had her scouring alleys for smugglers like some glorified constable.

Her gauntlet flexed as she checked the charge on her shock-staves. The sharp whine of energy hummed against her armor. That sound at least made sense—pain was honest. She let it linger in her ears while the squad leader barked the same briefing they'd heard a hundred times: sweep sectors five through seven, report disturbances, don't start fights unless provoked.

Don't start fights. That was the part that stung.

Veyra's jaw tightened beneath the vocoder. The others might have been content to play peacekeepers, but her blood boiled every time the ship shuddered lower toward the diseased hive below. If the Mandalorian Empire wanted to act like protectors instead of predators, fine—but she wouldn't. The undercity reeked of weakness. And weakness demanded correction.

The dropship's rear hatch split with a hydraulic hiss, spilling neon light and the stink of industrial decay into the hold. Her squad rose as one, rifles angled, boots thudding on durasteel as they filed toward the ramp. Veyra stood with them, cloak shifting around her frame like a coiled shadow, and tightened her grip on her blaster.

The city stretched beneath her: broken towers and rusting bridges draped in grime, alleys alive with shouts and laughter that sounded more like defiance than joy. She imagined what the Neo-Crusaders would have done here—burned the rot away, broken the survivors into willing vassals, raised the bones into something worth respecting. Instead, the Empire wanted her to "monitor."

Fine. She would monitor. But her way.

As she stepped onto the rain-slick durasteel, her helmet display flickered with squad telemetry. The others spread into formation, all textbook precision. Veyra lagged a pace behind, her gaze sweeping shadows more hungrily than cautiously.

 

[Evangel]

The filth of Taris did not weigh on Evangel. That the Mandalorians sought to instill order amidst its discontent did not chafe. If anything, she welcome it. A glorious charade for one used to pantomiming as 'normal.' Cover to justify nearly anything. An excuse to hunt.

But today the black Mandalorian did not hunt filth. Today, Evangel perched above and watched prospects off load from a grounded transport. Her eyes bore down on them. Most of them felt dutiful. Disciplined. Good Mandalorians for their Alors. Capable of slaughtering their enemies, but beholden to honor and the expectations of their clans. One or two felt weaker mentally than the rest -- unsure of themselves or young -- and might be pliable; but they didn't stand out nearly as much as another that emerged into the open.

Evangel leaned forward, her fingers curled about the edge of the building where she crouched.

This one felt familiar. Anxious. Dissatisfied. On edge. They might understand her, and find purpose under her guidance.

The black helm rotated a bit to the side as the red visor peered down at the small figures below. All Evangel needed was to get the chosen one separated from the rest. For now, she would watch. Study. Hunt. If they wouldn't scatter of their own accord, then Evangel would use the terrain and its inhabitants to force them apart.

As confident in her own abilities as she was, Evangel didn't feel like tackling an entire patrol of Mandalorian warriors alone. They didn't need to know of her movements yet. There would come a time when her Mistress would welcome the attention. She would demand it. But not today. Soon.

As Veyra moved, Evangel was prepared to stalk her from afar. The distance would gradually close as the terrain and circumstance allowed. Veyra was deadly prey, but that only made the hunt all the more exciting.

Veyra Kryze​

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Young blood."

Tags - Evangel

The squad fanned out into the undercity's cluttered arteries, helmets glowing with HUD-linked telemetry. Sector five was supposed to be quiet tonight, but Taris never truly slept. Neon bled through mist and rain, advertisements flickering in half-dead languages above market stalls patched together with scrap. Voices rose, laughter turned to shouts, a bottle shattered somewhere deeper in the alleys.

The others moved in formation, disciplined, their boots striking rhythm with military precision. Veyra followed, but her pace slowed after the first junction.

Patrol. Stability. Order. She clenched her fist against the pulse of disgust rising in her chest. Neo-Crusaders hadn't walked ruined streets to keep them safe; they had turned such ruins into proving grounds. A Mandalorian wasn't supposed to patrol the weak—they were supposed to test them, and take what proved stronger.

Her visor scanned a side street half-drowned in shadow, the kind of place her squad would mark for a later sweep. She lingered, watching the flicker of pale light off cracked durasteel walls. Something pulled at her—an itch beneath her armor, a whisper that there was more to find than half-drunk smugglers and street gangs.

"Veyra, close it up," the squad leader barked over comms.

She tapped her gauntlet once in acknowledgment, but her boots angled left instead.

The others didn't notice. They pressed on, weapons raised, muttering clipped status reports. Veyra let the sound of their steps fade until only her own boots rang in the dripping silence. The alley swallowed her, the glow of her visor painting fractured graffiti and trash-strewn ground.

Here, alone, she felt the thrill begin to hum through her. Away from the leash, she could breathe. Her rifle hung low but ready, gauntlet humming faintly as she charged its shock coils. The sting of energy against her palm steadied her pulse.

It wasn't rebellion, not truly. At least that's what she told herself. She was still on patrol, still watching, still loyal—only her patrol wasn't for smugglers or spice-dealers. She hunted something worth her creed, even if she couldn't name it yet.

The rain slicked cloak clung to her armor as she advanced deeper, each step careful but not hesitant. She tilted her head back briefly, scanning the dark outline of rooftops above the narrow corridor. A flicker of movement? Or just the city's endless decay playing tricks on her?

 

[Evangel]

Evangel crouched low and watched as the chosen one lingered. Yes, her will stretched forth, leave the weak behind. Go your own way. Hunt. And by hunted. There was more for her in the darkness of that alleyway than anything Veyra would find with street thugs and malcontents. But even as she sought to will the woman away from the rest, the hunter remain aware to keep herself hidden. Silent. Still.

Veyra moved, and her shadow moved with her. Shrouded in darkness, she bound from one rooftop to the next.

At long last they were alone. The two of them. Veyra was aware of her surroundings; aware that she'd ventured off on her own in search of satisfaction. They were much the same, and yet so apart in that pursuit. A matter soon rectified.

A dark form silently leaped over the broken height and began its descent below. Despite it being several stories above ground, Evangel's jetpack did not ignite. Heavy boots slapped against the slick ground with the sharp crunch of it giving beneath Evangel's arrival. Just as quickly as her descent had been arrested, the impact absorbed in her legs, one of the intruder's legs swept outward to quickly align itself with the prey and lunge toward it. Her left forearm was used as a battering ram against Veyra's chest just below the chin; Evangel sought to force her back against the wall and hold her there fast.

Her right hand stabbed the wall with a spike. Rock snapped and broke under the unyielding thrust of the device impaled beside Veyra's helmet. A soft glow came from it as a jammer kept Veyra from calling for backup.

"Stand fast or suffer," Evangel hissed from behind the blood red visor. The alchemical glyphs of her suit glowed with the same, sanguine color as she would fight to keep Veyra pinned there.

Veyra Kryze​

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Young blood."

Tags - Evangel

The world snapped sideways.

Veyra hadn't even heard the approach—just the thunder of impact as a dark mass slammed her chestplate and drove her back into the wall. The air caught in her throat, her helmet striking duracrete with a hollow crack. Instinct pushed her hands up, gauntlets sparking as she primed her shock coils, but the spike burying into the wall beside her head flared red and killed the comms before she could bark a warning.

Pinned. Alone.

For a heartbeat she struggled against the armored forearm pressed across her collar, body arching with a warrior's refusal to yield. She had fought slavers, smugglers, mercs—none had moved like this. This was no gutter scum from the undercity. Whoever held her had precision, strength, purpose. The glyphs glowing crimson along their armor whispered of something far older than a back-alley ambush.

And instead of fear, Veyra felt the thrill.

The force of the pin made her chest ache, helmet cutting into her jaw as her head was wrenched sideways. The pressure sparked in her nerves like fire under the skin. She should have snarled, spat defiance, called them coward for striking from shadow. Instead, laughter—low and sharp—rattled through her vocoder.

"Stand fast or suffer?" she hissed back, her voice edged with dark amusement. "That's not a threat, vod. That's a promise."

Her hands moved—not to pry free, but to push against the hold, testing the strength, feeling the weight crush deeper. Pain radiated down her spine where the wall bit into her, and she savored it like a draught of spice. Whoever this was, they wanted her contained. Studied. Hunted. That alone marked them different from the Empire's dull order-keepers.

She flexed one gauntlet, sparks skittering as the shock coil built a charge. She could loose it into the figure pressing her down—yet she lingered, helmet tilted to catch the bloody glow of the visor that glared back at her. Something in it sang of kinship. Of corruption. Of war.

"What do you want from me?" Veyra asked at last, her words slow, deliberate, a growl pressed through clenched teeth. She shifted against the pin, her body grinding metal on metal as she tested the hold again. "If it's my life, you'll bleed for every inch you take. If it's more…"

Her laughter came again, harsher this time, the sound echoing in the narrow alley.

"…then you already know you've chosen the right prey."

Her rifle hung useless at her hip, her squad was gone, her comms were dead—and yet her pulse quickened not with panic but with hunger. This was no routine patrol. This was what she had been looking for in the filth of Taris: not criminals, but something that might actually break her—or let her break free.

And for the first time all night, Veyra Kryze felt alive.

 

[Evangel]

The dark Mandalorian shifted her feet and weight distribution to adapt to Veyra's movements. It was good the woman hadn't immediately surrendered. A weak willed warrior was worthless. Making them her's wasn't enough; they needed to be someone worth having in the first place. Someone with potential, or that would bring honor to their Mistress.

"You want answers. Prove yourself worth of them." The fingers of her right hand latched on to the top of Veyra's cuirass as Evangel pivoted away. Teeth clenched, she sought to throw Veyra across the alleyway and into the opposite wall.

Talk. Her Mistress liked to talk. Ordinarily Evangel hated that, but who could hate the sound of their Mistress' voice? Long speeches, however, were not Evangel's forte. If necessary, Orders to command punishment were given, but this one would not listen; so they would begin with a universal language. Persuasion and command would be done with her fists. And unlike some predators or prey Veyra had enjoyed this one could exceed any ordinary Human's limits.

Evangel was not well studied in the Force. Her specialty was subtle; her knowledge largely obtained by the unwilling -- or the unknowing, more to the point. There were some abilities, however, she hadn't needed a teacher to educate her in their usage. Physical enhancements -- strength and endurance -- had come naturally to something made to kill. They were arts she'd used over time and become accustomed to when the stars aligned. As they had today.

Whether the other woman managed to get to her feet or not after being unceremoniously thrown, her assailant would advance unarmed. Evangel wanted Veyra to fight back. Throw a punch. Bring a gun to bear. Whatever she felt was necessary to kill her attacker. This was a battle between two creatures that wanted to annihilate the other. To subjugate them in will or in death. It was time to learn how strong Veyra's will to survive truly was.

Veyra Kryze​

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Young blood."

Tags - Evangel

The world whirled, her boots leaving the duracrete with a violent lurch as the other's strength ripped her from the wall. For an instant her stomach surged with weightless vertigo, armor rattling as she crashed into cold stone. Pain flared down her shoulder where the plate caught first, her body skidding against grit before she rolled through it, grunting low behind the vocoder.

The impact was glorious.

It jolted every nerve awake, sent fire dancing in her blood. This was no alleyway scuffle. No pathetic thug with a knife and bravado. Whoever this black-armored predator was, they weren't simply strong—they were crafted for it. Augmented. Born to it.

Good. Finally, good.

Veyra pushed up off one knee, her rifle sliding along the slick ground. She didn't reach for it. Not yet. Her gauntlets flared instead, coils whining with a cruel, hungry charge. She raised her head, visor catching the sanguine glow of her foe's glyphs, and laughed. It was ragged, sharp, a slash of sound in the rain-slick silence.

"You think I need answers?" she spat, her voice dark silk frayed with static. "All I've ever needed is this."

The other advanced, heavy boots slamming with the rhythm of inevitability. Veyra welcomed it. Her body coiled low, not retreating but bracing, a predator meeting predator. Every ache in her muscles, every bruise from the impact, became fuel. Neo-Crusaders hadn't marched to ask questions—they had tested. Trial by pain. Trial by combat.

She surged forward. Not with elegance. With violence. A fist crackling with coiled energy swung for her enemy's guard, a strike meant as much to taste the clash as to wound. Her other arm followed, elbow driving like a blade, the movement brutal, relentless. She wasn't fighting to end this quickly. She was fighting to feel it.

Her cloak whipped about her, soaked and heavy, tangling around her boots as she pressed in close. She wanted to see if that visor flinched, if that monstrous strength could be pushed, if she could bite into the steel will pressing against her. Each blow wasn't just defiance—it was invitation.

 

[Evangel]

Pain. Anger. Rage. Mandalorians were taught how to use the horrors of battle; to channel them mentally into the will to fight for every second of survival and to overcome their enemies. But a Sith? They learned more than to use it as just a means of psychological reinforcement. It channeled a far more fundamental, pervasive, and -- some might say -- perverse power. It was a combat art honed to perfection for those that survived; all others were as forgotten as their corpses were cold and left behind on or in some nameless world or tomb.

It was good to see Veyra had learned such techniques. No, Evangel could tell she hadn't merely learned them. She'd embraced them.

Did she not need answers? That too would require correction. Veyra had violated the orders of her patrol. She had received none from Evangel. She thought to do whatever she will with no regard of the consequences. This one had much to learn.

It took constant focus to keep her breathing even and her heart rate from pounding like a drum. Such passion. Such ferocity. But letting loose wouldn't instill command, it would only invite continued tests of which of them was truly in charge. So despite Evangel's deepest yearnings to meet Veyra with unbridled violence, her footsteps stopped at the woman leaped forth.

What's more, Veyra's shock gaunt did not in fact meet Evangel's guard. It slammed into the other Mandalorian's torso. Blinding pain shot across and through every muscle, and sorched every nerve fiber. The world became numb, and time itself seemed to draw to a crawl. For what lasted perhaps only a second felt like a lifetime.

The brutal blow did not cause Evangel to stagger even as slight twitches at the extremities and shoulders could be seen from the torent of power that washed through its victim. A loud crunch could be heard once more beneath the dark Mandalorian's feet as fissures sprouted in all directions from where she stood.

It wasn't enough to merely block Veyra's strike. It wasn't even enough to weather embracing it head on. Evangel channeled her strength into remaining as perfectly still and silent as possible, even as the energy tore at her mind and her body screamed in agony for release.

Then Veyra's blade. Her elbow. The original strike meant to drive true, now perhaps a finishing blow against a stunned opponent. Savage. Focused. Finish your enemies and leave no doubt if they will rise to drive a blade into your back.

Emotion and thought were foreign concepts in that moment. Instinct remain. The knowledge that this one must be subjugated. Conquered. In her Mistress' name. Nothing else mattered. Evangel's hands, arms numb and aching, snapped up to clamp onto Veyra's forearm and shoulder. Moves drilled into her time and time again were vague memories to her muscles dimly aware of what they were doing as Evangel's stance shifted. She sought to twist Veyra's arm around to instill a sliver of the pain Evangel had just endured. A sliver of pain, but with irrefutable risk of dislocation or breaks to one or more bones -- injuries that would leave Veyra had a significant disadvantage.

"You submit to violence. Merely out of lust, or rage with no one and nothing to direct it?" Veyra's blow had elevated Evangel's blood pressure and her body still ached, but she did not allow it to leak through in her voice. There could be no satisfaction for the prey. Only want. She needed to want more.

Veyra Kryze​

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Young blood."

Tags - Evangel

The gauntlet strike had landed. She had felt the surge course into her opponent, heard the satisfying crunch of duracrete splitting under their boots, smelled the faint tang of ozone where the coils had discharged. And yet—her foe did not fall.

Veyra's elbow never reached home. The world snapped with brutal precision as her arm was seized, wrenched sideways with enough force to make every nerve scream. Armor bit into skin, bone strained against limits, and for a heartbeat she thought she heard the joints grind. Pain lanced down her shoulder, a jagged bolt that blurred the edge of her vision violet.

Her laugh was ragged this time, torn through clenched teeth.

"Yes," she spat, helm tilting close to the blood-red glow burning across from her. "Yes, I submit—" a growl vibrated through her vocoder as she twisted against the hold, not to escape but to feel the pull deeper, sharper— "but not to you. Not yet."

Her free hand shot up, gauntlet pressing against the dark Mandalorian's pauldron. She didn't strike. Not immediately. She pushed, forcing pressure back, grinding steel against steel, testing the immovable wall that pinned her. The agony of her arm being twisted nearly to breaking only fed the fire in her chest. Neo-Crusaders had thrived on trial by fire—on breaking themselves against something greater until only strength remained.

"You think I rage with no purpose?" she hissed, visor locked to visor, violet glare reflecting crimson. "I rage because your Empire—my Empire—has forgotten what it means to be Mandalorian. They patrol. They keep order. They sell themselves for coin. That is not our way."

The words came out in harsh bursts, punctuated by the grind of her body straining against the hold. She could feel the tremor in her muscles, the edge where submission might slip into defeat. She welcomed it. To be tested to breaking was to be alive.

"I lust," she admitted, voice dripping venom and pleasure alike. "Not for peace. Not for survival. For war. For conquest. For the right to bend or be broken." Her head snapped forward, helm slamming against helm in a vicious crash, not to escape but to prove she would not beg for mercy.

The twisted arm screamed at her nerves. Something threatened to give if the hold was wrenched tighter. And yet her laughter returned, wild and jagged, echoing against the alley walls like a hymn.

"Break me, vod," she dared, voice raw with hunger. "Break me—or show me there's something stronger than this empty Empire to fight for."

The pain was exquisite. The risk of bone snapping, of being left helpless, only heightened the fire in her gut. She did not want release. She wanted to see what her captor truly was—predator, or pretender.

 

[Evangel]

Evangel didn't try to keep Veyra from injuring herself as she struggled or sought to deepen her experience. Pain wasn't something to avoid, especially when it was her opponent that was feeling it. Even physical injury was easily fixed by modern medical science.

A slight twist at the shoulders followed Veyra's pressure, but only to maintain a secure grip and negotiate where and how contact was made. Defiant, this one. She sought to discern if someone was worthy of her, or merely lucky. Good.

Veyra's words were heard, but they only affirmed what Evangel had suspected. Conquest. Someone like her would not be content maintaining the peace. They needed more. They could have it, but Veyra was not yet convinced. Something she felt like making absolutely clear by bashing her helmet against her assailant's.

Evangel's helmet reared back slightly from the blow, but then slammed forward to return the favor in kind. The pressure on Veyra's shoulder might have eased a hair, but that only meant the return of full force was all the more noticeable. Not that either of them were upset.

"I will break you. I will break you free of the illusion of the glorification of independence and freedom. I will show you the majesty and fulfillment that comes with serving a new Mistress. One that hungers as we do. To conquer. To claim all that falls before their eyes."

A sharp kick at the back and side of Veyra's accompanied Evangel's sudden release of the woman's arm. She moved to step beyond the chosen and to throw an arm about her neck, with her other hand secure atop her helmet. "You will learn to love her. To obey me. And we will strike fear into the hearts of the masses. Tell me you do not want this. Deny everything you have said to me," Evangel hissed, "and cling to the Empire and the Clans that believe credits bring purpose, and that through peace we grow stronger. Or pledge yourself to our cause where you will gorge yourself in pain and battle."

Veyra Kryze​