Captain Decius Tarvin, Captain of the 7th Company, 501st Legion
Location: Mountain leading up to the Jedi Enclave
Allies: [member="Veiere Arenais"]
Enemies: [member="Ashmedai"]
Captain Decius had never truly come to understand the force. Sure, he knew it existed as every soldier in the 501st did. He knew what it could do and how it could destroy a man in every semblance of the word. He had never even began to try to understand it. The arcane knowledge was not something normal men dabbled in. All that mattered was the simple knowledge of invincibility and how it was false -- how everyone was equal and brought low when they found themselves in a casket.
He found himself questioning that belief as a wave of raw energy burned the oxygen around him and atomized the left side of his transport. He'd made momentary eye contact with [member="Veiere Arenais"] before the Jedi Knight was sent flying out of the vessel. Decius parted his lips to speak some form of warning, as if that were going to help, before he too was flung from the transport.
For a moment there was nothing but the passing of air and the miniature apocalypse unfolding above his head. The ships engines imploded under the immense wave of pressure and utterly annihalated the vessel. Its twin fared no better, and both Sentinels fell in orange streaks to the barren earth below. Then came the impact.
Blood spattered the inside of his visor. The sharp crunch of synthetic polymer cracking and bones being popped out of socket filled his ear. A terrible agony ravaged his body, spreading from his limbs to his chest in thunderous waves. He knew that he was rolling down some structure though he had little idea as to what. Dust kicked around him and spilled through spider-web cracks in the glass, intermingling with his own vitae to smudge up his vision.
A low groan escaped his lips when the motion finally stopped. He reached up to remove his helmet only to find that it had melted to his breast plate in the extreme heat of the explosion. Cursing, Decius forced himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the terrible protests from his aching limbs. Ruddy streams of crimson spilled down a facture in his forearm plate and dripped into the sand. He took a moment to check the wound -- a superficial one -- and rose up to his feet.
He'd lost his rifle in the fall. His hand fell to the pistol at his hip, and he breathed an audible sigh of relief as his fingers wrapped around the familiar grip of the sidearm. At least he had something.
"
Jedi," he called out into the wastes, "
You dead bathrobe?"
No one else had survived. His HUD told him that much, and he really didn't need it to know. He'd seen them turned to cinder in the engines' explosion. It was by sheer luck that he had survived.
This was what the Sith did. Decius had been a young man when he'd joined Darth Arcis' legion. The Sith Lord had always been honorable, even kind on some accounts. The moff that served him was of a similar sort. When Arcis had grown old and weary, the 501st had begun to question their place in the galaxy. The One Sith had done little to bring about their promised peace. Then Grayson came, the son of Grand Moff Rade, and things had changed.
Decius had sworn himself to the Jedi's service immediately. He suspected it was why he'd been made captain of the seventh when the time for promotion had come. He wouldn't fail his liege now.
Toggling one of the settings on his HUD, Decius sighted down @Ashmodai a ways up the mountain. The feed was live and streamed back to the Chimaera's bridge.
The soldier's brow furrowed. This was the man who had caused this destruction -- the man who had killed twenty-eight of the seventh company's finest and four of their pilots. Pitiless rage blossomed in Decius' heart like an iron flower.
"
Count the seven!" He shouted his company's war cry to the heavens. His sidearm raised and hummed as the safety was toggled off. With great effort, Decius began to stumble up the mountain, intent on bringing the his fallen brothers' wrath upon this murderer.
Meanwhile, the single AT-AT within range began to open fire upon those who sought to attack the Enclave. Its powerful forward cannons opened up on the 'cowboys' with the full fury of the 501st. Its secondary point defense guns did the same, firing the equivalent HMG bolts down upon them in quick flurries.
-----------------------
Captain Loken Mirithal, Captain of the 1st Company, 501st Legion
Location: Spaceport
Allies: [member="Gir Quee"], @Willam Forlo, @Reshmar(?)
Enemies: [member="The Harbinger"], [member="Darth Carnifex"]
The evacuation was going smoothly, if you could call it that. Most of the folks making their way to the spaceport didn't seem to have much of a notion toward leaving. They huddled in the dark corners of the facility, offering aid to their cohorts and avoiding eye contact with any of the 501st's soldiers.
Loken couldn't find it in himself to have much sympathy for the fearful faces. The captain was a veteran aging well into his forties. He'd served Lord Arcis and Moff Rade for the majority of his life, and proudly too. Loken was one of the voices that spoke out when Grayson took over. Sure, he might have been the son of the moff, and yes, he might have beaten Arcis in the kaggath, but he didn't stand for the same things the legion did. He was a Jedi at heart and a liar at that, albeit a smart one. Some compared him to the late Lord Arcis, but Loken simply couldn't see it. Grayson was too idealistic and far too naive.
Yet he followed all the same. The vast majority of the legion marched happily under the Jedi banner now. Loken was an artifact of an old age; a relic forgotten in favor of the glittering generalities of Jedi idealism and promises of safety.
Despite all that, he did find himself feeling a bit of pride at what they were doing here. Stamping out corruption and helping the common folk -- that was as much the imperial way as conquering systems. Then there were the terrorists; Loken had always enjoyed putting down uprisings.
"
Kids first ma'am. You need to wait your turn." He gestured toward the two children at the cloaked woman's feet. She parted her lips to speak, but seemed to think better of it. Nodding, Loken moved the younglings along toward one of the transports ferrying refugees aboard the
Chimaera.
He watched with dispassion as one of the shuttles set off toward the waiting Star Destroyer. He'd heard a vast number of the Republic's fighting force had come to pull the planet in line. Loken approved, but those who could not fight needed to be pulled out of the warzone. Collateral damage never looked good on a resume.
He reached down to his chest and keyed his comm to the general FLEETCOMM. "This is Captain Mirithal. Spaceport is clear if you're looking for a landing zone in the city. Fighting's died down here. Only a handful of firefights cropping up on our perimeter."
The explosion happened far too quickly. Loken's helmet came flying off and he found himself flat on the ground a few feet away from the main entrance of the spaceport. The air smelled of gunpowder and sulfur, tinged with the sweet iron rang of freshly spilled blood. Cursing, the captain rose to his feet, rifle raised to fire back at his attackers.
He saw none. What he did see made bile rise up in his throat. Before him lay a mass of ruined bodies: gore and vitae was splattered across the floor in haphazard fashion. The screams of two young girls began to register as the ringing in his ears wore off.
Then came another
explosion, and another.
"
They're wearing explosives!" He roared. Caught in the chaos of treating the wounded, the men of the 1st hadn't had the chance to check the entire populace over for oddities in their thermal signatures. "
Check your optics. Drop the ones with too much heat!"
The men of the 1st complied. They sifted through the survivors and scanned over each and every one of them with their helmet optics. Twice Loken heard rifle snaps. He watched intently as the 1st thinned the wolves out from the sheep. "Someone clean up this mess!" He snapped, "
- and get me a comm. These karking chicken-di'kuts busted mine."
No one called Loken on his misuse of the Mandalorian curse. They all knew better.
"How's the city hall?"
Loken turned his attention toward a massive figure in armor dark as basalt. Jarod, Captain of the 2nd Company, folded his arms over his chest and looked over the carnage.
"
Well enough. The civilian leadership was moved to the hospital. Documents were recorded and locked down. Figure the Sithspit will try and hit it."
Jarod grimaced and reached up to place a hand over his faceplate. "They have a thing for suicide strikes. Reminds me of Coruscant."
"
This is nothing like Coruscant."
Jarod snickered and clapped a hand on his old friend's shoulder-plate. "You keep saying that old man, maybe it'll come true."
----------------
Cyril Grayson
Location: Near the hospital, Meru
Allies: [member="Saran Drast"], [member="Minn Tavers"], [member="Vorian Adasca"]
"Oh, we'll find them. Trust me." Cyril offered his friend a confident smile. He only hoped Vorian wouldn't allow the events taking place to drive him to the brink of zealotry. Such calls had whispered in Cyril's mind often, their quiet coos seductive and promising. He'd long since learned to ignore them, but the Arkanian was not so experienced.
"I need you to do something important for me Vorian," he gestured toward the city, "Get a call to the Republic forces above us. Tell them to be wary of the One Sith or the Triumvirate dropping into the system. I've seen these tactics before. They're going to attempt to make us look inept, perhaps try to turn this on us as if this were all a farce. It's what we did during the coup, and you saw how well that worked."
A heavy sigh fell from his lips. "My comm's jammed. There is a station not far from here where they cast the news. You can use that."
He paused, his attentions shifting to Saran. "
Drast," he nodded, "
I'm pleased to see you're not dead. Didn't think this would be enough, truth be told. I've heard a gang of raiders are causing trouble: trying to rob banks and the like. Maybe you could put a stop to them?" he lofted a brow. "
You can take a team of the second company. I'm sure they're all quiet bored of urban street sweeping."
His lips parted to speak further, but another voice stole his attention. It was a quiet thing, almost that of a child, but the urgency was quite adult and very real. Cyril spun toward the direction he'd heard the calling and immediately broke out into a jog. It didn't take long for him to find her.
A girl, shining in the force, terribly wounded and left to die on the bloodied concrete. Cyril fell to his knees alongside her and pressed his fingers to her temple.
She still lived.
"
You both know what to do, I have her," he snapped to the two other Jedi. "
We'll meet at the spaceport when we've a chance. May the force be with you."
A cybernetic hand fell to the girl's cheek. Closing his eyes, Cyril delved deep into the ethereal realm. He passed through the girl's broken skin, the bone, muscle, and tissue beneath. His attentions fell to the very cells that made up her ruined flesh. Those that were dead he crushed, those that lived he subtly encouraged to replicate at an unnatural rate.
Guarded by two of the 2nd company's warriors, Cyril began the lengthy and exhaustive work of stitching the girl back together before she was lost forever.
