Born Killer
Naboo, Spaceport
Local Time 1412 Hours
Overcast, Light Rain
A lot of things bothered Fenn, but none so much as blissful silence. Not the silence before a battle, not the silence in searching for a hunt, not the silence of unanswered questions in a tense conversation. Not the silence in his mind he so desperately held onto when it was there- no, blissful, silence brought about by peace and tranquility bothered him so. Mostly due to the fact that it was there that his mind wandered, returned to dark places and tried to make sense of the fractured state of it. And moreoften than not, the voices, the horrors and the misery came back. The loneliness, the bitterness. As if seeing happy things alone would drive Fenn mad. The very idea of happiness and peace was a foreign concept, an alien notion to the man. It was not something he could comprehend. He had been at war his entire life, and more accurately, before he was even alive. Thousands of clone brethren of his, tossed into the maelstrom of war. The only difference between him and them, however, was the lucky aspect to not be damned with advanced aging. By now, he assumed, most of the clones from the first generation of the Republic's war machine were nearing their elderly ages- if not already.
Yet, he remained a young man, a perfect clone, a template for an army to stand for decades. He was one of the few unaltered when the Republic fell to itself, and as far as he knew, either the last, or next to it.
So, Fenn had been at war with the galaxy since he first walked out of the growing vats. A motherless, fatherless weapon of war turned loose. Cold and hungry, he stole, fought for meager scraps to eat until he was taken as a foundling. If not for the passing of a Mandalorian patrol, Fenn would've suffered a fate like most orphans and forgotten children of wars:
Starvation and being forgotten.
That fact was not lost on him, his thankfulness in his attempts to do better, to make something of himself. But with the galaxy's cruel march, each iteration of things he tried to make sense of, taken away. Protectors, the Enclave, friends, family. All dead, scattered to the wind. And so he made himself useful if he could not find a purpose. Which, the Black Sun made great use of his skills-
Which, brought him to Naboo. Even in the fledgling Republic, machinations of grandeur were met with reality. One such reality was a nobleman who had collected more gambling debts than he should've and fled to the world, thinking that the Black Sun would not dare set foot there to collect. Which, was partially true- for a number of weeks. Until Fenn came knocking. He was without armor, without weaponry. And yet, he made short work of the security staff and the nobleman's attempts to avoid paying the debt. Quite literally shaking it out of him. A number of family jewels, a heap of credits, and an ancient Jedi text describing lightsaber combat. The last was for Fenn's edification and study more than an interest to the Black Sun.
After all, the greatest foe of his people was the Jedi. The galaxy's finest warriors meeting head-on. He relished his opportunities to fight them, to cross blades with the Force-chosen warrior-monks. Every opportunity was a gift, and each opportunity to learn about his enemy, was something to behold. The book, the credits, the jewelry all sat in an unassuming bag next to him. Why next to him? Fenn was not welcome on this planet, much like he was not welcome in a great many places. But a false passport here, a fake identification, an identity of another. Fenn Broker, engineering specialist and hunting tour enthusiast. A good cover story for his appearance, and his grit, along with the mechanical arm. Close inspection by those in the know would mark it as Beskar- but you had to know what you were looking for.
He didn't wear his armor, opting to wear clothing typical of many spacers. He was incognito, he was silent and he was....
Stuck in a spaceport terminal, waiting for the shuttle to take him off-world to the nearest spaceport to pickup his ship that he left there. He took a deep breath, checking the timepiece on his wrist. Thirty-seven minutes until the shuttle arrived. Thirty-seven minutes of blending in, pretending to not hate the serenity and the beautiful landscape beyond the panes of large glass, pretending to not be bored out of his mind, and pretending not to be paranoid that someone was watching him, or worse, going to recognize him. He was not alone, the spaceport for a large tourism planet awash with people. Grand Army troopers strolled past, onto new assignments, merchants, traders, hunters, tourists, political aides and the like.
And not one batted an eye at him, much less even noticed him. In a way, he was thankful.
In another way....
Aiden Porte