Private Dusk Enforcement

[Tiber Fel]

TIBER FEL

Regent · General · Architect of Obedience

:: Transmission Classification: Dorn-Obsidian // Authority Confirmed // Compliance Expected ::
:: Objective: Neutralize the Deserters ::
:: Targets: Tibera Jessen ::

:: MERCENARY CONTRACT ::
:: Contact: TIBER FEL ::
:: Target: Imperial Outpost Osk-102, Jaemus ::
:: Objective: Neutralisation of rogue assets ::
:: Dead or Alive; preferred Dead ::​

​

This was the agreed staging point for their attack on the outpost. A platoon of the 501st was with them, their white armor darkened by mud and yet the blue insignia of their Legion's color scheme were still vibisble. They just had done their work to reduce any reflection and be spotted early. Magazines clicked into position, power cells activated. The grizzled veterans beneath their helmets were ready for what was to come and the cold, rationality of their movements, the calmness suggested they were equally ready to pull the trigger and pay the price.

Among them was the dark figure, almost a mere scheme in the settling dusk of the world, his dark cape covered in mud at its end, the armour, fluted and matte, had a distant human shape distorted by the flowing lines of his helmet with its eerie black vizor, a subtle red hue underlaying. His arms rested on his back while his gaze was set on the remnants of Outpost Osk-102, a collection of prefab buildings and defunct defences that were now used by a group of Imperial deserters as homestead.

Tiber waited, patiently. He had offered a contract and someone had responded, but before they could cash in, they would need to aid this operation. Bringing a band of looters and bandits to justice. Bringing order to a small measure of land compared to the chaos of the Galaxy.

Order is not negotiated. It is enforced.

 

[Qiyara Vorn]

Location: Jaemus
Equipment: Reinforced Infantry Armor Package, Standard Service Blaster Carbine (shoulder), Service Blaster Pisto (holster), Combat Vibroblade (belt)
Tags: Tiber Fel | Tibera Jessen

The jump to Jaemus had given Qiyara Vorn far too much time to think. She preferred action. Orders. Clear objectives. The Imperial Reclamation Authority had provided exactly that for months, sending her from one troubled world to the next as reclamation campaigns pushed into dangerous territory. Pirates, insurgents, holdouts—it rarely mattered who stood on the opposite side of the sights. If they threatened Imperial restoration, they were removed.

Jaemus was different.

The system sat clear across the galaxy from the sectors where the Authority usually operated, far beyond the worlds whose names had become familiar through endless deployment rosters and casualty reports. It was foreign territory, one that fell outside the Authority's direct responsibilities. Yet politics had a way of moving soldiers where logistics never would.

Qiyara had never been particularly popular with the Army's senior officers. It had little to do with her performance—her record spoke for itself—and everything to do with what she was. Non-human officers were tolerated in the Imperial Army, but rarely trusted, and almost never welcomed into its upper ranks. She followed lawful orders without hesitation, but the subtle distance in briefings, the second-guessing of her decisions, and the quiet reassignment requests spoke louder than any official commendation. More than one superior had made it clear, in ways both overt and carefully veiled, that her presence was an exception they endured rather than embraced.

Officially, she had been granted leave to assist an emerging Imperial ally. Unofficially, the brass had likely been relieved to have her causing someone else paperwork for a while. Fine by her.

The shuttle settled into the landing zone with practiced precision. Before the boarding ramp had fully lowered, Qiyara was already fastening the final clasps of her armor and settling her service rifle comfortably against its magnetic sling. Her movements carried the confidence of someone accustomed to operating at the front rather than behind a command desk.

The air outside carried the unfamiliar scent of another world. New terrain. New people. New enemies, if fortune favored her.

Her gray eyes swept across the gathering personnel, immediately cataloguing uniforms, equipment, posture, and discipline. Some looked seasoned. Others looked eager. A handful looked like they still believed war could be clean.

They would learn.

Qiyara stepped down from the transport without ceremony, boots striking the duracrete with measured purpose before she approached the nearest officer overseeing arrivals.

"Staff Sergeant Qiyara Vorn, Imperial Reclamation Authority," she introduced, voice crisp and unmistakably military. "Temporarily attached in support of the 501st, and Tiber Fel."

She glanced toward the activity beyond the staging area, already hearing engines, shouted orders, and the distant rhythm of preparation.

"So," she asked, a faint, almost predatory smile touching the corner of her mouth, "where do you need another rifle?"