Junction Echoes of the Gravesong - Undeath comes to the Diarchy (DIA & ME junction of Brath Qella/Placeholder

[Drego Ruus]

Objective I
Tag: Aether Verd Ze'bast Verd Manti Wyrvhor Runi Kuryida Kandosii Ka'rta
​

Drego and his clan had waited with baited breath. The Stone Jaws of Clan Ruus waited for the Manda'lor to call them.

And it was only when the signal was given that the mortars fired recon droids ahead of them. Eyes in the sky for every mando to get a view above, and triangulate their attacks. Drego's old Special Forces training kicked in as he heard the order. Deal with the undead. Pulses of LIDAR from the drones filled the streets of the city, where lights had gone out, the Mandalorians now had a 3D view of it all. Every zombie in the street, every civilian trapped. Deeper and deeper the drones went, cataloging and categorizing everything they saw. Buildings, vehicles, potential enemies. Anything and everything was put in the HUDs of those who were on the side of the Empire.

All Drego was waiting for was the word go from his boss.

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

YAGA MINOR - LOW ORBIT

The image flickered to life again.

This time, it was Reign. Disheveled. Dust-streaked. Commanding in spite of the chaos behind him. Aether said nothing as the Diarch spoke. He simply watched, unmoving, the glow of the projector washing blue across the polished crimson of his armor.

“Great Mand’alor, thank you for coming so soon. The words my brother speaks, are for us all. As was on Taris, we have an accord.”

And that was all he needed.

Aether Verd rose and the air shifted with him.

Crimson beskar caught the bridge lights as he stood from his throne, tall and still as a mountain come alive. The warriors near him: Manti, resolute and grim; Vytal, cold flame wrapped in patience, watched without question as the signal from the Diarchy cut.

Then, across every Mandalorian vessel in orbit...The Mand’alor appeared.

His image surged to life in cockpits and command decks, hangars and halls. His voice rang through hulls and helms alike, carried by the fleet’s spine.

“Mandalore and the Diarchy have reached accord.”

“This day, we fight for Yaga Minor.”

“The Gravesong has returned, and it will be met with fire. With iron. With us. Warriors, descend. Burn the dead. Save the living. Carve a path for those who cannot carry a blade and make the bastards pay for every inch they’ve taken.”

“Honor your kin. Honor your clan. Honor Mandalore. Return alive.”

The transmission ended.

Aether stepped down from the throne, each stride carrying the full weight of the moment. He passed Manti, meeting her gaze for a breath. He passed Vytal, a flicker of mutual understanding in the space between them. Whatever power stirred below, they would face it. Together. He did not slow.

As the hangar doors loomed ahead, his voice surged once more across the internal comms of the Resolute Dawn, not as a ruler commanding soldiers, but as a warrior rallying kin.

“Ready my Basilisk. We deploy at once.”​

 

[Gath]

YAGA MINOR
Objectives I & II​

The sky screamed.

Red lightning danced through the clouds as the portal split open high above the smoldering ruins. And from it, he fell. not like a meteor, not like a god, but like a sentence. A verdict cast down from the jaws of judgment itself.

Gath struck the earth hard enough to shatter bone beneath the soil.

For a moment, all was still. Then he rose.

He was a towering mass of chained hate, built like a war engine and draped in remnants of old glories. His skin was obsidian leather, thick as starship plating, branded and scarred from collar and lash. Muscles shifted beneath him like tectonic plates, and when he moved, the world listened.

The damned Jester’s voice still echoed in his ears.

“There’s an artifact buried deep beneath the surface…”

And Gath could see it.

Not with his eyes. With something deeper. Burned into his mind’s eye like a star gone nova. A pulse in the planet’s belly. Old power. True power. Not the make-believe magic of pretenders or parasites. This was older than either. Rooted in blood, shaped by purpose, meant for those strong enough to wield it.

And yet…He looked up.

Above him, a gleaming spire rose into the clouds: a space elevator. A pillar of arrogance connecting planet to station, dirt to dream. A monument to all the Diarchy had built. But they had built it wrong. Their golden tower sat atop the artifact like a throne on a tombstone.

“Fools,” Gath growled, voice thick as a funeral drum. “You built your future on my foundation.”

The earth trembled around him. And the dead answered. They crawled from the dust and the cracks, hollow-eyed and blood-slick. Soldiers and civilians alike. Once aimless, now still. Silent. Waiting. Gath stepped forward, and they bowed.

As they should.

He was not their king. He was their consequence. With a single gesture, the Deshade began to move the pieces on the board. His eyes, glowing like fire beneath a ruined helm, swept across the tide of death. He separated them with military precision: the armored dead, those with remnants of weaponry and tactics, he gathered around himself. Ten. Twenty. Forty. Enough to form a spearpoint. Enough to remind this world what an army looked like.

The rest? The damned. The weak. The shells of what once called itself citizen?

He unleashed them.

A wave of rot and hunger, surging outward. No longer stumbling. No longer blind. Now they moved with intent. Driven. Directed. Used.

The Civilian Horde rolled across the city like a plague with orders. Their mission was simple: draw blood. Draw fire. Draw eyes. Let the Diarchy think the worst had come. Let them see the chaos and believe it was all there was.

“Let them waste their bullets on the noise.” Gath muttered, voice like steel against stone.

His Honor Guard moved in silence. Blades. Clubs. Rebar. Rifles with some semblance of ammo. They moved like a phalanx, bone and armor, the press of bootless feet on ash.

Those without weapons led the charge. They did not flinch. They did not fear. They served. The shift was immediate.

Where there had once been chaos, now there was choreography. Tactics. Coordination. The undead had a commander. And he would not be denied. Gath marched at the heart of the formation. Not behind it. Not above it. With it. Through fire. Through ruin. Through resistance. For he was not born to beg. He was not summoned to serve.

He was Gath.​

And death marched with him.​

Spoiler: Objectives Update

• Objective I: The undead rampaging across Yaga Minor are now more vicious and more organized then before. Their numbers are no longer aimless. They are brutal, targeted, and putting up more resistance. Innocent lives are in danger now more than ever before.
• Objective II: The orbital elevator is in dire straits. A fresh wave of undead, unarmed and vicious, are throwing themselves at those holding the line. Behind them is a terrifying sight: former Diarchy comrades marching against them. Weapons raised and rounds firing. Within their ranks is a gigantic figure: a commander who is hellbent on bringing the elevator to its knees. Stop him at all costs!

Drego Ruus , Diarch Reign , Diarch Rellik , Ze'bast Verd , Red Mobius , Vytal Noctura , Rokul , Manti Wyrvhor , Adonis Angelis IV , Merion Oreno , Kandosii Ka'rta , Laphisto , Runi Kuryida , Maldor Mecetti , Sahan Dragr​

 

[Zara Saga]

Objective II​

Zara burst through the field barricades like a solar flare, golden lightsabers alive in her hands, carving swaths of blazing death through the advancing horde. Her braid, once tightly coiled, now snapped behind her like a banner of defiance, dust-caked and blood-streaked. Every swing of her blades tore through another cadaver, another twitching nightmare, but they just kept coming, limbs gnashing, armor cracked and blackened, mouths wide in hollow silence as the Gravesong pushed them forward.

"Move!" she screamed at the medics dragging the wounded past her. "Get them up the ramp now! If they can't walk, drag them!"

They didn't look at her, probably for the best. Her voice was cracking, but her arms weren't. Not yet.

The smell was unbearable: scorched metal, burnt flesh, ozone. Her boots slid as she ducked low and spun, bisecting a once-human soldier whose jaw still moved like it remembered speech. She didn't give him time to finish the sentence.

The thump of distant gunships made her pause, just long enough to feel it. The Mandalorians were inbound.

She spat in the ash. "Of course they show up now."

A concussion grenade tore into the far ranks of undead. Jetpacks roared overhead. Mandalorians in gleaming beskar dropped into formation with the elegance of an execution squad. Zara's lip curled.

"We don't need your charity," she hissed, slicing through a thrashing corpse and nearly taking out a Mandalorian who landed too close. "Go home. This platform doesn't need you."

But the lines were collapsing.

She saw the medics pulling back. Heard the screams inside the triage tents. The elevator gantry shuddered as another corpse bomb exploded along its edge.

Zara turned back to the tide, blood and fire streaking her face. She swung harder. Took on more. Tried to fill the gaps. A lone figure against an ocean of rot.

"I will not owe them," she muttered through gritted teeth. "They don't get to save us."

But her arms were slowing. Her breath was ragged. And the dead didn't care.

Athena Faar​

 

[Laphisto]

AT-AE walker main weaponry loadout per battalion
E.M.D.C.: 4
LO-24/AT: 5
LO-22/AP: 3
LO-21/AAA: 2
LO-AC300: 2
​

The dead came in waves shambling, twitching, crawling from every crevice of the city like rot erupting from a wound. But the Lilaste Order held. And at the center of it all stood Laphisto, unflinching as the storm crashed around him.

The northern sector belonged to Tarain's Sword, while the Red Lancers swept the southern approaches. Two full battalions of Order soldiers braced the lines every one of them clad in LO-58A, every one armed with either a LO-18D. assault rifle or the LO-16D battle rifle Their weapons flashed alternating between plasma-based blaster fire and the raw kinetic punch of LO-KI/22, slugs. a round that all weapons of teh lilaste order fired. from rifles to cannons. Where blasters faltered, the slugs found purchase. And where slugs only slowed, the Force brought death.

Barricades bristled with LO-27R LMG nests, set in overlapping arcs. For every two gunners, a reloader crouched between, feeding belts without hesitation. Behind these front lines, Force-sensitive infantry shaped the very battlefield raising jagged walls of duracrete, funneling the undead into chokepoints, or launching volleys of sharpened debris into the oncoming tide.

And still, further back, the AT-AE MKIII walkers fired in methodical bursts. Their weapon arms roared E.M.D.C. cannons, anti-tank plasma launchers, kinetic chain guns tearing holes through both flesh and armored bone. Blaster bolts burned the night sky while KI/22 slugs thundered like war drums. Each round tore through ranks of the Gravesong's puppets, embedding deep or blasting through entirely. Whether it would truly break the song remained to be seen but it slowed them. It gave the living time.

Laphisto fought alongside his soldiers, his LO-18D rifle switching seamlessly between modes. When blaster fire lost momentum, he shifted to slug fire each shot cracking like thunder, punching through rotting skulls or armored torsos with brutal finality. With his off hand, he swept the Force across the avenue slamming a dozen corpses into buildings with such force they crumpled like wet paper.

Chunks of shattered duracrete lifted at his feet, twisted by unseen hands, and with a snap of his will, he launched them outward in a forest of pikes. Dozens of corpses impaled themselves on the spike wall, flailing only briefly before falling still.

"Captain, this is High commander Laphisto," he growled into his comm, voice steady beneath the chaos. "Call reinforcements. I need fighter support on the northern flank immediately. Bring in PD-6s we'll mark the zone." Beside him, Vraen, his towering Basilisk war droid, unleashed hell.

Every weapon on its chassis was active: the LO-AVAC rotary autocannon spun in a deafening blur, shredding anything in front of it; 40mm autocannons fired in measured bursts; LMGs tracked across rooftops and low buildings alike. When one of the dead got close enough to threaten the line, Vraen simply lifted a foot and crushed it beneath taloned claws like a beast swatting flies. The dead kept coming. Band the order remained the shield

---

The captain of the Greh'ova assault ship sent word to aurora station requesting a few Air'mar Assault Carrier's before tryign to establish a channel to teh ship yard in orbit " yaga minor station please respond. this is captain Vantek of the Lilaste order here for relief efforts. we have a empty troop bay to accept civilian personell. and we request stock of any current star fighters within your station. more specifically we are hoping the production of Pegasus D-6AV starfighters or any bomber type craft were being made at this orbital." while word had went off to aurora station at bastion it would be a while before they arrived and who knows how the situation planet side would begin to devolve the forces onteh ground needed rienforcements sooner than later


Zara Saga Athena Faar Gath Aether Verd Rokul Maldor Mecetti

 

[Jonah]

OBJECTIVE I - YAGA MINOR

The quiet hum of machinery underscored the shuffle of armored boots and the clink of metal on metal.

Jonah crouched beside a workbench, the vibrokatana balanced across his lap as he checked the motor casing near the hilt. After Taris, he wasn’t taking chances. The blade had served him well. It had cut through flesh, bone, and worse...but the undead didn’t die easy. You had to be certain. Precise. Ruthless.

Others were in the room with him, their presence filling the space with the low murmur of pre-battle rituals. Final checks. Loaded mags. Hushed prayers to no god in particular.

A cigarra’s scent drifted past. He heard the clack of shells sliding into a rifle, then the drawl—thick and easy, like it came with its own dust trail.

“Zombies,” one of the others muttered. “That’s a new one.”

Jonah chuckled, a dry sound as he tightened the motor screws and snapped the housing shut. “Used to be, the dead only got back up in holovids,” he said, standing and passing the whetstone over without needing to be asked twice. “Now the Mand’alor’s sending us to Yaga Minor to help Diarchy folk clean up their graveyard.”

He flipped the katana once in hand before sheathing it in a smooth, practiced motion. A small nod followed, respectful but not stiff.

“Jonah Verd,” he said simply. “Glad to be in the mud with you.”

He didn’t need to say more. The sharp scent of oil and the distant whine of repulsors said the rest.

It was time to deploy. And Jonah, like the rest of them, was ready.

Tag: Kandosii Ka'rta + Open

​

​

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

Vytal looked to Aether as he started to pass. It was a fight then. As it should be. Inevitable.

The pale Witch pivoted to follow. Her right hand reached out and conjured a flame in her palm. "Elavithor, take the Echoes and look for ties that bind Harrow's monsters to this realm." There might not be any such links in the Nether, but she had sensed some twist in what was meant to be. Something had changed. Perhaps if they could follow to where it originated they would learn more of this decrepit thing that plagued the living. Toward that end, Elavithor and the Echoes were all spirits.

Her fingers curled inward and the flame was extinguished. They would arrive at the hanger soon, and descend to the chaos below.

Aether Verd | Manti Wyrvhor​

 

[Red Mobius]

"There's something I've been curious about where House Io is concerned..." Red said as they waited in orbit, the darkness of the Blastboat cabin lit only by blinking console lights.

"Yes?" Kassandra asked.

"What's with the catsuits on all the female biots your mother made?" Red asked.

"That was an influence from the Cult..." Kassandra answered. "As Mother grew more under their sway she started designing the newer models to reflect their growing clout. And because Laertia wanted a sort of 'creator thumbprint'. In her mind, she was making a work of art as well as a weapon."

Kassandra reflected this design sentiment even now, being clad in a skintight silver Catsuit. It seemed hard coded for her to wear it. Red did not comment on it.

"Our helmets in my culture are supposed to unite us as a people." Red said. "It seems you were made partly to get her subjects used to the Cult...after all, if you see hot supermodels in catsuits every day, you won't think much about it when they start making decisions and have access to witchcraft..."

Kassandra remained silent at this.

Just then the order from Aether Verd dropped. Go time.


"You ever seen hard combat, Kassandra?" Red asked.

"Ship boarding actions. Nothing serious...never seen an active battlefield...I was created after the battle of Tython..." Kassandra answered.

"Well, today is your trial by fire..." Red said. "Remember the plan. You'll find your tools in the back."

"Gotcha." Kassandra replied as Red took the Blastboat into a dive bomb for the planet below. Red would be defending the space elevator. Kassandra would be going deeper into zombie infested territory to enact a dangerous and deadly plan to try and cut off the masses of Zombies attacking everyone...

When they were low enough, the hatch was opened and Red jumped, activating her jetpack and readying her T-7 Ion Disruptor, the almost over sized rifle held in a death grip as she streaked through the air.

T-7 Ion Disruptor's, it should be noted, nearly wiped out the Lasat. It was once the standard service weapon of Clan Mobius before they switched to lesser weapons to make the other clans less nervous dealing with them. Before that, their ranged weapons were always Disruptors.

Red fired and a massive red blast of energy flared out of the barrel and nuked a large mass of Zombies into ash after making sure no one living was nearby.

She fired more blasts, annihilating more swarms of zombies to get them away from the elevator, by Mandalorians and fleeing civilians more breathing room. She readied her wrist mounted flame thrower on her vambrace and bathed swarms of screaming undead in flame, landing and blasting a swarm of the undead into ash just as they were about to overwhelm a Mandalorian who was out of ammo and was left with just a Bes'Kad.

She spotted Zara Saga fighting fiercely but recklessly, trying to go it alone. As a courtesy, Red nuked another mass of Zombies with a massive Disruptor shot that had been about to close in on her, making sure Zara was far enough away that there was no chance of her being harmed.

Let it not be said Red wasn't a professional.

Red fired the T-7 rifle and the single shot grenade launcher filled with a plasma round, smiling under her helmet as Zombies exploded or turned to ash in large amounts before her, even as she covered fleeing civilians scrambling for the elevator.

She emptied one clip, then loaded another into her rifle. Three clips left. She would use the Disruptor until it broke or it completely ran dry.

But the zombie hoardes were relentlessly and there was only so much even the terrible power of her species-exterminating rifle could do...

But Red would not retreat from filth and heresy.

She would fight as a proper Mandalorian...

Front towards enemy.

Ze'bast Verd

Runi Kuryida

Adonis Angelis IV

Laphisto

Manti Wyrvhor

Drego Ruus

Gath

Sahan Dragr

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

Objective I​

Tag: Ze'bast Verd Sahan Dragr Aether Verd Runi Kuryida Red Mobius Drego Ruus Manti Wyrvhor Laphisto

The shuttle shook as wind screamed against the hull. Yaga Minor burned below them- glowing veins of fire coursing through collapsed infrastructure, arcologies drowning in smoke, and the orbital elevator gleaming faintly in the haze like a monument too proud to die. The greenlight from Mand'alor had gone through. Now, the war hosts descended.

Adonis sat silently as the vessel began its final approach, finishing the ritual of wiping down his scattergun. It was already clean. That wasn't the point. Ze'bast's words still echoed in his head, not like a warning, but like a weight he'd chosen to carry: Discipline, not suspicion. Purpose. The Iron's will. Adonis didn't take them as a leash. He took them as a reminder. It was far too easy to drown in the wear and rage of war, to let your judgment get swallowed by old grudges and fresh insults. Especially now. Taris had proven that the Diarchy could be careless, even arrogant. And if anyone cracked under the pressure, if anyone opened a second front when the first wasn't even secured, it would dishonor the Mand'alor's judgment. And that? That wasn't an option.

Around him, warriors of every caliber prepped in silence. They didn't need orders. They didn't need motivation. The hum of readiness- the tightening of straps, the clank of plated boots on durasteel, the low clicks of primed weapons- rose steadily, reaching its peak just as a screen flared to life along the bulkhead. The display offered a direct view of their drop zone, or what remained of it. Where there should have been an insertion point was instead a heaving mass of bodies. The undead. Not staggering. Not random. Focused.

They tracked the shuttle with hollow eyes and crooked limbs, moving together with unnatural intent. Harrow had learned from Taris. That much was clear. This wasn't improvisation. This was choreography. The pilot's voice crackled across the internal comms, strained and fast. "We can't land here, no clean LZ! They're converging on us, like they're following the ship! Recalculating to two blocks west!"

Adonis was already standing. His eyes locked onto the image of the horde below, then to the ramp's manual override. He didn't hesitate.

"Open the door," he ordered, voice calm.

The ramp hissed and groaned open, and wind tore into the bay like a scream. Below, the city swirled in chaos. Fire danced across fractured rooftops, and the street was a living tide of rot and violence. The moment the ramp cleared, the others opened fire, laying down suppressive blasts into the thickest parts of the mob. Bright bolts cut through smoke and flesh, buying seconds. That was all he needed.

"I'll draw them," Adonis said, turning toward Ze'bast just long enough for the words to land. "Put the rest down west of the platform. Flank them once I have their attention."

Then he jumped.

He didn't fall, he dropped, carried by gravity and the Force. It wrapped around him like a second layer of armor, coiled into his limbs and chest, building into a pressure he could barely contain. He let it go an instant before impact.

The landing erupted like a nova.

A shockwave of kinetic power exploded outward from the point of impact, scattering the undead in all directions, shattered limbs, ruptured torsos, a ring of bodies flung back by sheer momentum. The force of it cracked the pavement and kicked up a thick cloud of ash and bone dust. At the center of the crater, Adonis stood upright, steam curling from his armor. He raised the scattergun, firing twice into the first figures that staggered toward him through the dust, then let the weapon fall to its sling and called the hilt from his hip.

With a sharp crack, the blue blade ignited, casting a hopeful glow across the ruined streets. To anyone alive and watching, they knew help had arrived.

The horde was regrouping, reforming the way soldiers might under command. He could feel it in the way they moved, quick, methodical, not like animals. Like pawns. Tools. Weapons under someone's hand.

Adonis braced himself. He didn't speak. Didn't taunt. That wasn't his way. He had made himself the signal fire, the crashpoint, the distraction. Now it was up to the others to flank from the west, to take this chaos and turn it into opportunity. If they could secure a foothold here, maybe the Diarchy could finally meet them without screaming into a wall of corpses.

But for now, Adonis stood alone in the breach, saber humming, surrounded by the dead.

And every single one of them had just made a mistake by getting back up.

 

[Kandosii Ka'rta]

Objective 1: Purge the Lower Districts

Equipment: Beskar'gam, JT-13 Multipurpose Jetpack, PK-45 "Peacekeeper", M874-C Lever-Action Banger, Mandalorian Vambraces w/chamber-shot slugthrower, Enclave Bowie Knife, Pack of Fiora Ivory Cigarras
Tags: Jonah + OPEN

​

"Thank y'kindly," Kandosii said as he took the whetstone from the man and gave the hefty blade of the knife a once-over. Now this, this was a knife.

"Y'know, back on Morellia, when I was a scrawny lil' mudscuffer, folks'd spin yarns 'bout graveyards. If'n y'didn't bury folks proper, or they died with a vengeance, they'd claw their way outta them graves and terrorize the livin'. 'Course, once I'd killed a few fellas m'self, I learn'd what a crock'a horse shit that was," He chuckled as he put the whetstone aside, "Or at least, thought it was. 'Suppose I was wrong," he finished, putting the knife in its thigh sheath.

The Morellian tipped the brim of his hat at Jonah with a nod. "Kandosii Ka'rta, pleasure t'make your acquaintance, partner," he said, before doffing the hat and rolling it up, putting it away in a pocket in the interior of his coat. At last the cigarra met its end as Kandosii took one last puff, then flicked it onto the floor and quashed it with his boot. Then his bucket went on, and sealed with a hiss. Time to posse up.

His spurs chimed their tune as he left the armory alongside his new partner, proclaiming to all that could hear them that he was now on the warpath. There would be no dropship, no slow comfortable ride down. No, they'd be taking the express trip. The wind whipped at the coattails of his duster as he turned to Jonah. "Seeya groundside, compadre," were his words before leaping out of the Resolute Dawn, whipping towards the city below.

 

[Ryu Jung]

Objective I: Purge the Lower Districts
Tags: Diarch Reign | Open​

Ryu's red lightsaber cut through the zombies amassing like butter. He and the first cohort had found themselves growing cockey as they pushed deeper into the lower districts. The zombies themselves were in small packs and too slow to impede their march. Ryu was given command of the first cohort to watch his master's flank. At first, they were at walking speed, setting up the zombies into killzones where they used up their inferno grenades and e-webs to chew through them like paper. Suffice to say, the cohort had lacked discipline while facing the zombies since they were easy targets.

Unfortunately, their fun was short-lived as they found themselves overextended and drew a large contingent of the horde to their position. He found himself biting more zombies than he could chew. His strikes were sloppy and the screams of his men being ripped apart had gave him overwhelming fear.

What a pitiful display. A sith should use his fear to give him power, but he was nothing more than a cowering mouse. The men were demanding orders from Ryu as the zombies began to close in and Ryu didn't know how to respond except to kill all those around him.

Where are you, master?

 

[Ze'bast Verd]

TAG: Aether Verd / Adonis Angelis IV / Manti Wyrvhor / Runi Kuryida / Rokul / Laphisto / Kandosii Ka'rta / Red Mobius / Vytal Noctura / @

This was it. Go time.

The Kom’rk broke through the cloud canopy like a spear hurled by the gods. Lightning danced on the horizon as the dropship rattled from atmospheric friction and residual turbulence. Ze’bast unholstered the HV-37 Squad Repeating Blaster from his back with a practiced sweep. The weapon was heavy in his hands. It was familiar, trusted, and eager to scream.

His HUD flickered as external temperature readings spiked. The transport’s altimeter was ticking down fast.

Then, a flicker of red.

His eyes snapped toward the drop door controls. A fault warning.

Kriff.

He had flagged that issue last cycle. It was supposed to be resolved. The fact that they were about to deploy with a jammed drop door mechanism was unacceptable. Someone in the hangar bay was going to hear about this. Once they survived. A mission could go to hell in seconds because of a faulty door, and he didn’t make a habit of losing warriors to incompetence. Luckily, there was the rear ramp.

“Hold, no one needs to be a—”

But his words were cut short. Adonis had removed himself from the craft. The thought of Aether attempting to box him if something happened to Adonis on his watch was bittersweet.

No hesitation. No confirmation. Just… leapt into the storm below.

Ze’bast’s visor tilted down, his jaw clenching behind the helmet. Not out of anger. Out of instinct. Worry. A new brother, new to the fold—bold, strong, but still raw. Force-user or not, he had no business going it alone. There was a reason they moved as a unit.

A lone warrior was a dead warrior, eventually.

But perhaps… it wasn’t recklessness. Perhaps it was a statement. A declaration. He was one of them now—and maybe he needed to prove it in fire and fury.

Ze’bast exhaled through his nose, the sound audible in his helmet. A slight shake of his head. Fine. You want to stretch your legs? I’ll clear the damned path.

He stepped forward, issuing the command.

“Rally Master! Bring her around west of the platform. I’ll be laying down supportive fire from the ramp.”

The pilot acknowledged with a short buzz, angling the Kom’rk’s nose into a low hover just west of the combat platform labeled D-9. Below them: a churning sea of necrotic horrors. Undead shambling and sprinting in equal measure—some half-armored, others still bearing the ragged banners of whatever force had raised them.

Ze’bast braced against the door frame, sighted down the blaster’s top rail, and squeezed the trigger.

The HV-37 came alive with a mechanical roar, belching plasma into the horde below. The gun’s recoil was a rhythmic thrum against his vambrace. His targeting system marked bursts of motion as targets collapsed.

Then came the firebirds.

Supercommandos poured out from the ramp behind him, their jetpacks igniting in brilliant columns of orange and blue as they rocketed toward the surface. A practiced maneuver. No flailing. No delay. Just precision deployment like falling daggers.

Ze’bast loosed another sweep of suppressive fire before he leapt from the ramp himself, a plume of flame erupting from his jetpack as he descended like a war-god made of smoke and steel.

Mid-air, he paused just long enough to allow his repeater to vent—steam rising from the barrel as cooling coils hissed. He landed in a crouch, boots digging into ferrocrete, pivoting to open fire again.

His voice crackled over comms, steady as iron:

“Stathas Division has landed and made contact with hostiles. Pushing northeast from Platform D-9.”

The response from the Warhost was near-instant—acknowledgment pings and shift calls rang through the channel.

His team had already formed up. They were shoulder to shoulder, weapons sweeping in disciplined arcs. They advanced like a wall of death, plasma bolts and micro-rockets streaking past Ze’bast’s periphery as they drove forward with cold efficiency.

Their primary objective: Find Adonis.

But time… time was their enemy now.

And in battles like these, even seconds could be too long.

​

 

[Kassandra Beskar'ad]

Wearing: Armorweave Catsuit (Looks Like this)

Armed With: DC-15N, Siren War Axe, Citizen Energy Sword Type 2

Flying: GAT-120 Skipray Blastboat II


Equipment: Ammo Belt, low yield Heavy Seismic Charges (4), Jet Pack



It almost evoked a sense of nostalgia, her heading into battle like a proper Nuetralizer Warrior.

Almost.

But it only filled Kassandra with a sense of loss.

Her family scattered, defected. Her sense of purpose all but atomized. Her only shelter provided by a Mandalorian whose only interest was finishing off whatever had become of the civilization she had been born in and saving her own family at the same time.

Not that Kassandra didn't sympathize with the strange Mandalorian...The Cult were vicious monsters, and they were so blatantly sadistic and evil in ways that would possibly (and, in some cases, actually had) disgust and horrify even standard Sith that they absolutely needed to be destroyed.

But Kassandra knew full well that taking the cult down meant taking down whoever was still with Laertia. Including her own brothers and sisters.

Kassandra piloted over a blasted landscape overrun by the dead and strafed the ground with her fighter cannons, ripping into oceans of dead flesh ahead of Jonah and Kandosii Ka'rta to give them more breathing room from the endless boards. But both Red and her had a much greater act of destruction in mind that would look completely awesome.

Red steeled herself as she landed on a roof...but not before launching Concussion Missiles through the sea of dead around the immediate area.

Once she landed, she set up Protective Turrets around the roof. There were multiple areas she had to set up explosives in, and set them up in such a way as to wipe out vast swaths of the undead all at once and by the defenders of the evacuation site more time...but given Red's lack of reinforcements besides her, it would take longer for her to deliver the charges piecemeal around the general swarming area, and she would be under attack almost the entire time.

She set the Droid Mod on the Fighter to take off and continuously strafe the undead with laser cannon fire where she moved. The custom charges she had helped Red scramble together at the last minute made it too heavy for her to use the Jet Pack and would slow her down significantly unless she took one at a time. Another difficulty was making the charges difficult for the undead to reach. But she was an inherently a combat engineer...if anyone could figure it out it was her...

But maybe she could get some help...shorten her trip. There had to be multiple forces in the area. And she couldn't set off the explosions one at a time.

Kassandra took out her comlink.

"This is Kassandra, a Mandalorian aligned HRD...can anyone hear me?" Kassandra called out as she moved cautiously down a fire escape to the momentarily cleared streets below.

"I've got a plan that might buy the space elevator time but it's dangerous..."

Worth a shot. If there were no replies, she would proceed as originally planned...


OPEN