Junction Episode I: Shadows of The Mara Corridor | RNR & BSS Junction of Mara Mega Hex & Drogheda

[Telmu Gomravik]

Trajan Fett Rojuhr Pouihl Michael Angellus Kyle Torchwood [Nearby in Space]​

The incoming energy signatures, confirmed as Naboo N-1 Starfighters, triggered a recalibration within KRONOS's primary processors. Their sleek, chrome-plated chassis, despite their 'parade ship' designation by certain organics, possessed sufficient speed and armament to pose a significant threat to salvage operations.

"Hostile N-1 squadron confirmed. Tactical analysis: Aggressive intercept pattern. Probability of direct salvage access: Reduced. Re-prioritizing: Threat neutralization primary. Salvage secondary," His vocabulator announced, its flat tone betraying no shift in internal state, only a re-prioritization of logical steps.

Its IG-2000, already a blur of motion, executed a sudden, violent roll, evading a burst of green blaster fire that sizzled past its starboard wing. These organics were indeed 'coordinated,' though such a notion was dismissed as irrelevant. Coordination implied a higher level of strategic thought than was typically observed in such impulsive engagements.

KRONOS-555's targeting reticule locked onto the vulnerable N-1 as it overshot. "Target designated. Optimal firing solution acquired." Twin laser cannons spat emerald fire, raking across the N-1's golden plating. The pilot's desperate boost sent the ship careening past, narrowly avoiding critical damage.

From another vector, Trajan Fett 's vessel registered as exhibiting superior maneuverability, unloading a wailed shriek of firepower. The destructive force was calculated, shattering wreckage into shrapnel, complicating the battlefield for friend and foe alike.

Simultaneously, Jek Raynar 's voice crackled over the Black Sun's communications, "We got goddamn Naboo N-1s inbound. Chrome karkers… We came to get paid, not play tag with pretty flyboys... Lets carbon flush these morons! Follow my lead and begin formation!" KRONOS-555 registered the intent: collective, brute-force aggression. Acceptable.

KRONOS-555's own weapons systems cycled rapidly. It executed a tight, evasive spiral, evading another volley of N-1 fire, then banked hard, bringing its forward cannons to bear on an incoming Naboo fighter attempting to flank Jek's Vessel.

"Target acquired. Engagement parameters met. Eliminating threat to primary asset escort." Its blasters roared, a steady stream of molten energy that tore into the N-1's engine, sending it spinning into the debris field.

 

[Ariadne]

She let the silence stretch, just long enough for the weight of his stare to thicken. Before, slowly, her thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. A slow, deliberate wipe, as though erasing the memory of a kiss, or blood.

Ariadne turned away.

Her stride was unhurried, the exaggerated sway of her hips a visual trap. She moved to a crate near the far wall, then bent at the waist, spine arched with precision. The angle was intentional. Displayed strength, curve, poise. She picked something up, some discarded tool or datapad, and turned it over in her hand like it meant something. It didn't. It was all about the show.

"You sound so sure," she said, at last. Her voice was low and velvety, absent of remorse. "That it was me."

She faced him again and began to circle, slowly, like a feline prowling the edge of a cage. The sword in her hand still hummed, low and steady. Her mechanical arm flexed, the servos purring beneath armored plating.

"You knew me when I was...different," she continued, gaze raking him from boots to brow with cool amusement. "How did you recognize me?"

She passed behind him, just out of reach. Her breath might've ghosted his neck, or maybe it was only his own pulse betraying him. Her voice lingered there, close enough to dig under the skin.

"Was it the way I walk?" She slowed her walk as she came back into view. "Or the way I ruined you?"

She stepped into view again, nearer now. Closer than she should be. Her silhouette cast tall and divine beneath the failing lights, goddess-shaped, predatory, calm.

"I'm not giving you a name, Roman," she said gently, as if correcting a lover's foolish question. "What would you even do with it? Kill them slower than you plan to kill me?"

She stopped just out of arm's reach, blade still low, still humming. Her dark eyes locked with his. There was a curve to her lips now, dangerous, bemused.

"I like my spine where it is." The blade shifted slightly in her grip. "How about we make another arrangement?"

OUTFIT: Black Sun Enforcer Uniform | TAG: Roman Vossari |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

The next compartment was worse. Not because of the layout, standard freight, low ceilings, exposed power couplings, but because the smell of burnt ozone and synth-oil now mingled with the recycled stench of too many men packed too tightly for too long. Lorn moved through the smoke like a ghost, silent, steady. The last thug had gone down with a broken nose and a groan that suggested he might reconsider his career choices, assuming he woke up with all his teeth.

Lorn stepped over him and kept going.

He didn't bother to draw his lightsaber. The hum would announce him, and there was still a chance this could be contained without unnecessary spectacle. A chance, anyway. Hope had always been his favorite lie.

The next door hissed open.

Two silhouettes stood waiting in the compartment. Not the run-of-the-mill grunts he'd been peeling off the walls like bad wallpaper. One was unmistakably Thyrsian, tall, armored, muscle in all the wrong places, the kind of man who cracked knuckles not to intimidate, but because it helped him think. The other, worse in a different way: all angles and alloy, a droid built for war, vibroblade already in hand. Its photoreceptor burned like a coal in a machine's skull.

Lorn stopped just inside the threshold.

The music was still blaring. The track had shifted again, now some overproduced remix with entirely too much percussion. He gave it a glance, as if blaming the noise itself for this mess.

"You know," he said quietly, as though they were at a bar and not aboard a jungle-speeding death machine full of relics and regret, "I was hoping for something subtle."

His eyes flicked from the Thyrsian's clenched fists to the droid's drawn blade.

"I'm Lorn," he said after a pause, voice level. "I'm here to stop the train."

A beat to let that settle.

"No one has to die."

Then he looked at the droid, just briefly, with something that almost resembled a tired smile.

"But I get the feeling you were hoping I'd say that."

Morex | K4-ZAN | Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Brakkus]

Objective 1: Sand Dollars
Tags: OPEN, Arcadian
​

Tatooine—the galactically renowned cesspit of scum and villainy.

The average sentient only found themselves in this system if they were down on their luck.

For the Black Sun Syndicate, their presence here was expected—crime. Tatooine was a perfect world for it. Law was thin, and loyalty was cheaper than water.

But what of the Royal Naboo Republic? What business did a high-minded, image-conscious polity have in the Outer Rim's most wretched hive? Were they here on a fool's errand to pacify the system? Perhaps. Perhaps not. That wasn't Brakkus' concern.

His concern was that the Naboo were poking their well-polished noses into Mos Algo, a phrik mine operated—unofficially—by the Black Sun. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue. But certain benefactors of that mine had ties to the Confederacy of Independent Systems. And if those ties were exposed, it could become a political powder keg.

For once, Brakkus Ka'bo, mining magnate of the Ando Mining Collective, had no direct stake in the operation. His attention had remained focused on the Ando System, and so—for once—his hands were relatively clean.

But that didn't mean he got to sit this one out. No. He owed the Confederacy a favour. And to repay that favour, he'd been summoned to act as mediator between the Republic and Black Sun representatives. More importantly, he was to ensure the Confederacy's involvement remained undiscovered by Naboo's diplomats.

---

A luxury starliner broke through the dust-choked atmosphere, descending in smooth arcs as the twin suns of Tatooine bathed its gleaming hull. The ship was an elegant contradiction to the sandblasted wastes below—silent, precise, and completely out of place.

Inside, Brakkus sat reclined in his private suite, deep in conversation with his aide, who—admittedly—was better versed in the situation than the Aqualish himself.

"Update on the position of Confederacy investors, please."

"All investments were conducted through secure, encrypted channels. Many are being liquidated as we speak to eliminate risk entirely."

"Good. Status of the phrik mine?"

"The operation has ceased for now, pending negotiations. Black Sun and Confederacy-aligned operatives are scrubbing evidence. However, there are unconfirmed reports of Republic personnel surveying the site."

Brakkus offered no reply, eyes focused on the stream of intelligence flowing across multiple datapads arrayed before him. Financial readouts. Logistics maps. Diplomatic briefs. A storm of data, carefully curated.

Moments later, the vessel touched down on the Mos Algo landing pad with a soft hiss of venting hydraulics.

The boarding ramp extended, and Brakkus emerged—flanked by a chrome-plated protocol droid and two IG-110 MagnaGuards, their electrostaves folded neatly across their backs. A squad of EBX-series Super Commando Droids remained aboard, on standby unless things went sideways.

He took one breath of the dry, choking heat and gave a grunt of displeasure.

"Inform Arcadian that I've arrived and will aid in the negotiations with the Naboo," he said to his aide, who remained on the vessel.

"Yes, sir."

With that, Brakkus began his approach toward the meeting site. The desert winds tugged at his cloak, but the Aqualish businessman moved with all the calm of a man who had learned long ago that even chaos could be mined for profit.


​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

OBJECTIVE 3: Ticket to Ride - Plan: Stop the Train
INVENTORY: Spacer Apparel, K-16 Bryar Pistol & Lightsaber
OPPOSITION: V01D Ω (Void Omega)
ALLIES: Ala Quin

​

"In my defense, trains aren't exactly part of my daily routine," Balun muttered through the earpiece, his voice laced with breathless sarcasm as he moved swiftly along the roof of the speeding magna-rail. The wind was brutal, howling like a beast determined to hurl him off with a single misstep. He stayed low, spine hunched, his arms out slightly to balance against the erratic jolt of the carriages below. For all the power he carried in his limbs, Balun was still more scrapper than swordsman—young, impulsive, and far more comfortable with chaos than choreography.

He lived for moments like these—risky, unpredictable, and half a step from disaster.

Suddenly, without warning, music began to thunder through the train's speaker system, vibrating through the metallic shell of each car. Balun blinked in momentary confusion, then let out a half-chuckle as the pounding rhythm of what could only be described as light metal washed over him. It wasn't quite his flavour—he preferred the guttural roar and raw aggression of true hardcore metal, the kind where the vocalist sounded like they were exorcising demons—but it was close enough.

If the goal had been to distract, someone had made a grave miscalculation.

Instead, the soundtrack only served to spike his adrenaline. The beat matched the tempo of his blood—fast, unrelenting, and ready for the chaos to come.

Then came the blasterbolt.

It flared from one of the forward carriages in a streak of red light, aimed for the closest figure on the roof—his Master. Balun's heart seized, legs pumping harder to close the distance between them. Through their connection in the Force, he felt no fear of her dying—not here, not like this—but instinct still screamed at him to protect.

Her voice crackled through the commlink a moment later, laced with biting sarcasm. Something about pet names. Something about bushy brows.

"'Bushy Brow?'" Balun echoed incredulously, narrowing his eyes as he glanced toward Ala Quin . "He must be talking about you," he added dryly, his voice trailing into a breathless snort of laughter barely audible over the rushing wind.

But the humour passed quickly. The danger was real.

"Master, the objective's the priority. Go—get ahead. I've got this clown." There was no hesitation in his tone—only conviction.

With a practised motion, he drew his K-16 Bryar Pistol from its holster on his left hip, its weight familiar and comforting. His right hand dropped to the hilt at his waist, fingers curling around the emitter shroud of his lightsaber. A snap-hiss tore through the din of the wind and music, his amber blade flaring to life, a copper blaze against the encroaching threat.

He stepped forward, angling himself between Ala and the attacker— V01D Ω (Void Omega) —deliberately keeping a safe distance for now. The lightsaber remained low at his side, humming with restrained energy. He hadn't shifted into a formal stance yet; no need to reveal his form before the fight had begun. Let the enemy wonder. Let him guess.

Balun's stance was calm but ready, forged through a life of improvisation and survival. This was his element—and he would not let his Master face it alone.

"Speech".
'Thought'.​

 

[Magdalena Bloodscrawl]

The Template was busy dropping Light Side Items through the portal when a massive wave of sonic energy hit.

Due to the specs of her Ritual Armor, she was able withstand the worst of its effects, but was momentarily staggered, her normally gorgeous features distorting as skin warped and bubbled constantly, and did not stop, and it looked absolutely disgusting (Her whole flesh wriggled and bubbled all across her body almost like chewing gum) and she looked completely deformed and distorted as she turned to face U40a .

"tHaT wAs a MIStAkE..." the voices of multiple witches in her said as she hissed a spell that would hopefully damage the small Droid's chassis telekinetically, face warping and bubbling into distorted versions of every witch inside of her...

Briana Sal-Soren

Caltin Vanagor

Bastila Sal-Soren

K4-ZAN

Lorn Reingard

Jerec Asyr

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Her saber moved in a clean arc, catching the second dagger with practiced precision. She was done entertaining his flailing desperation. Each of his movements reeked of chaos, of a cornered animal lashing out;yet there was something deliberate in this last throw. A distraction?

And she fell for it.

His hand wasn’t reaching to strike. It was reaching elsewhere.

Her senses caught up a half-second too late. The Force surged; sharp, heavy, tainted. Not an explosion, but a coiling knot of intent. Both Dark and familiar.

Kudau’s fingers closed around a circular device nestled deep in the container’s shadows. The moment he yanked it free, Bastila's expression shifted from focused to sharp alarm. She stepped forward, saber already arcing down to disarm him.

But he beat her to it.

With a snap-hiss and a burst of crimson light, the red lightsaber ignited in his grip.

The sound punched through the space like a thunderclap; wrong, searing, final. Bastila’s breath caught. Not because she feared him, but because it confirmed everything she'd been dreading.

He wasn’t some petty thief caught in the wrong cargo hold.

He knew what he was doing.

And worse, he’d been hiding it.

She pivoted sharply, her saber instinctively drawn back into a defensive stance, the hum of her own blade clashing against his newly lit one as she met him head-on. The pressure in the air thickened; the Force bending between them, resisting.

“You were hiding it,” she said under her breath, it wasn’t a question. “You are a Sith.”

She engaged, the crackling of duelling sabers now the sound that filled the carriage. A parry near the face, a strike towards the legs. It was like every training room she’d ever been in but more intense, yet still…

There was something wrong. He fought with a strange method, like he’d never really been shown how to actually use a lightsaber, a weapon that to the untrained was difficult to manage.

“Who are you?”

Kudau

​

 

[Mauve du Vain]

Ticket to Ride

Objective 3

In the passenger car immediately behind the engine car, Mauve studed the glass crystal ball they stole, while growing increasingly restless for three reasons.

First, that guard still had not returned with her wine, which, was patently ridiculously. She began to think he may have run off and died.

Second, she realized she left the lights on in her Nar Shaddaa condominium. She might have to bribe an official just to get the bill down. Or convince a technician the readings were wrong. Ugh.

Third, that absolute racket of the electronic stringed instruments was wailing - if possibly - even louder than before. Along with an absurdly loud noise earlier. Determined to lodge a complaint in the form of an ion paddle-beam to the neck, she tucked her paddle beamer into her girdle, and marched toward the other end of the compartment.

She didn't even bother to put down the orb on her way. Although honestly, if she did, she was worried someone might steal it. She thought she recognized it from an "Art of the Nightsisters" exhibit on Coruscant. She just couldn't remember how it exactly it worked.

Barely able to hear her own thoughts from the caterwauling of the next car, Mauve tugged open the door,

"Would you please tu-"

normally gorgeous features distorting as skin warped and bubbled constantly, half the skin and muscles on her face sagging, almost looking like it was melting off her skull, (Her right arm even looked like the skin and muscles had partly degloved from the skeleton) which partly exposed her eye socket and lower half of the skull as she turned to face U40a U40a .

The words died on her lips, as words often do when confronted with the sight of a swirling magic portal, a woman with half her face sloughing off, a tone-deaf droid, and a compartment full of assorted dismembered limbs.

She saw a body bereft of both arms, recognized the face, and felt her heart sink a little. No wonder her wine was late. He really had gotten himself killed.

Her initial inclination was to slam the door shut and pretend she had not seen anything, but the droid - at least - she recognized as a Black Sun asset. Additionally, she was rather lacking in the "strange magic portal" knowledge department, but she tended to err on the side of bad. Quite bad.

Luckily, she realized she might, in fact, be able to help.

"Droid," she couldn't recall its designation, could only hope it heard and acted, "Catch!"

She lobbed the crystal ball underhanded toward the wicked phonophiliac droid, realizing much belatedly that it did appear to be somewhat lacking in the arm department.

Maybe it would not matter. If the crystal ball was what she thought it was, then all that mattered was... proximity.


Magdalena Bloodscrawl U40a

 

[Victra Rinnel]

CIB Operative Victra Rinnel
Mos Algo | Tatooine
TAG: Ferren Vaal | Agent Damocles | Eight
GEAR: X | X

Victra froze.

Not out of fear but calculation. That sound. The ffwumph of a small, surgical charge. Not a panic shot, not an accident. Controlled. Measured. Professional. And too godsdamned close.

Her eyes flicked to the stairwell, where the clean heat shimmered slightly different. Not sunlight. Movement. She smelled it before she saw it: the sterile tang of proper kit, foreign tech on desert wind.

Her pulse didn't quicken. But her grip on the hilt of her knife tightened. Rifle slung. Knife in hand. There wasn't time to be loud.

Eight was already watching her, half-pivoted, phrik haul still hanging over his shoulder like a dead man's debt. She gave him one look, tight, deliberate, and held up two fingers. Then circled them in the air.

Two incoming. Military posture. Not civvies. Not Black Sun.

"Eyes sharp," she whispered across their encrypted channel.

The kill-command on the data terminal hadn't finished its full recursive loop. She snarled in her throat, just barely audible, and yanked the backup drive from the port with a quick flick. The drive was bone white. Standard issue. Nothing identifying, except the information inside. Which meant one thing.

"Package needs fire," she muttered. "Now."

She slammed the drive into a purge clamp on the wall, meant for misbehaving astromechs, repurposed for sins. Heat swelled instantly. Her visor dimmed against the glow.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of goggles, just a sliver, framed by a moment of displaced dust. Compact build. Compact movement. Whoever they were, they weren't part of Black Sun. She knew Arcadian's goons, this wasn't them.

Which left one thing.

"Not locals," she whispered again. Then louder, to Eight: "This is an investigation. Not ours."

Her tone was razor-flat, even as her mind spun like a slicer's drill.

She dropped the clamp. The drive inside was slagged. Unreadable. Satisfying.

Then she moved, silent-footed, slinking across the wall toward the emergency exhaust shaft she'd clocked when they first arrived. It was narrow, hadn't been used in cycles, but she could fit. Maybe Eight too, if he hunched his shoulders.

Their exit plan was gone.

Time for improvisation.

She clicked her comm again, short-range this time, untraceable bounce.
<"Shadow Door. Plan Bravo. Rendezvous in orbit. Dead drop fallback: Talrin Crater. If we don't make the window, burn the cradle.">
​

 

[Roman Vossari]

Lieutenant Roman Vossari
Geonosian Ship | Geonosis
TAG: Ariadne
GEAR: X | X | X | X | X

Roman didn't move when she ghosted behind him. Didn't twitch when her breath slid across his neck like a razor whispered through silk. Every instinct screamed, every muscle begged for the kill shot. But Roman Vossari was made of slower things. He let her circle, let her perform.

It was the same act she'd worn on Serenno, just dressed in new skin.

"I know it was you," he said flatly, like stating a date, a time, a line from a file burned into his memory. "You changed your gait, got the jawline shaved, new eyes, new voice modulator. But the rhythm's still there. Same pattern of movement. Same sick little games."

His eyes tracked her every step, mechanical, not emotional. A hunter logging vectors.

"You left the kill zone through a sewer shaft beneath the Ministerial Wing. Took a maintenance skiff off the coast at Larka Sound. You killed the pilot. Kept the ID. Traveled under a new name. I followed your trail through Ord Mantell, Denon, Ziost. Every crime scene you didn't think was a scene."

He stepped forward now, slow and grim. His voice was quieter. Closer. Worse.

"I know what you did with his body, Ariadne. I know how long you stood there after it was done."

He stopped just outside of reach. Close enough that she could strike, and he could fire. Neither of them did. That was always the problem, neither of them ever blinked first.

"You think I want a name to hurt them? That's a bonus." His grip tightened on the rifle. "I want the name so I know who to kill after I'm done with you."

A beat passed. His eyes didn't waver. Didn't blink.

"And don't insult both of us with arrangements. You're not here to make deals." His voice dropped into something far more dangerous. Not louder. Just final. His finger brushed the trigger.

"Give me the name."
​

 

[Rhys Gorne]

​

Michael Angellus Kyle Torchwood Trajan Fett KRONOS-555

Rhys – Above Geonosis, Edge of the Wreckfield​

They came in quietly.

A slim column of five N-1s dropped from hyperspace in a flash of blue starlights, their formation already fanned into a staggered triangle as the mottled silhouette of Geonosis rotated below them. The lead ship—black-paneled, with a sharp silver nose and navy stripes flanking its hull—cut a clean line through the field.

Inside, Rhys kept one hand steady on the yoke while the other tapped through a stream of alerts populating his forward display. There were distress beacons, sensor ghosts, scrambled friend-or-foe pings. It was all a headache waiting to happen.

"Bravo Leader to Bravo Squadron. We're on station."

A chorus of green lights flickered across his HUD as his squadron, or at least the ones who had entered with him and not already engaging checked in.

"Reading kinetic spikes, Commander. Looks like someone's been busy."
"Hot zones are already forming. Who’s that broadcasting emergency clearance? That’s not ours."
"Picking up seismic detonations. Holy—one just cooked half a klick of field."

Rhys flicked a switch and pulled up Bravo Five's comm log, Kyle’s voice, sharp and resolute, cutting through a haze of static:

“This is a coordinated strike. That distress signal was bait. Recommend engagement protocol. We are under attack.”

That was all he needed.

"Copy, Five. Bravo Leader acknowledging. Initiating combat engagement protocol Kresh-Two." There was no hesitation, no declaration of intent. It just happened. He keyed into the tactical net shared with the Republic Diplomatic Corps and Naboo Security Fleet. His voice, smooth and level, went out system-wide:

“To all vessels in proximity of Geonosis: this is Commander Rhys Ghorne, of the Royal Naboo Republic. Our formation is under coordinated assault by hostile parties. I am giving the clear to engage.” He flicked back to squadron comms. "Bravo two, seven; lock in on the predator-class profile pinging our rear field. It launched the seismic. Keep it off our back. eight, nine—intercept the cluster tagging Five and four. I want clean lanes for counterstrike."

Rhys pulled his throttle back and rolled beneath a mangled dreadnought fragment, eyes scanning. He caught a gleam of gold off a Naboo fighter below; Bravo four, Michael. Still alive. Engaged and running support for Torch. Brave bastards, the both of them.

Rhys angled down and dove, locking his forward cannons on the mess happening beneath him.

“Bravo Leader—engaging.” Even he couldn't keep the smile from breaking on his lips. “Michael. Kyle. You’ve got cover. Let’s clean this up.”

 

[Kesh Hevro]

SHADOWS OF THE MARA CORRIDOR
Wayward Son - Chapter 1
———
GEAR: Customized Type 76 Covert Armour | Type 73 Compact Pistol | Type 74 Assault Rifle
TAG: D-M0N | General Xor | Open

TURN ON THE LIGHTS​

GEONOSIS

Kesh and the Hellions Commando didn’t have to wait for too long. <Captain, The Confederate Fleet are done shooting holes on the Hives,> Lesjrac, Hellions naval crew reported to the Pyke. It’s showtime. Kesh checked his orbital drop pod one last time, strapping himself to the devices that connect him with the pod.

<Hellions! We’re dropping in 2,> his rifle is slinged on his back, pistol concealed, various grenades strapped to his gear.

Another day, another mission. Another wretched planet like Ka’thaa’rahn, yet with thousand times more enemies. Bigger engagements, even higher stakes. Hundreds of thousands, millions even, would die. Yet it doesn’t deter nor faze Kesh.

The God giveth, the God taketh away. Birth is punishment, and death is salvation. He’ll fight to die, or live another day with the weight of glory on his shoulders.

<LAUNCH!>

One by one, orbital drop pods are shot down from the Hellions Light Cruiser, straight towards the first hive of Geonosis. It took a minute to launch them all, until at last it’s the captain’s turn. His pod glides the sky, thrusting Geonosis atmospheres, crashing the rest of the hive’s ceilings, hitting the ground with the rubbles of the insects’ sanctuary, smashing helpless Geonosians in the process.

<Touching down!>

His pod opens, and the first bug he sees he took down with a single shot. They all look the same to the Hellions Command, Stalgasin or rivals.

This is the Confederacy’s reckoning, the bugs will be wiped once and for all. And let it be warning to the rest of the galaxy.​

 

[Ferren Vaal]

​

Ferren Vaal – Interior Corridor, Upper Level Access – Tatooine
Agent Damocles | Eight | Victra Rinnel​

The charge had gone off clean; no overburn, no debris scatter, just the sharp, surgical ffwumph of a professional cut. He’d barely blinked when it happened, because Damoclus didn’t miss. She worked like a ghost; no chatter, no drama. Just results. That was why he trusted her to set the breach while he watched the angles.

And now… now, something was off.

There was the smell of heat on the air, not Tatooine residual warmth but something more deliberate. It stank of slagging, a process in which you panicked and felt compromised enough to burn an entire terminal. This sent a shiver up his spine and his hand moved to his blaster and unclipped it.

He crouched low, fingers brushing the floor.

fine grit and the sand that had escaped the desert, disrupted by a tight set of footprints. Lighter than his. Too deliberate to be Black Sun. Two sets. One heavy, one quick. One of them was dragging weight, based on the imprint and depth. Not equipment he recognized, yet not a haul a slicer would bother with.

That meant intel. Or hardware.

His visor flicked briefly; Damoclus's signal pinged from a nearby alcove. Already repositioning. Good. She was always one step ahead, already tracking the fallback angles before he even finished triangulating the movement paths. She would be doing her own sweep attempting to confirm presence or buy them both some time.

He kept moving.

The stairwell was still. Not quiet. Still. Airflow had changed. Someone had moved through it fast. No body heat left behind, but the fine desert dust hadn't resettled. He inhaled once. Again the faint, surgical tang of scorched circuitry and synthetic polymer. Something had gone into melt. Not from blaster fire. It was the slagging, he was sure of it. Someone was wiping something they couldn’t afford to let walk.

His fingers tapped the side of his vambrace. Pulse ping. Low power. It would relay Republic code back to Damoclus allowing them to communicate silently.

<“Potentially Two individuals. Movement vector suggests military background or former spec-ops. Heat bloom suggests terminal wipe. Debris field confirms recent occupancy. We should lock down the access shaft as we go down.”>

A pause.

Ferren’s brow creased, he took a slow step forward, boots gliding quiet across the stone.

There was a message here, in the silence and heat. He didn’t know who they were yet; but they weren’t Black Sun. Arcadian’s people didn’t move like this. Too clean. Too surgical. Too deliberate in their burn trails. This was an op. Not a raid.

And now it was their op too.

He pressed his back to the corridor wall, visor dimmed, heart steady.

<“We either spring the trap or let them think they’ve slipped and I’ll pursue while you try to find out something from this mess. Still no eyes on them yet though.”>

His hand made sure his blaster was very much in reach.

 

[Kudau]

Objective 3: Bastila Sal-Soren

As Kudau realized he was still alive, his eyes shot back open, no longer flinching from her immanent attack. He heard her breath hitch, followed by a small retreat, allowing his eyes to dart along the red saber he had in his hand. The light raced through his dark grey and black fur. It was perhaps a blessing from the force, or a curse, gauging from the woman's reaction...

"You are a Sith."

She said it with such disdain that he didn't even think to correct her in the moment. Instead, he looked back up, with barely enough time to notice her engage. She was dead set on her goals, and he had to be ready for her...

Kudau heard the next strike, then the next, and the next. Each one rang in his ears, making them twitch. He relied more on his instincts and concentration in the force to dodge attacks than to block with his saber. Even his technique with the device was unrefined to his standards, but all he had to fall on was how to wield a dagger in hand...

He noticed that she was fighting ahead of him, as if she thought there was some grand plan to get her to slip. He had no choice but to match her intensity. Then, she asked him a question he thought she just answered herself: "Who are you?"

It caught Kudau off guard. She had just said he was a Sith, which was untrue, but now she asked him who he was? A thought occurred in his mind that this may be a misunderstanding of alliances. If this was true, and their altercation could be solved without fighting, then he definitely wanted to stop fighting her...

He had to get back control of the altercation. Quickly. As Kudau blocked a definitive strike from her, he noticed the saber's circular hilt, with multiple buttons. He pressed one, and the second blade sparked to life. He quickly concentrated enough to push her a good distance away from him before hitting another button. The blades started spinning around the circular hilt, almost getting himself singed. He definitely looked like he had never seen this technology before...

He held the spinning blade like a shield in front of him as he looked back at the woman, seeing if she would engage again. As he saw her debate her options in the moment, he saw an opportunity for clarification.

"I will protect myself, but I do not wish to fight you. I'll tell you who I am if you do the same..."

 

[Trajan Fett]

F E T T
BOUNTY HUNTER
PERSONA NON GRATA
CONTRACT | BLACK SUN
ENGAGING | Kyle Torchwood | Rojuhr Pouihl
THE BASTARD
BLACK SUN | Jek Raynar | KRONOS-555
NABOO | Rhys Gorne | Michael Angellus

SUPA​

The comms silence from The Bastard may have been an unnerving reality to both friend and foe as it continued to blast a bloody swathe in pursuit of the Naboo starfighters. Only the distressed voice of the freighter captain who recorded his faux distress had emerged from it, the voice lines done whilst a blaster pistol was pressed against the back of his neck. A convincing enough job for Fett to blast a bloody swathe through the Naboo starship detail that had been sent into the debris fields. And hopefully, in the case of Fett- enough to earn a hefty pay day.

After another sweep of his rapid fire blaster cannons and a pair of concussion missiles sent into the mix, the engines of The Bastard roared with a steep ascent, twisting the patrol craft to avoid the rear thrust of a cracked star destroyer before he suspended into a more sparse swathe of the field once more. He tapped the comms push-to-talk, linking in the Black Sun fighters in-action over Geonosis.

<"Stray clear vicinity 533-329...or drag your mark into it. Ten seconds."> Trajan spoke in a rather flat, cold and foreboding message before he snapped the yoke to begin his run back toward the formation of Loki-class cruisers he'd hit in the initial run.

His array of rapid fire cannons came alight in a rapid wail of fire along the top deck of the lead ship, running above it in a close strafe, catching a smattering of errant point-defense rounds which smacked against the deflector shields of The Bastard before he snapped the engines to full throttle, Fett's thumb flicking the red button cover of the seismic charge launcher once more, flailing one from the aft of the vessel in the center of the formation and once more- the battle space around it snapped into an abrupt silence followed by another violent CRACK of a second seismic charge in the debris field.

 

[Tomis Lasky]

SHADOWS OF THE MARA CORRIDOR
Objective 2: Battle of Stalgasin Hive
———
GEAR: X | X | X | X | X
TAGS: D-M0N | General Xor | Kesh Hevro
Bug Smashin' Time

GEONOSIS
Lasky hustled into the awaiting team room, drop pods lining the corridor as he hurried past them. The standby lights holding a dim red glow, and the booming voice over the PA system rang out. "NOW HEAR THIS, NOW HEAR THIS - DROP TROOPERS STAND BY, 5 MINUTES TO DROP."

This assembly area was big enough for his entire platoon to be briefed. His current commanding officer, a Lieutenant, a new face to him - jumped up on a nearby chair, and began to address the assembled platoon of troopers. "Alright, fleets plugged so many holes in the hive roof at this point. We're punching in to assist droid forces in the ground fight-" He prattled on as the assorted troopers did final weapon and gear checks. Some tightening down packs and back straps for one another. Lasky was toward the rear, with his medical kit out on a table. Giving it a final once over to ensure he had everything needed for a combat drop.

It was habitual, ritualistic even. He always kept his kit stocked, it wasn't a concern, it was just part of his pre-battle meditation of sorts. Lasky to date had only been dropped twice, once as the final exercise for his training as a drop trooper. The other as a live training exercise for this exact scenario. So no combat drops, this would be the one to "pop his cherry" as the more experienced troops often said in jest.

Satisfied with their equipment, Lasky and the others moved back to the line of pods, standing face to face with their own custom coffins. A morbid thought to accompany a morbid occasion. Then the standby lights flashed from red to green. Nearly in unison the troops stepped into their pods, mounting weapons in holders and activating the door locks on the pods. Just as they'd drilled countless times before. Squad interface screens flickering to life as the pods powered up upon closing. His Lieutenant's helmeted face on the right screen.

It felt like a lifetime and an instant all at once - the pods launched and before Lasky knew it, the pointed base of his pod crunched through the hive's weakened roof structure. Seconds later it made contact with the ground, and the pressurized ecosystem inside the pod released. Sending the door forward with such tremendous violence.

The telltale 'HISSSSSSSS' and ejection of the door, clattering against a pillar of stone several feet away. The sickening crunch of Genosian carapace being cracked beneath the door. The easily identifiable iodine colored blood seeped out. Swallowing Lasky's attention entirely. His first enemy combatant, killed with his drop pod door.
​

 

[U40a]

OBJECTIVE THREE

she hissed a spell that would hopefully damage the small Droid's chassis telekinetically

"Droid," she couldn't recall its designation, could only hope it heard and acted, "Catch!"

She lobbed the crystal ball underhanded toward the wicked phonophiliac droid, realizing much belatedly that it did appear to be somewhat lacking in the arm department.

Maybe it would not matter. If the crystal ball was what she thought it was, then all that mattered was... proximity.

Euphortia was not programmed to feel satisfaction at the physiological changes that the hostile individual experienced after the recording.

It registered multiple structural issues of its own in ways that matched no diagnostic profile. It was about to gain distance for risk reduction when it received a new directive from a Black Sun member, a female Zeltron.

To comply with the directive, it protruded its fifteen-centimetre utility manipulators and caught the internally illuminated green sphere. The sphere came to rest against Euphortia's primary photoreceptor, which ceased to produce useful visual data.

The purpose of the green sphere could not be determined from available data. Pending further instructions, Euphortia switched to the next tactical track at maximum volume.

 

[K4-ZAN]

[Obj 3] Ticket to Ride
Tags: Morex , Lorn Reingard , Bastila Sal-Soren (Soon)

Its head tilted at the perplexing offer. No one has to die, the being said. Some organics were so confusing. It was simply an illogical statement—contradictory, even, to how organics worked. When they stepped upon each-others territory, death was nearly always inevitable. It was their nature.

The enforcer that stepped up to the side of the droid only made the point more clear. “A being with no grasp on reality, it would seem.” Came the curt reply sidelong. Shutters around the receptor narrowed, and widened at the process of thoughts.

“I hope you keep that politeness when blood is drawn. Screams are so unseemly.” Quipped the droid. There was no further conversation to be had from it thereafter. Only the sudden shift of motion.

It had flitted to the right side of the Jedi with a twist of the blade into a lowered stance. The distance was already closed in a few strides. A rising strike was the first move from the droid that arced directly towards their chest—a testing stroke of the blade to see just how capable they were in handling themselves. They had no visible weapon on them, but surely they didn’t come with just their fists and their wits.

If it so had to, it would force out a dance of conflict. If only to witness yet another spark of such foreign sensation. His cut was only the opening prose—it doubted the meathead could fit in. And yet, perhaps there was a touch of curiosity somewhere that it could.

 

[Rik Perris]

TICKET TO RIDE
ENROUTE to BLACK SUN OUTPOST
MONASTERY​

A chuckle came from the cockpit when Briana gave the reminder to activate their mag boots because it’d keep them from falling off, and though none of the strike team could see it, the pilot shook his head when his friend quipped about ‘old times’ as he inched the Set down a little further for the jump. The deja-vu occurred to the pilot, Vizion, same as the others that had been there on Cato Niemoidia that small handful of years ago, only this time, they weren’t jumping into a trap. The intel was better this time.

Rik lined up behind Briana and Lossa, stepping into place alongside Sera while Briana quipped, and Lossa responded. Further snickering issued from the cockpit. He glanced to the Sera beside him, who’d only just arrived at Naboo before getting roped into this, and shrugged, while Briana and Lossa leapt away into the open air and careened down to the moving train, below.

Old times? How many trains had they jumped on, before this? It couldn’t be that common, but none of this was a shock - he’d leapt out or off at higher points before, himself. Rik stepped up to the egress, “Here goes,” he said, just before following suit, dropping, activating the mag boots, and the application of telekinetic resistance to land with a thud brought on largely by the weight of his body, rather than being intensified by the speed of his fall… like the many variations of this that he’d done before, armoured or not, moving surface or not.

Briana’s scream, checking in with them, at first was met with a brief pause, but soon received a thumbs-up in response. Wordlessly, he followed when she said to, but this was deliberate, rather than automatic. He’d worked with her on a couple of other occasions, but her being in charge of a team like this was new for him, and the little things that differed from how he was acclimated to operating were provoking an unintentional mental tally. A record.

It felt a bit weird, and initial weirdness was par for the course, with any new arrangement. But when Briana cut them an entrance, doing everything herself, and hopped down into the carriage, Rik nudged Sera, and turned his head to the side and down towards the Deneban while keeping sidelong attention on the open hatch:

“We padawans or knights?”

A quiet observation. A hand popped up through the hatch, beckoning them down with another directive. He approached the hatch, lowered himself down into the carriage, and waited for Sera to join them.

“Lots of cars to cover, yeah,” he’d assert once Sera was within, hands hooked loosely at his hips, “let’s switch to comms and split. You take the front,” he gestured to Briana; Lossa went that way, also, but on top of the train, and from here there were fewer cars in that direction, “we take the back.”

UPCOMING FOE: Rathmar Praji
DIRECT ALLY: Sera Rosh
OTHER ALLIES: Briana Sal-Soren • Lossa Aureus​

 

[Ariadne]

She didn't recoil from his words. She absorbed them. Each one like a palm pressed to her skin, warm, deliberate, remembered.

"Of course you followed me," she said softly, fingers curling slowly over the air between them. "I always liked how thorough you were."

Ariadne moved closer, not with urgency, but with intent. She let the distance shrink to something precarious. One more step and he could feel her. One more heartbeat and she'd be inside the reach of his rifle.

Instead, she reached out, not for his throat, nor for his chest, but for the weapon itself.

Her fingers ghosted over the barrel, trailing up to where his hand gripped it. She didn't tug, didn't force. She merely touched, letting the cool pad of her synthetic thumb trace the knuckle of his trigger finger.

"You remember the wrist?" she asked, head tilting with mock concern. "I felt the snap. So clean. You broke beautifully."

She leaned in, so close now her breath brushed his cheek.

"And your chest...still ache on cold mornings?"

Then she whispered it. A name. Not the name, never that. But one that sounded real enough. "Thess Varo."

A false gift, wrapped in honey.

She stepped back half a pace, just enough to breathe. Her blade lifted with a purr of light, shimmering azure against the shadows, casting a soft, ominous glow across her cheekbones. The shape of her, sculpted muscle, smooth steel, and silk skin, looked carved from some dream too dangerous to touch.

The sword tilted, lazily, to one side. But her tone didn't waver. "You can hunt Thess when we're done here."

She let the words settle before continuing, slower, clearer. Her voice dipped just enough to drag across the senses. "I have all my original functions, Roman." She smiled one of those smiles that didn't reach her eyes.

"But this blade doesn't leave room for medics. Or bacta. Or recovery."

She advanced again, blade low, hips swaying, like something divine and damned all at once.

"If you were going to kill me, you would've done it already. So…what is it you really want to do to me?"

OUTFIT: Black Sun Enforcer Uniform | TAG: Roman Vossari |​