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

[Nero Drake]

ORBITAL WRECKAGE FIELD
Rhys Gorne Michael Angellus Kyle Torchwood Trajan Fett Jek Raynar Telmu Gomravik

"Karabast!" Nero cursed, "I can't shake him!"

Help wasn't coming. Only a fool relied on pirate's honor and this N1 pilot seemed determined to see him dead. Pure instinct kept the outlaw alive while what's left of his squadron dealt with their own problems. Even Nero's luck was bound to run out before the royal jackboots hounding him made a mistake.

"I've got a terrible plan."

Despite trying to talk himself out of it, Nero turned into the wake of the Black Sun gunship's last seismic charge. They'd have to be crazy to follow him because only a complete idiot would attempt to run this kind of gauntlet. Geonosian debris clouds disturbed by violent shockwaves loomed ahead on a collision course.

Somehow he threaded the needle between junk showers. Even Nero couldn't believe his insane gamble had paid off. Then something heavy struck the hull lighting up his cockpit with master alarms before the starfighter's canopy went dark. Drifting without power it was only a matter of time before the N1 caught up and finished him off.

"This ain't the end for Nero Drake," the masked pirate snarled while tearing some cables loose from under his crash seat.

Nero hoped the same basic principles for jumpstarting swoop engines could also work for starfighters or he was a dead man.

 

[Rojuhr Pouihl]

​

Mission Entry:
.

"Incoming Damage reports... they're heavy, sir."

Start trasferring all we can to the Beta and the Charlie.

"More ships incoming"

Show them the weight of their mistake, all available weapons!

CRACK

"INCOMING SCHOCKWAVE!"

BRACE!

If the crew were prepared, the deflector shields would have fairly easily turned away the initial hit of this initial tsunami of destruction. Life has a way of getting in front of your plans. The Delta was not in position to receive the shockwave, so they are not in the mix of this, but the Beta and the Charlie were both slammed by the charge, which detonated less than even a defensible distance away. The Beta and the Charlie were reporting damages, but they were nominal and they would survive.

The Alpha... less so...

A huge gaping mass of structure ripped out of the bridge bulkhead. Nine poor souls were ripped out into the void before safety walls rolled into place.
That was just the bridge. Rojuhr, trying to protect a young Ensign was sent flying across the bridge and into one of the pillars, sending it crashing to the floor and bringing a section of that part of the ceiling down on him.

"Damage Reports coming in!"

"Hull Breaches all decks!"

"Engineering has a coolant leak they cannot stop..."

The stations tried to hold it together as safety crews (and XO - Commander Timmun) tried to pull the Captain to safety. They didn't have to tell him though, he knew. Computer... set auto... destruct...

"Captain... sit down... just relax... ALL HANDS! This is acting Captain Timmun... abandon ship! All hands to escape Pods! Abandon ship!"

Computer asking //Authorization Required//

Pouihl... Alpha...17...

Computer asking //Authorization Required from Commander Vinnu Timmun. Do you acknowledge auto-destruct.//

"Acknowledged."

//Auto Destruct engaged. Will commence in 300 seconds,//

(Thread exit)
Rhys Gorne | Kyle Torchwood | Trajan Fett | Nero Drake Jek Raynar

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

OBJECTIVE TWO: Battle of Stalgasin Hive
Suggested Characters: RNR Starfighter Corps, Senators, Black Sun Boarders, Pirates, CIS Ground Forces
Journal Entry:
.

”...intercept the cluster tagging Five and four. I want clean lanes for counterstrike."
…
“Bravo Leader—engaging.” … “Michael. Kyle. You’ve got cover. Let’s clean this up.”

Acknowledged. Good Hunting! I don’t truly feel like a “Jedi” right now, at least not yet, but I don’t feel right about saying the traditional pilot phrase..

Beoop

Don’t say that! BRED meant well, but his insistence that I had the shot incoming on this ship and it was a matter of time was not true. Yes, things looked good, but things don’t always break your way, and I had to be ready for it.

BooEEP

Almost. This pirate was panicking. Enough TO FLY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BIGGEST SOUP OF DEBRIS! FRAK!

I managed to dodge a huge piece of floating hull, but a turbolaser barrel hit the cockpit shield. It’s cracked.

AOOOOO

I know! Switching to my oxygen mask and visor. I needed a second to seal the mask, and the visor before switching off the cabin pressure. It was only going to cause issues in handlingI managed to get everything set up just in time. The cabin pressure was off, and I could breathe safely. The cracked cockpit shield was going to be a problem, but I had to focus on the mission. The pirate wouldn’t get away that easily.
On my call… launch those torpedoes…

BooEEEP

Wait… Wait… NOW!

The torpedoes flew and while I was creating more debris, I was clearing my path.

He’s damaged!

That is when things happened… I saw the RNV Alpha go up in a fireball…


Trajan Fett Jek Raynar Telmu Gomravik Nero Drake (engaging atm)
Rhys Gorne Kyle Torchwood

 

[Roman Vossari]

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

Roman's body didn't betray him, jut his breath did. Just one hitch. Barely there. The kind of sound a dying man makes when the pain hasn't quite caught up yet. She had always known how to do this. How to thread her voice between his ribs like wire. How to press herself into the seams of his armor until it felt like she belonged there.

His grip on the rifle stayed firm, but his trigger finger, that traitorous bastard, hesitated under the touch of her synthetic thumb. Her whisper of Thess Varo rang in his skull, echoing around the hall of names he'd already collected and buried.

She stepped back, and Roman found himself stupidly watching the curve of her cheek catch the blade's glow. His own face, all shadow and scars, reflected faintly in the plasma. He looked like a ghost. Maybe he was.

She moved like temptation with muscle memory. A thing that should be worshipped or destroyed, but never ignored.

And then she said it. If you were going to kill me, you would've done it already. That one landed. Sharp. Accurate.

Roman exhaled, slow. Controlled. But there was something rattling underneath it now. Something messy.

"You're a manipulative piece of work," he muttered, barely above a whisper. Not rage. Not contempt. Something more dangerous. "You try to rot me from the inside before I pull the trigger. Like always."

His rifle dipped a fraction. Enough that he hated himself for it. His voice stayed steady, but there was a crack forming behind the dam.

"I don't want to touch you," he said, almost convincing himself. "I want to drag you back to that cell. Same kind of cell you left my father in. Strip the masks. Burn the names out of you."

She stepped closer again. He didn't stop her.

"I want to break what's left of you, Ariadne," he said, almost reverent now, unsure if that was actually true.

He finally looked at her eyes, really looked. And in his own: that flicker. That stutter. That terrible, irredeemable pause.

Roman had made a mistake. He let her get close. Again.
​

 

[Eight]

SHADOWS OF
THE MARA CORRIDOR
Blizzard - Chapter 1
———
TAG: Agent Damocles | Ferren Vaal | Victra Rinnel

MEMORA​

TATOOINE

<Might be Naboo.> Eight felt it too, sneaking, prying, creeping down his spine, grazing his bristles. But nothing else. They are clean, so clean he couldn’t thought of anyone else. Alliance, perhaps, but he’s not sure they got intel this accurate, this far. He pressed his hand to the materials of the wall, searching for any signs of movement outside.

It was tense, second feels like hours, the minuscule noise of the purge clamp sounds like a starcraft engine. Until she’s done with the purging and strides toward the emergency exhaust shaft. He followed behind her, putting his phrik hauls in front of him, pushing it as they crawl through the hatch and made their exit.

<Copy. Rendezvous in orbit.> Eight split from Victra as planned to increase the chance of escape. Mos Algo is far from the busiest shadowport in Tatooine. Everything here is secretive, hidden from the world by the Black Sun. It made it easier for him to navigate his escape, but harder to find something to escape with. He skirted the center of the outpost, far enough to avoid the Black Sun’s attention, but close enough to keep a lookout of any vehicles or mount he can jack.

He doesn’t want to resort to Talrin Crater, not if there’s another way. Black Sun patrols, corpos convoys, he’ll take his chance.​

 

[Magdalena Bloodscrawl]

The deformed Sorceress felt her flesh shudder violently everywhere, not just from the next Sound Blast from U40a but from feeling her energy be passively drawn into the sphere.

She felt herself weakening, the flesh on her arms already starting to shrivel. She kicked up a rifle from one of the guards she disabled, at such close range she could see the crystal clearly, and she was not about to lose to a flying boom box.

Magdalena opened fire, not used to fire arms, her shots spraying somewhat wildly, but enough to threaten the sphere and potentially the droid at the ranges she was spraying.

Even then, it was clear the sphere was having an effect. It was just that the creature whose flesh rippled and shuddered in an utterly disgusting manner was no ordinary Force User. She would not go down as quickly as others might.

Nevertheless, she was still weakening...

 

[Morex]

​

| Location | Train, Monastery
| Objective | III - Ticket to Ride

​

He continued to size up the figure before him. They carried an air of arrogance about him, or perhaps confidence, and judging by his handiwork not just a run of the mill individual trying to be a hero. He was either hired muscle from a competitor or what was more likely the case given the nature of their cargo and his intent to stop the train, a lightsaber wielding nutjob. ​

​

The latter spoke more to Morex as he replied, shaking his head to the stranger that identified himself and his intentions, his hands shifting to adjust his belt, "Yeah, that's not gonna happen friend... You're welcome to try me and the rustbucket though." ​

​

The droid was already in motion before Morex had finished his sentence. Better to let the droid be the first to find out what they were both dealing with, at least they could piece him back together. The Thyrsian slowly advanced through the train car after the droid as he threw his arms out to stretch them and ready himself.​

"Welcome to the pain train. Have your ticket ready to get punched."​

K4-ZAN | Lorn Reingard | Bastila Sal-Soren

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Purple light hissed through the shadows as Bastila steadied her footing, the Force thrumming along every frayed nerve. The other’s saber whirred like a scarlet turbine between them; spinning, showy, but unmistakably clumsy in hands that clearly hadn’t trained for it. He’s improvising, she realized, sifting through the swirl of his intent: fear, wariness and strangely not with the expected malice. The word Sith still tasted bitter on her tongue, yet the currents around him felt… untuned, half‑learned, nothing like the cold precision she had been told to guard for.

Bastila drew a long breath, letting the rise and fall smooth the throb in her pulse. Her own amethyst blade angled down to her side, still humming with life, still ready, but no longer an immediate dart at his heart.

“Very well,” she said at last, voice low but clear across the echoing corridor. “I will answer you—and I expect honesty in return.”

She paced a slow half‑circle, eyes never leaving the spinning shield of crimson. “My name is Bastila,” she continued, choosing to keep clan and titles folded away for now. “Jedi, sworn to defend the innocent and to end those who prey upon them. You ignited a red blade in a nest of slavers; I assume you can understand the conclusion I drew.”

Her free hand opened, palm down—a subtle invitation to lower the storm rather than a command. “If you are not Sith, disengage the rotor. Speak your name and purpose, and the next move need not be violence.” A faint edge crept into her tone, steel under silk. “Lie to me, or endanger those behind me; and I promise you, stranger, the Force will not grant you another reprieve.”

She waited, saber humming like a heartbeat, amber eyes fixed on his.

Kudau | Lorn Reingard

​

 

[Kudau]

A pause occurred as Kudau searched for the button he had pressed to engage the blades' rotation, before a click began the sound of the rotors coming to a halt, and the blades disengaging. He let out a heavy sigh of relief. "Jedi" meant that as long as he didn't provoke or upset them, then peace was guaranteed. Bastila was one such warrior that this peace was greatly appreciated. He replied to her, letting himself show how out-of-breath the engagement had made him...

"You're quite powerful, Bastila. I wish no harm on you or anyone else on this train, and I'm quite glad I don't have to fight you..."

He cleared his throat as he finally caught his breath, continuing...

"My name is Kudau. I am self-taught in the ways of the force. I have achieved my current abilities through independent practice, rather than following the light- or dark-sided paths. The force had drawn me to this train, and these artifacts, and my curiosity was ignited. As for my blade..."

He glanced at the circular artifact, then at Bastila's elegant violet saber...

"...it was an artifact that had caught my attention. I had no idea what it was, nor that it could even help me. It was on instinct that I grabbed it from its container. I apologize for the scare it caused."

He let his saber hand relax as he stood up straighter. His posture morphed into more of a greeting then a challenge. If she didn't still hold her blade to her side, he might have offered to shake her hand...

Bastila Sal-Soren

 

[Kyle Torchwood]

Trajan Fett | Michael Angellus | OPEN
​

Kyle swung his Sablehawk hard to port, shields flaring as particle fire screamed past his hull. Shrapnel danced off the canopy, charred plating from another N-1 vaporized in the last pass. Whoever was flying that patrol craft wasn’t just good… he was surgical. Tactical. A killer.

No comm chatter from the enemy. Not a single word since the false distress call. Just blast after blast. The Bastard moved like a blade, cutting through their formation, using the wreckage like camouflage and cover.

Kyle broke low, weaving under the jagged fuselage of a ruined freighter. The seismic charge had crippled their spacing. Another one might scatter them for good. His sensors were already screaming about rising heat from the predator ship’s rear bay.

“Not again.”

<<< “Bravo Five to squadron, I think he’s prepping another seismic! Break! Break now!” >>>

No time to watch who listened. He rolled beneath the drifting stabilizer of a gutted Republic gunship, just as the charge dropped. The blast came a heartbeat later. A muffled pulse in the bones followed by the sickening CRACK that shattered another quarter-klick of field into chaos.

“Frakking ghosts and lies…”

He keyed his comms. Still no uplink to surface control. Still no reply from command. All they had was each other.

<<< “Bravo Two, you still flying? I’ve got eyes on the hunter. He’s got a read on our patterns. Don’t give him a lane. We box him in and bleed his angles dry.” >>>

No reply. A flicker on the scope said Two was still moving. Barely.

Kyle looped wide to get an intercept vector. The predator had pulled off another run, now tearing toward the Loki-class cruiser line they’d been sent to protect. His HUD lit up with missile trails and incoming fire signatures from multiple directions. Friendly and otherwise.

Then the RNV Alpha exploded.
A fireball flared in the distance, expanding far too fast to be anything but fatal. The comms caught a scream before they died.

Kyle’s heart punched once, hard.

“That was our cover.”

Everything was falling apart.

“You’re not getting away, bastard.”

He throttled up, angling toward the patrol craft that had started this storm.

<<< “Bravo Five engaging hostiles… going after the ghost ship directly. Anyone with me, make it count. He’s not out here for loot. He’s out here for blood.” >>>

He locked his S-foils in combat position and pushed forward into the debris-choked void… Firing a volley of blaster bolts as he did.

​

​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Bastila watched in measured silence as the blades wound to a halt, the hum of heat cutting through the stale train air giving way to a quiet that rang louder than combat. The click of disengagement, the hiss of fading plasma, these were the sounds of a choice being made. A good one.

Her saber remained ignited at her side, but lowered. She studied him as he spoke: the tension bleeding from his shoulders, the rasp of honest breath, not performative exhaustion. He was no assassin, no cold-blooded killer. Not a Sith—at least not yet.

“Kudau,” she repeated, her tone more neutral now, though not yet warm. “The Force doesn’t always lead clearly. Sometimes it tests us through missteps.”

She took a small step forward, just enough to make clear that she no longer saw him as a target. “You’re fortunate that curiosity did not turn to bloodshed. Artifacts of this kind often carry more danger than guidance, especially when they find themselves in hands untrained in their history.” Her gaze dipped briefly to the weapon he’d wielded, then back up. “But if your intent was truly peace, then I accept your word.”

The violet saber hissed off, its glow vanishing with a subtle flick of her wrist. Her posture eased—not fully relaxed, but open, respectful. After a moment, she added, “You have skill. Raw, perhaps... but not without promise.”

There was a long breath, then: “Next time, Kudau, speak before drawing a weapon. The galaxy has far too many fights that could have been conversations.”

Then, almost dryly, with a flicker of rare humor in her voice: “Though I’m sure that little spin trick made quite the impression.”

She didn’t offer her hand yet. But she didn’t walk away, either. “Kudau, when the time comes, find me on Naboo; your abilities mark you out as one of promise. I know an order that can hone that, help you learn to control it.” Then her saber hissed away casting the carriage back into shadow. “I’d also advise you get off the train at some point, this isn’t going to be pretty.”

Kudau | Lorn Reingard

​

 

[V01D Ω (Void Omega)]

OBJECTIVE THREE: Ticket to Ride

V01D Ω​

---

TAGS: Ala Quin Balun Dashiell​

---

"Did we just get insulted, or recruited for a very aggressive amateur band?"

Void had heard them over the comlink, being connected into their system now. He laughed aloud. Another thing he loved about this body. "Hell yeah! That's the spirit! Fights and music and fun! Is that not what life is all about? Seeking thrills!"

He had considered blasting their tethers, but that would be no fun. He wanted a real fight. The two managed to find footing as the magnarail rocketed through the jungle. They ignited lightsabers; one golden, one copper. "Nice blades. I appreciate the fitting metallic colors," he called to them. The male even had a blaster. "And what are you, one of those Wild Spacers? I dig it, though. I'll gladly dance with both of you."

"Master, the objective's the priority. Go—get ahead. I've got this clown."

"I said both. Also, I'm not wearing makeup." He looked at the master. "If you leave him here alone, he'll likely die. I don't think you want that." For extra measure, he extended a blaster cannon from his left forearm. He'd blast toward anyone who thought about running.

---

 

[Ala Quin]

The wind lashed across the train like a living blade, rattling metal and tearing through every pause between words. But Ala Quin stood anchored, not by magnetics, but by the Force.

She heard Balun’s voice first. Firm and calm.

"Master, the objective's the priority. Go, get ahead. I've got this clown." Her brow lifted. Not in skepticism, but something far softer. Pride. Trust.

“You’ve got a real gift for understatement,” she murmured, still watching V01D. “But alright. Just don’t let him convert you to his taste in music.”

She meant to stay longer. Just an eyeroll more. But then V01D’s cannon unfolded with a hydraulic hiss and a smug little flourish.

“If you leave him here alone, he’ll likely die.”

Ala’s saber snapped into a ready guard as the cannon fired. The bolt burst toward her, but she moved with it, letting it graze past her shoulder as she stepped into its arc. The very edge of the plasma singed the fabric of her sleeve.

She didn’t flinch. “You talk too much,” she said. And then she moved.

One step. Two. A pivot. Her saber blade whipped out not to strike, but to catch the next bolt on its edge, spinning it just wide of Balun’s line.

She burst into motion like a streak of golden light, vaulting forward, feet pounding across the narrow train roof. At the last second, she dropped into a slide, letting her momentum carry her low beneath the next cannon barrel tilt.

Her fingers scraped the durasteel. Sparks flew. Wind howled.

Then she popped up.

She kicked off a side vent panel with a Force-boosted leap, somersaulting up and over V01D’s flank. Her cloak spiraled like a whip behind her, catching the fading light of her saber in streaks.

As she landed, she didn’t stop to taunt. She simply turned her head slightly toward Balun, voice quiet over the comm. “He’s all yours.”

And then she was off, sprinting again across the carriages, golden blade slicing through the mist as the train thundered on toward its deadly destination. She trusted him. Not because he was she believed he was ready. But because he simply was. And that made all the difference.

| Tag: Balun Dashiell V01D Ω (Void Omega) | |​

 

[Ariadne]

She was inside his reach now. The rifle extended uselessly beyond her, caught in dead air, while her presence settled into the hollow space between them. The air was intoxicating.

Ariadne's fingers slid into his hair with a gentleness that almost mocked him. She combed them through slowly, reverently, as if memorizing each strand. Her chest brushed his armor. The motion was firm and deliberate. Her breath mingled with his in the dark, one exhale away from a kiss.

"You don't want to drag me back," she whispered, low and sultry. "You want to keep me here. Like this. Just long enough to forget which of us is the monster."

Her tongue traced the seam of her lips, slow as a promise, and her blade moved with equal silence...down, and down, until the humming edge rested just barely against the fabric below his belt.

Not pressed. Not cutting. Just waiting. A shimmering question.

She smiled. It was both gorgeous, wicked.

"Tell me, Roman..." Her voice was breath over flame. "...do you want children?"

The glow of her weapon illuminated her face from below, throwing shadows beneath her lashes, casting her in an otherworldly light. She looked divine. And lethal.

"Because you're dangerously close to not getting that option." Her thumb, still tangled in his hair, flexed ever so slightly. Not to pull. Just to remind him she was there. All of her. Right there. "I could ruin you properly this time. In ways no surgeon could fix."

Her tone remained quiet. Intimate. As if they were discussing poetry.

"Legacy's such a fragile thing. One misstep..." She adjusted the blade's angle, a whisper of motion. "...and yours ends here."

| TAG: Roman Vossari |​

 

[Victra Rinnel]

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

Victra didn't like loose ends. She hated them.

She moved like static through the shaft, quiet, charged, crawling toward escape. The purge had done its job. Her prints were already gone, overwritten by ghosts. Eight split off just before the shaft exited into a half-collapsed thermal vent chamber, ducking east into the outer ring. She watched him go for half a second too long.

He'd make it. He had to. But she wasn't finished.

Victra paused in the gloom, dust thick in her visor, the stench of phrik dust and carbon scoring clinging to her like second skin. She reached into her jacket, pulled a small matte-black data spike from an interior holster, a leftover tool, not for sabotage, not today.

Today, it was bait.

She slipped it into the access point of an old atmos sensor mounted to the shaft wall, barely functioning, half-corroded. But it still linked to the local power mesh, which meant… yes. It would chirp in the background systems when queried. Like someone had forgotten to wipe it.

Like someone had been sloppy.

She left it there. A breadcrumb. Let the interlopers chew on it.

Then she turned back.

Crawled up three meters. Paused. Listened. The stairwell above was still wrong. Too much silence where there should've been interference. The kind of absence that screamed surveillance.

She climbed higher.

A small crawl vent, barely wide enough, opened out just beneath the second-tier security deck. She braced her body like a mantis, shoulders against metal, one hand unslinging a spyhole mic from her belt. She planted it against the duct.

Voices. Not Black Sun. No Huttese.

A man's voice, controlled, clean, low timbre.

<"…Movement vector suggests military background or former spec-ops… terminal wipe… debris field confirms…">

Victra smirked, lips curling behind her faceplate. Spec-ops. Gods, how quaint. She recognized the cadence. Republic-trained. Someone who used words like "vector" in casual sentences. Precision soldier. Predictable.

Then a second voice. Female. Quieter. Calculating. She moved differently. Too smooth. Victra felt her fingers curl around the edge of the vent. Not here to kill. They would've struck already. No, this was reconnaissance. Covert, like her. That made her nervous. Because it meant they were good. Maybe not her level… but not far behind.

She leaned her head back against the vent wall, calculating. She could vanish now. Rendezvous with Eight. Let the ghosts have their whispers, leave them behind in slagged circuitry and misdirection. But something in her stomach twisted. Not fear. Recognition.

Someone had sent them. She tapped her wrist console twice. Her HUD flicked into record.

Then she whispered, "Come and find me," and dropped a micro-listener from the vent, silent as a falling thought, onto the floor near their approach vector.

If they were watching, they'd see her in a few frames of sensor ghost. A figure vanishing into shadow.

Just enough to make them chase.
​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Lorn didn't flinch when the droid surged forward.

There was a mechanical beauty to its movement, a clean, inhuman efficiency. A quick sidestep wasn't enough. The rising strike came in too fast, too precise, angling upward toward his center mass. He twisted his torso away to reduce the target area, bringing up his left arm in a tight guard. The vibroblade bit into his forearm guard with a shriek of metal on synth-weave. Sparks flew. The impact rattled his bones and slid him half a meter across the decking.

He absorbed the hit, gritting his teeth. Nothing broken, but it'd bruise.

"Definitely not factory standard," he muttered.

The droid pressed in, but Lorn moved with the momentum, his body dropping low, pivoting under the follow-up stroke. He stepped into the droid's center, elbow snapping up toward the underside of its jaw assembly, less a strike to disable, more a feint, a distraction.

In the same beat, his other hand reached back, gripping a pipe coupling along the wall. With a twist and a hiss, it came loose in his grip, a blunt metal rod, slick with condensation.

He swung it up in a short arc toward the droid's jointed knee. Not elegant. Not precise. But effective, if it connected.

He barely spared the Thyrsian a glance.

"One moment," he called toward him over the pounding music, breath steady despite the pace. "You'll get your turn."

Spoiler

TLDR Actions: Lorn absorbs the vibroblade hit with his armored forearm, takes the impact but avoids a serious wound. He counters with a low pivot to get inside the droid's guard and attempts a feint strike to its jaw. In the same motion, he grabs a metal pipe from the wall and swings it at the droid's knee joint. He acknowledges Morex with a calm warning, he's not forgotten.

Morex | K4-ZAN | Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Roman Vossari]

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

Roman froze.

Not the freeze of fear. No. That would be easier to process. This was the kind of stillness carved from too many conflicting impulses stacked in a collapsing tower. Her fingers in his hair, the blade brushing below his belt, her voice dripping like venom into the open wound she'd weeks ago, it was too much all at once.

And yet he stood there. Swallowed it. Let it all happen. Because she wasn't wrong. He didn't know who the monster was anymore.

Maybe it was him, chasing a ghost across the galaxy with blood in his teeth and no plan for what came after.
Maybe it was her, wrapping intimacy around a weapon like silk around a garrote.

His breath hitched again. A softer crack this time. Not the dam breaking, just the first leak through stone.

The blade ticked forward just a hair. Enough to make a promise.

And that was where Roman finally remembered who he was.

With a sudden, sharp pivot of his hips, he shifted his weight. One hand shot to her wrist, gripping the mechanical joint like a vice. The other seized her waist and pulled her hard into his chest. The rifle dropped, clattering forgotten to the resin floor.

In the same breath, he turned the angle of her arm, redirected the blade in a tight, practiced motion, until the tip of her own weapon kissed the underside of her chin, just beneath that wicked, perfect jawline.

They were pressed together now. Breathing the same fractured air.

The flicker in his eyes was still there, but something colder had eclipsed it. Something steadier.

"I don't know if I'm the monster," Roman said, voice barely above a whisper. "But I know what you are."

He stared into her eyes like they were a mirror he hated looking into. The blade trembled slightly. Not from his grip. From hers.

And he didn't push. Not yet. He wanted her to feel that knife like he'd felt every word since Serenno.

"I could end you right now," he breathed, low and quiet. "But maybe you're right."

He leaned closer.

"Maybe I want to see what happens when we both let go."
​

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

OBJECTIVE TWO: Battle of Stalgasin Hive
Suggested Characters: RNR Starfighter Corps, Senators, Black Sun Boarders, Pirates, CIS Ground Forces
Journal Entry:
.

”<<< “Bravo Five engaging hostiles… going after the ghost ship directly. Anyone with me, make it count. He’s not out here for loot. He’s out here for blood.” >>>”

Acknowledged! On it! Please be alive, Rojuhr! Please be alive, Rojuhr! Please be alive, Rojuhr! All I could think about right then. The guy in front of me was done, at least he was for the moment. So I had to make a snap decision. Either take this guy out, or go back up Torch…

I chose to be a wingman.

Put everything you can in the engines! BRED seemed to figure out what I was planning as he put power to the boosters as well. Jamming the throttle forward and pitching myself into a roll I moved out. Torch was a good pilot, he was section leader, that says something but anyone would appreciate help in a soup like this. I pulled up alongside Torch, matching his speed and position, signalled a “thumbs up” and then dropped in behind him.

BooEEP

We’re clearing the lanes… all good, buddy!

Trajan Fett Jek Raynar Telmu Gomravik Nero Drake (engaging atm)
Rhys Gorne Kyle Torchwood

 

[Kudau]

Bastila Sal-Soren

The Jedi spoke with purpose, as if each word was a specially crafted instruction, and each sentence held the knowledge of centuries. Kudau listened intently, purely focused on correctly interpreting the Galactic Basic she spoke to him. It was apparent that Bastila was dismayed by his actions, but he had managed to escape the interaction with a repremand, a compliment, and an invitation back to Naboo. For these things, he was grateful.

"The wisdom of your ways shows strongly in you, Jedi Knight Bastila. My journey is towards happiness and jollity in the force, and binding myself to one path is an anxiety of mine, however the wisdom your order would provide is... well, it's too good to pass up. I'll make a trip to Naboo once this blows over... Thank you, Bastila."

 

[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 | Telmu Gomravik
NABOO | Rhys Gorne | Michael Angellus

FETT​

Such a befitting moniker for the vessel which Trajan would only hope would grow in notoriety as he would. He flicked to the sensor view to the rear optics once he'd heard the notification ping of the seismic charge's ignition, the Alpha-class cracked and knocked out of the fight. He snapped the sensor pod forward again, eyes beneath the T-visor of his Beskar helmet constantly flitting between the various instruments of the vessel before the cockpit took primary view.

He snapped the control yoke to execute a neckbreaking spin to veer the ship's awkward profile from the aimless suspension of the hulk of a droid control ship likely having been suspended in Geonosis orbit since the onset of the Clone Wars. The harsh note of lasers beating against the ship's shielding from behind caused Trajan to flick the sensor view again, the profile of Torchwood's fighter swaying and breaking from the reticule of his sights as the chin mounted twin-blaster cannons snapped with a spin toward the ship's aft. Once it was trained toward the fighter, a rapid beeping would begin as it attempted to paint a target lock before soon enough the affirming tone of the ship's targeting system sounded with the ship being captured in the weapon's sights.

A shrieking hail of laser beams blaster bolts wailed in the direction of the pursuing fighter, the turret making the micro adjustments to keep a clean trajectory even as several bolts in the volley snapped into errant chunks of space debris in the cluttered field. Trajan's focus was primary on the treacherous surroundings starship-front, snapping and pulling at the yoke to maneuver the comparatively sluggish Prowler through the debris field, assuming his pursuer a dead man as the cannons continued to shriek with a violent, rapid fire hail before they were forcefully snuffed by the starship's fire control systems, the barrels having grown orange-hot, overheating.

He led the pair into one of the circular arms of a Lucrehulk that had been mostly scattered and dispersed along the debris field. He put the engines full throttle to what appeared to be a thread of the needle far too risky for a vessel of its size and profile.

And then, it stopped, the Mandalorian's hand snapping the reverse thrusters as he cranked the control yoke back to face the front of the Prowler in the direction of the pursuing fire, the ordnance's launchers locking chirp rapidly ascending before it painted the fighter and he lifted the red button protector, squeezing down to deliver a pair of proton torpedoes toward the vessel, dipping down with pulse of the engines back into the cluttered space graveyard.