Private Exposure

[Silya Thrast]

ORD RADAMA
THE BARROWS ☛ RESIDENTIAL DISTRICT ☛ LIVIEN MAGNUS
Trajan Fett

Parallel to Ghosts of the Empire
Early Spring, 900 ABY

The argument weaved in and out of the mental backdrop of this entire fucking debacle.

Silya had been counselled to accept the loss, and for a moment, she had. But to then be told that the blade was replaceable, that it hardly differed from any other of its particular make from Eshan… that… that was foul. Offensive. Another blade wouldn’t feel the same in her hand, wouldn’t bear the markings of time, and therefore memory, upon it. Nor would another blade be such a tether to its original owner, the host of differences she held with the woman in question, and the culture that had birthed both.

It wasn’t the first time she had yelled at her mother, but thankfully, she had managed to keep her head on, otherwise. Remorse had begun to gnaw at her periphery as she cooled; that was only after she had bent Dougall into ferrying her around (bless him, he hadn’t given her a single lick of refusal), but it wasn’t enough to make her turn back.

That had been days ago, and only now was her persistence in tracking down the thief close to paying off, but creeping through this run-down sector of Ord Radama’s capital as the local star pulled back the last of its light and gave way to nightfall, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being observed despite coming up empty when she tried to pinpoint the source. A feeling that had settled in the moment she had set foot in this part of the city, one that was hard to separate from how it felt to be here at all: poor areas such as these were too easily given over to crime, and the last thing she needed was to be noticed by any of its practitioners.

She wasn’t meant to… wasn’t supposed to be in a place like this. At least not while alone. No, she was supposed to be up the Hydian, on Telos IV, with her Master. But she needed that blade back, and she needed to teach this fool a lesson... she couldn’t take her eyes off her mark at any point, not even while tugging her hood more snugly over her head, and hugging up against the side of one of the more structurally sound residences across the street from where his armoured form vanished into another building, thumping music calling out and becoming muffled once again as the door shut behind him.

Thrast thought things over for a minute or two, composed herself, and leaned out to check and make sure the coast was clear. Then, before leaving to cross the street, the young Knight glanced behind herself, an act driven by the mild onset of location-induced paranoia... and nearly jumped right out of her skin when her gaze passed over what should have been a dark, empty space in the shadow of the building, illuminated by flickering, fading lights... and those bright blues widened at the sight of this larger individual that had managed to sneak in beneath her - admittedly distracted - notice. She might have been a bit on edge, but to her credit, she didn't scream.

"What the--" Silya uttered as she reared back a step, her hand reflexively going to the hilt concealed under her cloak. "--who th'fuck..."

It was at this juncture that the door began to creak open once again.

 

[Trajan Fett]

BROKEN STEEL
SON OF MANDALORE

THANK GOD FOR THE RAIN...
​

It was a day as consciously burned in his memory as any other could be. A rape of identity and purpose, the Beskar stripped from his form and left 'naked' without the visage of generations of warriors before him. Like a crustacean forcefully ripped from its shell, left writhing and wriggling on a bloodied slab to be dissected. It was nearly a decade now, since then. He'd spent close to five years of it in the crucible, forward observer in service of a withered Empire before his time of service ended, giving way to a supposed 'freedom' once more.

The line of work differed but it ultimately carried the same principles. Before, he nestled at range, hidden, concealed and instead of the sights of a blaster- peered through to his enemy with macro binocs, mensurating the target and willing their death with carefully worded requests through a commlink that willed through fire from the heavens which brutally smited formations of infantry, columns of tanks and fortified structures to his will. But in truth, he was still, ultimately, a hunter. He slinked in the shadows and rear slopes of the battlefield, eyes of death to an unsuspected enemy only to now chase them down and stare into the whites of their eyes before delivering that coup de grace at blaster point.

END OF LINE​

As much as it was pertinent for a simple man such as Trajan the second to make his way in the universe earning an honest living as a mancatcher of the illdoers and downtrodden knaves of the underworld- he needed his face back. The Beskar'gam was one donned by two generations of Mandalorian warriors before him. Trajan Kurze, the namesake by which he was born and Volker Fett, his father who bestowed such a potent legacy upon him. He'd been tailing any clue as to where it might've ended up for some time only for the road's heat map to reignite on Ord Radama, back in Imperial space.

His boots paced down the street with a low, characteristic, spur like rattle, his eyes flicking through various inputs on the HUD of his helmet. He'd had the chaincode of the armor imprinted from memory in the helmet's tracking system, a lead on a man bearing the Beskar'gam of Trajan's description led on by one his clients in this horrid underbelly. The notes of club and techno music echoed through the street as his scanner reverberated through the tight, winding corridor of the bustling underworld.

The armored figure slipped past her gaze and a low cursing escaped her, all of which snapped to the forefront of Trajan's scanners. The figure she was in pursuit of beared a match to the armor's chain code, the realization drawing his eyes to widen beneath the helmet, a hand drawing his blaster pistol with a note of plastoid against the leather holster he wordlessly joined in pursuit, willfully ignoring the girl in favor of seizing the man.

 

[Silya Thrast]

ORD RADAMA
THE BARROWS ☛ RESIDENTIAL DISTRICT ☛ LIVIEN MAGNUS
Trajan Fett

THE END OF REASON​

When the door opened thus making the pulsing beat pick up in volume once again, a quick succession of events followed: the sharp turning of her head back toward its source; the hunter proceeding past her, armed and adding some measure of obfuscation to her view of the target; and the sliver of a moment’s delay in her recognizing what was now happening, and why.

As the entire moment of her mounting clarity passed, with Silya staring after the additional man that she now had to also take into account, her gaze became harder and the cadence of her breathing slowed as the potent melange of anger and frustration resurfaced and attempted to bury her reason. Her fingers curled in a slow, white-knuckle way around the unignited cylinder beneath her cloak and pulled it free, as she wrestled with the hard facts.

She was well and truly alone here, and if she wasn’t in way over her head before, she was now, but could she really step away? The young Lady Thrast wasn’t impulsive, but would she ever get another chance at retrieving this significant possession?

“Unlikely.”

That spat utterance punctuated her decision. It wasn’t solely the theft that incensed her; no, it was more than that: this changeling had gotten the better of her, and she couldn't back down from the need for payback on that basis. She began to move, her pace quickening as the seconds ticked, putting her on a course to intercept the shifter thief, and full of intent to do so first.

Only when her swift form caught up to the hunter and passed him, did she thumb the switch that brought the intense glow of her blade alive, thereby announcing her presence with that characteristic snap-hiss, and bathing her and the immediate area in its sterile light as the hood concealing her features slipped away.

This, of course, drew the thief’s attention immediately.

 

[Trajan Fett]

BROKEN STEEL
SON OF MANDALORE

TURBO KILLER
​

Upon closer inspection, the Thief hardly donned the Beskar'gam of Trajan's interest- his attention snapped back in tow to the snap and hiss of her argent blade coming alight, eyes widening beneath his cloaked form before he quickly drew a blaster out and discharged a round toward the Imperial Knight before twisting on his heel to run away.

<"Out of my way!"> He barked out at the woman, his voice distorted and muffled by the helmet's commo. His voice was gravely, deep and foreboding in tone. The larger figure fired another burst of superheated tibanna toward the two in their pursuit- leading them from the neon rush of the crowded nightclub into another tight, underworld city street.

Another corner turned and the man was gone- Trajan turned the next in pursuit, his helmeted gaze snapping left and right before he anticipated the further following of the Knight. He snapped his pistol up and toward the woman.

<"He...or whoever the fuck he works for, has something I want. If you plan on stopping me...you've reached the end of the line."> The bounty hunter threatened to her. His gaze flicked from the sights of his blaster to the lifeform scanner at the corner of heads up display repeatedly before eventually the figure vaulted down from a nearby ledge behind him, the metallic hiss of a blade leaving its slick leather sheath sounding behind him. He immediately turned to get a cut into his collar, a low groan of pain leaving him before he delivered a violent strike to the man's face with the barrel of the pistol- firing out near his face to the sound of mechanical damage, sending the thief staggering back.

It was then he came into full form, a large, armored figure donning the cuirass of Trajan's sought Beskar and equipped with the Echani blade with which Silya sought. A killer, much like the man before him. Unconsolable at the sight of a piece of his armor he let out a rage wrought note and surged forward with another burst from his pistol.