Private Fanatics.

[Laertia Io]

Wearing: Cultist Catsuit (White)

Armed With: Synth Crystal Lightsaber (Red)

Objective: plot


The wound dealt by the Civil war with her faction was a wound that simply...

... wouldn't...

...close...

More than half of her forces had defected to her father, and she had instituted Marshal Law to keep order amongst who remained.

All of House Io's ideals seemed to be vanishing. The whole system she had schemed into place was collapsing from the internal rot of her own hypocrisy...

She was still in so much shock, not just from the collapse of her society, but from the death of The Battalion, the final death of Percival Io , and all her prototype children abandoning her. All her sons. All her daughters. Dead or traitors or both...

No family left. Barely even a faction now.

The rage and hatred for her father churned within her as she sat on the command throne of her House Io Star Destroyer, Blood of Elaine.

She had not killed her own personnel in a rage. That would only accelerate the spread of the rot, and even in her state of fallen madness she knew that.

Her citizens kept a wide berth of her at all times now. Everyone was instinctively afraid of getting Force Choked. They spoke to her only as necessary. She would never say anything back.

Against all reason, against all sense, she continually denied to herself that it was over. That her grand experiment had crashed and burned, and it was entirely her own fault. To acknowledge this would have shattered what was left of her rationality.

She kept telling herself that all she needed to give her fragmenting society was purpose.

Which is why she had ordered her vessel to journey to Csilla. Site of one of her greatest failures.

She had done everything right to ensure the destruction of the PK-1 Mercy. She had sabotaged the generator with the help of The Amalgam ...

And they had simply rammed the ship while it was still intact into Csilla...

Laertia had been crushed by her failure at Csilla. It had made every strocity committed afterward easier to commit.

The Parliament looked over the files she had on Csariden . He had been making noise.

(Dutch Van Der Linde: NOISE, ARTHUR! GLORIOUS NOISE!)

House Io had been silent for a while. Many thought them dead.

They needed a rallying cause. Though the Parliament didn't want to admit it, his anger reminded her of her own in the early days.

She had used one of her spies to get a message to Csariden: I have a means to help your grudge against the ones responsible for Csilla truly kick off. Meet me at what's left of Csilla, if you dare.

Sure, The Parliament was long past caring about causes, but she needed to keep her faction together , give them a cause, like in the old days.

The Destroyer drifted through the remains of Csilla towards the meeting point. If Csariden accepted, he would be brought aboard and then The Parliament could figure out whether their goals could mesh. She would be happy to lend him some of her tech if he wanted to play ball-as a show of good faith, she had even sent ahead four crates of her Laufey-21 Cryonic Assault Disruptors for him and his own to test out on live targets as a show of good faith. She suspected he would like the results. Most did. It was enough to make the wheels turn in most. She had even sweetened the deal by saying whether he liked her terms or not, he was free to keep them.

The Parliament knew it was a waiting game now. Any minute, she might get a transmission.

She could only hope he wanted to make people bleed as much as she did. The Parliament wanted death...

 

[Csariden]

❖ CSARIDEN ❖
Rebuilt For Revenge.

​

They didn’t hail.
They didn’t dock.

A silent vessel — angular, ventless, matte — drifted toward the Blood of Elaine like a ghost avoiding sensor tags. No registry. No ion signature worth tracking. Just six bodies in EVA rigging stepping out the airlock and drifting with push-thrust stabilizers toward the destroyer’s starboard flank.

No weapons drawn. No drills spinning. Just a landing precision, and a manual slice to open the airlock.

At the head was Csariden, armor charcoal-dark and chitinous, with frost clinging to the seams of his pressurized-carapace. Beside him: two tall cyborg Revenants in heavier rigs, each kitted with cybernetics from neck to toe.

Then they stepped in to airlock, like unexpected visitors. No blasters. No barked orders. No shouting. Just six vacuum-walkers emerging through the airlock window as if they’d been invited all along.

When admitted, they walked in single file toward the command bridge — oxygen hissing from their collar vents, step by deliberate step — until Csariden stood beneath the throne where The Parliament brooded.

His head inclined.

Not deeply, but not disrespectfully.

Just enough to say We are here. We came. You don’t own us. But you have our interest.

And then:

"Here we are. Back at the corpse, among the decomposition."​

He waited.

✦ MEANWHILE: CHRILL'NAL WASTE QUADRANT ✦

The crates hadn’t been touched in hours.

Not until Triggen — scarred from orbitfire, wrapped in a cloak of Csillan glass-shards — slit one open with the edge of a carbon-forged pry-knife. Four Orphans flanked him, rifles lowered, expressions wary.

Inside: four Laufey-21 Cryonic Assault Disruptors, pristine, polished, and quietly humming with core chill.

“Looks like House tech,” muttered Skiv, checking the serial node.
“Doesn’t mean it’s cursed,” Triggen replied. “Just means someone wants to impress.”

They set up a test block — captured Mawite armor plate, rigged on a pole with mylar shock behind it — and loaded one of the disruptors. It kicked heavier than expected. Not brutishly so. But definitely a kick.

The target froze mid-impact, encased in crawling hoarfrost. The second shot cracked it into shards, the armor snapping like glass.

Skiv whistled.

“That’s not just cryo. That’s... disruption at the molecular edge.”
“It’ll do,” said Triggen, eyes cold. “Mark the rest for field test. We'll bring it to Level Varn and see how the slavers scream.”

Back in the distance, the glow of Csilla's ruin lingered like a wound that still wept stone.

Triggen hefted the rifle, and smiled for the first time in months. A sardonic, sadistic smile.

Laertia Io

 

[Laertia Io]

"I know..." The Parliament said in reply, her back still to Csariden

"A travesty, isn't it? Destroying an entire planet... blotting out the future of an entire world capable of supporting life.

She spun around in her command seat, wearing a skintight white catsuit that looked almost painted on. She had felt him and his support approaching the ship and commanded that no one impede them as they came aboard

"Every major government running around like Gizka with their heads cut off...no plan...no organization. So bent on killing each other they could not be bothered to organize properly. It enraged me then. It enrages me now..." She trailed, standing up.

"Make no mistake. The Maw destroyed Csilla. But the foolish governments so bent on murdering the tenth Sith Empire? They enabled the Maw. None of them even reached the core of the station, as I did...me and a psychotic Sith."

She glanced at the asteroid field.

"At the time, that terrified me...I could not understand how it was that someone as unrelentingly evil as The Amalgam ultimately seemed to give more of a chit about the fate of the Galaxy than the Jedi Order itself. Cared enough to risk almost certain death by following me there."

She turned back to face him.

"I realized that day that the enablers no longer deserved any respect. Any loyalty. I wanted to give them the death and destruction they deserved...that they earned...even if it ultimately meant following in Amy's footsteps." she continued.

"The sick thing? I actually destroyed the generator. But I was new at fighting the Maw. I underestimated their level of crazy. The stations engines still worked...and boy oh boy, do we see the results of that..." she muttered darkly.

"I am The Parliament...and my eyes, and my ears, have caught sight and whispers of your desires...how you wish to bring death to these stubborn old fools who cared nothing for your people's diaspora. How you wish for your revenge on the Maw. I admire your slaughters. Enough that I wish to make you able to do it more easily..." she trailed.

"I have more weapons than the Cryonic Disruptors your group is no doubt testing as we speak. I can supply you with them. Droids. Assassins... implants. All I ask is that you use what I give you to kill as many as possible."

 

[Csariden]

❖ CSARIDEN ❖
Rebuilt For Revenge.

He said nothing while she spoke. No external reaction to the catsuit, the theatrics, the speech. Not even when she invoked the extinction of his people.
He simply stood, a silhouette of carbon and steel, and listened as if cataloging her words for later disposal.
Only once she stopped did he speak, voice flat and unhurried:

"The first glimpse of madness always feels like it’s a surprise. Like the galaxy hasn’t always rewarded the loudest monster."​

A pause. The faint hum of his respirator filled the silence between syllables.

"The Maw burned Csilla and the Chiss bled until our names meant nothing."​

His gaze drifted toward the viewport. The floating bones of home still drifting.

"I don’t need to be inspired by who gave a chit. I need to know what melts armor and bypasses shields. I need precision. I need implements of death, and the bodies of those who deserve it."​

He stepped forward, a slow, deliberate motion; closing the distance not to intentionally be threatening, but almost as if pacing.

"You want me to kill. That part’s easy. Anyone can spray fire and play at war. But if you mean to arm me, if you mean to give the Orphans something that carves their pain and death into the enablers..."​

"I’ll take your droids. Your toys. Your whispers and scalpels."​

A final pause. Cold steel in every syllable.

The right kind of tools were soon to be in the hands of the wrong person. Some would suffer, many would die.

All for Revenge.