Dominion [GA + Smugglers/Scoundrels] What Lurks Below | GA Dominion of Kelada

[Valery Noble]

Kelada

Once a prized asset of the Galactic Empire, the planet's vast assembly factories had churned out repulsorcraft, speeder bikes, and walker parts for decades — its industrial might secured by the Empire's iron grip and a deeply entrenched defense network. But just beyond the blast doors and loading bays, in the dark corners of old freighter docks and alley dens, another world endured: Lorana's Labyrinth, a twisting underworld of smugglers, slicers, and quiet deals, born in the shadow of rebellion and never quite extinguished.

Nearly a thousand years later, both faces of Kelada remain.

Now, the planet takes its next step — and joins the Galactic Alliance.

For the Alliance, it's a welcome addition: a world of strategic value along the Corellian Trade Spine, home to manufacturing hubs that can bolster defensive fleets and planetary security forces. Diplomats shake hands. Factory lines prepare for new contracts. And yet, beneath the rising banners and political speeches, something stirs.

The Labyrinth never closed.

Old networks thrive in the tunnels beneath the factories. Rival gangs fight for turf masked as shipping guilds. Rumors whisper of stolen tech, black market repulsorlift prototypes, and mercenaries tied to unnamed warlords just beyond Alliance borders.

The Alliance is not blind.

In the wake of Kelada's accession, the SIA deploys covert cells to investigate while The New Jedi Order dispatches its Jedi Knights — some to assist, some to sense what lies beneath. Trust is earned, not declared. And some corners of Kelada still resist the light.

The streets run hot with industry and cold with silence.

It's time to pull back the curtain.

Objective I — Labyrinth of Whispers​

Nestled between rust-stained warehouses and the thrum of starship engines, Lorana's Labyrinth still stands — dim, disorienting, and always full. Once a haven for smugglers during the Galactic Civil War, the cantina has evolved into a key gathering point for the modern underworld: info-brokers, slicers, syndicate fixers, and smugglers still meet here, hidden among mirrored walls and trapdoor exits no one talks about.

The Alliance has authorized an intelligence sweep, but not with brute force — subtlety is the name of the game. SIA agents, undercover Jedi, and trusted allies are dispatched to blend in, strike up conversations, win confidence, and gather leads.

What factions still run beneath Kelada's surface? Who's moving illicit tech? And are there players here operating on behalf of larger galactic powers?

Tread carefully. In the Labyrinth, everyone's watching someone — and you might not be the only one on a job.

Objective II — Shadows in the Shell​

Kelada's industrial skeleton stretches far across its surface — factories, refineries, and forgotten assembly lines from an era of Imperial dominance. One such site, an old walker-part factory, was thought decommissioned decades ago. But recent intelligence suggests otherwise.

Satellite scans show unusual power surges. Docked freighters come and go at odd hours. Informants whisper of a gang — possibly a local syndicate or a splinter cell — using the shell of the factory as a secure base of operations, stockpiling weapons, slicing hardware, and even modifying old repulsorlift frames for sale or conflict.

Kelada has had enough, and as part of its requests for joining the Alliance, they must be stopped.

SIA operatives. military personnel and Jedi are greenlit to investigate and shut down the operation. Expect traps, resistance, and potential hostages. The gang knows the terrain — catwalks, hangar bays, hidden access shafts. And they won't go quietly.

Bring the factory under control — or make sure it never runs again.

Objective III — Mapping the Depths​

Kelada's undercity is a tangled sprawl of old maintenance tunnels, freight routes, and half-forgotten service corridors carved beneath the starport and industrial sectors. Locals refer to it as the "steel veins" — a maze of sealed doors, broken lifts, and pathways no longer marked on any official maps. Now, with the planet joining the Alliance, survey teams are dispatched to chart the maze. Accompanying them are Jedi and SIA personnel, assigned to ensure their safety and investigate any hidden networks that might still be in use.

But the deeper they go, the stranger things become. Echoes that don't belong. Vanished scouts. Burned-out lights where power should still run. Someone — or something — is using the depths.

And not everyone wants it found.

---

This thread is open to GA members but also to smugglers, scoundrels and underworld characters!
​

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Smuggler Outfit
Weapons: Blasters

The door hissed open, and the smell hit first — old smoke, engine grease, spice, and the copper tang of too many secrets kept too long. Lorana's Labyrinth hadn't changed. It pulsed with a low hum of music and murmured conversations, flickering lights casting fractured reflections across mirrored walls. A hundred eyes tracked every movement—but none lingered long.

Which was exactly how Valery liked it.

She stepped through the threshold with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged. Gone was the formal Jedi Master in robes of tradition. In her place stood a woman in tight brown leathers, gloved hands at her sides, eyes sharp and unreadable. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands framing her face as she surveyed the room.

At her hip, a custom blaster rested in its holster — sleek, modified, and absolutely not standard issue. But it wasn't the weapon that gave her presence weight. It was the stillness in her step, the way she scanned the cantina like a predator in control of its territory.

At her side, Reina.

Valery cast her Padawan a brief glance — reassuring, expectant. "Watch everything. Say little. Let the story build around you." That had been the lesson on the way in, and now it was time to put it to use.

The Master didn't speak yet. She simply walked further into the cantina, heels clicking softly against the metal floor, before sliding into a shadowed booth with a full view of the room. Her arm rested across the top of the seat, fingers tapping slowly, rhythmically. A signal, a beat, a readiness.

She nodded once toward Reina.

There were whispers all around. Voices speaking of stolen tech, offworld buyers, and something stirring down below. The Labyrinth lived. But Valery had played this game before — and this time, she brought a student who would learn to play it better.

The curtain was rising.

Reina Daival ​

 

[Reina Daival]

Location: Lorana's Labyrinth
Tags: Valery Noble
Leg - Anchor

She couldn't help herself from wrinkling her nose at the stench. Reina hadn't visited a cantina in a long, long time. It would take a moment to get used to the aroma but it wasn't her first rodeo. The absence of her lightsaber's weight against her belt was a strange one to say the least. In fact, she was absent any form of weapon on her body. Of course, it wasn't the full truth, since she still had her prosthesis, but Reina didn't exactly want to be doing high kicks in the cantina right now.

Her eyes focused on their surroundings as she followed Valery, a distinct thunk echoing with every step Reina's metal foot took. She knew there were eyes on it. Some might have questions about it. They might even be coming up with their own stories about how she got the replacement but it was fine by her. Let people have their stories, it just gave more roles for Reina to try and play.

Reina settled herself down in the booth, folding her prosthesis over the knee of her real leg before leaning back to let herself take in the cantina. It was time to put into work what Valery had told her. Take in as much as she could in the cantina without staring. Pay attention to the people getting drinks, the groups whispering away to themselves and for anyone who seemed like they were trying not to be seen.

It was a strange feeling, to try and blend into the crowd. Reina wasn't used to being subtle. Most of the time she was loud, boisterous and spoke with her fists. But that didn't mean she couldn't learn. This seemed like her best chance to learn how to be hidden in plain view, how to find out information without resorting to violence. And so for now, she sat and watched whilst tapping a little sea shanty tune on her knee.
​

 

[Kitty Kat]

Decided to reboot

 

[Rolcor Wildstar]

Objective: Objective I — Labyrinth of Whispers
Location: Lorana's Labyrinth


The booth creaked when Rolcor leaned back, the synth-leather seat sticking to his jacket with a faint schlip in the Labyrinth's cloying heat. Lights overhead flickered just enough to annoy, not enough to see anyone clearly—perfect for the kind of business he was here to finish. He didn't look around. Didn't need to. You didn't survive long in a place like this by gawking.

A half-empty glass of whatever passed for Corellian brandy in this backwater sat in front of him, untouched for the last twenty minutes. He toyed with the rim absently, eyes fixed on the mirrored wall across the cantina. Not looking at anyone—but watching everyone just the same.

His voice was low when he spoke, more to himself than anyone else. A gravel-coated whisper shaped by years of smoke, fire, and shipyard dust.

"Client's late. Always a good sign when stolen cargo's burnin' a hole in your hold and the clock's running long."

He shifted slightly, enough to feel the weight of the blaster under his coat. Still there. Still warm. The kind of warmth that reminded you not to trust anyone.

The Broken-Vow was parked in a forgotten dock three sectors down, far enough to avoid Alliance scans, close enough for a quick evac if this turned into a sting. He didn't think it would—but Rolcor never bet on clean hands.

A waitress passed by, young, probably too new to know who not to talk to. She paused.

"You want another, handsome?"

He gave her a look like a durasteel bulkhead. "Only thing I want's already in motion, sweetheart."

She took the hint. Kept moving.

His eyes flicked up as a figure entered—dark coat, the right kind of slouch, and hands a little too still for a spacer. Maybe the client. Maybe not.

Rolcor didn't move.

Didn't have to.

Let them come to him.

He had the goods. The upper hand. And in a place like Lorana's Labyrinth, that was rarer than silence.

 

[Dean Walker]

Dean's boots echoed softly against the stone as he stepped up beside her, the pale glow of his tactical light painting the walls in long, wavering shadows. Her words pulled a half-smirk to his lips — that signature curve that lived somewhere between wry charm and practiced calm.

"Yeah," he murmured, eyes scanning the tunnel ahead. "This is the part where the handsome guy walks into the dark first… and the audience starts placing bets on how long he lasts." He looked over at her, one brow raising just slightly beneath the edge of his hood.

"Don't worry, I've got a few more scenes left in me."

With that, he gave her a playful nudge of his elbow — just enough to brush tension aside — before he took the lead, his steps light and confident despite the ominous atmosphere. The dim light swept ahead of him, revealing more narrow stone, more silence, more of that strange pull in the Force that prickled at the edges of his awareness.

"But if I start hearing chanting or see a creepy doll, I'm out. You're on your own, Ryiah."

His voice echoed back to her from a few paces ahead, still light, still teasing — but the subtle tension in his posture said he was just as keyed in as she was. Whatever was down here, it wasn't just the ghosts of the past.

"You still got my back, or should I start writing my last words in the dirt?"

Katarine Ryiah
​

 

[Everest Vale]

Outfit: This Vibe
Equipment: Lightsaber, Bracelet, Earrings
Tag: Sinya Tarkona

​

Lorana’s Labyrinth pulsed like a living thing. The cantina was carved deep into Kelada’s industrial underbelly, its mirrored walls and low ceilings wrapping the space in a haze of smoke, neon reflections, and pulsing synth rhythms that made it hard to tell where one person ended and another began. Conversations bled together in a dozen languages; slicers murmuring over datapads, mechanics swapping trade secrets, mercenaries laughing too loud at nothing funny. The scent was oil and liquor and cheap spice. A thousand eyes, none of them friendly, watched without watching. Everest stepped inside, and immediately felt the weight of it.

Stars, this thing feels strange.

The black outfit clung just a little too close. Sleek. Functional. Perfect for blending in, but not for comfort. It wasn’t how she usually dressed. She preferred loose robes, tunics that whispered instead of spoke. This whispered, but not in her voice. The fabric hugged her form in a way that feltexposing. Not indecent, just... noticed. And she hated being noticed, especially in the way she would be noticed by the kind of people who would frequent this sort of place.

She pulled in a breath, slow and steady, letting the scent of ozone and rust settle in her lungs. Stillness, she reminded herself. You’re here for a reason. Master Valery was somewhere nearby, Reina too—she could feel that. It steadied her, a little. But she was on her own for now. That was the task. Blend in. Listen. Find what lingers beneath the surface.

Her silver eye scanned the room as she moved further in, weaving between tables, letting the noise and motion wash over her. She didn’t reach for the Force, not yet. Not here, not where too many minds brushed against one another like blades sheathed in silk. Instead, she relied on what she could see, what she could feel in her body: the twitch of a gloved hand over a datapad, the sudden quiet in a booth gone tense, the glimmer of contraband tech glimpsed through the slouch of a coat.

She made her way to the bar and slid onto a stool, her hands folding loosely in her lap. The bartender barely looked at her, just raised a brow in silent question. Eve hesitated. She didn’t really drink, didn't really know what she was doing.

"...Just something local," she said, quiet but firm, voice carrying the kind of calm that could be mistaken for confidence. "Nothing strong."

The glass was set in front of her with a clink. Pale amber, faintly fizzy, and sweet-scented—probably spiced, probably laced with something light. She took it without flinching, though she didn't sip yet. Instead, she let her gaze drift across the mirrored walls and the restless crowd reflected within them.

She didn’t belong here.

But she was here to do her best regardless.

 

[Mykel Dawson]

Location: Upper Atmosphere, Kelada (Nighttime)
Objective (II): Investigate "abandoned" factory and seize manifests
With: Jedi Knight Consular Kaldor Vexis (NPC Master), OPEN
Unit: Iron Rangers x 16 (Customized YVH-1 Combat Droids in KPA-01 Katarn Commando Armor)

Then

High above the illegally occupied factory, a Sowa recon drone quietly coasted into position. Despite the thick haze of smog that hugged the industrial planet like a wet blanket, the stealthy vessel easily pierced through the polluted veil with its powerful sensors, providing unrivaled clarity to its operators across multiple spectrums. All the while, it would remain a phantom to its unsuspecting targets, invisible to both sensors and the Force.

:: Haunter on station, mapping area...::

The drone referenced the information provided from observing satellites to begin mapping the compound in greater detail (inside and out), intercept communications, and observe external patrol routes. The whole process lasted a couple nights again until enough information was gathered to generate actionable intelligence for the strike teams in waiting.

Two nights later, stealth shuttles would begin their descent from orbit for the operation, arriving just before the next projected guard rotation.

Mykel sat in the lead shuttle with Kaldor, quietly studying the updated factory layout provided by the drone. The technopath had a specific tasking: slicing into whatever systems the criminal enterprise had erected within the facility. The Sowa, while helpful, could only do so much from the air. The rest was up to them upon touchdown.

Soon, it would be time for some more "aggressive" diplomacy from the pair of Consulars.

 

[Lt. Bren Alazar]

​

Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Seraphim
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]

Objective II — Shadows in the Shell​

Kelada – "The Iron Grave"
Mission Timestamp: 0321 – Local Storm Cycle – Sector 19B: Walker Boneyard Delta

The Raven Dropship groaned as it pierced the ashen sky, battered by gale-force winds swirling off the towering ruins of Kelada’s industrial districts. Once a jewel of wartime manufacturing, the city-planet now stood as a monument to rust and silence — jagged skeletons of forgotten factories stretched into the gray void like the fingers of dead titans.

But where Omega Squad touched down, silence was not the problem.

It was precision.

The ship’s repulsors whispered rather than screamed, landing with surgical grace in a clearing of scorched duracrete nestled between two collapsed AT-AT hangars. Metal carcasses — legs folded, torsos slumped, hulls blasted — lay strewn like bones across a charnel field.

Only… they weren’t bones.

Not anymore.

Michael stepped off first, sidearm low, eyes scanning the perimeter through a visor haze of rust-flecked rain. No resistance. No patrols. Not even carrion birds. That’s not good.

Gabriel followed, sweeping a handheld scanner across the nearest walker. The display flickered, glitched — then came back green. These frames are wrong. Too clean. Too smooth. Zero erosion. These weren’t salvaged from battlefields. They were built… recently.

Raphael stomped across the shattered tarmac with the slow weight of a man feeling the air around him. He paused beside a fallen AT-ST, knelt, and peeled back a panel with his vibroblade. Internal servos haven’t even burned in. Factory fresh. Paint underneath’s still tacky.

Azrael, eyes gleaming beneath a speckled helmet, tossed a flare high into the air, illuminating the graveyard in harsh orange. His voice, for once, had no jokes. Someone’s staging something. Big. Either these were meant to be buried and forgotten, or—


Sariel (from above): —meant to hide in plain sight. The sniper’s voice came over comms from his overwatch perch atop a half-toppled walker arm. His scope tracked distant shadows moving through the twisted spires of inactive manufacturing stacks. I’ve got echoes. Heat signatures. Just flickers, but coordinated. Could be patrol drones. Could be worse.

Jeremiel was already setting up the medsat and triage tent behind the walker hull. His hands moved automatically, but his eyes stayed on the shadows Gabriel had marked. If these walkers are live, there’s a chance we’re standing on a kill zone.

Michael: All the more reason to dig in tight.

Within minutes, Omega Squad had fortified the clearing. Perimeter sensors were buried beneath layers of scrap. Gabriel rerouted an old power relay to boost their short-range comms. Raphael chained down a mobile shield array using repurposed plating. Azrael embedded fallback charges into the chassis of three half-buried walkers with uncharacteristic care.

And Connel Vanagor?

He stood dead center of the yard, motionless. The wind whipped at the hem of his cloak, rain beading against his shoulder plates. His gaze drifted across the fallen giants — not with awe, but with distrust.

These machines were made for war… but I don’t feel the weight of history here. He placed one hand on the cold flank of an AT-AT, fingers pressing lightly. This boneyard was built recently. Not as a grave.

He turned toward the squad. As a trap.

Then it’s time we set one of our own. The trap wasn’t sprung.

It woke up.

It started with a sound — not the mechanical hiss of gears or the echo of movement — but a hum, low and unnatural, vibrating the fillings in Raphael’s molars and ringing inside Gabriel’s implants like a warning siren trying not to scream.

Picking up EM spikes — high-frequency power surge, localized. That’s not reactor warm-up, that’s activation.

We’re burning daylight. Everyone fall back to fallback point Alpha—

THUD.

The ground jumped.

Behind them, a downed AT-AT — half-buried, legs snapped, blackened from some long-ago impact — moved. Metal screeched as one leg jerked into position. A second.

Then it stood up.

Eyes blazing red, armor plating peeling back to reveal an inner core of glowing obsidian alloys, re-forged with Sith alchemy. Runes pulsed like veins across its surface. Not a walker.

A golem.

Connel Vanagor’s voice dropped:

It’s not just metal. It’s alive. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s alive.

Lightning cracked — and across the yard, four more walkers activated. Their motions unnatural. Too fluid. Like beasts. Like they were being puppeted. Above them, an image shimmered — projected from one of the rising AT-ATs. A face, cold and metal-masked, flickered into clarity.

“You were meant to find this place.”
“This… was your invitation.”

The voice was unmistakable to Connel.

Darth Illicitus a Dark Side, maybe Sith source of power and destruction, he had read the texts on the “long thought destroyed” Dark Lord who spent his life morphing sentience with technology.

Contact! All hands—

The boneyard exploded into motion.

Raphael braced the rotary and opened fire, slugs ripping through the knee joint of a rising walker that didn’t even flinch. Sariel, already mid-zipline from his perch, put two shots directly into the glowing pilot window of a reanimated scout walker — and was stunned when the glass cracked, but reformed itself mid-flight.

These aren’t machines. They’re something worse.

Gabriel dove behind a crate, tapping into a walker’s exposed sublink. They’re linked. Not networked — bound. If I can corrupt one, I might short the circuit…

Azrael didn’t wait. He ran straight into the chaos, charges armed in both hands, sliding under a stomping foot and planting explosives into an exposed servo housing. Grinning, he remarked Never thought I’d have to exorcise a tank.

Connel moved differently.

He didn’t fight against the walkers — he fought through them. Gold-bladed saber a flicker in the storm, each slash guided not just by sight, but instinct. The Force flowed through him, warning of each step, each pulse of alchemized hatred buried in the constructs. He leapt onto the back of the central walker, driving his saber into the glowing rune-cluster on its spine—

It shrieked. Not metal. Not machine. A voice. A soul.

The walker collapsed — but not before whispers poured out of it. Like smoke.

Like souls trapped inside. Leaping back and breathing hard as he landed several feet away. They’re not just puppets. They’re… prisons.

Jeremiel, shield raised, dragged a wounded tech off the perimeter line and barked into comms:

[We’re not gonna hold! We either get out or we get buried!]

[Not yet. Not until we know who’s behind this.]

[(panting): I can breach their memory cores. But I need sixty seconds.

[You heard him. We buy sixty.]

The next minute was a symphony of violence, sacrifice, and precision. Omega Squad — outnumbered, outgunned — held.

Vanagor cut the head off a second walker.
Azrael’s charges turned a third to slag.
Sariel’s shots blew open a path through the yard.
Jeremiel caught a spear of shrapnel, kept fighting.
Raphael held the line.
Michael kept them all moving.

And then — click.

[I’ve got it.]

The walkers stopped.
Their lights dimmed.
The whispers died.

One long silence.

Then the final data packet burst onto Gabriel’s HUD.

“Foundry Delta, Level Seven. Origin protocol: Project Ossuary.”
“Primary overseer: Darth Illicitus. Sub-directive: Resurrection via synthesis.”

“They weren’t building weapons.”
*“They were building a new Sith army… out of the dead.”

Michael looked around quietly, angrily, shaking his head. Pull out. We’ve seen enough.

Omega Squad retreated into the night — battered, but alive — and the truth of Project Ossuary begins to unfold.
[h3][/h3]Location: Temporary Exfil Site – Subsurface Utility Tunnel 44-C
Time: Two hours post-engagement

The storm had faded, but inside the underground junction, it felt like the thunder still echoed in their bones.

The squad sat scattered in the broken silence of the emergency fallback chamber. Power was low. Only one overhead strip flickered weak light across cracked walls. It wasn’t much. But it was safe — for now.

Raphael sat against the wall, cleaning the carbon scarring off his cannon barrel with slow, deliberate motions. Not out of necessity. Just routine. Something to do with his hands when his mind refused to be still.

Sariel knelt in the shadows behind him, not praying, not meditating — just still. Eyes half-closed, breathing level. He’d seen the faces inside those walkers. He hadn’t told anyone. He didn’t have to.

Azrael paced. The silence didn’t suit him. Normally he’d throw out a one-liner, break the tension. Not tonight. Instead, he muttered under his breath, replaying every detail of his charge placements. His face was blank. But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Jeremiel, patched up but still bleeding somewhere beneath the plates, checked everyone in turn. Not just physically. A nod here. A hand on the shoulder there. He didn’t say “You good?” — just made sure everyone still felt human.

Gabriel was bent over a datapad, replaying the download again. And again. Project Ossuary. The term made his stomach twist. He had seen what it meant. A Sith algorithm for necro-integration — soul-binding fused with mechanized resurrection. Every Imperial doctrine he thought he understood had just been rewritten in blood and circuitry.

Michael stood watch by the tunnel entrance, arms crossed, eyes scanning the dark. He wasn’t just watching for danger.

He was thinking about what came next.

And then there was Connel Vanagor — sitting alone across from the squad, his gold-blue saber balanced across his knees, unlit. His gaze wasn’t on the blade.

It was on the floor.

On the souls he couldn’t save.

We didn’t kill machines. We killed… prisoners. Maybe thousands. Bound in those walkers. How… I still don’t understand how…

Connel looked up a moment later, his mask off, and his anger evident. Better not to try to understand. Then next time, we free them before they fire. A beat. ... and we make damn sure there is no next time.

Michael just shook his head. This isn’t a weapons project. This is something worse. Reloading his rifle, he shook his head. It’s a war crime that hasn’t happened yet.





TAGS: @

 

[Sinya Tarkona]

Location: Lorana's Labyrinth
Objective: Don't Get Arrested
Tags, Direct: Everest Vale
Tags, Indirect: Valery Noble // Reina Daival // Rolcor Wildstar

Sinya had her boots up on the table, enjoying a nice cold drink, a local brew with some Ryl added during the fermentation process to nudge up the potency and add a dash of flavour. The turmoil of shifting hyperlanes and unstable galactic geography had put a panic in the markets, and she'd been running herself, her ship, and her crew right to the ragged edge. Everything paid off in the end, each of them had pockets overflowing with credits, and there was enough in the ship's maintenance and emergency fund to buy a second ship, though not one as tricked out as the Wild Bantha.

Sinya looked around the cantina and spotted Tesska Vorn, her Zabrak first officer, propping up the bar. She was the complete opposite of Sinya when on the ship, straight business and no-nonsense, and tended to only cut loose when a run was over. Sinya had recruited her during the recent Imperial collapse, and she suspected the ex-Imperial had never quite gotten over the loss of her government.

Sinya kept looking casually, you never knew who might need cargo moved, and nothing made time planet-side like having a job lined up for when you start to get restless. As she glanced further down the bar, someone caught her attention. It wasn't a face she recognized. The Labyrinth was popular enough that there was no way to know even a small fraction of everyone who came through, but the way they held themselves caught Sinya's eye.

As the one-eyed silver-haired patron was served what looked like the same thing that Sinya was drinking, what seemed off registered, they held themselves wrong. Their body language wasn't that of a nervous newbie; they were too observant for that, but still had a nervous energy about them. Sinya had to assume they were some sort of law enforcement, and with that, extrapolate if there was an officer or agent she could see, there were probably ones she couldn't. Raising her glass in mock cheers, Sinya tried to catch their single silver eye just to let them know she knew they were looking.

 

[Mykel Dawson]

Location: Upper Atmosphere, Kelada (Nighttime)
Objective (II): Investigate "abandoned" factory and seize manifests Trail a freighter.
With: Jedi Knight Consular Kaldor Vexis (NPC Master), OPEN
Unit: Iron Rangers x 16 (Customized YVH-1 Combat Droids in KPA-01 Katarn Commando Armor)

Minutes from insertion, Mykel squinted his eyes as his wrist mounted computer was flooded with new information, energy readings spiking in and around the factory.

A firefight had just broken out.

"One of ours?" He inquired with Haunter.

:: Analysts report another unit on the scene. Identification, Omega Squad. ::

"Omega Squad," he repeated to Kaldor, who he sensed was already about to ask.

"Quite a boisterous group...I was expecting a more...muted insertion with SIA and Special Operations. I wanted us to go in quiet as there was also word of hostages from the preliminary intel reports."

Mykel just shrugged. The cat was already out of the bag, a fierce urban battle unfolding right across his holo-feed. The real question is if they would join in on the action. "What now?"

"Well, the the GADF and SIA are big organizations," Kaldor offered. "Sometimes some details slip along the way from planning to execution. The other unit may have simply been discovered as they inserted - it could have just as well happened to us. In any case, we'll just redirect and allow Omega and any other incoming units to prosecute the original mission as they see fit. We certainly don't want to trip over each other and reduce efficiency."

"Anyway, Haunter tagged several outgoing freighters, and Shadow HUMINT sources followed up with unmasking their owners. There's one of special note, Ocelot's Gamble. They're still planeside, now docked at one of the local ports. I suspect they made a quick unofficial diversion here before returning to their scheduled route. We'll check them out."

Mykel nodded, and with a few commands, the entire flight diverted for the space port.

Aggressive diplomacy was still coming, but for a new target.

 

[Evelyn Shaw]

Location: Kelada, Lorana's Labyrinth. Docking Bay #5
Objective 1: Secure the Cargo
Tags: Amea Virou​

Despite how many years they had been dabbling in the smuggler lifestyle, today marked the first time Evelyn had set a proper foot on Kelada. Sure, they had passed by the planet before, even landed on it. But those had always been for either quick pick ups or drop offs.

It didn’t stop the Echani from feeling antsy about the whole thing.

Amea had caught a ping on the info-web, or whatever it was she called it. There was a group that were looking to smuggle some goods across the galaxy. A little inquiry led to the revelation that they were looking to offload some relief aid that had been previously stolen, something they had been unaware of.

To which, neither Evelyn or Amea believed for a second.

But Eve was determined to see that the relief aid was taken to the people that actually needed it. Not kept by some scoundrels that wanted to sell it or pawn it off onto someone else.

“Honestly though, I think I have the worst timing ever…” Evelyn sighed, looking down at the datapad in her hands. She had tuned it to keep up to date on the goings on around Kelada. “Would be my luck that the Alliance happened to show up at the same time, again.”

“Indeed.” The monotone voice of BT-7, the towering Commando droid chimed in. “Let’s try not to have another near run-in with the Jedi’s Grandmaster.”

The Echani let out a sheepish chuckle, the events on Taris still lingering in her head. But Evelyn pushed them aside, opting to look over towards Amea.

“‘Mea, how much longer until these guys show up?” She asked, tapping her foot nervously against the repulsor craft they had brought along. The plan was to use the craft to haul the crates back to the ship. Once that was done? Get offplanet asap, before they drew attention from the Alliance.

That was the intended plan at least.

 

[Amea Virou]

Evelyn Shaw

One foot on the loader, the other on the ground. Eyes on the entrance, eyes on all exits. A content smile spread on her lips as Amea leaned in against her propped up knee and let out a lazy sigh. She was very young still, and yet a very real air of being content had set upon her the more time passed between her and her bloodied vengeance.

It helped that she had Evelyn at hand and the small family unit they made aboard their ship, skipping from planet to planet like a stone across a galactic pond, seeing things that many merely dreamed of. In truth they could have settled down just about anywhere, but they both knew they were far too young for that kind of oldness. That'd be them in like… Thirty years, maybe.

"Eh. Not sure the Gee-Emm Vee-Enn herself would-" Amea began to speak but cut herself off once she realized what Evelyn had said. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

Her shoulders rose like a child caught in a lie, the hunch of trouble, as she looked over at her lover with blinking eyes.

"You had a near run-in with the kriffin' Motherhen of all Motherhens?" She asked and let out a shocked exhale. Her foot lifted from the loader and set in the dust below. "The Blade of Religion? Mother-Superior of the Jedi? The Head of the Alliance Illuminati?"

"My sweet snowberry, you—" Amea let out another exhale of disbelief. "You never mentioned this before."

The surprised reaction made way for a happy chuckle.

"I mean, you would do great regardless, but like— oh wow. That's not someone I'd want to meet again. Have you ever seen one of those magma cells?" She huffed. "Pretty sure Starchaser broke some kind of Galactic Code or the other with that one."

 

[Charlana]

Tag: OPEN
Gear: Vibroknife, Blaster, pistol, Talisman

The deep, throaty laugh didn't seem to feet the sharp, elfin features of the woman. She shoved her shoulder teasingly into the glassy-eyed Duros next too her at the bar. "I bet she kept her fethin' tentacles off of you after that." Charlana chirped, laying it on thick. She was greasing the skids for a better jobs, and feeling out for crew members. Kelada was a dangerous place, and that was saying something. But those were the kinds of places where the lucrative shyke went down.

Her cloudy eyes scanned the room again, over the Duros' shoulder, keeping an eye things. Some new faces struck her. Some she didn't know, but knew of. Mr. Ruggedly Handsome caught her eye, she thought he was the captain of the Broken Vow. Then the lovely Twi'lek at the bar, the Wild Bantha was hers. She too had her eye on the one-eyed Echani hottie at the bar in the body suit.

Only then did her gaze fall on the latest pair to ooze into the Labyrinth. A brunette and a redhead. Suddenly the sting of electric, a thin live-wire, shot through her body at the sight.

"Crap on a cracker..." The half-Sephi murmured, the expletive slipping from booze-soaked lips, low enough that the Duros couldn't hear.

Charlana knew that face, was certain, or almost certain. Alcohol may have fuzzed her brain a bit. The eyes gave the woman away...ember-orange, beautiful and judgey. If that didn't give her away, the way she stalked in like a raxshir would have.

Valery Noble .

Charlana hid her smirk behind a swig from her bottle. The jedi master was a force to be reckoned with, the half-Sephi had learned in a creepy crypt on some time-forgotten cesspool of a planet. The fact that she was there sure as shyke meant trouble. Whether it would be fun trouble or the kind that sucked was yet to be seen.

The Duros excused himself to stumble to the male's 'fresher. Charlana took another swig, sensing the growing presence of the Force in the room.

Oh, things are were going to get juciy.

 

[Evelyn Shaw]

Location: Kelada, Lorana's Labyrinth. Docking Bay #5
Objective 1: Secure the Cargo
Tags: Amea Virou​

Amea’s response caught Evelyn by surprise, her expression a mix of startled and confused. It took her a few moments to compute, but the Echani eventually shook her head.

“Wait, I’m fairly certain I told you about it, no? The Taris job? Pirate fleet crashing into the city, lots of salvage to be had?” Evie’s voice lingered away along with her gaze, trying to remember when she and BT had returned home.

She always recounted her ‘solo adventures’ to Amea. Telling of getting caught in the middle of a skirmish between pirates and Alliance forces.

It only then dawned on her that she might’ve omitted that detail of almost running into Valery Noble.

“Well…damn, I could’ve sworn I had mentioned it.” Evelyn rubbed the back of her head sheepishly. “Sorry ‘Mea, thought I had told you.”

Meanwhile, BT was still standing off to the side, resolute and unmoving. Although he was internally rolling his optics. Humans.

At least it stopped Evelyn’s constant foot tapping, for a brief bit of time anyway. Until it suddenly froze to a stop, the Echani’s mind finally caught up to the rest of what Amea had said.

“Wait. What do you mean again? When did you have a first run in with the Grandmaster?”

 

[Thel Kaan]

Objective II: Shadows in the Shell
Location: Derelict Factory, Wastelands
Tags: Open (Please join in!)​

The hour was late.

Darkness stretched across the decaying husks of old buildings that littered Kelada's surface.

Yet a place that looked dead was anything but.

Three figures moved through the shadows in silence. Their path was erratic, almost disoriented—though not from confusion. They were weaving through the wasteland with purpose, doubling back and altering course, covering their tracks, watching for any signs of a tail.

They were not here by chance.

Just beyond the horizon, a forgotten factory served as the site of their business. If one could call it that. The operation inside promised shipments of heavy weaponry in exchange for Aurodium ingots.

The deal was unofficial—illegal by any standard.

The weapons? Military-grade. Most likely stolen from the Galactic Alliance itself. The buyers? Members of the Militant Front, including their leader, Thel Kahn. A man often branded an extremist, Thel had waged a relentless war against the Sith Order for years.

The sellers, on the other hand, were part of a criminal syndicate with a long, bloodstained history of exploitation and violence across Alliance territory. Not that the Militants asked questions. Thel didn't care about the origins of his tools—only that they worked. For him, the ends always justified the means.

They pressed on through the scorched land toward the designated meeting point.

Back in Lorana's Labyrinth, there had been whispers—Alliance patrols in the area. Yet another complication in a mission already teetering on a knife's edge.

The group came to a halt.

Gunfire cracked in the distance, followed by the dull thud of explosions. Not from the meeting site, but close enough to tighten the tension in the air.

They had half a klick to go.

Thel adjusted the strap on his disruptor rifle, eyes scanning the skyline.

This deal might not go as planned.

Good.

He was ready for that.

​

 

[Vess Sadragen]

Vess sat alone at the corner of the bar, half-hidden behind the shadow of a busted holosign advertising Corellian brandy at a discount that hadn’t been honored in months. She was hunched slightly over a well-worn portable terminal, her fingers dancing across its display with practiced, casual speed. Schematics flickered across the screen half a dozen layers deep in code, one of them likely illegal. Maybe two. Probably three.

She was already a drink and a half in something neon and sharp that stung the back of her throat but numbed the edge of her thoughts just enough to keep her hands moving. Her boot tapped in rhythm with the low thrum of the cantina’s ambient sound, not the music exactly, but the pulse of it: the chatter, the hum of modulated voices, the occasional burst of laughter too forced to be real.

A haze of spice smoke curled near the ceiling, stirring memories she didn’t want, so she kept her focus on the terminal. A tiny spark of satisfaction crossed her lips as a locked subroutine unraveled, and the whole schematic unfolded in her lap like a secret finally whispering back.

She didn’t look up.

Didn’t notice the way the door had hissed open behind her.

Didn’t clock the ripple that passed through the force. An apex predator just walked in, still, Vess sipped her drink, unaware.

She was dressed in her usual patchwork of streetwear and salvaged gear half armor, half afterthought. Her eyes reflected the display, their glow muted, distant. Focused.

The fact that anyone in the room might be looking for her didn’t even register. She had her own business tonight. A quiet job, quick credits, no heat. In and out.

At least, that was the plan.

The faintest flicker of tension ghosted across her brow, not from the room but the machine. Something was off in the code. She muttered a curse under her breath, took another sip, and slid her thumb across the datafeed jack on her terminal. A low chirp of rejection met her input.

“Ugh, don’t get picky now…” she grumbled to the tech, not even noticing the booth with the woman in leathers and her metal-footed companion settling in across the cantina.

She hadn't seen Valery Noble.

Yet.

TAG: Valery Noble Reina Daival

 

[Amea Virou]

Evelyn Shaw

Oh right, the Taris job. Amea tilted her head backwards and slowly fell into a reflective nod. Evelyn had very much not at all mentioned Valery, but she had mentioned the pirates. One of those things worried Amea slightly more than the other. One of them was a super capable Jedi, the others were pirates.

"Hm?" She offered back once the question turned around and hit herself instead. "Oh, it was a while ago. Way back before I met you, during the, uh…" Amea cleared her throat and shifted a little. "It was during the murders."

Felt like an age ago, that.

"Got a lecture on the Dark and all that came with it. Suppose she'd be happy to see where I am now if we give her the chance — which we're not."

Up ahead there was a vehicle incoming. Amea motioned her hand towards Evelyn to point it out. A fully loaded truck. Looked just a little too heavy for what they were picking up.

"Look sharp. Something's wrong."

 

[The Battalion]

OOC: Valery Noble gave this character permission to be in this thread. Thanks Valery!




Wearing: Darth Phyre's Armor

Armed With: Curved Hilt Lightsaber (Synthetic Crystal, Red)

Objective: 3


Syd Celsius had needed to do some scouting for Nathan on Kaleda but neither of them could be seen acting in an official capacity.

The long vanished underground networks of Kaleda were perfect hiding spots for Brain Demon Cultists. So much so that both were pretty confident that some were already there.

Syd had discreetly traveled to Kaleda under cover of darkness. She avoided Jedi, not wanting to call attention to herself under her hooded brown robe as she moved through crowds, heading for one of the oldest routes into the undercity.

Nathan Bloodscrawl, not willing to throw lives away senselessly, had dispatched drones into the under city to survey areas she said would make good inhabitation points for the sick feths.

After the drones had lost contact, Nathan had essentially thrown her to the wolves by ordering her to check it out personally.

Due to the Life Debt, she had complied, but with her recent restoration to full strength, it was getting harder and harder to do so.

What was the point? Even after all she was trying to do he still utterly despised her. She knew as soon as the Brain Demon was somehow finished off...that they would throw hands.

And when that time came, only one of them would walk away. The thought of a peaceful resolution was so far beyond Nathan where she was concerned. Though they were connected more intimately than he and his own wife due to their twisted Dyad, there was an emotional gulf between them that made that bond a living hell.

Syd didn't want to kill him. But as the last excuses to spare him on his part started to crumble, she questioned whether or not she had the will to fight back.

She had made no progress whatsoever at reaching him. He was immune to any attempt from her to bridge the Gulf.

And how could he be any less? Her Sith self had killed his wife. Darth Phyre had eaten her soul.

There was no forgiving that. Anymore than there was forgiving her role in Laertia's insanity and irreversible corruption.

And Syd couldn't find a way, try as she might, to peacefully resolve the blood feud. She KNEW it was going to happen. That it HAD to happen.

There was no disappearing. He would know wherever she went. Even if she beat him, the organization he had put together was so large it wouldn't matter if he was exposed...it was so large one of them would surely get her in the aftermath. It might even end up being his new wife who finished what he once again might not be able to...and his new wife was so powerful at this point she did not like her odds.

Once she had passed through the crowds, getting to the older sections of the capital, she descended into the remains of an old repulsor-lift subway. Three kilometers down was where the drone had lost contact.

She ditched the robe, her flaming red hair resting on her shoulders. The white and gold metallic catsuit she wore reflected everything around her.

That was when she initiated the change, staring into the darkness of the tunnel.

Her mind submerged into a false personality of aggression and cunning and a certain level of arrogance. Metallic, pig like squeals escaped her throat involuntarily as she walked, body and face distorting along with her mind, warping into The Battalion, who imagined she was doing this as a personal favor to her friend Starlin.

Even in the subconscious, Syd already felt herself battling the might of such a forceful personality. The Battalion was already extremely difficult to stop channeling in controlled circumstances.

How much more difficult would this be in an uncontrolled one?

The Battalion didn't have to walk long before she spotted a number of bodies.

They looked like a mix of Alliance Special Forces and SIA.

The now-Fake Sith Lady knelt to examine them. Lacerations, but done with no blade. Only the Dark Side...

She jumped back in surprise when one started coughing.

The Warrior crouched again.

"Who did this to you?" The Battalion asked.

"Never...never saw it...the light just went out, and when they did, it hit us...It had been chasing us for a while...we were just charting..." The dying soldier coughed.

"How far did you get? The Battalion asked, carved pale features examining him coldly.

"Two kilometers...It strikes only in the dark. It's weird...it's like you can't even make stay unless there is darkness..."

The Battalion snorted. Weaklings like this annoyed her to no end.

"We'll see about that..." she replied.

The Soldier didn't answer back, having finally bled out.

Without another word, The Battalion started back in her journey after gathering spare weapons...

And then she started swooning as the suppressed memories of Laertia hit like bricks.

The Battalion leaned against a wall, hyperventilating...

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Smuggler Outfit
Weapons: Blasters

Valery's fingers continued their slow tap against the backrest of the booth — not impatient, not idle. A rhythm. One she used when her mind was active beneath the surface, when she was setting a stage and waiting to see who stepped into the light. Her eyes never stayed in one place too long, scanning the cantina in calculated sweeps. She picked up the bartender's nervous glances, the pair in the far corner exchanging something under the table, the Rodian trying a little too hard to look uninterested. All familiar rhythms. All predictable.

But Reina was the variable. Valery turned slightly toward the Padawan, one brow raising, voice pitched low enough to stay beneath the cantina's murmur.

"Alright," she said, the corner of her mouth curling with just a hint of challenge. "We've got the seat. We've got the cover. Nobody's watching us — at least, not with any real suspicion." Her gaze swept the room again, and then flicked back to her student for the day.

"So," she murmured, tone gentle but deliberate. "What's our next move, Agent? Information doesn't walk to our table. If you were in charge… how would we draw it out?" It wasn't a trap, nor a test meant to catch her off guard, but an open door. Valery wanted to see how Reina's mind worked when the real mission began. Just then, Valery's eyes paused — drawn across the crowd, catching a familiar shape beneath the flicker of a broken holosign.

A young woman, half-obscured in shadow and cheap neon, hunched over a datapad with the kind of obsessive focus Valery remembered well.

Vess?

She'd seen her before — on Denon, not that long ago. A street-smart techie with the instincts of a survivor and a mind like a slicer's blade. There had been hesitation in her then, teetering on the edge of something more. Valery had offered a path — not a recruitment pitch, just an invitation to visit the Temple. A step toward the Light, if she ever wanted it.

And now here she was again, tangled in code, unaware of who was watching her from across the room.

Valery didn't draw attention to it. Not yet.

Reina Daival Vess Sadragen ​