Faction Guided Current | Crimson Dawn [ME]

[Prisoner #36929]

Tags: Sidonia | Tessa Thayne
Equipment: X​

The case was a lead weight that refused to get lighter. Every time the Prisoner adjusted his grip, the metal handle bit deeper into his palm. He watched the Warden glide through the crowds of Helix Station like a predator through tall grass. People moved for her. They didn't move for him. He was just an obstacle with a massive box.

By the time she finally stopped in a side passage, his lungs were burning. She didn't offer a greeting, just a cold remark about him being late. He wanted to point out that no normal Mandalorian could sprint with this much durasteel, but he lacked the breath to argue. She reached out, adjusting his grip on the handle with a touch that was surprisingly efficient. Her advice was quiet and sharp: blend in. Don't look like a mark. He nodded, trying to mask the tremor in his forearms as she turned and kept moving.

They descended into the lower tiers where the air grew heavy with the smell of recycled oxygen and cheap grease. The noise of the main concourse faded into the low, dangerous hum of a smuggler's den. The Warden stepped into a dim bar without slowing down. The Prisoner followed, his boots heavy on the floor as he dragged the luggage inside.

The Warden took a seat at the bar, leaving a tactical gap between herself and a woman who looked far too comfortable in a place like this. She signaled for him to take the stool on her other side. He dropped onto the seat, his muscles finally screaming in relief as he let the case rest against his leg. He didn't order a drink. Instead, he leaned in toward the Warden, his eyes scanning the woman sitting just a few feet away.

"Is she with us?" he asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper under the low chatter of the room. He kept his posture stiff, trying to look like a guard rather than a tired delivery boy.

 

[Jett Vox]

<bzzt> "Some blades can jam." She countered, illustrating by clenching her fist, which snapped a pulsing twelve-inch vibroblade from her gauntlet. The blade hummed with energy and then snapped back inside the housing. "I have this one," and then she stomped her heel, which caused a much smaller three-inch blade (which did not vibrate) to snap from the toe of her boot. "And this." A bit of pressure on her heel caused it to snap back into it's housing as well.

"My boots are also soled with Beskar, so that I don't have to worry about resoling my boots regularly, and they are strong enough to dent metal when I get a good kick against my opponent. Since it's beskar, it can dent most metals, and if I get a bit stronger, I might be able to put some damage against even a Mandalorian breastplate."

She shrugged. "I don't think I need much more than that, really. Dad said a weapon you carry can be taken away from you and used against you. A weapon attached to you can never be taken away. That's why he taught us to wrestle... and punch people in the throat." <bzzt> She sounded a little uncomfortable talking about her father -- she still had a lot of unresolved guilt and grief that she hadn't had time to process.

<bzzt> "Anyway, that's mostly it. Oh," she said with an afterthought, "...and this. I have this." She clenched her fist, a subtle difference from the first time, with her smaller fingers - the pinkie and ring-finger - putting the most pressure. With a wooooosh, flame erupted from her gauntlet, briefly blasting Korda's helmet and engulfing the air in fire. Quickly Jett released her grip and the fire dissipated. "Oh, sorry! Sorry..." she said in a slight panic, as she reached up, her gloved hands frantically patting the remaining flames away that clung to his armor and visor, the residue of the propellant. "That... wasn't supposed to happen." <bzzt>

Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade

 

[Korda Veydran]

BYYO: shopping

The flame hit him full in the faceplate.
For half a second, blue visor glass vanished behind orange.
Korda did not move.

When the fire dissipated and Jett lunged forward in flustered apology, hands batting at lingering embers across his chestplate and helmet, he caught her wrists gently but firmly.

"Enough."
Not sharp. Not irritated.
Calm.
"I am fine."

With his free hand he brushed the remaining flames from his pauldron, smothering the last of the propellant residue with slow, controlled motions. The beskar had not even discolored.
"Mistakes happen," he continued evenly. "Especially with integrated systems."
He released her hands only once she stopped swatting at him.

Then, as if the moment had not just involved him being briefly set on fire, his visor tilted slightly.
A comm icon flickered across his HUD.
He went still for half a second, listening.

Then he exhaled through his nose.
"Omen says," he began flatly, "that if we hear shooting, it is probably about them."
A faint pause.
"And he hopes you are finding lipstick that complements my eyes."

Silence.
His helmet turned slowly back toward her.
"You will inform him," Korda added dryly, "that I prefer muted tones."

Oro shifted on his shoulder, tongue flicking once as if equally unimpressed.
Then his attention returned to her weapons.
"Built-in blades," he said, nodding toward her gauntlet and boot, "have merit."

He reached down and picked up the vibro-axe again, weighing it in one hand.
"But I do not favor them."
He set the axe down and tapped his own vambrace.
"If a blade is removable, it can be lodged."

A slight tightening of his voice.
"You stab. Leave it buried. Step back. Finish the fight with something else."
Efficient. Final.
He rotated his forearm slightly and triggered another mechanism.

A compact plasma shield flared to life from his vambrace, forming a curved, translucent barrier that shimmered faintly with contained energy. It hummed softly between them.
"Defense creates opportunity," he said.

Then the shield collapsed back into its housing.
"The boots," he added, nodding once, "are smart. Beskar soles reduce maintenance and increase force transfer."
A subtle shift of tone.
"You are thinking ahead."

Then, without warning, he reached up and disengaged his helmet seal.
With a soft hiss, he removed it and hooked it onto his belt.
Seven feet of armored Mandalorian became something more human.
Up close, there was nothing polished about him.

His hair was short and coarse, brown cropped close for practicality. His skin carried the tone of someone who had spent more of his life under open suns than under ceilings. Sun-kissed once, now weathered. Hard lines at the edges of his mouth. Scars traced across his jaw, along his cheekbone, disappearing beneath the collar of his armor.

And his eyes
Red.
Not stylized. Not cosmetic.

A rare mutation that left his irises a deep, predatory crimson. They did not glow. They did not flare.
They simply watched.
Unblinking. Assessing.
He leaned down slightly, not looming but still unmistakably larger, seven feet of seasoned violence folding into a smaller space so she did not have to look up as far.

"If you are strong enough to dent a Mandalorian breastplate," he said quietly, voice unfiltered now, roughened by age and use, "you will have earned it."
The faintest curl touched one corner of his mouth. When he smiled, it revealed a missing tooth, a relic from Yaga Minor.
There was nothing glamorous about him.
He looked like someone who had survived.

And would continue to.
His red gaze shifted briefly toward the promenade.
"Omen," he said dryly, "requests lipstick."
His eyes returned to hers.

"Perhaps we should find him something flattering."
Oro shifted comfortably along his shoulder, as if this face, these scars, this presence were the most ordinary thing in the galaxy.
Korda did not rush to put the helmet back on.
He let her see him.

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen Jett Vox