Character
The skyline of Coruscant shimmered like a million suns caught in a web of durasteel and transparisteel. The city-world pulsed with its own rhythm—air traffic flowing endlessly along neon-lit lanes, senators and syndicates coexisting in a fragile truce, and beneath it all, shadows moved with purpose. One of those shadows was descending now, sleek and precise, its hull painted blood red and black: the Adenn'Am.
A fusion of deadly ingenuity, the Adenn'Am was a Lambda Class Y-Tie-2460—a unique hybrid vessel that drew on the best elements of three iconic starfighters. From the YT-2400 came its broad-bodied structure and main thrusters, solid and dependable; from the Lambda Shuttle, the pointed cockpit and folding wings that made it versatile in tight urban descents; and from the TIE fighter, solar panels mounted along its flanks, harvesting energy to keep auxiliary systems operational while saving main power for weapons and maneuvering thrusters. Armament was no less impressive: R-9X heavy laser cannons, ArMek SW-7a ion cannons, and Krupx MG9 proton torpedo launchers. The ship had earned its name well—Adenn'Am, Mando'a for "Merciless Change." Its reputation preceded it.
Titus Kryze sat silent in the pilot's seat, motionless save for his fingers adjusting thruster output and navigation paths. His helmet never came off. Matte black beskar armor covered him head to toe, with dark green accents tracing his gauntlets, shoulders, and helmet ridges. A short red cape with black lining hung from his left shoulder, fluttering slightly with the ship's internal breeze. His presence was austere, cold, and calculated. A ghost in armor.
The bounty was clear: Councilor Tharros Venn, former liaison to interplanetary trade councils and long-time informant for Crimson Dawn and the Pyke Syndicate, had turned. He had leaked operational caches, names, and smuggling routes—an offense neither syndicate tolerated. But Venn wasn't hiding. He was ensconced in a fortified gambling den nestled into the side of a 100-story tower on Coruscant's upper levels. Protected by the Galactic Alliance's bureaucracy, Venn was brazen in his betrayal.
But Titus didn't care about Crimson Dawn or the Pykes. Not really. His interest was singular: the Black Sun. They were more powerful, more structured, and their shadow covered far more ground. Bringing them Venn alive, while Crimson Dawn and the Pykes hunted the man down with blaster squads and slicer droids, would speak volumes. Titus didn't want to be just another contractor. He wanted in.
As Adenn'Am banked low beneath the cover of a heavy freighter lane, Titus activated his descent thrusters. His target was on Level 748, mid-section of the Spire Strip—an open-air ring of gambling halls, casinos, and corporate suites. Packed with air traffic, balconies, and Alliance patrols, it was not the kind of place for a long-range ambush or elaborate traps.
He didn't need them.
Titus moved like a silent wraith.
Mid-range blaster rifle set to stun. No explosives. No words. No deaths.
Only the mission.
Only the hunt.
Only the path to the Black Sun.
He descended into a private landing dock leased by an off-the-books company that Titus had scrubbed clean weeks ago. Every data trace removed. The kind of place no one looked twice at, especially not when air traffic was thick with late-night gamblers and corporate executives partying away their corruption.
He stepped from Adenn'Am without a word, moving through the docking bay's shadows like part of them. The door slid shut behind him with a hiss. From here, he would need only two levels of access and one overridden lock to reach the outer balcony of the gambling den where Venn resided.
He took a service lift up the tower's spine, avoiding traffic lanes by sticking to maintenance ducts and blind angles in the building's design. His armor made no sound. He was a silhouette of vengeance, a sliver of obsidian in motion. Twice he passed security patrols—droids programmed for detection and organics armed for intimidation—but they saw nothing. He moved before they arrived. Watched from vents. Waited. Passed.
When he reached the balcony, the air was thick with spice smoke and laughter. Coruscanti elites, dealers, and security goons lounged beneath warming lamps while repulsor traffic whined in the distance. Inside, the den was gilded in faux marble, its walls glinting with holoposters and neon signs advertising sabacc tournaments and spice-exclusive lounges.
Titus checked his HUD. Tharros Venn was in a private suite above the pit floor, accessible by a single guarded stairwell and a staff lift. Four guards outside, likely two more inside.
He scaled the side of the building, magnetic clamps holding him in place as he moved vertically across the transparisteel face of the tower. From a maintenance ledge, he activated a sound jammer, rendering a twenty-meter radius above and below the balcony into mute silence. No alarm would carry.
His rifle hummed softly in his grip. Set to stun. He raised it and took out the two stairwell guards with precise shots—blue bursts of plasma dropping them where they stood. He rappelled down, slipped through the lift shaft door, and slid in behind the outer suite entrance.
Two more inside. Both alert. One turned. Titus moved first.
A short pulse from his wrist-mounted ionizer shut off their comms. Two stun bolts fired. Two more bodies hit the floor.
He entered the suite.
Tharros Venn was reclining on a velvet couch, datapad in hand, an expensive drink untouched beside him. The moment he noticed Titus, his face paled. He reached for the table, perhaps for a hidden blaster, perhaps to call for help.
Titus aimed.
One shot. Stun bolt.
Venn slumped.
The bounty was complete.
But the hunt was not over.
Alarms didn't sound, but his HUD flickered.
Motion trackers. Twelve hostiles. Two different directions. Both groups closing fast.
Crimson Dawn and the Pykes.
They were waiting.
Titus grabbed Venn's unconscious form and moved fast—
Titus sprinted toward the ledge, cape snapping behind him like the red tail of a comet. His HUD flickered with threats—Crimson Dawn mercs moving into position on the lower terraces, Pyke Syndicate gunners cutting across the service platforms to flank him. His boots scraped metal as he vaulted the balcony railing and fired his grappling line toward a gliding public transport skimmer. It latched with a sharp clang, the cable pulling taut as his body jerked forward into the wind. The skimmer roared past neon billboards, barely scraping the upper towers.
He landed atop it with a roll, lying flat against its roof to avoid detection. Below, civilians inside the transport pointed upward, confused, some recording the dark-armored shadow riding their transit like a silent demon. He didn't look back.
Blaster fire raked the air as Crimson Dawn thugs leapt onto speeders in pursuit. They were fast—but Titus was faster. He rose just enough to disconnect the grapple, then leapt again, soaring through the artificial canyon of skyscrapers to a nearby maintenance tower. His boots hit the edge hard, momentum carrying him into a roll. He came up in a sprint.
The city howled around him. Air traffic spun in patterns beneath the cloud layer, and orbital platforms glittered above like stars chained to gravity. Behind him, enemy comm chatter filled the comms band with growing alarm. Titus had the target in a stun cocoon, suspended behind his back with magnetic clamps built into his armor. The man had stirred only once, disoriented and frightened, before the stun pulses lulled him into unconsciousness again.
Titus vaulted another gap, moving with inhuman precision across rooftops and landing bays. His ship was parked at Hangar 93-Zeta, a private docking tower nestled against the spine of a utility stack. Getting there wouldn't be easy—not anymore. A warning blared through his HUD.
:: NEW THREAT DETECTED :: :: INBOUND PATROL—GALACTIC ALLIANCE INTERCEPTORS ::
His visor locked onto three dots moving fast—X-wings, marked with planetary authority symbols. Coruscant Security had picked up the chase.
Titus slid down a cargo chute, landing on a fuel platform just as the sky lit up with searchlights and engine trails. The X-wings screamed overhead, executing tight arcs around the towers. Titus darted through fuel lines and maintenance arms, hiding his signature from scanners as best he could. He tapped a sequence into his wristpad.
"Adenn'Am, prepare for emergency extraction. Beacon lock, route Bravo. Arm weapons."
The ship's AI responded with a low chime.
Moments later, the Adenn'Am appeared like a phantom, descending through shadow and steel, its red-and-black hull glinting in the reflected glow of billboards and city haze. It docked onto the tower's retrieval clamps with a hiss, boarding ramp lowering even before it fully touched down.
Titus sprinted across the final walkway, stun bolts zipping past his armor. He reached the ramp and turned, firing two quick stun bursts behind him—one connected, dropping a pursuing merc. Then he was inside, sealing the ramp with a slam of his gauntlet.
:: Launch Initiated ::
The Adenn'Am roared to life. X-wings dove in to intercept.
"R9X cannons: non-lethal suppressive mode," Titus growled.
The ship pulsed with blue energy. Twin bursts of ion fire slammed into the lead X-wing, disabling its controls just long enough for the Adenn'Am to break away. The hyperlane uplinks blinked green.
He juked the ship through tighter corridors than most freighters dared, boosting between advertisement holos and high-speed shuttles. The city blurred around him. Missile locks buzzed.
"Engage cloaking protocol," he ordered.
The ship shimmered—and vanished.
X-wings scattered in confusion.
Titus spun the vessel upward, breaking atmosphere as alarms flared. The bounty moaned softly in the rear compartment, still restrained. Titus didn't acknowledge him.
Stars opened around them, space spreading out in a canvas of eternal possibility. Coruscant fell away like a bad dream.
The mission was complete. And while Crimson Dawn and the Pykes scrambled to assess the damage of their failure, Titus was focused on something far more important—opportunity.
He reviewed the secure transmission he'd just sent, one coded and precise: coordinates, credentials, and a name that mattered. Not a threat. Not a boast. A gesture. A whisper in the shadows meant for ears that ruled from deeper shadows still.
This bounty was more than a contract. It was a show of good faith—a flawless execution under impossible odds, delivered in silence and without blood. It was proof. Proof that he could be trusted. That he could serve.
He didn't need the Black Sun to fear him. He needed them to believe in his value.
Titus Kryze wasn't seeking power. He was offering precision.
And in the language of syndicates and shadows, precision was loyalty. ~
A fusion of deadly ingenuity, the Adenn'Am was a Lambda Class Y-Tie-2460—a unique hybrid vessel that drew on the best elements of three iconic starfighters. From the YT-2400 came its broad-bodied structure and main thrusters, solid and dependable; from the Lambda Shuttle, the pointed cockpit and folding wings that made it versatile in tight urban descents; and from the TIE fighter, solar panels mounted along its flanks, harvesting energy to keep auxiliary systems operational while saving main power for weapons and maneuvering thrusters. Armament was no less impressive: R-9X heavy laser cannons, ArMek SW-7a ion cannons, and Krupx MG9 proton torpedo launchers. The ship had earned its name well—Adenn'Am, Mando'a for "Merciless Change." Its reputation preceded it.
Titus Kryze sat silent in the pilot's seat, motionless save for his fingers adjusting thruster output and navigation paths. His helmet never came off. Matte black beskar armor covered him head to toe, with dark green accents tracing his gauntlets, shoulders, and helmet ridges. A short red cape with black lining hung from his left shoulder, fluttering slightly with the ship's internal breeze. His presence was austere, cold, and calculated. A ghost in armor.
The bounty was clear: Councilor Tharros Venn, former liaison to interplanetary trade councils and long-time informant for Crimson Dawn and the Pyke Syndicate, had turned. He had leaked operational caches, names, and smuggling routes—an offense neither syndicate tolerated. But Venn wasn't hiding. He was ensconced in a fortified gambling den nestled into the side of a 100-story tower on Coruscant's upper levels. Protected by the Galactic Alliance's bureaucracy, Venn was brazen in his betrayal.
But Titus didn't care about Crimson Dawn or the Pykes. Not really. His interest was singular: the Black Sun. They were more powerful, more structured, and their shadow covered far more ground. Bringing them Venn alive, while Crimson Dawn and the Pykes hunted the man down with blaster squads and slicer droids, would speak volumes. Titus didn't want to be just another contractor. He wanted in.
As Adenn'Am banked low beneath the cover of a heavy freighter lane, Titus activated his descent thrusters. His target was on Level 748, mid-section of the Spire Strip—an open-air ring of gambling halls, casinos, and corporate suites. Packed with air traffic, balconies, and Alliance patrols, it was not the kind of place for a long-range ambush or elaborate traps.
He didn't need them.
Titus moved like a silent wraith.
Mid-range blaster rifle set to stun. No explosives. No words. No deaths.
Only the mission.
Only the hunt.
Only the path to the Black Sun.
He descended into a private landing dock leased by an off-the-books company that Titus had scrubbed clean weeks ago. Every data trace removed. The kind of place no one looked twice at, especially not when air traffic was thick with late-night gamblers and corporate executives partying away their corruption.
He stepped from Adenn'Am without a word, moving through the docking bay's shadows like part of them. The door slid shut behind him with a hiss. From here, he would need only two levels of access and one overridden lock to reach the outer balcony of the gambling den where Venn resided.
He took a service lift up the tower's spine, avoiding traffic lanes by sticking to maintenance ducts and blind angles in the building's design. His armor made no sound. He was a silhouette of vengeance, a sliver of obsidian in motion. Twice he passed security patrols—droids programmed for detection and organics armed for intimidation—but they saw nothing. He moved before they arrived. Watched from vents. Waited. Passed.
When he reached the balcony, the air was thick with spice smoke and laughter. Coruscanti elites, dealers, and security goons lounged beneath warming lamps while repulsor traffic whined in the distance. Inside, the den was gilded in faux marble, its walls glinting with holoposters and neon signs advertising sabacc tournaments and spice-exclusive lounges.
Titus checked his HUD. Tharros Venn was in a private suite above the pit floor, accessible by a single guarded stairwell and a staff lift. Four guards outside, likely two more inside.
He scaled the side of the building, magnetic clamps holding him in place as he moved vertically across the transparisteel face of the tower. From a maintenance ledge, he activated a sound jammer, rendering a twenty-meter radius above and below the balcony into mute silence. No alarm would carry.
His rifle hummed softly in his grip. Set to stun. He raised it and took out the two stairwell guards with precise shots—blue bursts of plasma dropping them where they stood. He rappelled down, slipped through the lift shaft door, and slid in behind the outer suite entrance.
Two more inside. Both alert. One turned. Titus moved first.
A short pulse from his wrist-mounted ionizer shut off their comms. Two stun bolts fired. Two more bodies hit the floor.
He entered the suite.
Tharros Venn was reclining on a velvet couch, datapad in hand, an expensive drink untouched beside him. The moment he noticed Titus, his face paled. He reached for the table, perhaps for a hidden blaster, perhaps to call for help.
Titus aimed.
One shot. Stun bolt.
Venn slumped.
The bounty was complete.
But the hunt was not over.
Alarms didn't sound, but his HUD flickered.
Motion trackers. Twelve hostiles. Two different directions. Both groups closing fast.
Crimson Dawn and the Pykes.
They were waiting.
Titus grabbed Venn's unconscious form and moved fast—
Titus sprinted toward the ledge, cape snapping behind him like the red tail of a comet. His HUD flickered with threats—Crimson Dawn mercs moving into position on the lower terraces, Pyke Syndicate gunners cutting across the service platforms to flank him. His boots scraped metal as he vaulted the balcony railing and fired his grappling line toward a gliding public transport skimmer. It latched with a sharp clang, the cable pulling taut as his body jerked forward into the wind. The skimmer roared past neon billboards, barely scraping the upper towers.
He landed atop it with a roll, lying flat against its roof to avoid detection. Below, civilians inside the transport pointed upward, confused, some recording the dark-armored shadow riding their transit like a silent demon. He didn't look back.
Blaster fire raked the air as Crimson Dawn thugs leapt onto speeders in pursuit. They were fast—but Titus was faster. He rose just enough to disconnect the grapple, then leapt again, soaring through the artificial canyon of skyscrapers to a nearby maintenance tower. His boots hit the edge hard, momentum carrying him into a roll. He came up in a sprint.
The city howled around him. Air traffic spun in patterns beneath the cloud layer, and orbital platforms glittered above like stars chained to gravity. Behind him, enemy comm chatter filled the comms band with growing alarm. Titus had the target in a stun cocoon, suspended behind his back with magnetic clamps built into his armor. The man had stirred only once, disoriented and frightened, before the stun pulses lulled him into unconsciousness again.
Titus vaulted another gap, moving with inhuman precision across rooftops and landing bays. His ship was parked at Hangar 93-Zeta, a private docking tower nestled against the spine of a utility stack. Getting there wouldn't be easy—not anymore. A warning blared through his HUD.
:: NEW THREAT DETECTED :: :: INBOUND PATROL—GALACTIC ALLIANCE INTERCEPTORS ::
His visor locked onto three dots moving fast—X-wings, marked with planetary authority symbols. Coruscant Security had picked up the chase.
Titus slid down a cargo chute, landing on a fuel platform just as the sky lit up with searchlights and engine trails. The X-wings screamed overhead, executing tight arcs around the towers. Titus darted through fuel lines and maintenance arms, hiding his signature from scanners as best he could. He tapped a sequence into his wristpad.
"Adenn'Am, prepare for emergency extraction. Beacon lock, route Bravo. Arm weapons."
The ship's AI responded with a low chime.
Moments later, the Adenn'Am appeared like a phantom, descending through shadow and steel, its red-and-black hull glinting in the reflected glow of billboards and city haze. It docked onto the tower's retrieval clamps with a hiss, boarding ramp lowering even before it fully touched down.
Titus sprinted across the final walkway, stun bolts zipping past his armor. He reached the ramp and turned, firing two quick stun bursts behind him—one connected, dropping a pursuing merc. Then he was inside, sealing the ramp with a slam of his gauntlet.
:: Launch Initiated ::
The Adenn'Am roared to life. X-wings dove in to intercept.
"R9X cannons: non-lethal suppressive mode," Titus growled.
The ship pulsed with blue energy. Twin bursts of ion fire slammed into the lead X-wing, disabling its controls just long enough for the Adenn'Am to break away. The hyperlane uplinks blinked green.
He juked the ship through tighter corridors than most freighters dared, boosting between advertisement holos and high-speed shuttles. The city blurred around him. Missile locks buzzed.
"Engage cloaking protocol," he ordered.
The ship shimmered—and vanished.
X-wings scattered in confusion.
Titus spun the vessel upward, breaking atmosphere as alarms flared. The bounty moaned softly in the rear compartment, still restrained. Titus didn't acknowledge him.
Stars opened around them, space spreading out in a canvas of eternal possibility. Coruscant fell away like a bad dream.
The mission was complete. And while Crimson Dawn and the Pykes scrambled to assess the damage of their failure, Titus was focused on something far more important—opportunity.
He reviewed the secure transmission he'd just sent, one coded and precise: coordinates, credentials, and a name that mattered. Not a threat. Not a boast. A gesture. A whisper in the shadows meant for ears that ruled from deeper shadows still.
This bounty was more than a contract. It was a show of good faith—a flawless execution under impossible odds, delivered in silence and without blood. It was proof. Proof that he could be trusted. That he could serve.
He didn't need the Black Sun to fear him. He needed them to believe in his value.
Titus Kryze wasn't seeking power. He was offering precision.
And in the language of syndicates and shadows, precision was loyalty. ~
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