Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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In need of a Master?

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. . . .



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Hasjo Hallu walked the streets of the Entertainment District. Citizens moved aside, avoiding the armoured brute. The rain poured down in the buckets as neon lights danced upon the night sky. He had never felt so truly alone in his life as he did right now. He had lost many of his friends to the war, and the friends that were still alive were currently Missing In Action due to this catastrophe, or currently Prisoners of War. He knew this first-hand. He had almost become one of these prisoners of war. Nonetheless, he had suffered from the conflict. He now lived inside a Mobile Life Support System, the MLSS. It gave him an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia, anonymity and loneliness. He spent his days occupying his mind from these troublesome thoughts. He glanced to his right from underneath his light brown cloak, looking over the Outlander Club. Music violated the ears as party-goers from all over the Galaxy assembled here for a night of dancing and narcotics.

He needed to find the others. Those who had survived the sacking of the Jedi Temple. They hid in the darkest corners of Coruscant, fleeing from wrongful prosecution. He understood why more than a usual amount of people were out these nights. It had become a dreary place to exist for those that believed in the Republic, and a night of alcohol and drugs could help one forget such miserable dealings. He turned his back to the taunting fun and fled further into the city streets. Vermin skittered out of his way. Airspeeders zoomed overhead. Hasjo recalled a time when he had regularly visited the Entertainment District as a young man. Regularly visiting cantina's for dinner with his uncle. The Galaxy would never be the same, even if the Republic took back Coruscant. Sweeping his gaze to the sky above where towers as tall as the heavens rose, he wondered what else was going on in the Galaxy tonight. . .

[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]
 
Ansion was a beautiful realm, not unlike the Lasedri homeworld. Its vast, flowing plains of blazing grains and meadows of budding flowers, interspersed with glimmering lakes. It reminded her of Chandrila, sans the omnipresent media. It was a quiet world, not one to attract much attention outside agriculture--which was the very reason she had come here.

Geneviève had been meeting with various independent or at least less prominent suppliers of foodstuffs to arrange partnerships between the producers and the Liberation Collective. If the GLC were seriously intending to expand their operations beyond the far reaches of the Outer Rim, they would need a lot wider distribution, which required third-party help. Fortunately, her trip had been marginally successful, having secured a working relationship with seven different programs.

Gazing across the dreamy landscape as the sun set, sliced in half by the horizon, Geneviève realized what she might have taken for granted at her old home. The grains sparked and danced in the orange glow as a tepid breeze rushed through, fluttering the banners of the inviting Cuipernam spaceport where the heiress found herself, leaning up against the railing of a balcony in a brown duster coat. She was waiting for departure to her next stop, Taanab, and soaking in the final moments on this placid world. She would have to visit again sometime when not occupied with her self-righteous do-good hobby. There had to be more than just charity to provide fulfillment in her life. But whatever that was, she had no idea.

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 
This was it. This was the moment. They had discovered him. He always knew from the moment he made it planet-side that he couldn't hide from them long. In a world of darkness, he was a beacon of light. The One Sith descended upon him. The rain continued to pour, sizzling off Hasjo's recently ignited cerulean lightsaber. The first man launched himself at the Jedi Master, a dark acolyte. The crimson blade collided with the cerulean. Hasjo's sheer strength shrugged off the attack, forcing the man back. The metalloid Nautolan turned and fled. Racing down the streets. Each block he passed he would throw a glance over his shoulder to see another Sith had joined the chase. Soon an entire squadron of them were after him. Airspeeders swooped low overheard, the whining of their propulsion drives drowning out the sound of the plasma of their blades. Citizens shrieked in horror as the chase continued. The people leapt out of the way rather than be thrown into the fray. Hasjo moved towards a spaceport, diving down corridors and hallways. They were gaining on him, he was weighed down by his armour. He saw Lysle Riggers freighter, engines starting to roar to life. He stepped onto the platform, it began to raise as the ship took off. A Sith leapt through the air, empowered by the force. The Nautolan spun his body, throwing out a durasteel boot to the creatures jaw, forcing him away. Within a matter of moments, the ship was barreling through the high reaches of Coruscant. It all seemed to happen too quickly for Hasjo. His minds was elsewhere distracted. He felt a presence calling to him. He sat in the cockpit, looking to the younger man and former smuggler. "Taaban" was all Rigger said, confirming their next destination for which they would hide from pursuers.

[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]
 
As far as cargo ships go, this one was first-class. Geneviève just preferred things that way. Despite all her rebellion; all her qualms; all her aberrations; all her disdain for the lifestyle bestowed upon her by her parents--she was still insistent on a life with the best of accommodations. She supposed there was a contradiction in that with the humanitarian causes she supposedly had dived into. And while she may indeed be committing good deeds, her heart was hardly embracing of the acts.

Violence was the answer. It had been the only solution when she had been kidnapped. People did not listen to the noises of the individual's voice crying for justice. Justice was a hammer and there were those who were brave enough--or insane enough--to wield it in the face of death. Slavery would exist as long as people talked. But as soon as the price was raised to a bullet in the head...

Geneviève patted the brand new Sith-killer model weapon she had had issued. When the gun's muzzle was pointed in the right direction, the young woman felt like everything wrong in the galaxy was about to be corrected. And she would be the hero. There was blood on her hands, but it was guilty blood--and that was all that mattered. Today was not the day on her calendar to spill any bodily fluids, however. She hoped everything would go smoothly.

As the transport jerked on touchdown, Geneviève slipped on her black trenchcoat and awaited the lowering of the loading ramp, tucking her gun inside the flaps. Be prepared.

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 
A desperate voice broke his meditation. "Be damned!" Lysle Rigger slammed a fist down onto the dashboard in the cockpit. "The cores fried. The hull is displaying critical and the hyperdrive is bonkers. The only thing holding this ship together is hope!" The rogue spun in his chair to confront the Jedi Master, of whom sat cross-legged in the corner. Lysle thrust a finger towards him, spitting out a cadence of curses in foreign languages before shouting at him "You're lucky we lost them. You waited too long to leave. What's the matter with you?"
"I couldn't leave them behind," Hasjo firmly answered with his synthesised voice of his. He referred to the Jedi. As a former Temple Guard, he had failed in his duty to safeguard the Coruscant Temple, and for this he would find those stranded on the planet and ferry them to safety. This had been his second attempt. Lysle took a step forward, opening his whole palm and indicating towards him, thudding against his own chest in emphasis of what he spoke. "Survival of the fittest, Hasjo, and I plan on being the fittest." Lysle raised his hands in the air and shouted in anger at the top of his lungs, "Forget it! You can find your own boat off Taaban. Once this bucket is fixed, I'm kickin' it." The smuggler returned to his seat, steering the vessel towards the planet of Taaban. The entire freighter shook and trembled under the strain of its most severe damage. The One Sith had not allowed them to escape without scars. Hasjo glanced to the smuggler before relaxing his eyes and falling back into meditation.

Nautolan's were born without eyelids, and so it was altogether a unique experience to describe to those with eyelids in the way in which they closed their eyes, so to speak. It required the Nautolan to relax the muscles in their large eyes. The eyes would slowly cease to absorb light. Once the Nautolan awoke, or decided to open their eyes, they would flex the muscles in their eyes. Hasjo flexed such muscles. He was greeting by the distant sound of chatter. Lysle was gone. The Jedi Master stood and vacated the ship, finding the smuggler was walking into a cantina beside the star port. He assumed this was goodbye, and decided to say nothing. He did not hold anger or a grudge towards the smuggler, he only wished to get out of his hair. Hasjo marched onto the busy streets of a marketplace. His arid cloaked draped over his shoulders and dragged behind his heels. Whilst Hasjo was relatively short, standing at a mere five-foot-seven, he was powerfully built. Everyone around him wore clothing and garb of a planet such as this, and the strange metalloid stuck out like a sore thumb.

[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]
 
One of the most practical ways of determining the quality of the local produce was to scout out the public marketplaces. Word was that Taanab's harvests were superb no matter where they were gathered, but Geneviève somehow had a feeling that the farms in the more urban locales were not quite as qualified as the rural growers. Geneviève did not want great. She wanted exceptional--and quiet.

As she perused the wares along the streetsides, the young woman was aware of the stares from children she had attracted. It was not unusual--her nonfunctional, frosty white eye always seemed to be the first thing people noticed. She had learned to ignore it by now, but sometimes she was considered to be suspicious simply because of this physical feature. Sidling over to a vendor's booth, Geneviève picked up a goldfruit and tossed ten credits--when he had asked only for three--into his money basket, attempting to advertize a more positive persona by being generous. Making good connections with the population would open more doors.

As she progressed further down the streets of the marketplace, fewer people stared at her, their attention distracted by an even stranger presence. Geneviève followed their gazes to find a hulking man strolling in the opposite direction. Actually, he was not entirely a man. In fact, it was only by his gait and his rather conscious reactions to those around him that she was certain he was not a droid. He seemed so out-of-place on this agriculturally based world--then again, she remembered that she hardly blended in either.

Deciding to be polite, Geneviève turned to her side and analyzed someone else's fruits, yet watching the armored figure through the blurry field of vision captured by her mysterious 'third eye'.

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 
The bustling crowd parted before him. He was not overly tall, but his appearance on an agriculture world was something to be feared or admired. He was strange, exotic and foreign. Many had seen hundreds of pieces of armour, few had seen a mobile life support system. The pumping of blood provided a distinct gush-like noise that came from his chest whilst a wheezing sound came from his mouth. Large black orbs glanced out from within the faceplate, observing those around him. His pouldrons bore the sigil of the Silver Order. He raised his hand upon the arid hood that shadowed his helmet, tugging it back. The armour was perfectly smooth and curved around his neck and head. He felt a presence in the area, another force sensitive. He tossed a look over his shoulder to find his eyes dance upon a woman. The force permeated from her.

He turned his course, having been out to find a new pilot. His footsteps thudded loudly. Yet apart from this noise his armour made few sounds, the wheezing and gushing were the result of the systems that kept him alive. The plates that slid back and forth had been meticulously designed to weave between one another, providing a complex system of interlocking durasteel plates. He stood at the stand, reaching down to grasp a fruit in his armoured hand. He held it up, peering at it. He glanced to his side, speaking to her in a voice that was both lifeless and emotionless. It was more machine than organic, "You're not as plain as the others. What is your name?" He gently placed the fruit down, twisting his neck gently to look into her eyes.

[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]
 
She had not expected this sort of confrontation. Twitchy, Geneviève's hand nearly shot down into her coat for the grip of her gun, but she doubted anything good would come of that. Instead, she simply nodded and glanced into his receptors. He seemed unabashed about making straight-on eye contact, so she supposed she would return the favor. She was in a vulnerable position as it was. Timidity would only make her appear more so.

"Echo," the woman replied to his inquiry, offering only her middle name out of security instinct. Not as plain? Did he seek the company of strangers, perhaps? Or were there more of him, silently converging on her to take her away? Narrowing her eyes, she asked him in turn, "Why? What's yours?"

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 
He felt the emotions swirl around her. He could see through her, in a sense. He listened to her intently, focused on her words, "Why? What's yours?"
"Hasjo Hallu" he answered. He turned back to the stand, his eyes scanning the wares. He curled his fingers around an oval and bright green fruit native to the planet. He gave her no warning, only wanting to see if she was indeed force sensitive as he suspected. They typically had advanced reactions and greater natural instincts to that of those who were not sensitive. With twisted his body, bringing his arm around in an arc and throwing the fruit towards her. The distance was small, but if his suspicions were true, she just might catch it in time before it narrowly passed by her shoulder. He had aimed to narrowly miss her, in the event that she was not indeed what he thought she was. And that way, he wouldn't be hurting anyone.

[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]
 
"Hasj--" She was nearly caught off-guard as the metalloid stranger launched a fruit at her. Her depth perception was often lacking due to her blind eye, but her 'third eye' was always there when something was happening, alerting her before her true ocular sensors could. Reflexively, Geneviève dipped her head to the left and jolted her right hand up high to snatch at the projectile. Her fingers closed too quickly to catch it, but the green fruit smacked against her fist as she was just able to knock it out of the air.

Maybe now was time to reach for her gun. "What the heck! You son..." she exclaimed, a laser-like glare forming about her face.

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 
He remained as emotionless as he had been. He was always in a constant state of total calm and peace. His voice would have been soothing, but due to the synthesiser, it only come out monotone and lifeless. "Just as I thought, force sensitive," he turned and placed a credit, overcompensating the farmer at the stand for the fruit that had just been ruined. He could feel she was not angry, and to prevent her from doing anything hasty, he draped his hands over two lightsabers at his hip. Alongside them were an array of other weapons he utilised in combat. He was indeed a walking armoury. "Untrained?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Memories washed through his mind, flooding him with images of things he had seen. Realisation dawned on him, knowing just who this woman was. Whilst the Jedi were not prone to the media influences, his soldiers in the Sixth Battalion were. When a young heiress by her appearance had been captured and held for ransom, it had runned rampant all over the news. He glanced towards her, interlocking plates sliding into place along his neck. Hasjo made no comment of this. "Anyone can shoot a blaster, but can you swing a lightsaber," he said, attempting to draw her attention.

@[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]
 
The armored man's words emanated in a flat, filtered tone, making it extremely difficult to discern the intention of his words. Untrained? What did that mean? She assumed it had to do with militant arts, which she could answer that, actually, she was indeed trained. And having a rather large chip on her shoulder, she liked people knowing that. "You bet your--"

Geneviève stopped as Hasjo followed up his question with another, more direct one. Did he just take a wild guess, or how could he know she was feeling for her shooter? Her arm stopped reaching as she tried to read into his question, arms slacking and eyebrows rising in a puzzled expression. Was that a threat? "Why would I play around with a sword?"

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 
"Why would I play around with a sword?"
"Why? Because unlike the blaster, it requires skill." He motioned to a holster at his hip, a heavy blaster pistol. "Sure, you can train yourself to become a good shot, but even a competent user of a sword can bat aside your shots, lest you shoot them with their backs turned." He raised an index finger and casually pointed towards her chest, not to her physical self but a much more spiritual side of her he was indicating, "I sense in you, you have what it takes to utilise such a weapon. Perhaps you could be greater than even I." Hasjo was not the greatest swordsman to live. He had mastered two of the six forms, and mastered the Pike. He was advanced in most other forms of combat. This was what made him hyper-lethal. In a duel where both utilised merely a single weapon, both of equal rank as a Master, it is unlikely Hasjo would come out on top every time. Rather, his versatile arrangement of weapons, forms and techniques always left the enemy guessing what was next. It gave him a unique upperhand rarely seen in the Galaxy. Hasjo began to move from the stalls and strolled in the direction of the spaceport, craning his neck to see if she was following.

[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]
 
"Why? Because unlike the blaster, it requires skill."

There was certainly some truth in that, Geneviève had to admit. And he had a point about deflecting plasma bolts--she had seen recordings of what the Sith and Jedi could do. "Well, that's what scattershot is for..." she argued, but her voice trailed off as she watched him begin to walk away. What was it he could sense in her?

She was now suddenly curious. He had promised her something she had no idea about--something foreign; new--and it sounded spectacular in a way. Besides, if he was here to confiscate her, she would likely have been elsewhere by now. Jogging up behind him, the young Lasedri clutched at her coat to prevent the gun from being revealed as its flaps fluttered in her draft. "Why?" She seemed to be asking that a lot. "Why would you say that?"

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 
"Well, that's what scattershot is for..." she argued.
"Su," he answered. The crowd had dissipated, they were alone. His hand snapped to the hilt of a 60cm long Pike. He would demonstrate. His speed defied common sense as he brought the double-bladed lightsaber to kneel, cerulean plasma burst to life with a familiar hiss. His hands twirled the hilt between his fingers swiftly, creating a form of crude deflector shield before him. Having done this, he deactivated the Pike and slapped it back to his weapons belt. "Su. A lesser known technique among both Jedi and Sith. While many cannot block your scattershots, some of us can." He motioned his hands towards her casually, "On to the matters of why I say such things," he craned his neck to look at her, "You're force sensitive. You have what it takes to become a Jedi, and willingly, I could teach you all you know." He looked ahead, "Whilst your sensitivity is not the strongest, it far exceeds my own. I am weak in the force, but a master with weapons. The force allows you to become greater with weapons, all coming down to instinctual reactions. I am the elite of my Order, the Exotic Weapons Master, and were you to heed my words and follow a righteous path, you could become greater than I."

@[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]
 
That he had an answer for her scattergun brought her to a grim realization. While he had indeed confirmed that the majority of those gifted would fall to scattershot, he had also established that there were others--those of his mastery--who were possibly indomitable. And why would she not want to be so? Everything he spoke seemed to be true. Surely he was not joking about her own potential.

She only checked at his final words. She had never been one to subscribe to religion or anything like that. Even her motivations with the Collective were skin-deep. "If I am what you claim I am--and I have no idea how you should know--then I suppose I would be a fool to decline. However..." Geneviève paused, reflecting on her own personal, skewed moral code. "I'm not sure I'd be cut out for the Jedi business."

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 
"As long as your intentions are pure and for the greater good - then there is nothing else that needs to be said. One can operate outside the strict teachings of the Jedi. It is said among my Order that I am more soldier than Jedi, but they know I do it for the greater good." He spoke with no change in pace of his voice, not that he was able too anyway. He couldn't even convey his emotions through speech. It was a terribly horrifying thing to be confronted with. Though he had gotten used to this life he had been reduced too. The spaceport was up ahead, various crafts were leaving, but one in particular was landing. In appearance it was no different than the rust buckets, but a presence lurked aboard. A dark one. Hasjo held out his hand at chest height, attempting to stop her as he himself stopped in his paces. He glanced up and quickly turned his back to the port. He spoke, "We need to go." Clearly something had disturbed him. His armoured hand returned to his side, draped over the hilt of a lightsaber.

[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]
 
As long as your intentions are pure... How could she be sure? At one time, she had been arrogant enough to assume that all her intentions were righteous as she sought the elimination of those who might prowl others. But there were many who might argue that putting a bolt through their head after they had been already beaten was wrong. It had not weighed on her conscience until now. What is pure?

A steel arm extended in front of her, halting her pace and interrupting her thoughts. Something was bothering this man, which should most certainly bother her. Why did she trust him? She had never truly trusted anyone--with the possible exception of [member="Regor Laxvan"]--and especially not strangers who showed up in marketplaces with their faces concealed. What if all he promised was merely bait-and-switch?

Geneviève inserted her hand into her coat and found the grip of her firearm. She would follow Hasjo, but if there was any trouble on the way, someone was going to end up with a few shells full of shot in their body. For Hasjo's sake, she hoped he was the good guy he said he was.

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 
He didn't take the route towards the markets. He could lose those on board that craft easier, but if found, at what cost to civilian lives? He couldn't take any risks. He moved towards the cantina of which Lysle Rigger had entered. Spaceport cantinas were oft filled with smugglers, slicers and bounty hunters. The type who could defend themselves when bantha fodder hit the fan - so to speak. He glanced to his right and down, watching her place her hand within her coat, no doubt for a handgun. Hasjo reached down to his belt, unclipping an AB-1 heavy blaster pistol. A small logo notched into it's side identified it as manufactured by Silver Engineering. Military grade. It was illegal for any but military personnel to carry. "Take this," he spoke quietly, handing it over to her, "In close quarters, it'll punch a fist-sized hole through any hide." He tapped his index finger against it's stock, diverting her gaze towards it, "And the ammunition recharges. No need for reloading. Be careful, cooldown is fourteen seconds. It's a handy secondary." Hydraulic mechanisms could be heard as the automatic door greeted them, welcoming them into a dark and stingy cantina. Decrepit creatures of all species sat around, chatting quietly among themselves. Hasjo stood at the door, motioning [member="Geneviève Lasedri"] in. If she chose to move ahead first, he would lean towards her ear, revealing in a whisper those whom chased him, "Sith."
 
Geneviève did not hesitate in accepting the powerful handgun. While she preferred her ECHO Scrubber--the weapon she had designed--there was no denying that it really did not belong in a situation like this. Besides, the more guns, the merrier. That was going to make it into her memoirs someday.

She stepped forward into the bar. The heiress had been in many of these rotten establishments before, hanging around and picking up on the happenings in order to find something to keep her busy. Usually it was mercenary work, as she loved the adrenaline rush she got while in combat. She had no need of the money. Priorities.

Then Hasjo uttered the one word that sent chills throughout her body. Sith. She squeezed the grip of the blaster she had just been given until her fingers were white as her brown eye flicked left, right, up, and around the cantina, wondering where this mongrel might be. "Where is he? What's he look like?" the young woman demanded, rapid-fire. At this point, any sudden moves by one of the cantina patrons might find their head blown off. Geneviève never left anything to chance with Sith types.

[member="Hasjo Hallu"]
 

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