Mission Iron Warrant | Republic Military

[Seldan Rourke]

In Response to: War on the Republic​

Orders had come down from High Republic Strategic Command, landing on the task force with the cold finality of a gavel. The HRSC, a unity of intelligence, logistics, and combat, wanted results, not just speeches. Grand Army units would provide the muscle and a handful of veteran Republic Intelligence operatives riding point. The manifest read Task Force Harrow. Harrow would take a Vigo and exchange her for their Chancellor.

Seldan liked the name. Harrow meant cutting lines before they bled. It suited him. He found his place on the boarding ramp among the others. Harrow was small by design, a tight pocket team for a specific objective: a single penthouse rumored to be a Black Sun sanctuary atop New Vertica's highest stack.

The incoming transmission, the Chancellor, live, broken and forced, had rearranged priorities into a single, sharpened point: Capture Mauve, a senior Vigo of Black Sun, and use her as leverage. Fail, and the Holonet would have a red-ink deadline stamped across its face. Seldan felt that deadline like a pressure behind his ribs. He had seen propaganda kill morale; he had seen bodies do worse. He had no taste for either. He had a rifle, two magfed grenades, and a loyalty that did not bargain.

They boarded in silence. The dropship's massive hull thrummed, plates humming in cadence with Seldan's pulse. Tactical overlays crawled across the visor HUDs: approach vector, wind shear pockets, tower heat signatures, and, most useful, entry corridors flagged by Republic Intelligence as likely egress routes. New Vertica was Nar Shaddaa distilled: vertical neon, stacked markets, legal veneers papering over syndicate teeth. From orbit the moon looked like circuitry; from the deck it smelled like spent credits and ozone. Seldan smelled it now and let the memory of home, dry, clean, and dull, slide away. This operation would not be polite.

The plan was surgical and ugly in equal measure. They would drop on the service terraces to cut power and seal roof access. Two droid units would ghost the surveillance net and paint blind spots. "Suppress, then move," his superiors had said. "End fights before they start." Seldan smiled at that, quiet humor tucked into the corner of his mouth, and ran the checklist again in his head.

They rode the last stage in a compartments-shaken descent, the city's lights crawling up to meet them like hungry eyes. On the HUD, the penthouse's coordinates blinked steady and white, a single unblinking heartbeat among a thousand smaller pulses. He felt the metal of his rifle like a familiar promise. Down below, the city breathed and schemed. Above, the HRSC's seal was a silent order: Proactive Defense. Seldan flexed his fingers and let the hunger of a soldier's certainty slide over him. Whatever waited in that penthouse, Mauve, blood, bargaining chips, would meet Harrow.

Spoiler

Velzari Tharn & Mauve du Vain tag for awareness. Would love PvP here if your people are up for it

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Seldan Rourke Raylin Fall Shade ​

The silence that followed the broadcast was almost worse than the footage itself.

Cassian Abrantes sat on the steel bench, helmet resting on his knee, visor catching the muted pulse of red warning lights. The dropship's engines droned beneath the tension, and the smell of metal and oil hung thick in the air. He hadn't said a word since the recording cut out not when the Republic technicians confirmed its authenticity, not when HRSC command issued the operation's parameters. But the image of her, bloodied, bruised, refusing to break played again and again behind his eyes.

Cassian rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. The mission parameters were clear: capture Mauve, leverage her for the Chancellor's return. Strategy masquerading as mercy. He understood the logic, but logic didn't dull the raw ache that came from seeing someone he respected, reduced to a bargaining chip.

He'd been in enough political circles to know how fast a leader's humanity could be stripped away the moment they became useful as a symbol. Kalantha had carried the Republic's ideals like a torch; now she was the warning flame of what happened when those ideals drew too much attention.

The plan respectful of its strengths, wary of its brittle parts. New Vertica rewarded arrogance; a tower-top penthouse that called itself sanctuary was an invitation for someone with more knives than sense. Mauve would have layers: muscle in the hallways, surveillance that liked to pretend it was impervious, safe-rooms keyed to timed redundancies. The droids could suppress a camera but not a human eye. They could ghost a net but not a pulse that ran cold when it should run hot.

Cassian checked the seals on his pack again, felt the familiar heft of the commlink, the lived-in scuff of the rifle's grip under his glove. Practicalities ground away the tremor in him better than thought alone. He watched Seldan work, thumbs moving over checks with a confidence that made the rifle feel like a hymn, and tried to imagine any contingency he hadn't already folded into his head. There were always a few. There were always more.

Shade's presence was a steadying geometry beside him. She didn't wear nerves; she wore preparation. When she clipped a stabilizer into place Cassian noticed the small, economical movements, no wasted motion, no theatrics. They were a language he'd learned to read: competence, folded tight into a posture. He liked knowing she was there. It made the promise he'd made feel less like a private thing and more like an obligation he could honor.

"Thirty Seconds to Drop, keep your focus." Cassian said with a small respectful nod to those around him and as he readied himself.

 

[John Shepherd]

THE CITY WHO NEVER SLEEPS

Tag: Seldan Rourke | Raylin Fall | Shade | Cassian Abrantes​

The name Harrow hung in the air long after the briefing ended. John sat with it, the syllables turning over in his head like a knife edge. He’d heard hundreds of codenames in his career, some poetic, most hollow, but Harrow had a certain honesty to it. It didn’t promise heroism or redemption. It promised dirt. It promised work.

The hum of the dropship filled the silence as the team prepped for descent. Shepherd sat near the bulkhead, armor dark and worn, matte plating dulled from campaigns that the galaxy had already forgotten. His rifle lay across his knees, stripped down to bare function. No charms, no personalization. You learned not to grow sentimental about tools that might outlive you.

Across the bay, others were reading the mission feed again, their visors faintly reflecting the pulsing coordinates. Shepherd didn’t bother. He already knew the rhythm: drop fast, hit hard, pull out before anyone has time to scream. Every operation like this one came with the same smell: recycled air, metal oil, and the faint bite of ozone leaking through the hull seams.

He leaned back against the cold plating of the interior and let his eyes drift over the others. A handful of soldiers and operatives, sharp-eyed, quiet, and far too clean. They hadn’t been worn down yet. Not in the way that years did it. Shepherd could see it in the way they still double-checked orders, still believed that strategy meant control. He envied that, in a way. The illusion that a clean op could ever stay clean.

He ran his thumb over the ridged edge of a spent dog tag that hung from his armor strap. Old habits, older ghosts. The hum of the ship grew deeper as the pilot began descent burn, engines growling against atmosphere. The blue glow from the status lights washed the compartment in soft color, throwing every scar and dent in sharp relief.

Shepherd exhaled slowly, feeling the vibration in his ribs. “New Vertica,” he muttered under his breath. “Hell with neon signs.”

He’d fought on worlds like it before, Nar Shaddaa, Denon, even Coruscant’s underbelly when the wrong people had too much power. Cities like that didn’t sleep. They watched. They remembered faces. If you didn’t keep moving, they swallowed you whole.

"Thirty Seconds to Drop, keep your focus." Shepherd listened as Cassian spoke.

Shepherd nodded once, wordless. He slid his helmet on, the seals hissing closed. The HUD flared to life, topography lines, target grids, biosigns flickering from the droids already in orbit. He flexed his gauntlet, the servos answering with a muted hum.

Across the bay, they gave the hand signal for final prep. The team moved in practiced rhythm: magazine checks, safeties off, squad formation syncing into HUD link. Shepherd stayed where he was for one heartbeat longer, feeling the descent press down around them.

This was the part he always remembered, the quiet before the breach. No shouting, no blaster fire, just the sound of metal and breath and hearts syncing to the same unspoken beat.

He reached up, locked his rifle into position, and keyed his comm.
“Copy that, Commander,” he said, voice steady through the filter. “Let’s make sure the Chancellor lives long enough to thank us.”

Outside, the storm lights of New Vertica drew closer, neon veins threading the dark.

And then the ramp lights flashed red.

They hadn’t landed yet. But the city was already waiting.

Into The Breach.​

 

[Shade]

Shade stood at the edge of the briefing table, visor down, armor sealed. The matte black of her plating reflected only faint hints of light from the dropship's interior—cool, sterile illumination catching the etched Tal'voss crest at her shoulder. Beneath the helmet, her breathing was even, deliberate. Calm wasn't something she reached for anymore; it lived in her bones now.

She checked the charge on her blaster once, then holstered it. Every movement was precise, economical, born of repetition and muscle memory. She didn't rush—didn't need to. Time always bent around preparation.

Cassian's voice echoed from the front of the compartment, steady, commanding. Shade glanced up briefly, meeting his gaze through the blue wash of the HUD. A single nod passed between them—acknowledgment, not reassurance. They didn't need words for that.

The hum of the dropship deepened, and she could feel the familiar vibration through her boots. They were close.

She keyed her wrist display, pulling up the infiltration grid again: entry points, patrol loops, safe exits. Every line of it already memorized. The kind of planning that turned chaos into mathematics. She'd been through worse, seen tighter margins, darker odds—but something about this mission felt sharper. Purposeful.

Her voice came over the comms, low and composed. "Systems check complete. Insertion vector confirmed. Ready on your mark."

Her hand drifted briefly to the edge of her belt, fingertips brushing the vibroblade she always carried—a small, grounding ritual before the storm.

Shade let her gaze slide to the ramp, where the red drop light pulsed like a heartbeat waiting for release. The air inside the ship grew heavy, charged. She exhaled once, slow, steady.

"Let's get it done."

When the ramp light turned green, she moved first—calm, silent, unflinching.

John Shepherd Cassian Abrantes Seldan Rourke Raylin Fall

 

[Mauve du Vain]

The info broker lay sound asleep in her penthouse on a massive bed replete with the softest of blankets with the highest of thread counts. She dreamed soundly, not thinking for a moment that anyone would dare attack her in her home.

After all, some of the biggest names in the business guarded her. Not that those names were on the payroll tonight. No. Just Fenn Stag . But she had him wound around her finger.

Didn’t she?

Under the pillow, Mauve’s fingers brushed the butt of a Hapan Gun of Command.

 

[Fenn Stag]

Mauve du Vain
​

Inside Mauve's home- a lavish penthouse with far too many sightlines for Fenn's liking, Fenn sat quietly in one of the many chairs outside her chambers. He turned his head towards her sleeping form, his eyes, free of the helmet, saw her stirring. She was awake, reaching under the pillow. His eyes, hateful and hawk-like, scanned the room. Something unnerved her. His armored figure stood up, and his looming shadow stood in the great penthouse door that led to her chambers. His eyes went over the window, the darkness of the night concealing his face. No warpaint tonight- his face bare, his hair it's usual messy mop atop his head.

He took a deep breath, knowing she was awake.

"You're awake." He said, marching over to the window to shut the blinds. He looked out the window, his helmet resting in his left hand, his right hand empty- save for the crushgaunts that went with his armor. But even unarmored, Fenn was massive, unnerving, and violent. Weapons only added to that. He was armed, but he didn't want to hold a gun near his employer. Seemed unbecoming.

"There's a story I heard when I was younger-" His voice was low, coarser than usual. Like speaking, interacting with people was exhausting. "Of the Knight." He took a deep breath, watching his reflection in his helmet. His eyes flicked up to watch her, then back to his reflection. Of a broken man. A Commando. A killer. A wayward son of Mandalore. A liar. Insanity.

The rotten ache inside, tearing open rot.​

"All pieces of soul, torn apart, tainted, empty."

Tainted under rotten nobilities, carving out another tomb.​

"A great Knight- greatest of them all, finally fell in battle. He had saved his kingdom, he had finished the race. He slew all his enemies, protected his people. Killed every foe and destroyed their lands with his own hands. And met his honorable end on the battlefield." A pause, a breath. And a brief moment of silence-

Silence growing more tense. Fenn's head turned to the window, ever looking for danger.

"So, he falls, and his wings sprout from his body, and they start to take him to paradise, his duty and life ended-" He moved his right hand upwards, accentuating the story by gesturing towards the heavens. Or in their case, the smog and light pollution overhead. "But... his armor, bloodied and carrying the weight of his sins, he cannot take off. He cannot forget what he's done. Even for all the good that he did, protecting his family, his people, his land, all that blood he shed and all those sins he carried, he could not let go. So, he fell, and fell, and fell.... until he could no longer see paradise. And so, that noble Knight, bloodied and battered, did not go to paradise- but rather damnation. Because he could not forgive himself, let go, and could not allow himself to forget what he did."

His eyes flicked up to Mauve, finally. Icy blue eyes fixated on her.

"I wonder what the Knight was thinking at the end. And where he would choose to make a different choice."

He stood tall, walking back to her doorway, and looked back at her, confident she was safe for the time being. He walked back to his post, ready to wait out the rest of the night as her sentry, her most trusted bodyguard. A position entrusted to no one else but him for her safety when she slept. A great and honorable thing. And he did his duty. He did his duty well, without fear, favor or malpractice.

 

[Raylin Fall]

​

Cassian Abrantes l John Shepherd l Shade l Seldan Rourke




Special Operations was not something that most people felt comfortable discussing what it really meant. Putting troops on the ground was easy enough for most governments in the galaxy. It was a tried and true method of control and warfare. Park a Star Destroyer somewhere, put troops down, wage war or negotiate. It was big, it was loud, and it worked. It was diplomacy at the end of a gun barrel or by the barrel of a turbolaser.

Special Operations and the use of subterfuge, however, made politicians uncomfortable. The risk associated with men being put behind enemy lines, sanctioned officially or not- and the risk of capture, discovery, or failure was high. It was often a reason to send in diplomacy and official troops before sending in people like Raylin.

Raylin had been on the planet for roughly four days now. He'd gone damn near native in that time. He wore no official uniform, had no official gear, had no identifying marks. But he had learned enough- in fact, Raylin's observations were critical in discovering Mauve's location, as well as her schedule, movements, and security. Hours upon hours with little sleep observing her comings and goings, determining faults and weaknesses, gaps to exploit.

The thing that Raylin was good at. He'd obtained penthouse plans from the construction company, down to the square footage. Sure, Black Sun protected their people well enough. But construction companies should've invested in better locks. He was able to figure out the layout of her penthouse, what type of locks were installed, the wiring harnesses in each. Sub-contractors for her security systems were in place already, but as Raylin was briefed, it was already taken care of. What that meant really, he had no idea- and wasn't supposed to.

The team dropped in quietly, the dropship departing their pre-designated landing site quickly. Raylin approached, full native. A t-shirt, rifle, blastvest, a helmet with every type of night vision and sensor he could get his hands on, and a warbelt that definitely didn't belong to him. In fact, it looked Imperial in origin. Nothing about his gear was standard, nothing about his posture was remotely close to standard. He was a wild man, a true Recondo in every sense of the term. Pathfinders were already outliers in the Grand Army, oddballs sent forth, only seen when wanted to and reporting back on enemy movement deep behind enemy lines. Deep-piercing reconnaissance and infilitration missions were rarely glamorous and didn't make for exciting stories-

Raylin after all, had just sat in another building and watched the enemy's movements for days. Nothing to write home about, nothing high-speed. But-

Critical. Especially when he laced up a very small charge magnetic charge on the power transformers. Not enough to wipe out the entire block or several apartments, but enough to give them a few crucial minutes of total power loss. It wasn't easy- he almost was caught twice, but managed to sneak in and plant the charges readily. They were remotely detonated, but he was waiting for the right time. He didn't think it was particularly heroic, he wasn't holding off a superior numerical force or holding the line at some forgotten fort or trench, but he was about to help the Republic catch a very nasty woman that had caused quite a bit of heartache for the who's-who of his Republic.

So he knew his work was at least appreciated. By whom, he had no idea, but he hoped it would at least be someone.

He stood up, rifle across his chest, greeting the Captain first. Not with a salute, but shaking his shoulder and a smile underneath the balaclava. Raylin looked tired, but had managed to secure a shower with a little breaking and entering to an empty apartment. So he didn't smell bad like Recondos typically would've. He regarded the others present there the same, only stopping for a moment to look at the General.

The mission was a bit more important than they let on, apparently. Or perhaps the General wanted the personal touch on it. Or, if Raylin really had to guess- the glory. Perhaps a bit of both. Or maybe he was here for the boys. Raylin didn't relax around him though, not how he regarded the Captain and the others. He looked around the team, gesturing up several floors where Mauve's apartment was.

"Tonight is a slow night, she's got one guard inside the penthouse itself. Rest of the complex is teeming with them, and more on the way if need be, as per the briefs I've sent back." A subtle jab to them that he'd been here quite a while. In fact, he handed the Captain a detonator.

"We get four minutes of total power loss with this, before backup generators can even get online. After that, we run into a lot of problems and potentially a lot of bad guys. Your call when to use it."

But with just a simple snatch and grab- intel and evidence came later. They were after a body, a person, not a thing. A person was hard to hide, hard to slip away from. Documents, intel, hard drives, data, all that was hard to find in a pinch. But a person? Raylin could do kidnappings and snatch and grabs in his sleep. And four minutes was three more than most people here gathered were used to. Raylin gave everything on a factual basis, matter-of-factly in tone, and factually lethal. Very little about him said humor, very little about him said he even enjoyed his job.

He just did it.

He took a deep breath, looking towards the target. Mauve was not getting away this time. The message was going to be sent tonight, plainly and explicitly:

The Republic would find you.

He'd have preferred to shoot her and kick her off the side of the building, but, orders were orders.

 

[Seldan Rourke]

​

Seldan watched Raylin hand off the detonator like it was a live thing, a heartbeat. He slid the device into an inner pocket without ceremony or flourish. Four minutes of blackout; four minutes to turn a tower into a corpse and drag a Vigo out of it. That was all the clock he needed.

He moved through final prep like a metronome. Plate checked, mag seated, grenades clicked home. He thumbed the safety on his rifle because rituals kept error honest. Moments after the drop he took position at the stairwell breach point, shoulders settling into the angle that made him a wall. His visor pinged the insertion timer: T-minus ninety.

"Alpha teams, two-man wedge on my mark," he said low. No pleading, no pep. Orders are air; execution is bone. "Shade, you ghost cams and sweep area. Shepherd, you and I hold the stairwell. Cassian, you move with Raylin to the service hatch. Fast hands, fast out. No heroics."

He liked names clipped short and tasks clipped shorter. Harrow did not wait for luck. Harrow made it.

When the drops hit and the building died in staged darkness, Seldan planted himself into the stairwell like an anchor. Dust and the faint tang of ozone filled the shaft as lights winked out. He could hear the building come to life: muffled shouts, boots, a single voice that thought it was author and audience. He did not care for acting.

The first door went down with two grenades: stun first to buy time, fragmentation only if it became negotiation. He counted breaths between shocks. One, two, three. On the third, he shoved the charge and moved, leading a wedge that was all shoulder and teeth. Clones flowed behind him like tidewater, rigid and mechanical. Seldan's world narrowed to muzzle arcs and silhouette shapes.

A gunbarrel presented at knee level. He brought the stock down across the wrist, then the face. He smelled blood and the chrome tang of nervous adrenaline.

He keyed his comm once, clean and calm. "Stairwell secure. Mauve's suite two floors up. No civilians. Sweep for hardpoints. Hold until extraction ping."

His palm hovered over the detonator in his pocket, fingers warm against plastic. Four minutes had always been an eternity and a mercy. He set his jaw and waited for the next heartbeat to decide whether they would bargain for a Chancellor or tear the city down trying.

Cassian Abrantes | John Shepherd | Shade | Raylin Fall
Mauve du Vain | Fenn Stag​

 

[John Shepherd]

ENGAGE

Tags: Seldan Rourke | Cassian Abrantes | Shade | Raylin Fall | Mauve du Vain | Fenn Stag​

The stairwell was a throat of metal and shadow. Every echo came back doubled, smeared by the blackout and the storm of dust that followed the detonations. Shepherd moved behind Seldan, rifle angled low, boots cutting quick steps across scorched risers. The city’s neon glow barely bled through the thin viewports; even the emergency strips had gone dead. Four minutes on the clock. It already felt like less.

Seldan paused at the landing, a steady silhouette against the dark. His visor flickered with pale overlays, tactical feeds shifting like ghosts. “Fast hands, fast out. No heroics.” His voice was calm, cold as the metal underfoot. Shepherd didn’t answer, just gave a short nod and angled his rifle toward the next flight.

That was when movement caught his eye. A shadow where there shouldn’t have been one.

A figure emerged from the gloom, lean, fast, a soldier in Black Sun colors with a vibro-knife glinting dull silver in the low light. Shepherd didn’t have time to think. The knife came up, slicing for his ribs.

He caught the attacker’s wrist mid-strike, the vibration of the blade humming against his gauntlet. The man twisted, using the narrow stairwell to his advantage, forcing the fight close. Shepherd dropped his rifle with a clatter that echoed down the shaft and answered with his fist, two sharp jabs that landed against armor plating. The first jarred his knuckles. The second broke something.

The man lunged again, shoulder driving forward. Shepherd shifted his weight, twisting his body to the side and hooking his arm around the attacker’s. Bone cracked under the torque. The soldier shouted, a sound half-swallowed by the stairwell. He retaliated with a headbutt that glanced off Shepherd’s temple, enough to blur the edge of his vision. Shepherd blinked through the pain, teeth gritted.

The world narrowed to movement and impact: elbow, knee, concrete, breath. The two men slammed into the railing; it groaned beneath their combined weight. Sparks flared as armor scraped metal. Shepherd drove his knee into the man’s gut, once, twice, forcing the air from him. When the soldier staggered back, Shepherd caught his coat and dragged him forward, using his own momentum.

There was a pillar at the landing, thick, unyielding duracrete. Shepherd slammed the man’s head into it with a brutal finality that left no room for question. The impact cracked through the stairwell like a rifle shot. The body went limp instantly, sliding to the floor in a heap.

Shepherd stood over him for a moment, chest rising slow, breath fogging against the inside of his visor. He stooped, picked his rifle back up, and gave the body one last glance before keying his comm.

“Stairwell secure,” he said, voice low and even.

The timer on his HUD ticked down, two minutes, thirteen seconds. He turned toward Seldan, the faint gleam of city light washing across his armor. The mission pressed on, the silence between heartbeats broken only by the distant hum of the tower and the quiet weight of the dead.

Blood In The Water.​

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Seldan Rourke John Shepherd Raylin Fall Shade Fenn Stag Mauve du Vain
​

Cassian felt Seldan's words settle like gravity, ordered, immutable. Raylin's hand passed the device quickly and efficiently, no wasted motion. He showed the essence of someone who had done this many times over.

They dropped through the service hatch with practiced quiet. Noise was the enemy. The corridor smelled of recycled air and metal, turning the opulence fragile. Cool light strips ran along the floor; the penthouse saved luxury for rooms that mattered. Beneath carpets and velvet, the building had a skeleton. Harrow moved through bone.

He glanced at Raylin, giving him a small nod to take point. Cassian followed half a breath behind, rifle steady in his grip. The route curved and folded, as indicated on the visual map on his wrist device in the HUD: ducts, crawlspaces, and a vent leading to the penthouse lift core.

They approached the bedroom corridor slowly, methodically. Outside Mauve's door, the hallway opened into a private antechamber, lacquer and chrome gilded with deliberate taste. The smell there was different; perfume leaned heavily enough to be weaponized, and something darker. Cassian noted the contrast like a map reader notes coastline: wealth didn't erase danger; it drew it into sharper relief.

Cassian met Raylin's gaze, a look that promised everything. Cassian nodded, a gesture that cost nothing but meant everything. "Four minutes." Cassian spoke in just barely a whisper.. No bravado, no drama. The detonator was with Seldan. The blackout was their blindfold, their sprint. Cassian felt the clock pulse against his throat.

He spoke through he comms, a ghost of a whisper to Seldan. "On your mark, Seldan."

 

[Shade]

Shade tapped the offered earpiece into place and listened for the faint confirmation tone. The HUD blinked her team markers; the jammer readout sat at forty percent, cuffs hot, non-lethal rounds ready—the small checklist that kept her steady.

She keyed her mic once, voice low and precise.

"Copy, Seldan. Cameras ghosted—Tech on my feed."

A breath to settle the rhythm, then the next status.

"Bre-7 is two meters left and silent. Mark-7 confirmed overwatch on the rooftop. Heavy-7 on suppression standby. Med-7 acknowledged at the rear alley."

She didn't frame commands—only facts, transmitted cleanly into the net they'd already agreed on.

"Jammer live. Cuffs armed. Non-lethal priority; escalation only on direct call."

Her palm rose in the practiced signal, not to give the mark but to mirror the formation. She let the final word ride on Seldan's cadence.

"Copy. We move on your mark."

Cassian Abrantes Seldan Rourke John Shepherd Raylin Fall Fenn Stag Mauve du Vain

 

[Mauve du Vain]

"I wonder what the Knight was thinking at the end. And where he would choose to make a different choice."

Mauve had stirred awake at the intrusion to see Fenn looming like a stalker in her doorway, half-way through some sort of absurd bedtime story that he apparently thought was comforting, because the moment he finished he just turned around and walked back out. Mauve stared at his retreating back, then sat up in bed.

"What the hell?"

Unsettled, Mauve slid her gun out from under the pillow and held it loosely. Her other hand groped for her datapad. The blue light came on and she stared blearily at the screen as she typed out a message one-handed to Arris Windrun , who ran all her security.

<How much vetting did we do on this Fenn Tag guy? He's acting like a freak 2nite.>

<...Well. More than usual. IYKWIM.>

 

[Arris Windrun]

Arris wasn't one to sleep. Hadn't, in fact, for more than half a decade now. Between stimulants and implants, she lacked both need and biological desire. So, it was then that Mauve's message found the cyborg while she was tidying up her armory.

The message was fed directly to an implant in her skull. She responded with her own internal monologue, albeit transcribed into text on the Zeltron's datapad.

<"Fenn? Kaggath contestant, you know that. Done plenty work for the Sun, too. Why? You want me there?>

She had finished cleaning her revolvers and moved on to the sole rifle in her arsenal. A prize she won in the same tournament as Fenn, though from what the Dark Horse could recall, he was one of several to pave the path of "technical victory" for Antar until Kyric scraped on by to the final round.

"Should've been me." She thought bitterly.

Mauve du Vain

 

[Fenn Stag]

Mauve du Vain

If you hurl harsh words as sharp as swords;​

Fenn stared out the window a while longer, before balancing his helmet in his hands, then slipped it over his head. He checked his watch. A one. A two. A three. All the way to fifteen-

And then the lights went out, the power, everything. Nothing but the stillness and movement of water in the pipes. He took a deep breath. He was not scared. He was not apprehensive. He turned his head towards Mauve's bedroom. Her hand was loosely on a gun. Specifically, a Hapan gun of command. He turned his head back to the cityscape, neon lights betraying the cruelty hidden beneath. Neon-washed streets that illuminated every kind of vice. Slavery in abundance, murder for hire, corruption, manipulation. And under the guise of unity, control. But Fenn saw through it far too late.

It was all a lie. They schemed, planned, manipulated each other. She had trusted him with her personal security. He had trusted her with his future. But it all started to fall together- he was not a friend, he was not an ally. He was a tool, he was a soldier. He was not wanted, he was used. Fenn walked back in the doorframe. Even without a gun in his hand, the man breathed violence. Mauve was a cursory tourist into the galaxy he inhabited. They lived in separate universes. She planned and schemed, her foulness and misdeeds abstract concepts, orders, messages on a screen. Data marks of jobs completed. She had not yet seen violence, conducted it herself. She was not a conductor in the orchestra, she was listening far away.

It sickened him after a while. Even more so when he found the Hapan Gun of Command. So, Fenn walked back into her room, quietly sat on the edge of her bed, and reached into one of the pouches on his belt.

It was the charge pack for the pistol. He rotated it in his beskar-weaven left hand. His mechanical armed softly whirred in the still quiet of the room, an uncomfortable, tense silence between them. He spoke quietly again, betraying his stature and reputation.

"You aren't aware of some things, being who you are, I imagine. What it's like to feel dirty, down in the mud. Killing, maiming with your hands and weapons up close. But you are keenly unaware, as we have now both seen-" He turned his head towards her. "Of the difference between a loaded weapon and an unloaded one."

TRAITOR

TURNCOAT

LIAR​

PARIAH

ORI'RAMIKAD

KYR'TSAD

AKAANIR

DIKUTRUNI

​

He turned his head towards the window. For a moment, he saw another Mandalorian, older, armored. He walked across the night sky behind Mauve. His visor moved across, stopping for only a moment on a phantom that did not truly exist outside the penthouse. He took another breath, turning back to Mauve. He left the charge pack at the end of the bed. A trinket. She couldn't get to it in time, not against him.

"I've been assured you won't be harmed. Only taken. Take that as a measure of solace."

His back was turned towards her. But he was watching, even without his 360 degree field of view with his helmet. Outside her penthouse- sharp THWACK like sounds. Suppressed slugthrower rifles. Casings hit the floor outside, brass tinking along the ground.

"I know the Black Sun will hunt me for this. But know that whoever you send after me, won't be enough."

 

[Mauve du Vain]

<"Fenn? Kaggath contestant, you know that. Done plenty work for the Sun, too. Why? You want me there?>

<no… >

Mauve hit send and started typing more when Fenn suddenly came back into the room. She scooted away from him, her eyes wide as she pressed her back into the headboard. Her eyes followed his movements, then the power cut out.

No.

She knew what was happening before he set the power pack down.

No.

She wasn’t really listening to his words. He was deranged. A lunatic. She felt her breathing quicken, air sawing in and out of her lungs as she tried not to hyperventilate.

“Is that it?” She spat at his back, “you’re just going to walk away? After everything I gave you?”

She got up from the bed. She hit the speed dial on her datapad with a thumb. A holocomm went out.

“We took you in knowing that the Clans hate you. Want you karking dead. You’re going to betray me and hide behind your helmet.” She snorted in disgust, “you don’t even have the guts to look me in the eyes when you do it, do you?”

She could see his warring emotions, swirling around him in an absurd miasma more confusing than almost any she’d ever seen.

Fenn Stag Quinn Varanin

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Mauve du Vain //: Fenn Stag //:
//: Attire ://

It was a recent, rare moment for the Princess. Having recently been made a Dark Councilor, her time was a bit more pressed. At that moment, she was allowed to leave Jutrand and return to Nar Shaddaa space. She hadn't planned on telling Mauve just yet; she was hoping to surprise her.

The Sith transport moved through the port and touched down quietly. Being a Princess and a Councilor had its perks, especially with her current dealings with Black Sun. Her device began to vibrate, and she looked at it. Part of her wanted to ignore it, figuring it was Jutrand or one of the Ministers losing their minds over a councilor having left — particularly one who had shown interest in the ministry system.

Something told her to look, told her to answer. Being in tune with the Force, she knew not to ignore this gut feeling. She dug in the black robes and pulled out her device; it was Mauve. A little smile curled on her lips as she answered, preparing to deliver the good news of her plans for them.

But what she heard on the other line was anything but what she ever wanted to hear.

The woman's words, the ruckus. Clans… Whoever was in the room with her was a Mandalorian.

"Mauve?!" Quinn shouted into the device. No answer, just more words. She could hear the tension, the anger… the fear. The dark side began to bleed from the Sith Lord.

Not again…

"I'm on my way!"

The shuttle touched down, and as she stood, the Echani bent space and time, willing herself through the Force towards the location she knew of where Mauve typically resided. There was no time for her to call anyone, to think of anything besides making her way to the Zeltron.

The moment she appeared beside the skyscrapers of New Verdica, the dark side hung like a dreadful cloud. The Phobis Device that made the core of the young Varanin pulsed through the Force. Her anger, her rage, and her desperation to ensure that nothing happened to the woman bled through the hate and dread of the device.

She needed to find her.

Spoiler: Republic Forces

Cassian Abrantes Seldan Rourke John Shepherd Raylin Fall Shade

 

[Fenn Stag]

BREAK

Mauve du Vain​

Fenn turned his head, the figure in the window reflecting back at him, then turning his head towards Mauve. He cocked his head, her hollow, empty words meeting a wall of silence, a T-shape silent response.

"This-"

He pointed to our his face.

"Are the eyes you get to look in." His pitch-black mirrored visor reflected hers.

He was not a pool of emotions, of thoughts. He was an ocean. Of rage. Of hate. Of sadness. Loss. Emptiness. Confusion. He was everything, he was nothing. He was hate incarnate, he was loss incarnate. He was insane, clinically. Perhaps. Or cursed. He wasn't sure which. He stood near the doorway, the sound of the Republic's operatives getting closer and closer. His helmet didn't move from her figure, constantly watching.

It was then he produced his Disruptor pistol, laying it across his chest, tucking it close.

"They want you alive. I am indifferent. Don't push me."

 

[Mauve du Vain]

"They want you alive. I am indifferent. Don't push me."

"Coward," Mauve spat back, throwing her gun at him.

She missed and it bounced uselessly off the wall, leaving a gouge in the plaster.

"That's what you are."

 

[Raylin Fall]

Mauve du Vain l Cassian Abrantes l Shade l Quinn Varanin l John Shepherd l Seldan Rourke

​

Life was hard as a Recondo. It was sometimes, however, entirely worth it. Like when Raylin put three rounds into a guard rushing to Mauve's door. Another guard came around the blind corner-

Raylin grabbed him by his shirt, and didn't shoot him. No, he just tossed him behind him. Cassian would either take care of him or fumble in the attempt and Raylin would have to do deal with it. Based on the fact that the man didn't shoot him in the back and there was the sound of a rifle going off-

Maybe Cassian was more capable than he thought.

The entrance to the penthouse was methodical and clean. He noted the decor, the lavishness. Art like that never particularly interested him. It was subtle, but the entire place was obviously built to flaunt wealth. Art and furniture that was worth more than what he made in his entire life.

All that money.

All that wealth.

All those secrets she kept.

All those people she kept in line.

Didn't stop the team from moving into her penthouse. Didn't stop four hateful, violent, determined people moving into her living space. Raylin's night vision setup emitted a soft red glow in the darkness. He stepped quietly- not a sound produced from his footsteps. His gear was silenced. Taped at sharp ends and metal didn't meet plastic- the whole nine. The big Mandalorian standing in her doorway moved to the side, allowing them to pour into her bedroom.

Raylin took a pair of stun cuffs off his belt and threw them on the bed.

"Put 'em on."

He used his free hand, his left- to touch his communicator. His voice was low and quiet. He breathed out, letting the air out of his lungs before speaking. Made his voice even quieter, lower. The man knew how to be sneaky. He wasn't going to announce himself or say anything much else- he'd let Cassian or anyone else speak to her. He just wanted to put two in her chest and call it a day. Much easier to do that and not deal with courts, prosecution, imprisonment, escape. That, and it sent a message.

​

But then again......so did kidnapping one of the biggest names in the Black Sun in the middle of the night to take back to face punishment for her crimes.

 

[Arris Windrun]

<no… >

Mauve hit send and started typing more when Fenn suddenly came back into the room. She scooted away from him, her eyes wide as she pressed her back into the headboard. Her eyes followed his movements, then the power cut out.

Arris received her answer and figured business as usual. Though only a moment later, she felt the strangest sensation... a darkness that tugged at her fears, that Mauve was danger. It was too strong and well timed to be plain anxiety, Arris believed. Or maybe that was just part of her anxiety, too?

"Shit..." She had to find out for sure. <"Mauve? Everything okay?"> She sent.

A minute went by.

Then another.

She placed the rifle down and stuffed her revolvers, then sprinted towards the exit. Outside, a small crew of mechanics worked on an old rust bucket of a VAAT/e gunship. It had only been a few days since the work began, so it was nowhere near ready, but that didn't matter to her now.

"I need this up in the air," she said.

One of the mechanics looked at her with the kind of frustration a professional reserves for know-it-all clients.

"She ain't ready," he grumbled. "We had to--"

"Now!" She interrupted him. "I don't care, it needs to fly now!"

It didn't matter if the thing was liable to blow up on her; she needed to reach Mauve and fast. She could feel it.