Left Behind[TSE/Open]

[Subject 37]

Mirial - Down Town
[Immediately After the SJO Invasion]

"SIR. WE HAVE TO GO!"

The voice boomed in his head, but Jorg barely heard it. Blaster fire was still raining down near him, the team that had been assaulting him laser focused even after their comrades had died. The commander of the Nova Defense Force looked around for a moment, almost oblivious to the destruction still raining down around him. A curse echoed in his ears, though Jorg wasn't entirely sure if it was his own voice or that of his soldiers.

His eyes caught the glint of red splattered across his armor. Blood covered him from head to toe, staining the deep black and splattered across his visor. He frowned for a moment, then remembered that it was not his own. The body that lay next to him, the man who had either fallen into unconsciousness or death after the Repulse glove had...

Jorg felt bile in his throat, and then a sudden shock at his right shoulder.

A heavy blaster bolt struck his armor, the Bulwark shield not activated. It struck him and sent him reeling, slamming life back into him. His eyes popped upon and his blaster pistol raised as he fired back three times into the opposing buildings. Then without another second of hesitation he whirled around and turned towards the near by pillar. He rushed towards it and thunked into place behind it, scowling and quickly reloading the heavy bolter. "Kark."

It was his own voice this time.

"Sir! The Jedi are withdrawing, we have to go!"

Half a dozen different thoughts whirled in Jorg's mind, his lips thinning as the powerpack slammed into place on his weapon. They had been scattered from the start, but the Silver's withdrawing? There was no way he and the others could make it back to the ships...they didn't even know where they were. A curse escaped him, followed quickly by another and then another.

"Move to my position, side entrances." He spoke as another bolt struck the collumn. "Get inside as quick as you can."

Jorg let out a sigh, pulling another Thermal Detonator from his pocket.

The structural integrity of this building was already more than questionable but...he took a deep breath, turned from the column and then tossed the detonator towards the tall arch of the buildings lobby. Half a second passed, then the detonator exploded. Within seconds rock, steel, and debris rained down into the entryway, blocking the front path into the building and leaving a massive cloud of dust spewing into the street and interior.

 

[Subject 37]

Mirial - Down Town
[Immediately After the SJO Invasion]

Jorg felt heavy breath after heavy breath leave him as the dust slowly began to settle within the lobby of the building. His chest rose and fell, his eyes were closed, the bells ringing in his head were slowly becoming silent. For a moment everything around him was dead, there were no sounds of war, no sounds of battle, nothing.

It was a calm, a brief blissful moment of silence broken only by the sounds of footsteps.

In an instant his HUD pinged the direction of the steps, his eyes snapping open and his fingers tightening around the blaster in his hand. A breath filled his lungs, a single rush of air that stilled his hand and pointed the weapon directly towards the figure wandering towards him. In an instant the silhouette of a man had both of his hands up, one of them still loosely holding a rifle now pointed towards the ceiling above them. A heartbeat passed, and Jorg took in the mans identical armor.

He nodded, then slowly lowered the blaster. "You made it."

The comment was filled with more warmth than one might expect, but given that they were in enemy territory now one could expect as much. Mirial was lost to the Jedi, and that meant the Sith would fully reclaim the world within a matter of hours.

That gave them a window, a small one.

"The others?" Before he could finish his sentence two more figures appeared among the debris, both of them wearing the same armor as he did. A small smile touched his lips. There were four other squads just like his own deployed all around Mirial, but they would have to find their own way out. Nova trained it's operatives well, and in the worst case scenario they'd have to ditch their armor and act as civilians. For them though that wasn't an option.

"What's the plan boss?"

One of his men spoke, his voice already hoarse from the days fighting. "We find an air base, the Sith have to have them somewhere."

Hopefully they'd be too distracted to notice his men sneaking around the city.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Mirial Cultural Center and Museum | Imperial Mission Relief / Riot Control; Temporary Base of Operations
Immediate Aftermath: Failed Invasion of Mirial

A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. In the hands of a Sith, a lot of knowledge can be more dangerous still. And this was perhaps Antherion's greatest, most beloved blessing from the Force - knowledge. The slight, constant whisper of premonition in his ears, the sensation of fate as the threads of life entangled and knotted, and wound and vibrated with all the tones of emotion and most beautifully of all followed their paths down to their ending. He was an augur, at last, his long time imprisoned in stasis, alone with his nightmares, forcing on him the patience necessary to open his ears to the constant background radiation of prophecy the galaxy was bathed in.

The gaunt, withered Sith Knight, clad in tattered dark robes and the pale mask that hid his advanced decay as a result of his corruption remained in the cultural center, a mixture of low-level Sith Troopers and civilian law enforcement returning from dealing with a small breakout of looters and rioters. He felt such matters were petty and beneath him, but a Sith directing the efforts did marvels for motivation, and this was all hands on deck.

"I think," he said, his voice a soft, quavering tremor, "I have figured out the difference between the Jedi I remember and these new ones, these silver Jedi that once razed Korriban, that once held my own homeworld in their grasp." The troops attending to him, their unsettlement easy to read for the Knight, even behind their polished, faceless masks, listened. This one was prone to rant. Best for their life expectancy to just hold up and listen.

"They are willing to do anything to defeat us. At least, some of them are. No doubt disavowed, for politeness' sake, reviled as rogues, these Jedi are warriors. Dangerous. It looks like a few hundred years of sleep was all it took for those preaching pacifists to grow some teeth - and I think I like it. Now, we can have the war we deserve. The total war that I always wanted. In the light and in the shadows, assassination, massacre... yes, I would very much be entertained by that."

He pressed the synth-ceramic of his mask into his face, leaning back. Yes, he was entertained by this - who knew that the Light could invoke such destructive power? What desperation were these people driven to? Who knew that the dogs of muddled, purposeless democracy and passionless ascetics could fight with such fervor?

"My lord. Are we dismissed?"

"Ye - no. No, no, definitely not. Not yet, anyways." He curled his long-nailed fingers into fists, and deeper for a second, then drew blood. Pain clarified instinct. A man without a face, hiding in the shadows from a searching flame. No, he was dissolving - he was liquid - he was slipping through his fingers. He closed his fist, and opened it, yet it was already gone. He blinked twice, and saw the dark red dribbling from his palm. He could sense eyes on him, curious eyes.

"My lord?"

"...I have your orders. Divide into groups of two - no, three. Run a standard security sweep of this area, checking for Imperial citizens' ID cards. If they can't provide, ask them for their six-digit ID code. If they can't answer that, and are not a child or obviously distraught, escort them to the museum, we can deal with them there. If they resist - shoot them. Then, after that, you are dismissed."

He doubted himself for a moment. Was it just a delusion - no, he was seeing clearly. Something was hiding in the city - his vision was most certainly true. It was asking perhaps a bit much, no, they would find it and bring it to him... or die, and then perhaps he would find at least where they were. "Come along and play with me. Step into the light... or do you fear the shadows?"

| [member="Jorg"] | [member="Darth Eversor"] |​

 

[Darth Eversor]

Aching bones cracked as they were properly aligned, a spine straightening itself to display a militant posture. Screams and voices echoing as though they were millions, but confined to the recesses of Abraxas' mind. All of them crying out - flesh and bone crackling and being burnt away, the scent of war itself. The stench of death.

Was there purpose? More specifically, did the broken Knight have a reason to exist? The tiring process of thinking never stopping, the constant dull pain of living. Each day seemed more uninteresting than the last, and time bled into itself as an inescapable sandbox where nothing truly mattered. Choices were not his own, and yet he still found himself wanting...

But wanting what, exactly? Power? Control? None of it.

He simply sought purpose.

And for now, he would be useful.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------​

​

//Mirial Cultural Center and Museum | Imperial Mission Relief . . .​

​

//Meet with an old ally. . .​

​

Abraxas arrived upon the base operations at an hour that seemed most active - soldiers and Imperial personnel swarming like insects as they carried out orders. They did not seem to mind the Sith and his presence as he advanced further into the checkpoint. As a loyalist to the Sith Empire's agenda, it would only be appropriate to accommodate his own kin with prowess and ability.

Though no longer hulking or quite as menacing, Abraxas now carried a sorrowful air with him - a cloud of stagnation. His form tattered, his armor dull and hanging with the dregs of his failures. A slightly rusted, albeit featureless helmet hid his face as long gray hair flowed from beneath it.

He finally found him once again. A man who would be the closest thing Abraxas would call... friend.

"It has been some time. Hasn't it? " A slightly distorted, raspy voice chimed in.

"What use do you have for me, Antherion?"

[member="Antherion"] | [member="Jorg"]​

 

[RC 212]

[member=Jorg] [member=Antherion] [member="Darth Eversor"]

While other Jedi were returning to Voss, Karren had also been left behind. After saving @Lord Ghoul and [member="Stephanie Swail"] from Aris's devastating wall of light, she'd doubled back to hide her fighter and keep low to the ground. With burns over most of her body, she'd been forced to ditch her ratty GA flightsuit and trade greys for civilian clothes. She had a stolen identi card, and was shacked up in blasted building near the capitol, avoiding Sith Patrols.

And she just happened to be in the upper level of the building Jorg had entered, deep in a healing trance. Force energy flowed across each limb, the cellular structures behind broken down in her mind. Hexes for bone, circles for skin, triangles for blood. She was using a combo of Bacta and force energy to med her wounds when her trance was broken by noise downstairs.

She opened her eyes and crept down, clad in trousers and flannel. At her side was still her saber, though hidden in a holster at the small of her back. At her hips, pistols.

She drew her modded DL-44, holding it at the high ready as she heard them speak about a Sith airfield.

Then she dropped down, landing before them in a crouch, looking up through a bloodied face.

"Karren Trask, Galactic Alliance."

Rebellion never slept. She'd stumbled upon some likely allies here. While the overall battle had been lost, the war had not. She still had a part to play to weaken the enemy and help those that deserved it return home.

"Have any wounded here? What unit is this?"

 

[Wedge Draav]

Wedge sat, looking...angry. [member="Karren Trask"] had not shown up on Voss, by all reports. Wedge tapped his fingers on the table, staring at the flight helmet's visor. It was staring back at him for a while. It was screaming at him. His fingers tightened and he pursed his lips, thinking. Wedge was far away, he'd have to make a jump. He looked over at his X-wing, then grimaced. If she hadn't made it back, then there were others.

His eyes lingered over to a U-wing, collecting dust in the corner. He walked over and threw the sheet off. He grabbed a flight crewman, who was bustling around on the flightline. He dropped a credit chit in his hands and whispered some things into his ear. Wedge climbed up the ladder, and began to punch in the pre-flight checklist, while he was being fueled up.

Like hell he was going to let a member of the Rogues die without him, or die alone.

Live together or die together. Either way, he wasn't going to leave anyone behind. Not after Velga.

[member="Karren Trask"] l [member="Darth Eversor"] l [member="Antherion"] l [member="Jorg"]​

 

[Subject 37]

Mirial - Down Town
[member="Antherion"] | [member="Darth Eversor"] | [member="Karren Trask"] | [member="Wedge Draav"]

As soon as the voice echoed out in the destroyed lobby three blasters immediately turned and were pointed directly at Karren Trask's head. The motions were so swift and fluid that one might have thought the soldiers had done it in slow motion. Jorg was the only one of the four who didn't draw his weapon, mostly because he'd already seen the woman approach when she'd made her way down the tower. Half a heartbeat passed and the Major motioned towards the others.

Without a word the soldiers slowly lowered their arms, one of them turning towards the nearby doorway and the others taking up positions around the lobby. They didn't have a lot of time for conversation, but they could at least fill this woman in.

Jorg had no idea who she was of course, but judging by her clothes he would have guessed Civilian. Given the way she spoke however he highly doubted that, and the fact that she hadn't attacked them was also a pretty good clue. He had no idea if her claim of being part of the Alliance was legit or not, but he would give her the benefit of the doubt for now at the very least. Still, Jorg kept his hand over his blaster as she approached. Just in case of course.

"Nova Defense Force." Jorg stated plainly.

He doubted that she would recognize it.

"Private Military." He clarified. "The Silver Jedi Ordered us in as a vanguard."

A job that they had done quite well, though in the end it hadn't mattered all that much. Whatever had happened in the city had been far beyond Jorg's capabilities to control. "We're headed towards the nearest Sith air base to get out of here, you're welcome to tag along."

 

[Ras'kala'han]

"Abraxas Zambrano. Or, was it Beleth? No, none of those are your true name, are they? They're spoken, but not by your heart. Written, but not carved in your soul the way your real name is. Your Sith name. Darth Eversor, my friend, it has been too long... and too much has changed, hasn't it? We've both decayed. Diminished."

He saw the man as a kindred spirit, and that was - well, it was disheartening, to say the least. The creature before him was bedraggled, and the man who once wore the polished armor of a conquering Lord now had a despairing aura suggesting the weight of age beyond his years, and garb befitting something that just marched out of a coffin. He pressed his fingers once again to his mask, letting out a sigh.

"And yet, it will not be this way forever." At least, not for me. Who knows if anything can save you from the downward spiral path that you've found yourself on? "Though our discussion of how to correct course in our lives can be saved for another day, for now we are going to be rather, hm, busy. I have altered the instructions to my soldiers - they are essentially going to be rounding up any solitary, non-Mirialian refugees who lost their identification in the disaster. Let's limit it to, say, fifteen. I don't want to be overly wasteful with our resources.

"They are strangers to the Alliance and the Jedi, but if we dress them in the proper uniforms, a camera feed will make them seem no different. For the benefit of our eyeless audience, I can make them seem hostile, bitter, remorseful in the way a prisoner of war might. Then, we will stage a mock trial and public execution, broadcast for all to see.

The man lowered his mask, showing the Dark Lord's clone-son a face like a rotting corpse, gold-shimmer eyes that glowed with a cold and casual cruelty. To him, what he suggested was barely something to consider - no, it was baiting the trap. It was begging a question, and forcing an answer. The cost was irrelevant, minute. Life was cheap, after all.

"My brutal friend, my vicious friend... I will set the stage, you will prepare the ambush. If the execution goes through, all the better. But I have a feeling we are dealing with heroes, and a hero is someone who takes responsibility for things they have no control over or stake in. If these people die on their watch, in their name, they will suffer a pain far greater than whatever torture we could inflict on them."

He paused, thoughtful. "Yes, I think heroes might just be mad."

~​

​

The prisoners being dealt with were not soldiers, not warriors. They were not questioned, for they knew nothing of value. They had little to do but groan, however, because one by one their tongues were ripped from their mouths, the gushing wound closed by a brand of searing Force Lightning, so they could say nothing in their defense.

As the Lord Eversor would set the trap, Antherion would send out the broadcast, preparing to set the stage near the settlement camp, a simple area where the chained, demoralized beings, unwillingly dressed in the garb of soldiers, in some cases their heads wrenched so their hair could be shaven into a crew cut, some given slight nicks on the cheeks or bruises to give them a weathered, emphatic look. They were props, to be given exquisite detail for their performance.

His voice would, after a brief crackle of static, drift over the intercoms, a grating hiss unto itself. "People of Mirial, citizens of the Sith Empire - I am Antherion, overseer of this district's resettlement efforts. You have done bravely, continuing to show excellence, even with homes destroyed. Your lives were uprooted by the callous and heinous actions of the Silver Jedi, yet they could not shake the moral foundation that gives you greatness. Now, even as we rebuild, the brave soldiers of our Empire have captured the lingering forces of the invasion, abandoned by those who used them as a weapon against us. In one standard hour, they will be taken to the town square, and those of you whose hearts cry out for justice will be able to see that our nation is one of the rule of law!

"All may watch, all are welcome. This will also be shown over the local government announcement channel. In these trying times, remember that even participating in these small acts of solidarity are a service to your fellows. Power to Mirial. Power to the Sith. Power to the Empire!"

| [member="Darth Eversor"] | [member="Jorg"] | [member="Karren Trask"] | [member="Wedge Draav"] |​

 

[RC 212]

[member="Jorg"]-[member="Darth Vesper"]-[member="Wedge Draav"]-[member="Darth Eversor"]

Downtown Mirial

"Nova Defence force?"

She shrugged off the comment. They were getting out of there, which was good enough for her. But on the same note, others would not be so lucky. She understood the Commanders apprehension. She glanced around, taking stock of his unit. They were tired, scored with carbon from blasters. She didn't see any wounded.

Which meant this would go a whole lot quicker.

"Sith are patrolling this real heavily, looking for ID cards and citizens out of place. I suspect they might have swept up some of your sister units. I'd wait till dark to move ou-"

Her data pad vibrated on her wrist and she flipped it over to see the broadcast. Her garish bloodied face went even whiter.

"Feth."

She held her wrist out for him to see.

"They're going to execute prisoners, two blocks from here."

Her mind went back to her hidden StealthX.

"I've got a fighter hidden not far from here. I can fly air support if you're willing to try and grab them."