| Location | Ketaris, Outer Rim Territories
| Objective | I - Eliminate the Firebreathers
Duracrete crumbled under a breath of fire. Cruel flames dashed against the surface, leaving a trail of sloughing grey walls and floors hot enough to burn a man alive. The crackling embers danced like fireflies in the darkness, the ceiling above sloping inwards, trailing a thin tongue of acrid smoke that curled and twisted, a branded noose around Itzhal's neck. An incinerator left to finish the bleak job, his only protection the once-cooling embrace of his bodysuit, now clung uncomfortably to his skin as beads of sweat trickled down his spine.
Yet he didn't stop, he couldn't, not when an inferno prowled at his back, a maw of fire and smoke hunting in the darkness.
Undeterred by the stream of water that began to flow from sprinklers in the ceiling, it followed Itzhal through the corridor, tarnished and scorched black as the stream of fire traversed along the walls, sinking into the metal pipes, screeching a final death as liquid turned to steam. Their hunt continued into the stairwell, where their prey paused for only a second, long enough for the flames to lick at his back, before a spool of whipcord shot from his raised gauntlet, and a second later, he was gone, whisked away with a zip, soaring into the upper levels. Below, the inferno roared, its flames lashing out wildly, crackling with anger that tore at the building even as it slowed to an inevitable march upwards.
Outside, the monstrous beast continued on its way, another nuisance reduced to cinder without further thought, worth little more than the effort it took to breathe. Unaware that the Mandalorian had survived, although it wouldn't have cared regardless, all things burned in time.
The city was bathed in a molten orange glow, the air thick with a dark haze of smoke and ash cast by the grotesque forms of giants that prowled across the skyline, their forms illuminated in faint lights from below. Countless lives were lost and delivered to a pyre, fuel to the flame that burned in every defender's heart. In their wake, the titans died, not quickly enough for many of those beneath their feet, reduced to cinders in their moment of hope, but quick enough for some.
Exhausted and battered, Itzhal trudged onto the rooftop of what was once a bustling office building, the people long gone, hopefully escaped before the Fire Breathers had turned it into a kiln. Each heavy boot had its sole echoing like a distant drum against the cracked concrete floor. He pushed himself onward, relying on the sturdy frame of a sleek ventilation unit for support as he passed. The cold metal was a cool balm against the heat beneath his feet, relaxing like an icepack pressed deep against a soft wound, though warming by the moment. He was running out of time, the building groaning beneath his feet. Itzhal took another step forward, his lungs filled with oxygen from the filtered system in his helmet.
Errantly, his gaze drifted across the smoky skyline, where flames licked hungrily at the skeletal remains of buildings, their charred outlines standing as grim sentinels to the day's horrors. In the distance, a fleet of ships emerged from the hazy sky, their forms bathed in the glow of atmospheric entry like meteors descending upon the battlefield, heralds of hope ready to deliver a resolute message to the terrors of Ketaris—a promise of vengeance.
It felt only fitting that he would dispatch his own message of retribution.
With a steadying breath, Itzhal stepped forward, drawn towards the looming water tower that stretched over the rooftop like a vulture ready to swoop down upon the remnants of this hellish battle. The structure, bowed under the weight of its own frame, tilted slightly forward, the duracrete surface beneath it fractured and crumbled as smoke leaked from the cracks. Its sleek frame, almost untouched by the desolation below, cast an elongated shadow that stretched over the street, as if starkly entranced by the horror.
Itzhal had no explosives, their arsenal drained with lesser foes, none as great as the leviathan that convulsed with every blow that was delivered by the new arrivals on machines of war he could not outmatch. This was no sin; lives had been saved, and he was just one man. No matter how much it burned, he could only do so much. His target, mighty and unfazed by the devastation it brought, would not bow to petty blasters, nor did the Mandalorian possess controls to bring what weapons lingered on his ship to bear. He did not need it.
All things fall in time.
Beneath his feet, the roof creaked ominously, while jagged shards of rubble tumbled down as the outer wall gave way, scattering debris like tarnished memories across the cremated street. Each heartbeat echoed the looming disaster, the total collapse of the building now an inevitable spectre on the horizon. Yet the fire breather pressed on, exuding an air of arrogance, unwavering in its delusion of invulnerability as it stared down upon its lessers, untouched by the devastation it brought, too far to reach or crumbling long after it was gone, the memories of fire all that lingered.
The Mandalorian's jetpack detached from the sleek contours of his backplate with a sharp, resonant hum that faded into a heavy clunk. His voice command deactivating the magnetic locks, allowing the cumbersome device to tumble clumsily into his waiting hands. Itzhal steadied himself, grappling with the awkward weight before finally swinging it around to rest against his front, the metal cool and unyielding against his grip. The support struts of the water tower loomed over him, each as thick as his torso and far taller, even buckled by bowing duracrete beneath their feet; if not for the ravaging of the building, this would never work, even now it seemed unlikely.
Itzhal had made a career of the unlikely.
With a heavy clunk that faded into a sharp but resonant hum, he sealed the jetpack to the support strut, thrusters angled towards the centre point of the building, and the gap of an anti-armour missile pointed above the street and the passing by Fire Breather. The moment of opportunity rapidly approached with each lumbering step, closer to his position, as well as the civilians that had attempted to retreat, but were still not entirely out of danger, not if it reached this far.
Crack.
The roof groaned under the mounting weight, a warning that trembled through the structure as pieces began to fracture and fall away, like shards of an ancient giant shedding its weary skin beneath the relentless sun. Beneath him, Itzhal felt the moment crystallising; with determination surging through him, he activated his whipcord and leapt off the edge, carried to another rooftop. Time seemed to slow as he watched the facade crumble behind him, the roar of his jetpack igniting into a ferocious symphony of power and determination, for all that it was a force akin to a stone defying the relentless push of the tide. Sometimes that was enough. Momentum surged the tower forward, a rhythm of inevitability—the kind that could turn the smallest act into a fulcrum for change, guiding its passage like a stone tumbling down a hill, unstoppable in its descent.
Bone shattered upon impact, fractured into a dozen fragments that cracked with thunderous force. Lacerated by thousands of knives, their splintered forms drawing furrows deep into the skin that wept tears of magma and blood, boiled in an instant, joined by the ash and debris that slumbered on the floor beneath, brought low in a mere moment: the shattered water tower, a cage for the dying creature.
"Itzhal Volkihar here. I've got civilians with me, we require an extract at these coordinates," he declared with a click of the controls attached to his gauntlet. From his vantage point, Itzhal's gaze travelled over the survivors he'd dragged through the nightmare and past them, towards the largest of the monsters that remained.
It was a shame, he would have liked to pay it back for all of this mess, but even at a glance, it looked like others had it in hand. He would have needed a bigger gun anyway.
