Public Refreshments and Refurbishments

[John Mahporeem]

The Thryopa Shipbreaking Yards are easily the largest and most impressive on the planet of Mahporeem.

Sprawling for miles upon miles, tens of thousands of Star Destroyer sized vessels have met their final end here, broken up for scrap and other valuable components. To say that the Thryopa Shipbreaking Yards are the lifeblood of the Mahporeenian economy is no exaggeration, though the site is just one of many scattered all across the planet. Nonetheless, the importance of the shipbreaking yards cannot be overstated, and on any given day, one can find dozens of capital ships on the premises, waiting to be torn apart and demolished.

Today, however, the shipyards hold a very different purpose, as dozens of ancient Imperial I Star Destroyers have bee collected and transported on site. The Imperial Remnant, in its quest for galactic domination, has activated Operation: Judgement Day, a plan to reactivate and refurbish dozens of Imperial I Star Destroyers to Mahporeenian standards, creating the Refurbished Imperial I Star Destroyer. The Imperial Remnant seeks to completely revitalize these ancient hulls, replacing their antiquated weapons with newer models and swapping out there obsolete electronics for more modern day examples. To the Imperial Remnant, the reactivation of these vessels is paramount to the continued success of their plans, as Mahporeem will surely need as many ships as it can get for its navy as possible.

To that extent, the Imperial Remnant has once again begun aggressively recruiting laborers to help refurbish the ships, transporting them to the shipbreaking yards where they will toil for hours on end, engaging in back breaking labor in the name of the Imperial Remnant. Of course, the difficulty of engaging in such work may well be worth it, as in addition to an hourly salary, the Imperial Remnant is willing to allow its workers to take with them certain pieces of scrap and electronic components, to do with whatever it is that they wish. Even if the pay is relatively low, the credits to be made in collecting and reselling this scrap is potentially worth far more than anything the Imperial Remnant could afford to pay its laborers.

Of course, its not as if this restoration project is a secret, and all across the planet, various groups gather in hope of securing some of this scrap for themselves. Whether native to the planet or an offworlder, few can resist the siren call of the scrap and the money to be made of acquiring it, and only time will tell if this operation of Mahporeem's will go off without a hitch...

TAGS:
Sevrin
OPEN

 

[Olarra Zand]

LOCATION: Planet Mahporeem // Thryopa Shipbreaking Yards // Refurbishment Bay 04
TAGS: John Mahporeem
TRACKING: [Open to All Workers / Remnant Personnel / Scavengers]

---

The pneumatic roar of atmospheric gas-cutters echoed like a localized thunderstorm through the belly of the ancient Imperial I Star Destroyer. To the thousands of laborers toiling away under the stern eyes of the Mahporeem Imperial Remnant, it was a hot, back-breaking prison of industrial quotas. But to Olarra Zand, it was a perfectly legal sandbox, and one she fully intended to play in.

She had no intention of being drafted into assembly-line servitude. Clamped securely to her utility belt was a digital Specialist Trade Permit, an expensive piece of bureaucratic clearance she had secured through her friend and fixer, Roqar Zatt. The hovering Toydarian relic-smuggler had used his significant black-market logistics clout to register Malachor Forgeworks as a freelance Diagnostic Subcontractor. Officially, Olarra was legally cleared to roam the yards as an independent expert inspector.

John Mahporeem's ambitious Operation: Judgement Day required these ancient capital ships to be completely revitalized—but modern weapons and newer electronic systems would blow right through the structural frames if the hulls weren't verified. The Remnant wasn't handing out high-grade salvage manifest tokens for a single casual test; her contract explicitly required her to perform exhaustive, multi-point stress diagnostics across four separate hull sectors before they would release her property-claim rights.

Olarra stood on a scaffolding grid directly beneath the main reactor assembly, her dark, fire-resistant Corellian wool coat thrown over her high-tech work gear and heavy protective apron. Her pastel hair was brushed back out of her face, and her pale amber-gold eyes glowed softly as her vision naturally shifted into the near-infrared spectrum. She wasn't guessing; she was physically watching the heat waves bleed across the structural durasteel, completing the initial diagnostic phase by spotting uneven cooling stresses that traditional corporate sensors completely missed.

"Olarra, I am logging an unauthorized data-sweep from a localized imperial logistics terminal," VC-7's cynical voice crackled over her secure comms loop from the Fool's Errand. "The Remnant's accounting mainframe is reviewing our permit validity for the fourth time this rotation. I strongly advise you pick up the pace on the remaining inspection zones before a mid-level officer attempts to hand you a standard plasma torch and a labor schedule."

"Relax, Veecee. They aren't going to draft me," Olarra replied with a free-spirited smirk, taking a slow, comforting sip of Tarine Tea from her polished obsidian thermos. "My diagnostics are the only reason their new reactor shielding isn't going to melt the superstructure the second they jump to hyperspace. They know exactly why I'm here. I just need to crawl through the hyperdrive brackets and the main vent valves next to finish the sequence."

She set the tea down and stepped closer to a massive, sheared structural brace that had been flagged as potential garbage scrap. Pulling off her thin alchemical leather gloves, her bare cerulean hand made contact with the unrefined, ancient metal. Instantly, her fragmented Psychometry triggered. A jagged, sensory explosion flooded her mind: the deafening ring of a heavy capital-grade forge press, a visual flash-frame of a Kuat structural cross-section lattice from a century ago, and the cold, oppressive feeling of a prideful imperial shipwright executing a hasty weld to meet a wartime deadline. It wasn't a clean schematic, but it was a blueprint fragment—a snapshot of how the original builders compressed the atomic grid.

Unclipping "The Resonator" from her hip, her compact pneumatic hammer hummed to life, its vibro-core aligning flawlessly to the metal's vibration. The golden-yellow achievement glyphs on her skin glinted under the harsh shipyard lighting. She had three more grueling inspection sectors to evaluate, a detailed technical report to deliver to the Remnant, and a fresh pot of hot tea ready to share with any officer, worker, or wandering freelancer who climbed up her scaffolding lane.

---

 

[Sevrin]

Tags: John Mahporeem Olarra Zand ​

Sevrin was used to working in this sort of environment when he wasn't risking his skin in the pits for his former masters. The fact that this job offer didn't seem to have any real payment attached only served to sour what little patience he had left; he had bled for masters before, and he had no taste for doing it again under a prettier name.

Unpaid dangerous labor dressed up as 'opportunity' was disgusting.

However, he had run into his first Sith holocron the last time he was in a place like this, and he had learned a little about what to look for in these antiquated rust buckets. If he could take whatever he wanted, then he would look for the important bits and bobs no one else had the sense to notice.

He was drawn to an old, long-forgotten officer's quarters as he worked.

Something inside… called to him. It was faint, but it spoke volumes through a whispering itch of pain and suffering. Sevrin checked the corridor first, letting the distant roar of cutters and grinding machinery cover the sound of his boots. When he was certain no one was watching, he slipped inside.

The quarters had already been picked over, but the old vanity unit near the wall still felt wrong. He crouched beside it, running his fingers along the seams until he found a hidden panel tucked behind a warped strip of trim.

From his belt, he took a compact hydrospanner and worked the corroded bolts loose. Then he slid a thin ion pick into the old mag-lock and attached a small code spike to the socket. The safe gave a weak chirp as the spike cycled through outdated Imperial security codes.

Sevrin waited, listening carefully...

When no alarm came, he pushed a controlled ion pulse through the lock and pried the frame open with the edge of the hydrospanner. The mechanism gave with a dull snap.

Inside, wrapped in old velvet and tucked into narrow compartments, was a strange little collection of an officer's secrets.

A black-and-gold Black Sun favor token. A greasy Hutt kajidic credit wafer. An old Imperial death card with the name half-worn from the surface. There were imported cigarras, a rare liquor flask, sabacc debt slips, and a few expensive stim ampoules nestled beside a scorched data cylinder marked with restricted clearance.

Sevrin's eyes moved over each piece with curious interest. Then he saw the trophies. Now those were interesting...

A Jedi braid, carefully bound. A small training saber with a damaged kyber focusing crystal. Beside it sat a jagged red kyber shard, mounted in a little display case like some officer's prize.

There were practical things too: a holdout blaster, a poison capsule, an emergency credit chip, and a forged civilian ID. Sevrin lingered over the collection for a moment longer, then began taking what was worth keeping ferreting them away one by one on to his person.

 

[Olarra Zand]

Sevrin

The heat beneath the main reactor assembly had been blistering, but as Olarra crawled deeper into the unlit structural spine of the Imperial I Star Destroyer, the atmosphere shifted to a suffocating, freezing dark. Thick layers of century-old starship grease and oxidized industrial dust coated the narrow catwalks. She had pulled her tailored wool traveling coat back on to combat the deep-space chill radiating from the unpowered hull, but her protective apron remained securely buckled over it, cluttered with her jadeite detailing tools and structural markers.
She flipped down her sleek, lightweight blast-goggles over her amber eyes. The visor's digital overlay immediately link-synced with her natural thermal and near-infrared vision, displaying real-time cooling metrics and scanning cross-sections across her field of view.
"SAMI, do you copy?" Olarra spoke into her collar-comms, her voice echoing softly against the massive, vaulted durasteel bulkheads. "I'm looking at the primary structural housing for the Class 2 hyperdrive array. Uplinking a structural wireframe sweep to the ship mainframe now."
SAMI's smooth, measured, and highly collaborative vocal cadence chimed directly into her ear-piece as its bio-computer processing core received the data. "Data stream stabilized, Olarra. Rendering a three-dimensional synthesis projection of the bracket array aboard the Fool's Errand. Initial telemetry indications show a massive, twelve-percent density drop across the portside stabilizer anchor. The physics indicate severe crystal lattice shear under hyperspace deceleration forces."
"That's exactly what I'm seeing," Olarra murmured, squinting through her visor as she watched the molecular heat signatures bleed unevenly across the metal. "The factory welding line was hurried. They didn't compress the beads correctly when they fused the braces."
"Keep your processors cool, SAMI. I'm tagging them now," Olarra scoffed with a free-spirited grin, shifting her weight onto a narrow scaffolding beam.
Reaching out with her gloved hand, she deliberately unlatched her alchemical leather forging glove, pressing her bare cerulean palm directly onto the freezing, raw durasteel of the primary hyperdrive support bracket. She was instantly flooded with images of a massive orbital dry-dock above Kuat, the rhythmic, thunderous vibration of a heavy industrial forge press, and the specific, intense feelings of frustration from a long-dead Imperial shipwright who had purposely masked a hairline fracture in the metal to hit a wartime production deadline. The metal's memory wasn't a clean schematic, but it gave her a map—a jagged puzzle piece showing exactly where the atomic bonds were beginning to fracture under structural stress.
Olarra snapped her eyes open, her amber gaze sharp as she pulled a digital plasma marker from her apron. Guided by the psychometric echo and SAMI's math, she began drawing bright, fluorescent molecular stress boundaries directly across the ancient metal, clearly mapping out the structural failures for the Remnant's engineers.
As she climbed down from the catwalk and squeezed into the dust-choked ventilation conduit, Olarra laid flat on her back, and pulled off the strap of her blast-goggles. As she focused here eyes, her vision shifted entirely into the thermal spectrum as she traced the uneven cooling lines in the environmental vent valve.
"OK SAMI, log sector three of the valve array as cleared," Olarra whispered into her collar-comms. "The molecular lattice is holding up, but the power throughput lines are failing."
"Data synchronized, Olarra," SAMI's smooth, conversational voice chimed inside her ear-piece. "A three-dimensional rendering of the grid is active aboard the Fool's Errand. I must alert you that a sudden, localized friction spike has been detected through the bulkhead immediately to your left. Mechanical calculations indicate manual metal tool manipulation."
"Veecee, is that you messing with my diagnostic tools again?" Olarra grumbled over the channel.
"Negative," her E-B loader droid's cynical voice crackled back from the ship's hangar pad. "I am currently performing mandatory maintenance on our hydraulic cooling sleeves."
Her curiosity spiked upon hearing SAMI's alert. Olarra had been unaware of anyone else working in her immediate area. Having been alone most of the day, she smirked free-spiritedly, wondering who else had made their way there. Setting her datapad aside and shifting her weight with an athletic grace, she pressed her gloved palms against a loose, rusted secondary ventilation grate and shoved. With a dull, mechanical pop, the metal frame gave way, and Olarra smoothly dropped through the ceiling, landing lightly on her feet amidst a swirling cloud of pulverized insulation dust.
She found herself standing inside a dark, long-forgotten officer's quarters that had already been heavily picked over. But she wasn't alone.
Standing right beside a warped vanity unit was another laborer, holding a compact hydrospanner and a freshly pried-open concealed wall safe. Startled at seeing the stranger in the shadows, Olarra took a breath and considered him. As if from nowhere her breath caught in her chest. Before she could smile or offer a friendly introduction, her latent sensitivity spiked suddenly. A profound, contradictory wave of raw energy rolled off the stranger's immediate presence. She felt comforting pockets of warmth clashing violently against a freezing, jagged itch of phantom pain and aggression. Her golden-hued tattoos tingled beneath her leather gloves, a silent, intuitive warning from the deeper currents of the universe.
Instead of panicking or retreating, the young Pantoran simply brushed the dust off her heat-resistant Corellian apron and let out a soft, amused sigh.
"Found a nice haul?," Olarra asked as she stepped toward an upturned durasteel crate. "Oh, don't look at me like that, friend. I'm just a freelance structural inspector. I was tracking vent lines when my scanner detected a friction spike in this bulkhead so I popped in to check it out. I don't care about the Remnant's quotas, and I definitely don't care about their locked boxes. I plan to dig some up myself once my reports are finalized."
She grabbed her thermos from its drop pouch and unscrewed the lid, pouring a steaming, rich cup of Tarine Tea, the smooth alpine aroma instantly cutting through the suffocating smell of corrosion and scorched wires. With a warm, free-spirited smile, she extended the jadeite cup directly toward Sevrin. "I'm Olarra."
Olarra Zand Olarra Zand

 

[Sevrin]

Tags: Olarra Zand John Mahporeem
​

Sevrin stepped back at the loud sounds overhead and blinked as someone seemingly toppled through from the ceiling.

"You could say that…" he replied hesitantly, warily eyeing the strange woman. His cold blue eyes shifted to the cup of tea she produced, but he made no motion to accept the drink.

"Right… I'm Sevrin," he offered in reply, holding up one hand as if declining the offered cup. "No… that's quite alright. I don't need you to share your lunch with me."

He glanced upward again with a look of concern.

"I can't imagine they expect there to be much stability in ancient ships," he offered lightly. "You should probably get clean before consuming anything, lest you contract some sort of illness from all the dust and who knows what else is growing in here." He moved to pull his neck scarf up over the bridge of his nose to help filter out what ever floating particles were in the air. "I take it they couldn't afford to pay you either, hmmm inspector?"

 

[Malachi Blackwood]

Refreshments and Refurbishments

[]

A Procissão dos Que Não Foram Chorados

Attire --> Salvage / Exploration Suit
Tags --> Open
​

The descent into the Thryopa Shipbreaking Yards was not unlike entering the forgotten halls of some ancient civilization whose name had been erased from the stars. Upon Mahporeem’s surface, beneath a sky choked with perpetual gloom, the remains of countless vessels lay scattered like the bones of fallen titans from a mechanical age long since consumed by entropy.

I arrived not as a scavenger, nor as a thief seeking to strip the dead of their final secrets, but as an observer walking through a reliquary of forgotten ambitions.

The immense carcasses of starships towered above me, their ruptured hulls groaning beneath the weight of time, their exposed conduits and shattered engines resembling the veins and organs of some unimaginable metallic corpse.

The air itself seemed haunted by the echoes of their former journeys; the silent screams of engines that had once defied gravity, the forgotten commands of captains whose names had faded into the archives. Yet I felt no desire to imitate the minds that had conceived these machines.

Their creations were their own.

I sought not to steal from their genius, but to determine which fragments of their legacy still possessed the strength to be reborn.

As I wandered deeper into that graveyard of artificial leviathans, I examined each relic with the patience of an antiquarian studying forbidden manuscripts beneath candlelight.

A fractured hyperdrive core, a ruined targeting matrix, a discarded armor plating segment from a forgotten war machine; each object possessed a story written not in ink, but in corrosion, battle scars, and decades of abandonment.

The untrained eye would see only refuse, a collection of obsolete failures waiting to be consumed by the furnaces of industry. I saw something far more valuable, potential awaiting resurrection.

My purpose was not to replicate what had already been created, but to refine what had been abandoned, to restore forgotten wonders and present them to the galaxy as superior manifestations of their former selves. A relic reborn was not merely repaired; it was transformed.

Through careful restoration, selective enhancement, and a touch of Blackwood refinement, these discarded remains could command a value twice beyond their original conception.

There was an almost sacred elegance to reclaiming what others had condemned, for even the dead may serve a greater purpose when placed in the hands of those who understand their hidden worth.

And as I stood among the endless graves of machinery on Mahporeem, I found myself wondering whether I had come to examine the ruins of ships, or whether the ruins themselves had been waiting for me.

​

 

[Olarra Zand]

LOCATION: Planet Mahporeem // Thryopa Shipbreaking Yards // Interior Hull Sector 04 (Abandoned Officer's Quarters)
TAGS: Sevrin // John Mahporeem // Malachi Blackwood

Olarra didn't seem even remotely bothered by Sevrin's hesitant step backward, nor did her smirk falter when he held up a hand to decline the jadeite cup. With a casual, fluid shrug of her shoulders, she simply brought the warm obsidian thermos to her own lips, taking a slow, appreciative sip of the tea as she tracked his wary movements from beneath her silver-white bangs.

"Suit yourself," she chuckled softly, setting the obsidian container back onto the durasteel crate with a metallic clink. "More for me. And don't worry about the dust. I've spent half my life crawling through grease-gutters on dry-docks like these. If a little century-old Imperial insulation could kill me, I'd have turned to rust years ago."

To emphasize the point, she tapped the sleek, lightweight blast-goggles resting on her brow. The digital overlay lenses hummed quietly, still link-synced with her natural thermal vision to filter out the structural heat blooms of the surrounding bulkheads.

But as Sevrin pulled his neck scarf up over his nose and shifted his weight, Olarra's internal, intuitive senses spiked once more. The air between them was dead silent, but she could physically feel a deep, impossible friction bleeding directly off his person. The comforting pockets of warmth and the jagged, prickly itch weren't coming from the broken wall safe anymore—they had moved with him. The golden-hued tattoos along her arms tingled sharply under her gloves, a silent, cosmic confirmation that whatever he had just ferreted away inside his tunic was actively defying the standard laws of metallurgy and physics.

She let her gaze linger on his jacket for a fraction of a second, but she didn't pry. She respected a good hustle far too much to ruin it.
"As for the pay?" Olarra let out a bright, amused laugh, resting one cerulean hand on her heat-resistant Corellian apron. "The Remnant would never agree to my standard freelance rates, at least not in credits. No, I'm here on a Specialist Trade Permit. My dear friend Roqar has some connections and did me a solid when he heard about the project. I'm always looking for primo salvage and this seemed like a great chance to snag some before anyone else. The bureaucrats in the office think I'm just filing standard structural safety logs on their hyperdrive brackets and vent valves so their new reactors don't melt the ship's framework."

She leaned back against the framing of the bulkhead, her dusty hair swaying.

"But my contract states that once my four-sector inspection report is finalized, I get legal, unrestricted salvage rights to certain high-purity 'garbage scrap' corporate scanners can't read. You'd be surprised what you can carve out of these old buckets - reactor blast liners, micro-fine precious metals in nav-filaments... things a smith like me can give new life to." She tilted her head, her amber-gold eyes locking back onto Sevrin with a playful gleam.

She set her empty cup down, giving her gloves a quick pull to tighten them against her wrists. "So, Sevrin... I've got two more sectors to get through before the Remnant's supervisors cut me loose to claim my property. Since we're both operating in the shadows of this dusty old grave, what's your plan? You going to keep hunting through the rubble, or are you just trying to find a quiet way out before the local guards check this corridor?"

---

 

[Malachi Blackwood]

Refreshments and Refurbishments

[]

A Procissão dos Que Não Foram Chorados

Attire --> Salvage / Exploration Suit
Tags --> Open
​

The graveyard of broken vessels continued to stretch before me like the ribs of ancient mechanical gods, picked clean by centuries of neglect and entropy.

I wandered its rusted avenues with patient purpose, gathering small rewards as I went; an intact power regulator buried beneath corroded plating, a curious navigation crystal long separated from its housing, a handful of forgotten components whose value had escaped less discerning eyes.

Such trifles were not treasure in themselves, but fragments of stories, remnants of ambitions that had once crossed the stars.

It was amidst this oasis of discarded dreams that I noticed a cluster of salvagers gathered around a fresh haul, their voices rising above the distant groans of twisting metal. Drawing near, I cast my gaze over their collection and nodded my head slightly.

“A nice collection you have there,” I remarked. One of the salvagers turned toward me, grime staining his gloves and sleeves like ritual markings of his trade.

“Thank you,” he said with a weary chuckle. “Wasn’t easy, let me tell you. But if you aren’t afraid of the darkness and spooky noises, there’s a downed Star Destroyer or something like that just over that hill of junk.”

At those words, my attention drifted beyond them toward the towering mound of scrap that loomed against the horizon like a jagged mountain forged from forgotten wars.

Yet my curiosity was not stirred by visions of valuable components or profitable discoveries.

Such things were commonplace.

No, it was the mention of darkness and strange noises that caught my interest. Beneath my helmet, a smile slowly emerged, unseen by mortal eyes.

The galaxy possessed countless mysteries masquerading as superstition, and I had long learned that whispers in the dark often concealed truths far more fascinating than reason would permit.

Around us, the salvage yard sighed with mournful metallic voices, as though the dead machines themselves were listening. I turned back toward the salvager and gave a respectful nod.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll check it out.”

Then I continued onward toward the hill of rust and shadows, feeling the subtle pull of the unknown beckoning me forward like the opening lines of a forbidden verse.​