Mission Retrieve the Fallen | COV

[Brent Warnel]

"Gold in peace, Iron in war" - Iron Covenant Proverb​

FLIGHT RECORDING FROM SHUTTLE COCKPIT 113-5B

"Go back! Turn us around! I've got another squad still on the ground! I won't leave them!"

"No one is left alive down there! Corridors opened, we have to take it!"

“You’ll take that corridor when I get my vode back! Choruk squad is still down there!”

“Choruk is dead, Hyer! Reports confirm it! If we don’t leave now we’ll join them!”

“Then we’ll join them! I won’t leave their bodies for these mongrel beasts to desecrate! Turn this kriffin-” A scuffle can be heard, harsh grunting and cursing.

"Get him out of my fucking cockpit! Now!"

“You’re just gonna leave them down there!? You kriffin coward-” sound cuts out.

RECORDING ENDS


LAST BATTLEFIELD COMMUNICATION FROM SQUAD CHORUK

"This is Squad Choruk. We've reached the secondary extraction points. I say again, we've reached the secondary extraction point. We’ve got a recon element with us, heavily wounded. How copy?"

"This is 113, Choruk. We’re en route. ETA 5, get your boys ready."

Explosions can be heard filtering through the battlefield communications. Detonations. Roars. The distant sounds of collapsing buildings and indiscernible wails pierce the static of the battlefield.

"Choruk. Your tags just went dark. What’s your status?”

Static crackles over the comm.

"Choruk, this is 113, I say again, what’s your status?"

“113, this is 116. Choruk is dead. That beast just leveled that whole area. New coordinates patched in from the fleet. Take that corridor, there’s no one left alive down there.”

Static is heard as the channel remains open.

“113, acknowledge.”

“....113…copies.”

END OF COMMUNICATION

What does it mean to be Mandalorian? What makes someone a Mandalorian? Is it the armor? Their faith? Their loyalty? Does being a Mandalorian stop once your final breath leaves your body? Do those who owed you loyalty in life forgo that loyalty in death?

The dead ask for no service. The dead issue no orders. The dead know not if you honor them, because they are dead. Yet, on the world of Humbarine, the dead call for their kin, and their kin answer.

Their kin answer, for they are Mandalorian. But then, what is a Mandalorian? How can you define them? Is it because they choose to risk everything to recover what they lost, over and over again? Is it their loyalty to the clan and Covenant? One cannot simply describe what it means to be a Mandalorian; one must show it.

On that broken world where the bodies of our fallen lie cracked and destroyed, you must show it.

On the world of Humbarine, and in the haste of the Iron Covenant withdrawal, the bodies of our brethren lay forgotten, unable to be recovered in the combat. Using any means necessary, the Covenant must descend to the surface and collect them. Go back once more to the world of shadow and destruction, and bring back the bodies of your kin. Leave them not for the Sith to mutilate; retrieve the dead.

 

[Romul Saxon]

W A R M A S T E R
Humbarine

[] The Lost []​

Tag: Brent Warnel | Zandra Ruus | Mandalorians

The Covenant did not arrive with a roar, nor so much a whisper. A single suppressive cruiser blinked into existence on the far edge of the system, carefully timing its arrival to coincide with the mass-shadow of a far-flung stellar object, masking its arrival from long-range scanners. As soon as the systems came online, it began selectively infiltrating the entire system's communications network. Planetside, outbound and inbound holonet connection times would be slowed by a degree of nanoseconds to perhaps even a minute; though, given what Humbarine had recently gone through, nothing would seem amiss amidst the infrastructural challenges of a battle and bombardment of such size.

In reality, each communication and transmission was being categorically sorted and monitored by the cruiser's highly advanced processing systems, searching for any indication that the small Mandalorian presence was noticed -- and quashing that channel before the alarm could be raised.

A minute later, a single heavy cruiser reverted from hyperspace next to the suppressive cruiser. This was no invasion task force, not even a heavy extraction fleet. Several small craft issued from the cruiser's hangar bays, while it lay back to protect the smaller suppressive cruiser. Both ships had their orders; if there were any Sith forces present on Humbarine, they might draw them out to give the vode heading towards the wrecked planet

The Iron Covenant had learned from Humbarine. Force would be met with force, and yes, the Sith had incurred a debt that must be paid in blood; not that their ledger was lacking. However, this mission was of a much more solemn nature. The Iron Covenant's withdrawal from Humbarine had been a hastened rush as leviathans and storms and fleets from the deep had all encircled the Mandalorians. And their vode -- more who had fallen rescuing those initially trapped on Humbarine, than those trapped themselves -- had joined the Manda in eternal rest on Humbarine's ruins. Romul was one of many who could not stand to see their corpses, their priceless beskar'gam, desecrated by the Sith. It would be one insult too many.

He was silent in the dropship, holding onto a handrail above, his helmet tucked under his arm. The old boar's jaw remained clenched as the dropship hurtled at extreme velocity through the void towards the planet below.

 

[Yuri Maji]

HUMBARINE | RUINS
ALLIES: COV | Vara Rasha | Romul Saxon | Brent Warnel | Zandra Ruus
ENEMIES: TSC
ENGAGING: Open
GEAR: In bio

RARE EARTH ELEMENTS​

It had been months since the Hound set foot in the field, at least in the professional sense. Bounty hunting, mercenary work and other personal matters didn’t hold a candle to this type of work. He had missed the battle on Humbarine, but after a little lover’s quarrel with Vara, he made sure that he wouldn’t miss out again. He made sure to be on the ship destined for the ruined battlefield.

It was a quiet, simple job. Sneak in, get their fallen brothers back, get the hell out. He had taken the liberty of spraying his armour over with a triprismatic polymer coating, along with various greys and browns to help blend into the ruins. The only unpainted part was his left pauldron, though it underwent its own change.

Where the roaring dragon of clan Krayt once sat, the bared teeth of the Ironworks contrasted in muffled silver against the gold-painted Beskar. The choice had been made. The Hound was no longer a clanless stray, he was now the Alor of clan Maji.

From behind his crimson visor he glanced at Vara. Fresh armour, proper Beskar this time. She deserved it and he wasn’t going to let good iron sit in a closet with no purpose. With a simple nod for a promise kept, he moved on to regard the rest of the team in the gunship. Romul towered over them with a steeled jaw. Yuri still had his reservations about the man, but so far he had shown respect to the Hound in their brief meetings. The rest of them were familiar, but Yuri couldn’t say that he knew them very well.

With a sigh he gave his kit one last inspection. Pistols, grenades, armour systems, finally his rifle. He pulled the magazine and looked it over. With a satisfied nod he slammed the tibanna cell back in place and holstered it against the side of his jetpack. The silence was getting to him. The hum of the gunship was stifled by his helmet, leaving him with nothing but the ever-present ringing in his ears.

It finally got the better of him. A growling sigh helped to dissipate the ache as he looked at the rest of the team. :: Apart from coordinates, do we have trackers for our brothers’ precise locations? :: He asked, simultaneously breaking the piercing silence and testing his commlink signal with the rest of the squad.

 

[Zandra Ruus]

Tags: Romul Saxon Yuri Maji Brent Warnel

Mandalorians clad in sacred iron watched as a short figure walked through the hangar towards a dropship. She was a disgraced warrior, most simply shunned her, others were less generous. Their words stung, but she knew they were right. She had broken The Covenant, refused the call to battle on Humbraine. It was a decision she had made in a childish haste, for reasons she no longer stood behind. Now she had a debt to pay.

A platoon leader saw her coming, a scowl on his aged nautolan face, and deep disappointment in his tone. "The nerve of you to come back Zandra. You should have stayed in whatever hole it is Dar'manda like to crawl into. Just showing your face here is an insult to the fallen!"

Gree didn't hold back, he cared little about potential consequences from above. In his heart his former friend had committed a sin that was bigger than both of them. But Zandra had to say something, she couldn't just shrink away when things got tough.

"Good thing I'm not here for you anymore Gree, I'm here for the members of Clan Ruus that didn't make it home. If you don't want me here fine, but at least let me go see if Apolo is still alive..." Apolo was a young man, barely a few months older than Zandra. He was one of the people who'd left Clan Ruus proper to follow Zandra into The Covenant. "Please Gree, I have to know..."

Gree lost his scowl after a few seconds, his bright red eyes softening a bit before he turned his back on Zandra. "We head to the planet in five mikes. Check your gear and follow what I say. You're on a short leash until I know I can trust you..."

Tough and old as Gree was, he was still Clan Ruus. He wanted to see the young human brought home in whatever form possible. If Zandra was willing to risk her life to bring Apolo back, then so be it. Zandra wasn't as enthusiastic as she should have been though, her heart was still as heavy as lead in her chest.

In hear mind, Apolo would have made it off the planet if she were there. Maybe though, it would be better if she'd been the one lost on a desolate planet instead of him...

 

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
Humbarine | City Ruins
Allies: Yuri Maji | Romul Saxon | Zandra Ruus | Brent Warnel
Hostiles: The Sith Covenant
Engaging: OPEN
Gear: In Bio

Hostile Illusion​

Recover the fallen.

The Wardog thought she would never have to set foot on the cursed ecumenopolis ever again. This new assignment proved her wrong. Strapped in for the ride, Vara sat across from her Alor in the main cabin. The scents of the Ironworks still clung to her beskar’gam, lingering upon every curve and every edge as though reluctant to leave the forgemaster’s hammer.

On her shoulders she carried a different weight now. Broad pauldrons framed her shoulders. Stencilled on her right pauldron was a set of bared fangs that of the Ironworks. Clan Maji. She was misbegotten no longer! The cuirass rested flush against her torso. The layered construction flowed cleanly into the segmented plates guarding her abdomen without foregoing mobility, while thicker protection encased her thighs and shins than the kit she had once worn. A shade of crimson marked her armor, her personal choice.

Yet it was too clean.

Unmarred. Not a scorch mark. Not a dent. Such trophies had adorned her old armor proudly. Every scratch a story. Every dent a lesson paid for in blood. All a testament to battles survived and hardships endured. She felt as if she left a piece of her back home upon her return to the Mythos Fleet.

But no matter.

Challenges of mettle and strength were aplenty in their walk of life. There’d be new scars, soon enough.

A shudder rolled through the gunship’s frame. The Wardog swayed with it. Beneath her visor, crimson eyes dropped to her kit as she joined her Alor in the ritual of a final inspection. Runes flickered across her visor with a blink. Jetpack. Wrist launchers. Targeting suite. Comms. All green. Digits brushed over magazine pouches, various grenades, mines and straps. Every familiar shape was a quiet reassurance against the unease gnawing at the back of her mind.

Only once she found everything in order did she lean back.

Her Paranaor stood upright between her knees, buttstock braced against the gunship’s deck. Her hand remained wrapped around its handguard, keeping the weapon steady through every vibration of the gunship amidst their descent.

Crimsons settled upon the cadre around her. Doubts. Concerns. It all started to bubble up with each breath.

He was here. Right across from her. Once more they would be together in the field of battle. A fact she welcomed with ecstasy. But came with it a hefty amount of regret. Their spat. Her words – and as righteous as she was in her exclaims – had brought him to the frontlines. If anything happened to him now…

:: Apart from coordinates, do we have trackers for our brothers’ precise locations? :: He asked, simultaneously breaking the piercing silence and testing his commlink signal with the rest of the squad.

His grumble anchored her. Her troubles? It mattered not. None of it. They were nothing more than thoughts. They weren't reality.

He was here. That was the only thing that mattered. A promise kept. They now carried their hearth with them, wherever fate would see them end up.

<”We should be in transmission range soon,”> the Wardog chimed in after the Hound. <”Long as their IFF’s are still transponding on auto-cycle. Ground clutter might kark us over though…”> Amidst the wreckage and debris over a battlefield spanning several layers of the ecumenopolis…

Theirs was not going to be an easy task.

Vara swayed with another shudder. This time stronger. Her visor snapped up to the cabin ceiling. In the next beat, a shade of red replaced the luminous white. Jump lights. A silent herald they were close now.

It wouldn’t be too long from here on in.

 

[Jericho Dragr]

Romul Saxon Brent Warnel Yuri Maji Vara Rasha Zandra Ruus

---

Jericho had not taken one of the seats.

He stood near the rear of the gunship with one hand locked around an overhead restraint, boots magnetized lightly to the deck as the hull shuddered through descent. The motion barely moved him. Matte armor swallowed the cabin’s low light, its outline broken by low-observable plating and the faint shimmer of covert reflec where the gunship’s warning lamps passed over him. He had returned to Humbarine.

The last mission had ended with the living. This one was for the dead.

His helmet remained turned slightly toward the cabin floor until Yuri’s voice cut through the engine-dulled silence, asking about trackers. Vara answered first, practical and correct. Transmission range. IFF auto-cycle. Ground clutter. Jericho’s visor lifted by a few degrees, not sharply enough to draw attention from the whole cabin, but enough to acknowledge the question had reached him. Runes and targeting glyphs crawled across the inside of his HUD, cross-referencing stored battle telemetry against the current descent vector.

His answer came over the squad channel without hurry. <Choruk Squad’s active tags went dark during the withdrawal. That does not mean we are blind.>

A small projection blinked to life from his vambrace, low and tight enough not to flood the cabin with light. It was no clean map. Humbarine’s corpse had too many layers for that. Streets buried under streets. Hab-blocks collapsed into transit tunnels. Industrial levels folded in on themselves by bombardment, leviathan impact, and tectonic violence. Instead, the display formed a lattice of probable zones: last confirmed coordinates, beacon decay paths, heat-scarring, shuttle flight timing, and the revised corridor data transmitted before the dropships abandoned the avenue. <We have shuttle 113-5B’s cockpit recording, shuttle 116’s corrected coordinates, Choruk’s final IFF burst, and the recon element’s emergency med-tags. I also retained partial withdrawal telemetry from the extraction corridor. It gives us a search lattice, not a grave marker.>

Jericho’s left hand moved once. The projection narrowed around three overlapping zones in the ruined city below. One pulsed amber. Two more burned a darker red. <Primary search zone is the secondary extraction point. Secondary zones follow projected displacement from the mass-impact event that killed their signals. Ground clutter will interfere with active pings, as Vara Rasha said. We will not rely on active pings. We scan passive. Beskar density. Armor power-cell bleed. Transponder wake. Thermal voids beneath fresh collapse.>

The gunship bucked harder. Red jump lights painted everyone in the cabin the same color for half a second: Yuri in new clan markings, Vara in armor too clean for the life she had already lived, Romul silent and iron-jawed, Zandra carrying her own debt in the set of her shoulders. Jericho recorded all of it without comment. People wore grief differently. Mandalorians made weapons of it.

He had no clan-dead down there by blood. That did not matter. Sahan had called him brother. Clan Dragr had named him vod. The Covenant had trusted him with an extraction corridor while the world screamed itself apart. If the living had been his mission then, the fallen were his mission now. Organic. Synthetic. Born. Built. Adopted. None of those distinctions altered the command structure of loyalty.

<No confirmed living biosigns from Choruk. I will keep the filter open anyway.> The words were almost too flat to be called hope. Almost.

Jericho collapsed the projection back into his vambrace and drew his rifle from its mag-lock with a clean, practiced motion. The weapon did not rise yet. The muzzle stayed angled down, safe in the packed cabin, while his HUD continued to build the search pattern in silence. He marked likely entry routes for the others, overlaid weak structural points, and tagged pockets where enemy patrols could have hidden observation equipment among the ruins. This was not an invasion force. It was not a revenge raid.

It was an extraction. A different kind, this time.

The rear ramp seals hissed as pressure equalized. Humbarine’s ruined air began to seep through the seams, filtered and poisonous with dust, ash, old fires, and the wet-metal stink of a world that had bled too much. Jericho turned toward the ramp at last.

<They were not abandoned.> His rifle came up. <They were merely delayed.>

---