Private Rogue Protocol Op: 'A Higher Noon'

[Glade]

Rogue Protocol Op: "A Higher Noon'
Planet: Echelon Prime
District 3: Blackline Direct. Corporate Controlled.
Target: Vertaplex Noon / Nayus Engineering's Tower – Climate Control Grid Schematics
Keyrunner: Circuit | Echo-ID: CR9 | Undervine Alias: C99IT
Tag: Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze | Varo Jhicaro | (Switching to Ghostkey on heist)

Dazzling night lights shimmering in a duracrete jungle of towers, District 3 was cleaner than most, with its rough edges. Buildings were sleek, and corporate, shimmering reflective black glass across Vertaplex Noon like it was polished yesterday. The crew's stealth shuttle hovered tucked out of sight and sensors. Circuit's jobs always looked smooth on the surface; PR and media cover-ups were his speciality. But Nayus Engineering was one of the Big Fourteen on Echelon, which meant this wasn't an easy pull. All in the timing.

Inside a stealthed black shuttle, a rare mix of crew, professionals and chaos, some wore more neon than sense, others armor with Echelon flare; a few carried markings showing the world who they were, others non at all. Chronicle sat still, true to his name, watching time tick down on his wrist chrono for zero hour.

"Still a bad idea," Juju muttered, their resident 'bad feeling girl,' living up to her title.
"C'mon, last time you guys hit a magtrain with drop packs," Crash, the new Echelon rookie with too much confidence, laughed, nudging GhostKey , who only managed a thin attempt at a smile.
"Last time Trix died," Sickle told the new kid bluntly. Her showy green hair, scuffed jacket, and anarchist patches disguised how much she actually cared. Glade, strapped into the pilot's chair, reached over and gave her friend's arm a little pat. Sickle didn't look up.

New faces in the crew's mix: Crash, the rookie; Hound, former paramilitary, armored and silent, Trix's replacement, who had a lot less to say. Finally, the outside hires: Varo Jhicaro and Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze , both here for the paycheck. Including the pilot, a crew of eleven. With two five-man teams for the ground heist.

Glade popped her lips and sighed. "One minute. Get'cha selves strapped up guys. Window's kinda short." Their window, the brief moment when Echelon's traffic control would be misdirected and the nearby building light dimmed, should give them the perfect blind spot to slip in clean. Chronicle nodded as the countdown hit zero.

Savant a quiet chiss and their defacto leader, tapped twice on the cockpit door. The shuttle silently glided into position, stealth fields engaged. lining up just above the rooftop. Even with all this prep, getting too close would trip Nayus sensors, good as they were, so they'd prepped two stealth ziplines, maglocked anchors ready to fire across the gap.

The lines hissed out, snapping silently into the tower's rooftop. Score one for the team, one for safety clipped to their waist. Wind buffeted the shuttle, light rain threatening to start, but Glade steadied her hands, she'd clocked a lot of pilot hours now. 200 feet / 60 meters between them and safety.

Juju worked interference on her slicing deck while Sickle clipped in first.

Hands to grip the bar for descent, "never wanted to live forever anyway," young Ghostkey joked to whoever was closest; watching the city stretching far below and following after the anarchist.

The stealth lines were thin, too thin to trip most sensors.

Or so they hoped…

 

[Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze]

“And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon‘s that is dreaming.” — Edgar Allan Poe​

Tags - Glade / Varo Jhicaro

[

The being who called himself Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze did not join a crew so much as descend upon it—as though drawn from a deeper, older shadow that the galaxy itself tried to forget. His arrival was not heralded by introductions or negotiations, but by the slow, suffocating awareness that the air aboard the ship had changed. The lights flickered. The hum of the hyperdrive seemed to falter for the briefest instant, as if some unseen pulse had passed through its circuitry. And then he was there.

Tall. Lean. Clad in armor that seemed older than the concept of allegiance. It bore the Kryze sigil, yes—but distorted, twisted into something unrecognizable, as though time and will had warped it beyond the honor of Mandalore. His armor was not polished beskar, but darkened, as if it had been bathed in smoke and then left to rust in the void.

His helm was faceless save for the thin slit of his visor, which glowed with a hungry crimson gleam, the color of decay and decision. His presence brought with it an aura of pressure, as though gravity itself thickened in his proximity. Crew members found their breathing shallow when he passed; their thoughts stuttered. Some swore they could hear faint whispers in his wake, though none dared admit to what those whispers said.

They learned quickly not to speak his full name. Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze. Even syllables carried weight when attached to him. He allowed them to call him simply Chaidth.

And yet…when the crew faced danger, it was Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze who stepped forward first. When others flinched from the void, he gazed into it as though it were an old friend. His loyalty was not warm—but it was absolute, cold as iron and just as unyielding. Where he walked, shadows lengthened. Where he stood, silence deepened. He was a retinue of a curse wearing beskar.

"Mortality is a myth," the black armored Mando said, his eyes watching the others through his visor. "Only fools want to live long enough to hear songs and fables of their exploits. Fools!"

Spoiler: Weapons Loadout

• Ranged Weapons
  
  • Veritas et Iustitia (Dual Revolvers)
  • Widowmaker (Sniper Rifle)