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)

 

[Varo Jhicaro]

Rogue Protocol Op: 'A Higher Noon'
Gear: In Bio | Interacting With: Glade , Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze

It was one of the smoother shuttles that Varo had ridden on. Compared to the rattle-rattle of military drop ships that were shaped more like bricks than starcraft, and the high-class luxury shuttles which had a nice velvety smooth rumble to them - the stealth shuttle was somewhere between the two, a sliding glide that vibrated there in the low hertz range. His eyes closed, his head hanging, a thin marcan herb cigarra hung between Varo's lips, a thin stream of orange smoke rising from its lit tip. The man appeared to be asleep, that thin cigarra threatening with every breath to slip from his lips and burn his person.

It was a little paradoxical, given his attire - the black specforce armor svlete and formfitting, his black great coat concealing a chromium pistol and two chromium electrobatons that looked polished and well maintained. Between the weapons, tactical harness, gauntlets, and the utility belt, he looked ready for anything the heist had to throw at him. The consummate professional. But it was the dark bags under the eyes, the unkempt stubble, the cigarra, and the fact he had had his eyes closed for the entire ride, that spoke to something of a contrarian streak compared to the others here.

"One minute. Get'cha selves strapped up guys. Window's kinda short."

"Bout that time, all the time, it seems like." The phrase made no sense, but seemed to hold some meaning to the man. Straightening Varo pushed out of his seat and double-checked his tactical harness. When he was satisfied, he took an extra long drag on the cigarra before he pinched the end out between his fingers - flicking the butt out of the shuttle, the wind carrying it away from the building and its sensor net.

Hands to grip the bar for descent, "never wanted to live forever anyway," young Ghostkey joked to whoever was closest..

"Leave the jaded nihilism to us older types. Can you even drink yet Sparky?" Varo made sure his rig was set, before gripping his own respective bar. "Probably got some sweet thing back home crying her eyes out - think of that, and you'll probably live to daylight." Varo thought about it, then shrugged. "Probably."

"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!"

"There's that Mando'ade zealotry." Varo pantomimed tipping an invisible hat to the imposing man. "But let's save the suicidal last stands and the 'It's a good day to die' speeches until after the mission, yeah Smiley?" Varo seemed unconcerned in the Mando's presence, indeed the only thing that seemed to make him nervous was the hint of a storm on the horizon. "Bogan's Billiard Balls, a storm is always bad luck."

 

[GhostKey]

Location: Vertaplex Noon / Nayus Engineering's Tower: Roof and Zipline Access.
Target: Data Vault - Climate Control Grid Schematics
Tag: Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze | Varo Jhicaro
Crew Status: Ajalurk-Chaidth | Varo Jhicaro | Glade | Ghostkey | Sickle | Chronicle | Ibis | Juju | Savant | Hound | Crash

Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze
Chronicle lined up, ready to go. "Agreed. Time's the only thing that counts." It might have sounded like a joke, but he believed it, down to the millisecond. He hoisted off after the others. One by one, the crew exited the shuttle, gripping tight as the lines moved under weight. Ibis moved with her usual artistic flourish, turning her descent into a performance.

Varo Jhicaro
Sparky, Ghostkey grinned wide. "Old enough to flatline the Crownline bank node," he called, as if that meant anything to anyone. Too eager to prove he belonged. His grin slipped. "Yeah, but I always buy her something nice." Then he was gone, sailing along the thin line. "Don't look down, I hear it's a long way!" he joked, completely at home crossing stupidly high gaps, like the Wroshyr climbs back on Kashyyyk. Street runners on Denon or Echelon always started too young. Most didn't last.

@All
A light wind buffeted the stealth shuttle. Glade steadied it with practiced hands. So stealthy, an unexpected speeder zipped by, nearly clipping them. She cursed, adjusting the nose down, then up, to avoid collision, sending a ripple through the ziplines. "Hey! What'cha you doin? Read the signals, we're committin' honest crime back here," she snapped under her breath.

The wobble hit Hound next. He grunted, fighting to correct. His top catch buckled, and he dropped onto the safety line, continuing to descend but scrambling for a grip with gloved hands. Ibis flipped mid-air, turning herself vertical and reaching for him, moving like the dancer she was, but would it be enough alone?

Ghostkey landed clean. Sickle was already slicing through the door, sparks flickering as her cutter bit in, snagging on thick reinforced Duraplast, it looked like she could use some help! Chronicle dropped and setup, his deck coming to life to take over from Juju. She clipped in last, packing her slicing deck up just as an unexpected sensor ping flashed across their readouts. Not routine, unpredictable. It pulsed through their sensors and decks like a heartbeat.

"Echo it," Savant ordered from the line, comms catching the rush of air. Chronicle's fingers blurred across his slicing deck, faster than most could follow, working to loop the sensor and camera feedback. If it held, they'd have ten minutes of sensor loop to blind the readings.

Roll 1: Ibis stabilizing Hound's descent
Roll 2: Chronicle masking sensors

 

[Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze]

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

Location - Vertaplex Noon / Nayus Engineering's Tower: Roof and Zipline Access.
Objective - Data Vault - Climate Control Grid Schematics
Tags - GhostKey / Varo Jhicaro

[

Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze stood in calculated silence, his visor reflecting the pale gleam of the city's neon sprawl as Ghostkey and others began launching down to the waiting rooftop below. He observed the motion with detached precision—the taut cable, the shifting of weight, the efficiency of the trajectory. Every movement spoke of practiced instinct rather than thought. His gaze lingered not out of admiration, but analysis—measuring timing, leverage, and potential vulnerabilities. To him, the act was not acrobatics, but data: another entry in the silent ledger he kept on those who called themselves allies. The Mando observed his other allies as they readied themselves for the crossing, his expression unreadable beneath the helmet's visor.

Ajalurk-Chaidth positioned himself upon the shuttle's ledge, his figure carved in stark silhouette against the pale gleam of distant lightning. The wind coiled around him like a living thing, tugging at the edges of his cloak and whispering in tongues only the restless might understand. He moved with mechanical precision, gloved hands gliding over the cold surfaces of his sidearms—each click, each metallic whisper, a ritual of certainty; their polished bodies reflecting the stormlight like the gaze of a watchful predator: his sniper rifle remaining attached and slung across his back. Every motion bore the gravity of habit sharpened by war; of a man whose survival had long ago become an art of discipline and paranoia.

His visor tilted toward the chasm between himself and the building—a dark gulf of wind and flickering neon far below. The distance was not impossible, but it demanded respect; many had fallen for less. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the abyss, as if measuring not merely space, but the unseen thread between life and death stretched thin by arrogance. Then came the low growl of ignition. The jetpack flared to life with a flare of blue fire, its glow casting him in ghostly hues. With a controlled exhale, Ajalurk-Chaidth stepped forward into the void. The roar of the thrusters drowned out by the city's murmurs, and his form became a streak of motion cutting through the gloom—a black specter gliding between realms: his two revolvers aimed forward, preparing for the unseen surprises.

He landed upon the rooftop with a resonant thud, the durasteel beneath his boots shuddering from the impact. For an instant, he stood in silence, the stormlight catching along the edges of his armor like molten veins. Then, with a measured turn of his head, he surveyed the skyline once more—ever the observer, ever the tactician, untouched by awe, as if even the heavens themselves were just another field of battle to be crossed. Ajalurk-Chaidth stood on the rooftop as the wind whispered against the steel building, carrying a faint metallic scent that did not belong to the storm—studying with patience of a hunter reading tracks of the surrounding areas as he said, "That was entertaining."

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Armor
  • The Black Devil's Armor

• Weapons
  • Veritas et Iustitia (Dual Revolvers
  • "Widowmaker" (Sniper Rifle

 

[Varo Jhicaro]

Rogue Protocol Op: 'A Higher Noon'
Gear: In Bio | Interacting With: Glade , Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze

They began their descent, zipping across the stealth lines, shadows on shadows in the night. The kid, Sparky, was a newbie - it gave Varo a little nostalgia for those days, back when things seemed brighter, fresher, and less complicated. There was a purity to youth that seemed to get dimmed by experience and age. “What am I, seventy? Not even thirty yet.” Varo muttered under his breath. Taking ahold of the descent bar, Varo leapt into the darkness, the building rushing towards him - the wind whipped at him as he flew down the line, and somewhere in the back of his mind he worried over the storm.

Perhaps it was that very worry that made him lose his grip when the ripple passed through the line. Teräs Käsi reflexes and kung fu grip were great, but they worked a little bit better when you could see the threat coming at you; but that was what cybernetics were for. Time seemed to slow as his body filled with adrenaline and his alacrity implant came online. Varo’s hands blurred as he let go of the slide bar that had broken loose, and whipping down to his side he unholstered one of his electrobatons. Crossing the baton over the line, he used it as a makeshift slidebar, the building whipping up at him at speed.

He had no choice but to hit the ground hard; rolling into the impact, he used his forward momentum to arrest himself out of the roll, transitioning into a flip that landed him with one knee on the ground. Barely recovered, he spun around to see how the others had fared - the success of the mission depended on the unique skills each member brought with them. Even a single loss could mean the difference between success or failure.

Ibis flipped mid-air, turning herself vertical and reaching for him, moving like the dancer she was, but would it be enough alone?

Varo moved without thinking. Flinging himself into a full tilt run towards the edge of the building, he fell backward and simultaneously fired his grappling line - the propelled hook arcing out to try and latch around Hound’s limb or rig. As it arced out, he landed on his back, his momentum sliding him forward until his feet brought him to a stop on the building’s raised roof edge. Bracing himself, activating the magna grip function of his boots, he prepared for the jolt and strain of Hound to fall. briefly, he looked upward - from his perspective - to see what the rest were doing.

Sickle was already slicing through the door, sparks flickering as her cutter bit in, snagging on thick reinforced Duraplast, it looked like she could use some help!

She’d have to manage on her own - Varo was a little preoccupied. Besides, he was more of a micro-tool and laser-lockpick kind of guy. “Where’s a lightsaber when you need one?” Varo cackled into the air, the wind already seeming stronger to him. “Sparky! Help with the door or the slicers. I’ve got a bad feeling about this…” It was less an order, and more a way to get the kid to focus - a matter of fact allocation of the resources they had. Varo wasn’t force sensitive, he knew that, but he was inordinately lucky when it came to certain things. Sometimes, a cold ball would form in his stomach, warning him of something, or someone. In his youth, he had always dismissed the odd feelings. Now, he had learned to listen to his gut, and right now his gut was screaming at him that something bad was about to happen.